My poor little boy sadly missed many things that were joys or daily
events at home in India. Yet he did not magnify their importance
unduly, and remembered that he must not grieve the loving heart which
probably ached with just as keen a longing as his own. This was
heroism of a negative kind, I fancy.
At Loch Lossie they were not at all demonstrative people. They never
kissed each other in the day-time, or walked arm in arm, or sat very
near together.
To Jeff these things had become natural, and his spontaneous,
affectionate nature seemed suddenly frozen up by circumstances. The
dull ache of longing for kindly, smiling eyes, for little playful
speeches, at times seemed more than he could bear.
And to him who had lived in the constant presence of his mother the
many restrictions laid upon the children at Loch Lossie seemed cruelly
hard; and it was a discipline that seemed to have no meaning, that
seemed to presuppose disobedience.
He might not go in the drawing-room or conservatory without leave, or
look at the books in the library, or pick the commonest flowers in the
garden, or walk near the loch. No promise was ever regarded as sacred
by his seniors.
"But if I give you my word, Uncle Hugh," he had pleaded in early days,
"not to go near the water, or touch the boats, surely I may go down the
drive."
Uncle Hugh only looked down on him with cold denial.
"Little boys are not to be trusted; their promises are not worth much,"
he answered.
Then Jeff got very red, and burst out passionately:
"You must have known only boys who were liars. Did you not speak the
truth yourself when you were young?"
Brian pulled at his jacket to modify his speech. Jeff wrenched it away.
"Don't touch me, Brian; I shall say what I like; and I know you don't
always speak the truth. Uncle Hugh, don't you know it is only cowards
who make false promises? Can't you trust me? No one who is
brave--really brave--or who tries to be brave--would tell a lie."
But the appeal seemed to fall on deaf ears.
Not long after this little scene the Rev. Mr. M'Gregor had reason to
complain of Jeff's negligence. He was very inattentive to instruction
and his lessons were never properly prepared.
"The boy, moreover, Mr. Colquhoun, has a tiresome habit of reasoning
with regard to actions, even my actions. This approaches disrespect.
Logic, you are aware, cannot be conveniently applied to every
circumstance of life."
"It ought to be," said rigid Mr. Colquhoun, with a certain degree of
sternness.
"I respect the boy for his fearless questionings and outspoken
sentiments, though I admit they are embarrassing at times."
"I am not sure, Mr. M'Gregor, if Geoffry does not teach us a lesson
sometimes."
Uncle Hugh called him Geoffry, much to Jeff's amusement.
Secretly Uncle Hugh did not highly esteem the boy's tutor, though
necessity compelled him to employ his services.
The Rev. Mr. M'Gregor was, no doubt, a clever man in his way, but he
was not a man of high principle. He hated trouble of any sort, and
expediency was usually his guide. Still he had had much experience in
teaching, and Aunt Annie was quite equal to the task of sounding his
knowledge of classics and mathematics.
These were beyond reproach, and she esteemed it a very fortunate
accident which had thrown him in her way.
One of the most strict laws laid down at Loch Lossie was that the boys
were never to make use of the boats moored at the little landing-stage.
It came to Jeff's knowledge that Brian repeatedly disobeyed this order.
He knew that at dusk his cousin frequently went out alone in a little
skiff that was easily managed. Finally, after many anxious days, he
resolved to tell Brian that he was aware of his disobedience.
Brian turned on him fiercely, calling him "Spy," "Sneak," and "Holly."
Jeff did not lack in daring or intrepidity, and it was hard to be
reproached with timidity by one he knew his inferior in the respect of
courage. Then he remembered that to be patient was not the least part
of a hero's task, and checked the angry words that were about to rise.
One morning Uncle Hugh came into the school-room, where the boys were
always to be found at this hour. His face was graver than usual, and
his voice sounded cold and cruel in Jeff's ears.
"One of you boys has disobeyed me. You have been out in the skiff. I
suppose it was last evening while we were at dinner."
He looked steadily at the two lads, who were gathering their books
together to take down to Mr. M'Gregor's house. Jeff coloured up to the
roots of his curly hair, and looked down, unwilling to confront the
guilty one's confusion. But Brian, with the angelic face and innocent
aspect he habitually wore, was self-possessed enough to ask:
"Did somebody say they saw one of us, papa?"
