CHAPTER XIV.

"REMEMBER, WE SHALL ALL MEET AGAIN SOME
CHRISTMAS EVE ON HIGH."

Captain Gillespie of H.M.S. Gurnet was a somewhat shy man. Some sailors are. But all sailors are gallant; therefore when at Scutari, on her way home viâ Malta and Gibraltar, the Gurnet lay for a few days, and the worthy commander heard from Jack one evening that his sister and Sister Mary were waiting passage home, he looked over to Sturdy, who, with our young hero, was dining with him that night.

"I say, Sturdy, you know," he said, "though I think petticoats are very much out of place on board a man-o'-war, still—"

"I know what you're going to say, sir, and I quite agree with you. I myself, Captain Gillespie, both on shore and afloat, always port my helm if I see a lady; but still—"

"Yes, as I said, Sturdy, still—"

Nothing more definite was said about the matter. Nevertheless, when at last the Gurnet steamed down the Bosphorus, she had on board not only Jack's sister and Sister Mary, but Cousin Llewellyn also. The ladies had Captain Gillespie's cabin, and Jack gave up his little place to his cousin. Poor Llewellyn had been severely wounded in a brave attempt at saving the life of his friend Grant. This promising young officer, however, was shot through the heart in Llewellyn's arms; it was the same bullet, the surgeon said, that killed the one and wounded the other. There is a sad story connected with the life of young Grant and with his death.*

* True, but the name of this young hero I have altered.—AUTHOR.

When the war was declared, his father had forced him against his will to become a soldier, even rating him as deficient in courage because he hung back.

"As you think I lack courage," he had replied, "I'll go; but mind I have no hankering after a soldier's life."

Poor fellow! a score of times he had proved how brave he was, and it was while leading a charge against fearful odds that he fell, only wounded at first, but slain by another bullet as Llewellyn was trying to drag him into shelter.

The saddest thing about it is this. A letter he had some time before received from his parents was pierced by the bullet and stained with the hero's life-blood. This was sent home to the father. Surely a sad memento.

* * * * *

Away down the beautiful Mediterranean sailed the Gurnet on the wings of a spanking breeze. The weather was everything that could be desired, and every stitch of canvas that could be carried was set. After the first few days, even Sturdy got used to the desecrating innovation of chairs upon the quarter-deck. But it had seemed odd and dreadful at first. Yet, than Sister Mary and Maggie Mackenzie, no more interesting or pretty persons had surely ever sat on the deck of a man-o'-war.

Dr. Reikie devoted himself specially to Maggie, and a score of times a day Paddy O'Rayne was sent to see if she wanted anything.

Paddy O'Rayne, the doctor's red marine, was the same old Paddy.

All the time he had been out, although constantly in danger in the trenches and attending to the sick and wounded, he had, to use his own expression, "never been sick nor sorry, sorr." I must tell you, however, that he was slightly disappointed because he hadn't had an opportunity of saving Dr. Reikie's life.

"Troth sure," he told our old friend the bos'n, "it was the bad luck was in it entoirely. It's niver out av danger the dhoctor was, but niver a chance did I have to show me gratitude. If a cannon-ball had only taken his leg off, I'd have nursed him like a baby; but no such luck for poor Paddy O'Rayne."

I daresay Paddy O'Rayne could see as far through a mile-stone as a mason, so he was not long in discovering that Dr. Reikie had lost his heart to bonnie Maggie, as this Scottish surgeon called her—I mean as he called her when talking to his pillow. But having made what he considered a very interesting discovery, Paddy O'Rayne thought he could see his way to do the doctor a good turn, and pave the road, as it were, for the advancement of his suit. So frequently, when he found Maggie reading by herself, either leaning over the bulwarks or in her chair, he would advance respectfully and salute military fashion. Then he would address her in a form of which the following is merely a specimen:—

"If ye plaze, miss, the dhoctor sends me to inquire if there's anything in the wide worrld you stand in nade av. Nothing at all, at all, miss? Sure and you'd better think again. There's nothing my master wouldn't do to plaze you. A dhrop o' wine and a biscuit, miss, a pill or a plaster, or a taste o' quinine in a tay-cup? Well, well, miss, but sure you're not to be shy, and it's swate my master is on you altogether. Well, I'm going, miss; but he'd shave his head if ye tould him to, and it's the blissed truth I'm telling ye."

