CHAPTER XII.
"DAN WILL NE'ER BE DAN AGAIN," THEY SAID.
"A boding voice is in my ear, "We're parting now to meet no more."--OLD SONG.
"See yon bark, sae proudly bounding, Soon shall bear me o'er the sea. Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding, Calls me far frae love and thee."--A. HUME.
It was a sad day for my hero, young Tom Bure, when Mr. Merryweather resigned command of the sloop, and went on half-pay. When he came to bid good-bye to Dan and his old shipmate, Uncle Bob, to say nothing of little Ruth and her mother, everyone was as sad as sad can be. It was one of those dull, depressing days in December; great waves tumbling in from the east and breaking in thunder upon the sands of Yare; hosts of seagulls flying in-land; snow in the air; general gloom everywhere.
"Good-bye, Bob, my good fellow, I hope to see you again, and see you well. I'm coming back from the wars with my post-captaincy, Bob; then you and your good brother Dan here will be the first to bid be welcome, I know."
There was a huskiness in poor Bob's voice when he made answer that was not difficult to account for, and there was moisture in his eyes.
"Ah, mate," he said, "you must forgive an invalid for showing the white feather at the last. I didn't think, you know, I'd be so sorry to part with you, but your presence, coming back and fore to the cottage here, brought back old memories, and I've had a right happy time. Good-bye, mate. Heaven preserve you. I'll pray for you, an honest tar's prayer. But something whispers to me--we'll meet again no more."
Ruth went as far as the rustic bridge with Mr. Merryweather.
He kissed her as he bade her farewell.
"I'll meet many a maiden ere I return again, Ruth," he said, "but none more modest and fair than you, my winsome lassie."
Ruth went away sobbing, with her apron to her face.
Tom walked as far as the beach with Merryweather, for he was Tom's hero.
Besides, he had promised to use his influence at the Admiralty to get Tom appointed as a middie in the same ship as he himself joined.
"Good-bye, Tom."
"Good-bye, Mr. Merryweather."
They were now on the cliff.
"Good-bye, sir, I wouldn't cry for the world, I--wouldn't--good-bye."
"There! there! lad. Never be ashamed of honest tears. Just let them fall. The bravest men that ever drew sword or wielded cutlass on the blood-slippery battle-deck have wept when saying that little word 'good-bye.'"
He patted the boy most kindly on the shoulder. "Tom," he said, smiling, "do you know what I'm going to do?"
"No," said Tom, smiling himself, though his eyes were wet.
"Well, as soon as I get up anchor and wear round I'll fire a gun for you. And do you know what that gun will say?"
"No, sir."
"It'll say 'Good-bye, Tom,' as plainly as ever a gun can speak. Now sit there and look and listen."
And off ran this honest sailor, while Tom sat down on the cliff-top to wait for developments.
He saw the boat hauled up. He heard the rattle of the windlass as the men got up the anchor. He saw the loosened sails fill as the little craft wore round, then there was a quick wicked-looking puff of white smoke, with a tongue of fire in the centre of it, and next moment the cliffs reverberated with the sound of the farewell gun.
Tom took off his jacket and waved it in the air; his cap would not have been sufficient for the requirements of so auspicious an occasion.
"Good-bye, Tom," said the gun.
And Tom went sadly home all by himself.
* * * * *
There is one method of getting over sorrow that every boy has in his power, namely, sticking to his books and his studies.
Many a time and oft, dear reader, has sorrow in this world been the parent of fame, and Tom Bure found that after a somewhat gloomy fortnight the time did not hang so wearily on his hands.
Hadn't Mr. Merryweather assured him that war was coming, and that he would exercise all the influence he possessed to obtain him an appointment as midshipman.
How glorious that would be! How he wished for the storm to break, for the war to begin. He did not think of the fine uniform he might wear, or of the dirk that should hang by his side. He resolved to emulate Horatio Nelson, and despise dandyism; but whenever a chance offered to do all kinds of daring, plucky things, he was sure he should rise rapidly in the service, and have his name written on the scroll of fame.
Tom had heard of the scroll of fame, but possessed very hazy notions indeed as to what it was or wasn't. But in an old copy-book Mr. Curtiss, his tutor, one day discovered the following ready-made scroll of fame--
"Tom Bure, midshipman. Lieutenant Tom Bure, R.N. Commander Thomas Bure, R.N. Captain the Hon. Thom. Bure, R.N. Admiral of the Red the Hon. Thom. Bure. Admiral of the Fleet Lord----."
The scroll of fame was left unfinished just there; it was evident that young Tom was uncertain what title as a lord he should confer on himself.
But he happened to enter the room just as Mr. Curtiss was examining this scroll of fame and laughing heartily over it. Forgetting for the moment all the respect that was due to his tutor, Tom rushed forward, seized the paper and tore it in pieces, his eyes flashing with anger, his face burning like a coal.
"Oh! forgive me, Mr. Curtiss," he said immediately after, "I didn't mean to be rude, but I really felt so ashamed."
"Say no more, my boy, no more," said Mr. Curtiss, "we all of us manufacture for ourselves a scroll of fame, though we don't all transcribe it in an old copy-book. Never be ashamed of ambition, my boy, so long as it is honest ambition."