Mr. Colquhoun looked at his own son, and never doubted his innocence.
"No, my boy, but I found a pocket-knife in the skiff and a coil of gut,
with two fish. I know you have both knives exactly alike, and probably
only one of you can tell me to which it belongs. Geoffry, have you
your knife in your pocket?"
Silence, and no movement on Jeff's part. In a moment Jeff looked up,
and in his steady brown eyes there was something which Uncle Hugh could
not read.
It was a bold glance, but not a defiant one; a resolute gleam, but yet
a sad one. For days afterwards Mr. Colquhoun remembered that dauntless
look.
"No, Uncle Hugh," he said firmly.
"Brian, where is yours?"
Obedient to his father's command Brian brought one from his pocket.
That very morning, not an hour ago, he had asked Jeff to lend him his
knife, and had not returned it to its rightful owner. Jeff's lips
closed tightly and his eyes fell.
"Then I must believe, Geoffry, that it is you who have disobeyed me.
Have you anything to say for yourself?"
"I did _not_ go in the boat," he said doggedly, picking up some books
and strapping them together, with despair at his heart. Surely this
was being a hero.
"Do not add a lie to your offence and make it worse."
"I have not told you a lie, Uncle Hugh. I--did--_not_--go," he almost
shouted, shouldering his books.
Mr. Colquhoun did not argue or seek to prolong the interview, but in a
few words spoke the sentence of punishment.
"I will give orders that you are not to use your pony for a month, and
that Sandy is not to take you rabbiting or fishing for the same length
of time. You are not to be seen anywhere in the gardens or grounds
except on your way to Mr. M'Gregor's. I have never restricted you boys
in any reasonable pleasures, but I am fully determined to make you
understand that I intend to be implicitly obeyed when I think it
necessary to lay down a rule."
Then Mr. Colquhoun went away, and Jeff threw down his books with a bang.
"I'll fight you, Brian, you coward, you false witness! You're worse
than Ananias," he said, squaring himself for the combat and reddening
all over his face.
"All right. Come on. I'm twice as strong as you, and Sandy has taught
me how to box."
With this invitation Jeff began the battle in a very unscientific way.
Of course he came out of the fray with a bleeding face and torn
clothes. There was no one near to pity him, and he could only wash his
face and hope that the rents would escape Aunt Annie's notice till Nan
had mended them.
For a fortnight this poor little boy moped about the upstairs rooms and
passages in a very miserable way. Jessie was his best consolation,
bringing him news from the garden and stable which interested him. She
also paid a daily visit to Sandy in order to glean little details of
sport, and came back usually with her small face puckered up in anxiety
to forget nothing.
It was really very sad for poor Jeff that the otter hounds should visit
the neighbourhood at this juncture. He had to watch Uncle Hugh and
Brian starting at daybreak three times a week to participate in the
sport. His poor heart was very sore all the time, for Uncle Hugh had
not believed him, and there was no one in whom he could confide. It
was a terrible anguish to bear all alone, and the injustice of his
punishment was the sorest part of his trouble.
Maggie had gone away to live at her brother Sandy's cottage soon after
her return, and he might not even go down and see her now.
Meanwhile, Brian kept the knife that really belonged to Jeff, for Uncle
Hugh had not given back the delinquent's implement. It seemed to Jeff
that his cousin took delight in parading his possession and assuming
innocence. He went out of his way to assert his virtue.
One evening, watching the waning light from an upstairs window, Jeff
saw a little skiff shoot out into the open space of water, not shadowed
by the hills. There was a little figure in it. Here was a glorious
opportunity to go down and tell Uncle Hugh and establish his own truth.
For a few seconds a conflict went on in his breast, and then with a
heavy sigh he laid his head on the window sill and burst into
passionate sobbing. When it was almost dark the fit of weeping had
passed off. But he remained at the open window, breathing the balmy
air. Suddenly he was startled by a cry from the water. In vain his
eyes sought to pierce the gathering gloom. Again the cry. Forgetting
all restrictions, with a sudden uncontrollable impulse, he rushed down
the stairs and out into the garden to the lake side.