A HEART OF OAK
'For a-fighting we must go,
And a-fighting we must go,
And what's the odds if you lose your legs,
So long as you drub the foe?'
It was Sunday afternoon, the fourth Sunday after Godfrey's coming to
Oakfield. It was almost the end of October now, but the spell of warm
weather which we call St. Luke's summer had come, as it often does in
late autumn, and the sun was warm and pleasant as Angelica paced up and
down the garden path with a book in her hand. Mr. Crayshaw sat in the
sunny parlour window where Angel's work-basket stood on week-days; he,
too, had a book before him, but I'm afraid he was nodding over it, for
there was a sleepy quiet about the house that afternoon. Only at the
bottom of the garden by the arbour voices could be heard, and Angel
caught a word or two every time she reached the end of the gravel walk,
words that mingled strangely with the book of poetry she was reading.
'Be useful where thou livest, that they may
Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still,'
read Angel as she strolled along the path. Then came Betty's clear
tones from behind the yew hedge which separated her from the arbour:
'Now, Godfrey, say after me: "To love, honour, and succour my father
and mother."'
'No, Aunt Betty, I needn't learn that. Penny says we oughtn't ever to
waste precious time, and I hav'n't any papa and mamma to succour, so
it's waste of time to learn about succouring them.'
'No, Godfrey, it isn't; because it means any one that stands in the
place of a papa and mamma to you, your relations and friends that take
care of you.'
'Aunts?' inquired Godfrey.
'Yes, certainly aunts.'
'Cousins?' asked Godfrey, with much unwillingness in his tone. Angel
had turned round again before Betty's answer came. She was rather glad
the question had not been put to her. Godfrey always would have his
inquiries answered, and Angel felt sure he would not like to be told
that it was his duty to succour Cousin Crayshaw. She paced up the
gravel path and back again with her head bent over her book.
'Scorn no man's love, though of a mean degree,
Love is a present for a mighty king.'
She had got so far when she reached the arbour again, and this time
there was a shadow of impatience in Betty's tones.
'Godfrey, you are not attending. "Not to covet nor desire other men's
goods."'
'What are goods?'
'Things that belong to them. If you wanted my desk or Cousin
Crayshaw's watch it would be naughty of you. Godfrey, you must not put
your foot on Miss Jane's head; her nose is off already.'
'I don't want his watch, I want a much bigger one. Aunt Betty, was
that lady as ugly when she was alive as she is now?'
'Godfrey, that isn't a kind thing to say. People have been cruel to
her--you wouldn't be pretty if your nose was off; and besides, she is
dead, and it isn't right to speak so about her.'
'What killed her?' asked Godfrey gravely.
'Well, of course, we don't know for certain, but your Aunt Angelica and
I feel almost sure she died young. You see she was _Miss_ Jane, she
wasn't married, and we have always had an idea that she died of a
broken heart.'
'What broke it?' said Godfrey's interested voice.
'Of course I don't know for certain; but she was a maiden, you
see--'demoiselle' means a maiden--and she may have been a maiden
aunt--there's no reason why she shouldn't have been--and her nephew may
have broken her heart by his bad ways.'
'What did he do?' asked Godfrey earnestly.
'It may have been what he didn't do,' said Betty impressively. 'Not
learning things that were for his good, and--and that sort of thing.'
'When people's hearts break do you hear them crack?' was the next
question.
'No, you don't hear anything,' said Betty solemnly; 'the people get
paler and paler and thinner and thinner every day, till at last they
die.'
'You ar'n't thin, Aunt Betty,' remarked the nephew, with satisfaction.
'Not now, perhaps,' said the aunt, with dignity, 'but I might soon get
thin with lying awake thinking sad things about little boys.'
'Do you lie awake thinking of me not learning about succouring you and
Cousin Crayshaw?'
'I haven't yet,' said Betty truthfully; 'but I soon might,' she
hastened to add.
'I'll say it again now,' said Godfrey after a moment, 'and afterwards
will you tell me about godpapa Godfrey and the acorn?'
'Yes, of course I will,' and then, as 'My duty to my neighbour' began
again, Angel turned away with a smile in her gentle eyes.
