CHAPTER VIII.
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.