* * * *
Christmas of 1792 came round at last, and Tom Bure had the distinguished honour of being included among the invited guests to a ball given by his little inamorata, Miss Colmore, at the Hall. This party was not held on Christmas-day, however, else Tom, much as he loved the fascinating fair one, would have declined the invitation. Christmas-day was Uncle Bob's day _par excellence_, for he happened to have been born on this day of all days; so it was the one festival of the year at Dan's cottage. The dinner was spread in Bob's own wing, the room was specially decorated for the purpose with evergreens and holly-berries and mistletoe nearly a week beforehand, Bob himself superintending, Ruth and Tom doing the work.
The table, with its snow-white cloth and sparkling glasses, and Mrs. Dan's very best delf, was placed so that, as Bob lay in his cot and Dan sat at the foot of the table, the two brothers were close together, and Dan could attend to Bob's every want.
There were always a few neighbours invited, and mirth and jollity and songs and yarns were the rule of the evening.
And this Christmas formed no exception. Poor Bob was never merrier, and declared that he had been able to move his fingers in the morning better than ever he had done, so that a new hope was awakened within him. No wonder he was happy.
And Bob being happy, his brother Dan's face was all the evening brimming over with joy. Even Meg, the collie, knew that something extra was on the tapis, and when everybody drank to Bob, wishing him many happy returns of the day, and Dan his brother patted his cheek, the dog jumped up and licked his ear, then seemed to go to sleep with her head sideways on his chest in her old loving fashion.
This was indeed a never-to-be-forgotten evening.
Two days after the party at the Hall took place, and though perhaps Tom was not the greatest dandy there, he nevertheless looked as well as anyone. And, singular to say, Bertha was kinder to Tom than ever she had been. She gave him more dances than she gave to the Honourable Fred Langridge, although the latter wore silver buckles in his shoes besides silk stockings and a satin waistcoat, and sported a bunch of seals at his fob as large even as Mr. Merryweather's.
Tom was accordingly very happy indeed, and the evening wore away with magical quickness. Bertha had never looked so like a fairy before, but nevertheless this fairy maiden even condescended to let Tom----; but stay, I shall not tell tales out of school, and the least said about the mistletoe the better.
But that, too, was a never-to-be-forgotten evening.
Our young hero was now in his twelfth year, and began to think he really and truly was a man.
It being winter Uncle Bob spent nearly all his time indoors, but Tom went often to the crow's-nest, and came back and reported to Bob all about the weather and how the wind was, how the sea looked and what was in sight, and this used to make Bob so happy.
Tom often went out in the _Fairy_ yawl with the Ashleys. They were a rather rough lot, but really capital seamen, and taught the boy quite a deal that was useful to him in after life.
And with all due respect for classical education, the knowledge of how to reef and steer and splice and knot, and of how to look a gale of wind and dashing seas in the teeth, is not thrown away even on a midshipman of the present day.
* * * * *
The cold dreary winter wore away at last, and spring began to clothe the marshes in tender green, and scatter wild flowers everywhere. The catkins were showered groundwards from the tall poplar trees, and yellow-green leaves covered them like the shimmer of evening sunshine, the tassels hung on the larches, the gold covered the furze, gentler winds went whispering through the young shoots of the bulrushes, and the song of birds was heard in all the land.
Happiness, joy, and hope were universal.
Uncle Bob began to look forward now to his first glad day on the broad in his barge. Dan his brother was to come with him, Ruth and Meg and all were to go, and Tom intended to invite little Bertha herself.
It was indeed to be a day of rejoicing.
One evening the stars shone with unusual brilliancy, and yet Dan told Bob there wasn't an air of frost in it either. Dan sat longer up with his brother that night than usual. They were talking of dear old times when father and mother were alive, and they were boys together. Such joyous days those used to be, and how free from care and thought.
When at last the old clock in the corner groaned out the hour of twelve, Dan bade his brother a kindly good-night, and prepared to go.
The last thing Bob asked him to do was to draw back the curtains, that he might see the beautiful stars.
"Take the candle, brother, take the candle," Bob said. "Good-night, dear Dan. Now I shall see the stars. Oh, what glory!"
These were the last words ever Dan heard his brother utter. Mayhap they were the last he ever spoke on earth.
When Tom went in next morning he found Uncle Bob apparently asleep. But his face was white.
Tom touched his brow; it was hard and cold.
He stood in the chamber of death.
It was Bob's wing no longer.
Tom felt for a moment as if turned to stone, then, uttering one long and bitter cry, he sank down on his knees beside the bed and burst into tears.
When brother Dan went in he found two mourners there; one was little Tom, the other Bob's collie, Meg. Her paws were on the bed, her cheek leant lovingly against the hard, dead chest of her master.
[Illustration: "Dan found two mourners there, little Tom, and Bob's collie, Meg."]
* * * * *
A very humble funeral. Only a plain deal coffin, and only a few friendly neighbours to follow it to its last resting-place.
But when these neighbours looked in the face of poor Dan, who erst was ever so cheerful, they shook their heads.
"Dan has aged sadly," they said.
"Dan will ne'er be Dan again."
Book II.