Certainly in these three weeks the two young aunts had managed to win
their little nephew's confidence. It had not come quite directly, for
poor Godfrey was not one of those lucky little children who grow up
with the happy belief that every one is friendly to them, and so open
their glad hearts to all the world. Bit by bit they had learned the
story of his short little life which there was no one but himself to
tell them. His mother was only a name to him, and he knew little about
his father, who was always kind, Godfrey said, but hardly ever saw him.
He didn't talk, the child told Angel; he took him on his knee sometimes
and looked at him, and Angel's gentle, pitiful heart drew its own
pictures, and fancied her brother mourning for his young wife,
estranged from his relations at home, perhaps afraid to cling too
closely to what was left him. Biddy O'Roone, the corporal's widow, was
evidently the chief person in Godfrey's world. Godfrey had been ill
once, he said; he couldn't remember much about it, but Biddy came and
sent away his black nurse, and after that she took care of him. She
taught him what she could, to speak the truth and say his prayers
morning and evening, and he was obedient to her, though the soldiers
and the native servants did their best to spoil him. She could not
read herself, but she knew most of the Bible stories, and Godfrey
learnt them from hearing her tell them, and imagined all kinds of
things about them afterwards. And she told him, too, endless fairy
stories about witches and enchanters, and the good folk who danced at
night on the greenswards at home. One of the soldiers taught him a
little reading and writing, and another taught him to talk some French,
and though he was small and delicate he had plenty of true English
pluck and spirit, and would ride or climb against a boy twice his age.
It was Biddy who had awakened him one night when his papa was away from
home, and had dressed him in a hurry, and told him that he was to be
quiet and come away with her at once, for there were rascals about that
hadn't a bit of pity in the black hearts of them for old or young. And
Godfrey, half asleep and not understanding, was hurried away in the
dark and found himself presently on board ship. And when, next day, he
asked where his papa was, Biddy cried over him and told him in her
simple way that the angels had taken him. And Godfrey had been a
little sorry, but had supposed he would just stay on with Biddy, and
by-and-bye they got to a great place full of houses where she had
friends, and he thought it was America. And, not long afterwards, she
mended his clothes and knitted some stockings for him, and told him
that he was going to England, to some grand relations whose name was in
his papa's pocket book, and that her heart was just breaking with joy
for him being made a lovely gentleman, as indeed he should be, if it
wasn't just broken entirely with sorrow to think how would she ever get
on and the seas between them.
He had learnt among his soldier friends that it was unmanly to cry or
make a fuss before people, and so his fellow travellers, who might have
petted the delicate-looking little boy, set him down as rather sulky
and stupid. He arrived in England on a dull rainy day, which seemed
terrible to the little West Indian boy, and then came Cousin Crayshaw
with his grave disapproving face and stiff manner, and Godfrey felt as
if he must die if he could not get away and back to Biddy directly.
That was what had made him so disobedient on the journey down from
London, and when he arrived, tired and cold and bewildered, at Oakfield
Cottage, he felt as if he must get away now or never. It was then that
the sight of Angel, and the idea that she was a sort of fairy, had
given him the wild hope that she might help him, and when that hope
failed him there seemed to be nothing left but to pray that the angels
might take him, as they had taken his papa and mamma, away from the
strange, dreadful world. Then Angelica's sweetness and gentleness had
begun to win the little lonely heart, and his disobedience to Betty on
the first day had been a bit of perversity, just to show that he was
not going to give in all at once. But when Godfrey gave his heart he
gave it for good and all, and after that evening when he first kissed
Angel he held out no longer, and soon made himself as much at home at
Oakfield as if he had lived there all his life. He was a good deal
like Betty herself in some things, just as bright and quick and
fanciful, making up his mind about everything directly, and liking or
disliking with all his might. Angel used to listen to them in wonder,
as Godfrey asked torrents of questions and Betty answered them as
readily as possible, and they went on supposing this and supposing that
much faster than she could follow. Godfrey was quite different with
her, much quieter and gentler, and Angel thought it very kind of him to
wait, looking patiently up into her face while she thought things out
and talked to him in her careful, deliberate way; and she feared he
must think her stupid, and that would be so bad for him. She was a
little bit afraid, too, that he was not even now quite clear about the
difference between herself and the angels who watched over him, for he
was apt to get confused between true stories and fairy stories and his
own imaginings. One day she just hinted at it to Martha Rogers, but
Martha didn't think it mattered. She advised Angel not to bother
herself and little master too much about small things, which would get
clear to him by-and-bye: children thought a many queer things which did
no harm. And to herself she said, as Penelope had done, that if
Godfrey made no worse mistakes than confusing his gentle young aunt
with his angel guardians he would not go very far wrong. And Angel,
feeling sure Martha knew best, was content to wait and not trouble
about it. If Betty could have found a fault in her elder sister's
dealings with their nephew it would have been that she was not strict
and particular enough about what she called details. Betty wanted to
bring up Godfrey on a proper plan, and she had arranged a set of rules
which were all very excellent, only she changed them so often. She
would waken her sister in the middle of the night with the eager
exclamation, 'Angel dear, I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but
don't you think we should begin at once teaching Godfrey to dance? It
is such an excellent exercise you know, and I thought I might give him
an hour every morning after breakfast, when he generally goes in the
garden while you're talking to Penny.'
