CREGGAN AND OSCAR.
"Boy, you've been crying," said the hermit one forenoon, as Creggan
jumped on shore with Oscar from his little skiff.
He had been rowing more slowly to-day towards his little island home.
Usually he made the skiff dance over the water, singing as he rowed,
but his arms seemed to be lead this morning.
"Well, Daddy," said Creggan, with an apology for a smile, "I--I--I'm
afraid that I did let a tear or two fall.
"I've been parting from the Nugents, you know, and Matty would hang
about my neck and cry--and so I really couldn't help joining in for a
moment. Oh, only for a moment, Daddy! But partings are such nasty
things, aren't they?"
The hermit put his hand on the boy's head, and looked kindly in his
sunburnt face.
"Boy," he said, "never be ashamed to shed an honest tear. It is
nature's way of showing that the heart is in the right place. As to
partings, they are always sad, and one of the joys of heaven will
rest on the fact that there won't be any more partings. You mind
what the hymn says:[1]
"'A few short years of evil past,
We reach the happy shore,
Where death-divided friends at last
Shall meet to part no more'.
[1] _1 Thessalonians_, iv. 13 to the end.
"But come on, Creggan, and have dinner, I've something very nice, and
then I'll tell you stories. Ah, we'll all be happy yet!"
But Creggan had another sad grief to face that evening.
It will be remembered that Nugent had not only promised to get him a
cadetship for the Royal Navy--if he could pass the
examinations,--but, if appointed to a small ship, work the oracle so
that he might take poor Oscar with him.
Well, as the boy and his foster-father sat by the fire with the
collie between:
"I'm so pleased you're going to the service, lad," the hermit said.
"Oh, there's nothing like a life on the ocean wave, and I've sailed
the seas so long that dearly do I love it. I'm gladder still to
think that from the pile I made at the gold-diggings and pearl
fisheries, I can make you a comfortable allowance. Bah! what is the
dross to me, and it will be all yours when I am gone."
"Oh, don't talk of death, Daddy; though you are gray you are not old."
"Well, no, I cannot as yet give myself airs about my age, but I'm
wearing on. But to business, lad. The examination is a stiff one."
"Yes, Daddy. But won't I study just; and I'm sure I'll pass even in
history, though I hate it. I'll read up like fun."
"There won't be much fun in it. But I'll coach you in French anyhow.
You are right as to age for eight months to come. Well, of course
your old Daddy will get your outfit. And as they give no pay to
cadets in the _Britannia_, but demand £75 a year, I'll make it £85."
"Oh, thanks, dear Daddy!"
"Fain would I go south with you, but I shall not leave my island for
some time yet. Don't imagine I am going to be downright
unhappy,--because I sha'n't be. Your friend Archie M'Laren will
bring me all I want off from the shore. Fishermen will often visit
me, and your minister M'Ian. Then I shall have my fiddle, and, last
but not least, our dear doggie here. We'll both miss you, but I
shall think of you every time I gaze into his loving eyes."
If a bomb-shell had suddenly burst over the hut it would have had a
far less stunning effect upon poor Creggan than the hermit's last
words. Would he, after all, have to go away without his doggie? Had
he looked at Oscar for even a moment, he would have burst out crying
like a girl.
He just gazed into the fire for a few minutes in silence, then rose.
"I'll be back in a very short time, Daddy," he said. "And shall I
light the beacon?"
"Do, like a good lad."
Creggan went out into the clear and starry summer's night.
A great round moon had just arisen, and was casting a broad
triangular light across the sea, the apex down there close to the
island, its base on the far-off horizon. How calmly it shone! It
seemed a holy light. But neither moon nor the bright silvery stars
could soothe our young hero then.
He lit the beacon almost automatically and afterwards paced up and
down for five minutes or over, then stood by the beacon resolved and
firm.
A brave boy now--a hero, indeed!
"I'll do it," he said half-aloud. "Oh, how I should like to take my
Oscar with me, but I shall not, cannot! I'll suffer myself rather
than let dear kind Daddy suffer."
He felt easier now and happier, and returned smiling to the hut; and
the hermit played and sang for an hour at least.
There was a kind of incubus at Creggan's heart when he awoke next
morning, and for a time he could not quite make out what it meant.
