Chapter XIV

"DUTY, LAD, DUTY. STICK TO IT THROUGH THICK AND THIN."

This is a world of changes. There is nothing certain in it save death itself. Yes, it is a world of changes, and the sooner in youth one finds this out the better. The richest and the greatest men on earth would be fools were they to say to themselves, "Here we stand, and we shall never be moved." For all things pass away, and very often those we value the most are the first to vanish.

No one could have wished to see a happier, more hopeful face than that of Frank Fielding, as he turned about for the seventh or eighth time to wave an adieu to Fred and Toddie, standing yonder at the door of the old-fashioned whitewashed cottage.

Frank was going home to spend his Christmas at Benshee House; and a right happy and merry Christmas everyone connected with the house had determined it should be. Mr. Fielding himself, who had gone to London on most important business, would be down in time to partake of the festivities, so he had written. Nor was he coming alone. At least a dozen of his own and Mrs. Fielding's friends would come with him to spend the holy week, in a not over-holy way perhaps. So extra servants had been hired, and even an extra cook, "a _chef_," he called himself; and all throughout the parish, for a fortnight before this, nothing had been talked about except the great doings that were to take place at Benshee House.

The one and only drawback to Frank's happiness was, that his friends Fred and Toddie would not, or could not, be there.

This was no fault of Frank's, it may easily be believed. He had mentioned his wish to have them with him to his mother.

For once in a way she was haughtily obstinate.

"I can't help saying, Frank, I am just a little surprised at what you ask. There are very many and very weighty reasons why those poor children----"

Frank stuck his fingers resolutely in his ears till his mother ceased talking.

It was a rude thing to do; perhaps it was even unkind; but--well, he really could not help it.

He solaced himself, however, with the thought that nothing should prevent him riding over on his pony and spending an evening with them, as soon as he could leave his aristocratic friends at Benshee House.

Now, except in large towns, Christmas is not a day of great rejoicing in Scotland. But at the fisherman's cottage it was always kept, though in a very quiet way. So while mistletoe and evergreen hung in the halls of Benshee, and mirth and music were the order of the evening, Eean, with his family and a few humble guests, surrounded a table in the best room of the little cot, spread with such a variety of good things, and such a weight of good things as well, that in the brief intervals of conversation it was positively heard to creak and groan.

Nor were evergreens wanting as decorations; and it had taken Fred and Toddie a whole day to put these up after Bunko had brought them home with him from the snowy woods.

Such a splendid fire burned in the grate too as quite set cold at defiance, and crackled and roared so pleasantly, that neither the wind which howled around the chimney, nor the boom of breakers on the beach, could be heard.

There was mirth in the kitchen as well as in the best room. Bunko was there in fine form, and many of the humbler among the fisher folks, both old and young. And if Tippetty occupied a proud position to-night on the parlour hearth-rug--one-half of him on the footstool, the other half off--Keelie the collie was not a whit less snug at the other end of the house, and had quite as many bones and tit-bits placed at his disposal.

But by ten o'clock quiet once more reigned in Eean's cottage home, for guests had gone, and prayers were being said.

Seldom a night passed throughout the year, that the fisherman bard did not go out to have a look at the weather and the sea just before turning in. It must have been fully half-past eleven on this Christmas night when he opened the door and walked out into the darkness.

Darkness did I say? Well, dark enough it ought to have been, for there were neither stars nor moon, and while a wild east wind came roaring through the woods, the clouds hung close above them. But darkness, no. He noticed as soon as he shut the door a strange glitter on the white walls of the cottages, and on rounding the corner of his own house perceived, to his astonishment and consternation, that the whole of the eastern sky was illuminated by gleams of flames, and that banks of white rolling smoke obscured the sky.

His first thought was that the forest must be all on fire, and that the conflagration was rolling towards them. But this was unlikely, for the trees were green, snow-laden pines.

He was presently joined by Bunko, who was coming towards the cottage.

"Oh, sir!" cried the half-witted lad, "it's on our bended knees we should a' be this awfu' nicht. The day o' judgment's fast approachin', sir."

"Nonsense, Bunko. But we must find out where the fire is at once; for if it be in the woods we must cut down trees to make a gap, else it will sweep our village off the earth, Bunko."

Running in hurriedly for his plaid and crook, and to tell Eppie what he intended to do, he presently rejoined Bunko.

"Now, Bunko," he said, "you can guide us to the top of Ben Maroo; a mile will take us there, and we will then find out where the conflagration is."

The two were joined by at least half a dozen of the neighbours, to say nothing of Keelie.

Keelie and Bunko went first, straight away into the darkling forest, and straight away through it too, for no better woodsman lived than Bunko, assisted by his dog.

It was rough walking here; but when the little party once more emerged from the shadow of the trees, and commenced to ascend the mountain, it was rougher still.

They struggled up the west side, and after a climb of fully half an hour they found themselves nearly at the top, then they crossed right round above a yawning precipice to the east side.

All in a moment, as it were, they were confronted with the full glare of the terrible conflagration.

Benshee House was sheeted in flames!

This ancient seat was one of those fine old mansions still to be found in the less wild portions of the Scottish Highlands. Though I call it mansion, it really was more of a castle than anything else. It had been the seat of many a lord and laird in by-gone feudal times, and had more than once probably even stood a siege, or at least red-handed war must have raged on its ramparts and around its moats.