And Angel would say, in a rather sleepy voice,
'But, Betty dear, what about washing the china?'
And Betty would start off at once on a new set of arrangements to fit
in everything.
Or she would burst into the kitchen with another idea, while Angelica
was ordering the dinner.
'Angel dear, don't you think it would be very healthy for Godfrey to
live entirely on vegetables? In that paper Cousin Crayshaw brought
down it said it was such a capital thing for children. He might begin
on potatoes to-day, and to-morrow he might have vegetable marrow, and
we might draw up a list for every day in the week.'
It was all rather distracting to Angel, who felt quite sure that Betty
was much cleverer than she was, and yet dreaded trying any experiment
with Godfrey which she did not quite understand. It was Betty's idea
that Godfrey should spend Sunday afternoon in learning his Catechism;
all children learnt their Catechism on a Sunday, she said, and the
sooner Godfrey began the better. Besides, once a month the children
were catechized in church, and she didn't want him to be behind Nancy
Rogers and Jerry Ware, and all the village boys and girls. So he said
the answers after her and she explained them, which she certainly did
very brightly and very well, and on week-days Angel taught him the
earlier ones, in her gentle, plodding way, till he knew them by heart.
He had done what his Aunt Betty required of him by the time Angel had
taken two more turns, and was having his reward in the story which he
called godpapa and the acorn. It was his favourite of all Betty's
tales, and it was the sort she liked best to tell, with a little bit of
fact and a great deal of imagining. Certainly there was not very much
fact to begin upon, only an old tradition of one of William the
Conqueror's barons, who had long ago owned land at Oakfield and had
planted the tree which gave the place its name. What chiefly
interested Godfrey was that the baron of the oak had borne the same
Christian name as himself, though nobody knew his surname.
'Was that why they called me that?' he asked eagerly, the first time
Betty told him the story.
Betty could not say for certain, but she and Angel had fancied that
Godfrey's father, who had been at Oakfield often when he was a little
boy, might have been thinking of his English home when he chose the
name, for he had no relation called Godfrey. At any rate Betty and her
nephew decided that it must have been so, and when Godfrey came to
godparents in the Catechism and did not know who his own had been, he
christened the great Norman baron 'godpapa,' and loved to sit at
Betty's feet with his chin on her knee, looking up with his wide grey
eyes into hers, while she told how well the gallant Sir Godfrey had
fought at Hastings, and how the king had given him the wide stretch of
fair pasture and forest as a reward for his valour, and how perhaps the
acorn was the very first thing he planted, and how his wife liked to
come out on a summer evening and mark how it grew into a young tree,
and how his grandchildren and great-grandchildren played under its
shadow.
'And did he sit under it when it was a big tree?' asked Godfrey in his
earnest way.
'Well, no, I don't think he could have himself, because, you see, by
that time he must have been dead and buried in the church--very likely
close by Miss Jane, with his figure all in armour on the top, and a
little dog at his feet.'
'No, but I would rather have him sitting under the oak,' persisted
Godfrey; 'make it a different end, Auntie Betty,' and as Angelica came
round the end of the yew hedge, he ran to meet her, exclaiming,
'Auntie Angel, make Auntie Betty make godpapa Godfrey sit under his own
tree.'