* * * * *

One day while standing aft near the binnacle, Sister Mary let fall her book, a volume of Burns. Sturdy, who was walking near with his telescope, man-o'-war fashion, under his left arm, stooped to pick it up. As she smiled her thanks, Sturdy "took two observations," as he phrased it. First he noticed how red her lips were, and secondly that she had a very white wee hand.

Next day—all by chance, I suppose—he found himself walking on the weather side of Sister Mary. The day after, Dr. Reikie saw him deliberately place her chair on the sunny side of the mizzen, and put a camp-stool beside it for himself. Sailors, you may say, are very daring. Yes, granted, but then Sturdy had begun to see the beauties of Burns, and there were many words and expressions in it that were a stumbling-block to him; what more natural, then, than that he should ask this Scotch lassie to help him to their meaning? And so day after day—but there, I won't go any further.

* * * * *

While Sturdy was studying Burns, honest Dr. Reikie took every opportunity of showing Miss Mackenzie his specimens. For during all the time he was in the Crimea, hardly a day passed that this born naturalist did not add to his collection. And now he and she dragged the sea together with little gauze nets, and she showed herself most deft in arranging microscopic creatures on cards.

A.P. Gribble, down in their own mess, poked lots of fun at Auld Reikie, and now and then Lord Tomfoozle had a shot at the doctor also in the way of chaff; but Reikie told them both he didn't care a boddle preen* what they said.

* A shawl or plaid pin.

Tomfoozle—Fitzgerald, you know—was in fine form. I'm afraid he was somewhat worldly; for about six months ago he had heard of his brother's death, and was now determined to leave the service and keep hunters.

I'm greatly afraid, also, that Robert Burns, the ploughman-poet, and the study of natural history and arranging of specimens, had much to account for; because before the Gurnet had reached the stormy Bay of Biscay, Sturdy was engaged to Sister Mary, and Auld Reikie was brother-in-law-to-be to our hero, Jack Mackenzie.

Out of respect, perhaps, to the ladies on board, the Bay of Biscay was not on this particular occasion by any means stormy. It was smiling and sweet-tempered, just as if the deep sea-bottom of it were not bedded with men's bones.

* * * * *

"I say, Dawson," said Tom Morgan one day, "I hear that the Gurnet has passed Gibraltar, and may be expected in Plymouth Sound in a week. Suppose we take a run down and meet Jack?"

Hale and hearty old Dawson smiled.

"I'm with you, lad," he said. "It will do us both good. But first and foremost I must write to the old lady and tell her we are going. She will be delighted, I'm sure."

And thus, reader, it happened that when Jack Mackenzie and his friend Reikie were passing the door of the Mount Edgecombe Hotel—let us call it—just a day after the Gurnet had arrived, who should be standing smoking a cigar at the door thereof but big, brown-bearded Tom Morgan.

The greetings were joyous and mutual.

"But why, Jack lad, I should never have known you. Big and strong, and as brown as the back of Little Peter's fiddle. Won't your mother be proud!"

"By the way," said Jack, a minute or two after, "how is my old friend Little Peter?"

"Oh, beautiful. He is teaching classes, and doing well. Won't he be glad to see you!"

"And the Malonies?"

"Never better; in fact, never so well. For Malony has been a changed man since he took the pledge. They have a nice little house now in the suburbs, and Peter lives with them as a lodger."

That very evening there was a large dinner-party given at the Mount Edgecombe, both Reikie and Jack being guests. I need hardly say that Maggie and Sister Mary were there also, and that everybody was happier than everybody else. Paddy O'Rayne himself waited behind the doctor's chair, and paid particular attention to the ladies.