Then all at once he remembered his doggie. The recollection came so
suddenly back to him that at first he was nearly crying. But he
jumped out of bed, and lightly dressing went down the cliffs with
Oscar to enjoy his morning swim.
Then back to breakfast.
Well, you know, reader, "sorrow may endure for a night but joy cometh
in the morning".
It did. For that very forenoon a humble friend of
Creggan's--Archie--came off in a shore-boat, bringing a long letter
for the hermit, and a childish but loving scrawl from Matty to
Creggan. He put that carefully away, and determined to take it to
sea with him.
He certainly was a romantic boy, and this is not to be wondered at
seeing the wild life he led, the wild scenery around him, and the
voice of the sounding sea ever changing and ever telling him
something new.
As soon as the hermit had read the letter he jumped up and took
Creggan's hand.
"This is from Nugent, dear sonny, and he is going to get leave to let
you have Oscar with you."
"No, no, no, no!" cried the boy. "He must stay with you and make you
happy."
"And I say 'no, no, no!'" replied the hermit, laughing now. "Go he
shall; I have my bird, my cat, and my violin. Oh, believe me, boy, I
shall be happy enough till you come back to see me."
And so it was decided.
Archie was but a crofter's son, but he was a particular friend of
Creggan's, and they used to be constantly together before the Nugents
came, fishing, shooting, or wandering over the hills and far away.
Archie thought that Creggan was very clever, and laughed inordinately
at all the stories he made up and told him while they lay together on
the cliff-top, where the wild thyme grew. It was here they used to
meet, and Archie always brought his dambrod (draughts) with him. He
had made it himself, and together in the sunshine they used to play
for hours and hours. They had no real men, only bits of carrots and
parsnips to represent the black and the white, and as Archie was a
far better player than Creggan, he always removed a few men from his
own side before the game began.
But Archie could play chess as well, and always solved the problems
given in the weekly papers, which the minister kindly lent him.
Creggan had no patience with so deep a game. Life, he appeared to
think, was too short for chess. Well, so far I believe he was right,
for in studying for an exam. one wastes brain power by playing so
difficult a game.
Poor Archie was just a year or two older than Creggan, but over and
over again, as they used to lie together on the wild-thyme cliff, he
would say with all the ingenuousness and frankness of youth:
"Oh, Creggan, you don't know how much I love you, and I'll just cry
my heart out when you go away."
Ay, and there wouldn't be a hut in which there would be no sorrow,
when our young hero went to sea.
By the way, I may mention just one thing to prove the genuineness of
the old hermit's kindness.
Archie had a brother called Rory, a tall yellow-haired sturdy young
fellow, but somewhat of a doll. The father was dead, the two boys
tilled the small croft and tended the cows; but somehow Rory took it
into his head to enlist. Some recruiters came marching through the
parish with kilts and plumes and ribbons fluttering in the wind, and
they marched off with Rory and some other young fellows too.
Well, that same evening Archie met Creggan near the manse.
His eyelashes were wet with tears.
"Oh, man!" he cried, "what will we do? Rory has gone off with the
soldiers. Oh, come and see poor mother!"
Creggan went at once, and entered the hut. Such grief he had never
witnessed before. Among the ashes by the fireside, with little on
save a petticoat, sat Rory's distracted mother, her gray hair hanging
dishevelled over her shoulders, and her body swaying to and fro
constantly in the agony of her sorrow. She was mourning in the
Gaelic.
"Oh, my son, my son! Oh, Rory, Rory, love of my heart, my Rory! Oh,
heaven look down and help me! Rory, Rory, will I never never see you
more!"
Her face was wet with tears and covered with ashes.
She was still sitting there when Creggan left at eight o'clock, still
swaying her body, still mourning, mourning, and mourning.
And when Creggan returned early next day there was no change.
There she sat, as she had sat all night long, among the ashes, still
swaying to and fro, still plaintively calling for Rory.
"Love of my heart, my Rory, will you never, never come again?"
Ah, but Creggan had glorious news for her. "Cheer up, dear mother,"
he said, showing her shining gold, "I am going to Portree to bring
your Rory back."
And Creggan, with the hermit's money, did buy the foolish lad off,
and Rory never left his mother more until she was laid in the quiet
churchyard beside the blue and rolling Minch.