Angel sat down and drew him to her side, while Betty repeated:
'I can't, Godfrey, because it wouldn't be real. I told you he couldn't
be alive when it was a big tree, unless he got as old as the people at
the beginning of the Bible.'
'You see, Godfrey dear,' began Angel in her quiet way, 'it is often
like that with the good things people do; they don't get all the good
of them themselves, but somebody else, perhaps ever so long after, is
the happier for what they have done. I think it is rather nice to
think of our dear old oak being green and shady year after year, and
reminding us that the man who planted it so long ago helped to make
Oakfield a little prettier. You know everything that God puts into the
world, animals and plants, and even little flowers and insects, they
are all useful somehow, though we don't always see how, and so men and
women, who can think and plan and work, ought to do something besides
just enjoying themselves, they ought to leave some mark of their having
been here.'
Godfrey's eyes drank in every word.
'Are you doing something, Aunt Angel?' he asked gravely.
Angel flushed her pretty pink.
'I can't do very much, Godfrey,' she said; 'I should like to make
people a little happier, and then, you know, I want you to do a great
deal, and your Aunt Betty and I are trying to teach you what we can to
help you: that is like Sir Godfrey planting the oak tree, and hoping
that one day it would be beautiful for every one to see.'
Godfrey leaned hard with both elbows on her knee.
'What useful things shall I do?' he asked.
[Illustration: 'What useful things shall I do?' he asked. (missing
from book)]
'I don't know; we shall see by-and-bye. I should try and make every
one very happy now, if I were you, and learn all I could, so that when
you are a man, and can help more people, you may have the power and the
wisdom you want.'
'Only think if you were a great scholar,' put in Betty, 'and wrote a
book--no, a lot of books, and people had them in their libraries, all
bound the same, and with "By Godfrey Wyndham" on the back. Or,' as
Godfrey looked only doubtfully pleased, 'if you were a great statesman
and made speeches, or suppose you were a soldier and beat the French.'
'Would that be useful?' asked Godfrey of Angel.
'Yes, certainly, very useful if the French were coming to conquer
England.'
'Pete is useful, isn't he?' said Godfrey; 'Penny says he's the
usefullest man about the place. Perhaps I might be a useful gardener,
Auntie Betty; I should like that, and I could plant lots of things then
to come up for other people; or couldn't I be a useful miller like
Ware? because people must have bread, and I should like a mill.'
'But why can't you be a statesman or a general?' said Betty, rather
taken aback.
'I would rather be a gardener like Pete,' persisted Godfrey; 'why can't
I? Gardeners are useful.'
'I think,' said Angel, 'because it isn't the state of life into which
it has pleased God to call you, Godfrey dear, like the Catechism you
were learning. We can't choose always just what we should like to be,
we have to do our best just where we are put.'
'It's getting cold,' said Betty, springing up; 'shall we go down to the
Place and see if the cow that was ill is any better? There's time
before supper.' So the aunts and the nephew strolled down the road
together, forgetting, for the present, the subject of Godfrey's future
profession. And none of them guessed how much that Sunday afternoon
call would do towards deciding it. When they reached the gate of
Oakfield Place, Nancy came running to meet them, brimful of news as
usual.
'Oh, please, Miss Angelica, oh, please, Miss Elizabeth,' she began--for
though Godfrey wouldn't use his aunts' long names himself, Peter always
strictly obeyed Betty's wishes and made Nancy do the same--'oh, please,
Uncle Kiah's come. He came last night, and the Frenchmen have got his
leg and two of his fingers, and the captain is going to get him some
money from the King and he's to live here always; and he'd have been at
church this morning only he isn't just right used to his new leg, and
he was afraid he'd tumble down before all the folks in church and give
the parson a start, so he thought he'd wait till next Sunday.'
'Do you mean your sailor uncle, Nancy?' asked Betty eagerly as Nancy
paused for breath.
'Yes, miss, Uncle Hezekiah Parker; please come in, miss, he tells such
rare stories, miss.'
'But, Nancy, perhaps your mother won't want us to-day, just now when
your uncle's come home,' said Angel.