But just a fortnight after this, a much larger and a much merrier party was held at Tom's father's house.

It was Christmas time once more—Christmas eve, in fact. There never had been so large a party of friends and relations at Morgan's mansion before. And—will it be believed?—old Mrs. Mackenzie of Drumglen was there herself, and, you may be sure, occupied a place of honour.

The grandam had indeed softened as she had grown older, and was nearing the end of her journey here below. "In my Father's house are many mansions," said our Saviour. May it not be that, figuratively speaking, as we draw closer that house on high, a glimmering ray of light falls from the windows thereof, to cheer and soften the hearts of weary pilgrims heavenward bent?

Mrs. Mackenzie after dinner had the biggest chair in the cosiest corner by the drawing-room fire.

"Come and sit by me, dear," she said to Jack's mother. "Take the stool there, and give me your hand in my lap. You are still young and beautiful. Ah! I wish I had known you long, long ago. And you dearly loved my boy?"

There were tears in Jack's mother's eyes and a lump in her throat, so she could not answer.

"Ah, machree, what you must have suffered! But look," added the old lady, by way of changing the subject—"look at our young sailor, your boy. See, he is making love in a quiet way to little Tottie."

This was true. But Violet was very shy.

"What nonsense!" she was saying, with a bonnie blush. "I used to write you when a baby. I hope you burned all my silly letters."

"Oh, religiously," said Jack, laughing,—"in the fire of my heart."

They were standing by the window, the very window that looked out upon the lawn where, years and years ago, he, Jack, a barefooted, ragged lad, had stood in the snow looking in at the fairies, as he had called them, dancing round the Christmas tree. The snow was falling there now; the lawn was white, and the bushes draped like statues.

Jack sighed. "What a change," he thought, "a few years has made!"

* * * * *

Yes, dear reader mine, time works changes on us all. In a few years' time you—but there! I will neither preach nor moralize.

Only let me draw up the curtain once more before its final fall on this my "ower true" story.

It is years after. Where now are all our heroes and heroines? Well, they are scattered somewhat, and some are dead and gone. Let me speak of the dead before the living.

Just one year, then, after that happy reunion at Morgan's house, the old grandam breathed her last in her tall four-post bed at Drumglen, and in the presence of the Morgans and her son Donald's wife. Her last words were these,—"Remember, we shall all meet again some Christmas eve on high."

Jack and Llewellyn had both taken part in the Indian Mutiny. Poor Llewellyn was killed at Lucknow, and died a hero's death.

Jack for his services to his country won not only his epaulettes, but the Victoria Cross. He was severely wounded, however, and had to retire from the service on his laurels.

Dr. Reikie is now a practising physician in Glasgow, and Paddy O'Rayne is his servant. He married Maggie, and so, it is needless to say, he is a frequent visitor at Drumglen, where Jack and his wife—née Violet Morgan—are avowedly the best Highland laird and lady in all the wide Highlands.

Poor Gribble was drowned at sea.

Fitzgerald still keeps his hunters, and has grown very stout. I saw him only yesterday. "Sixteen stone and over." he said, laughing. "It takes a good horse to carry me."

Fitzgerald is over fifty, but he says he'll hunt for thirty years to come yet.

As for Sturdy, he married Sister Mary; or, to use his own English, he got spliced. When Captain Gillespie heard of it, he sighed.

"Heigh-ho!" he said. "Another good man gone wrong. When an officer gets married, what I say is this: he is of no further use in the service."

But as for Sturdy, he stuck to the service, and erelong became a post-captain.

Jack did not forget the friends of his boyhood. He found for Malony a comfortable shop of his own in the neighbouring village to Drumglen, and Mrs. Malony renewed her age.

As for Little Peter, well, he is as prosperous as any teacher of music in great Glasgow; but twice a year he spends a whole month at the mansion-house of bonnie Drumglen.

And so my story ends, and the curtain falls.

THE END.