The largest portion, however, was unoccupied, a modern-looking wing or two alone being retained as the residence of the Fieldings.

The fire had doubtless broken out here, but by the time Eean and his party reached the mountain brow, this portion was already roofless and gutted, and the flames had full possession of the main block itself.

Flames were issuing from every port and window thereof, and the turrets and towers were but shapes in the centre of gleaming tongues of fire and clouds of rolling smoke. Far over the woods to the westward flew the sparks as thick as the flakes in a snow shower.

The burning of Benshee House will be remembered by many who read these lines, as one of the grandest but most awful sights ever witnessed in the western Highlands.

Eean and his neighbours stood for hours on that bleak hill-top, regardless of the bitter wind that raged around them. Indeed they seemed spell-bound.

Then slowly home through the heather and the forest they returned to their peaceful village by the sea.

* * * * * *

But news of even sadder import spread through the country within the next two or three days.

At the very last moment Mr. Fielding's friends had to start from London without him. He hoped, he said, to return next day.

Alas! next day saw poor Fielding lying dead in his town house.

On that very Christmas night, while his Scottish home was being consumed by fire, he was closeted with his solicitors.

A very great city commercial failure had taken place the day before, and Fielding was a ruined man; nay, it was even more than ordinary ruin, he was poorer that dread night than some of the beggars who shivered on the Thames embankment.

When his servant went to call him in the morning he found that master had never been to bed.

Yonder he sat in the arm-chair near the fire, apparently asleep.

There was nothing in the grate but cold white ashes, and----master would soon be ashes too. He was dead and stiff.

It is well to pass over the events that occurred immediately after the burning of Benshee, and the death of Fielding. Some things are best not told. But even did I desire to describe the grief of poor Frank, and that of his proud--all too proud--mother, words would fail me.

Suffice it to say that both she and he must now depend, for a time at all events, on the charity of friends and relations. And oh, charity is a cold, cold thing at best, but doled out begrudgingly by the hands of uncles, aunts, or cousins, it is colder and more bitter than poison itself.

Financial ruin, death and fire, and all to happen within forty-eight hours! Am I not right in saying it is a world of change and a world of grief?

One day in spring a sturdy boy, in dusty garments and stick in hand, knocked at the door of the fisherman's cottage.

It was Toddie herself who opened it.

The stranger was Frank, but so changed she hardly knew him.

But she dragged him in, and seated him by the fire, as in the dear old days, and sat down on a stool beside him.

Tip, the dachshund, was rejoiced to see the boy again, and made frantic efforts to jump on his knee. But, alas! he was far too long for that, so he had to content himself with licking Frank's hand, then resting his brown-tan cheek lovingly against it.

When Toddie saw this, something seemed to come over her all at once, and she burst into tears.

Frank was doing his best to console her when Eppie herself entered, and Frank rose to greet her.

She took both his hands in hers, and the tears rose even to her honest eyes.

"My poor, dear laddie," she said, "sae wan and sae woebegone. But cheer up, cheer up! Believe me, Frank, it may be all for the best."

By-and-by Eean himself came in, and even Bunko, and nobody that night had a thought for himself or herself. Every effort was made towards making Frank feel happy and at home. These efforts were not unsuccessful. Some natures are wonderfully resilient, and Frank's was one of these. He was a brave, open-hearted boy; and although no one could have felt much more keenly than he did his altered position in life, and the amount of unhappiness his fate had brought on him, still he was by no means inclined to let down his heart, as anyone might have gathered from a remark he made that evening. Tip had knocked down the boy's stick.

"Ah! Tippie," said Frank, "be careful of that; it is really all I have left me in the world."

Eean took occasion to add to this, "Nay, boy, you have hope, and you have youth, and you have health. Glorious possessions all; and if you trust to our Father, lad, He'll be a stronger rod and staff to you than that stick, sturdy and all though it be."

"Oh, well," said Frank, "I shan't need a stick long, for I've made up my mind to go to sea."

"What!" cried Toddie, "and be a midshipman like Fred? How nice!"

"Yes, that would be nice, Toddie; but, heigho! if I go at all it must be before the mast, or as an apprentice. Oh, Mr. Arundel," he added, colouring slightly, "even if I could afford the outfit of a midshipman I couldn't pass the examinations! I'm very stupid; but then----"

Frank paused.

"What were you going to say?" said Eean quietly

"Well, I was going to say what I have no business to say, because my dear mother always tried to do the best she could for me; but, sir, the constant changing of schools, and being allowed to do as I liked, and to have as many holidays as I pleased, have--have made a dunce of me. I wish I'd gone to a Scotch school like Fred."

"You're not a dunce, lad. You haven't had opportunities of learning, that is all."

"Heigho! I fear I'm spoiled and idle; but I'm going to try my very best to learn and to do well."

"Bravo, boy!" cried Eean, "give me your hand on that. Work hard, lad. I've heard you talk before of the dignity of labour. Do your duty ever. It is because Britons--brave Scottish, English, and Irish Britons--have done their duty all the world over, and looked for a blessing from on high, that Great Britain ranks this day as a first power, if not the first power, among the nations. Duty, lad, duty. It is a sacred thing. Stick to it through thick and thin, and every good will follow; and even if death should come in the doing of it, your last thoughts will be thoughts of peace."