'Oh, yes, miss, she will, please Miss Angel--Miss Angelica--and so will
Uncle Kiah too. He's here, miss,' and Nancy ushered her visitors to
the back of the house, where the kitchen and store-room windows looked
out. There was quite a Sunday air about the place; William Rogers and
Pete, in their best clothes, were looking at the cows in the orchard,
while Patty was gathering some cabbages to feed them. Martha was
moving about in the kitchen and singing a quiet, sleepy psalm tune to
herself, and on the sunny bench under the window sat a brisk-looking,
white-haired old man with a wooden leg, beating time to the psalm tune
with the stick in his hand. When he caught sight of the young ladies
he jumped up directly and made quite a grand bow, though Angel almost
caught hold of him, she was so afraid he would tumble over.
'How do you do, Hezekiah?' she said; 'we're so glad to see you. We've
been so sorry to hear about your--about your--misfortunes.'
'None at all, missy, none at all worth speaking of,' said the old
sailor cheerily, balancing himself with his stick; 'the Frenchies have
got my old leg, and much good may it do 'em. The old neighbours have
been in, making a deal o' fuss over me, but I tells 'em to keep their
pity for them that wants it more, and I've one less leg for the
rheumaticks to get hold of,' and the old sailor laughed at his own joke
like a storm of wind in the rigging.
'And now you've come to settle down at Oakfield?' said Angelica.
'Ay, ay, miss, thanks to the captain, the best officer that ever trod
quarter-deck, bless his heart. A hot time he'll be giving the
"froggies," I'll warrant him, so he and the old _Mermaid_ be getting
any work to do.'
'I'm afraid you'll find it rather dull here after where you've been,'
said Betty.
'Not I, missy,' was the cheery answer; 'places is much as you makes 'em
all the world over, and it's fair and right the old hulk should put
into port and see the young craft putting out. I'll find enough to
keep me from rusting, never you fear.'
'My nephew, Master Godfrey, likes stories better than anything,' said
Angel, putting the little boy forward; 'will you tell him about some of
the things you have seen, while I talk to Martha?'
Godfrey had been watching the sailor with earnest eyes all the time he
talked, and now he came up readily and sat down on the bench beside
him; Betty, who was devoted to animals, ran down to ask after the cows
and coax them with cabbages, and Angelica went to Martha in the
kitchen. A woman in the village was ill, and she wanted to consult
Martha about what to take to her. It took a good time to talk it over,
and when she came out again the twilight was deepening. Hezekiah still
sat on the bench outside, and Betty was sitting by him, while Pete,
Patty, Nancy, and their father stood silently listening. As for
Godfrey he sat as if he had not moved since she left him, and his eyes
never left the sailor's face, except to glance at what the old man was
drawing on the ground with his stick, the line of the ships in a great
sea-fight. Long afterwards Angel remembered it all, as one goes back
to scenes which seemed of no importance at the time but were really the
beginning of great events--the autumn evening, with the damp heavy
scent on the air, the white mist clinging to the low ground, while
above the sky cleared for a starry night, the late monthly roses on the
house, the old sailor and his little group of listeners.
'Godfrey,' she said softly, 'it is time to go home.'
The little boy started and drew a long breath.
'Bless him, he ain't here,' chuckled old Kiah; 'he's off the Spanish
coast, missy, along o' Lord Nelson and our captain. You come again,
young master, and I'll tell you the rest.' And then he would hobble
himself to the gate to let them out. 'Never tell me,' he said, as Pete
hurried to do it instead and Patty to give him her arm, 'I'm not quite
useless yet, no more I am; I told the captain he'd find me doing a
hand's turn when he came home. I've got one leg and a hand and a half
the Frenchies left me, and I'll make something of them if I'm not much
mistaken.'
All the way home Betty talked eagerly about the old sailor, where he
had been, what he had seen, the great men he had known. Godfrey said
not a word and asked no questions, and yet Angel was sure he thought of
nothing else all the evening. But he told none of his thoughts until
just before he was going to say his prayers. Then he said suddenly:
'Aunt Angel, that man is a very useful man; he must have been the
usefullest man that could be when his leg was on.'
Then, leaning on her lap as he did when he was excited, he went on:
'When you want something, you ask God for it, don't you, Aunt Angel?'
'We ask that we may have it if God pleases,' said Angel reverently.
'Yes,' said Godfrey, 'and I am going to ask, if it pleases Him, to call
me into the state of being a useful sailor.'
[Illustration: Chapter IV tailpiece]
[Illustration: Chapter V headpiece]