The Scragleys were a very old family, and that was their mansion I have
already mentioned as standing high up on the hill in a cloudland of
glorious trees. But excepting Miss Scragley herself, and this little
niece, Miss Eedie Moore, the rest of the Scragleys were all dead and
away.
Though the family estates were intact and financially secure,
afflictions of all sorts had decimated the Scragleys. No less than two
had died on the hunting-field; one, a soldier, had fallen on the field
of fame in far Afghanistan; another, a captain in the royal navy, had
succumbed to fever at sea; and still another had sailed away in a ship
that never returned.
Others had died in peace and at home. So Miss Scragley was indeed a
relic of the past, but she was lord of the manor for the time being.
Her heart was bound up in little Eedie; and the girl would have to
change her name when of age, as she would then be heir to all the
Scragley estates. Even if she married, her husband must become a
Scragley. It would never do to let the glorious name of Scragley die
out.
But Miss Scragley was somewhat antiquated though not very old; somewhat
set up and starchy in manner too. She preferred to import good people
from London to mixing with the residents around, with the exception of
the kindly-faced, white-haired old rector, Captain Weathereye, R.N., and
Dr Fairincks.
In bygone ages it was currently believed that this rough old sea-dog of
a captain, Weathereye would lead the then graceful Miss Scragley to the
altar, and the lady herself still believed that the happy event would
yet come off.
And she was quite gay when she thought of it. At Christmas-time, when
she imported more good people from London than usual, and turned on the
family ghost for the occasion, when she had the special brand of port
decanted that old Weathereye so dearly loved, and when Scragley Hall
resounded with mirth and laughter, and was lighted up from basement to
attics, Miss Scragley nursed the fond hope that the captain was almost
sure to pop the question.
Old Captain Weathereye praised the port. But--well, he loved to hear
corks popping, only he wouldn't pop himself.
Poor Miss Scragley!
"I wonder will he _ever_?" she used to remark to herself, when she
had finished saying her prayers and was preparing to
undress--"ever--_ever_?"
"Never--never," old Weathereye would have unfeelingly replied had he
heard her.
On this particular occasion Miss Scragley extended her walk far into the
very wood--forest, she romantically called it--where Ransey Tansey and
his pets were enjoying themselves.
She and her niece wandered on and on by the banks of the stream, till
they came to the place where little Babs lay, still sound asleep in her
hammock, and this was swaying gently to and fro in the summer wind.
"O Eedie!" cried Miss Scragley, "why, I've found a child!"
"Oh, the wee darling!" exclaimed Eedie; "mayn't I kiss it, auntie?"
"If you kissed it," said the lady, as if she knew all about babies and
could write a book about them--"if you kissed it, dear, it would awake,
and the creature's yells would resound through the dark depths of the
forest."
"But there is no one near," she continued; "it must be deserted by its
unfeeling parents, and left here to perish."
She went a little nearer now and looked down on the sleeping child's
face.
A very pretty face it was, the rosy lips parted, the flush of sleep upon
her face; and one wee chubby hand and arm was lying bare on the shawl.
"Oh dear!" cried Miss Scragley, "I feel strangely agitated. I cannot
let the tiny angel perish in the silvan gloom. I must--_you_ must,
Eedie--well, _we_ must, dear, carry it home with us."
"Oh, will ye, though?" The voice was close behind her. "Just you leave
Babs alone, and attend to yer own bizness, else Bob will have somethin'
till say to ye."
Miss Scragley started, as well she might.
"Oh," she cried, looking round now, "an absurd little gipsy boy!"
"_Yes_," said Ransey Tansey, touching his forelock, "and I'm sorry for
bein' so absurd. And ashamed all-so. If a rabbit's hole was handy, I'd
soon pop in. But, bless yer beautiful ladyship, if I'd known I was to
'ave the perleasure o' meetin' quality, I'd 'ave put on my dress soot,
and carried my crush hat under my arm.
"Don't be afeard, mum," he continued, as the crane came hopping out of
the bush. "That's only just the Admiral; and this is Bob, as would die
for me or Babs."
"And who is Babs, you droll boy?"
"Babs is my baby, and no one else's 'cept Bob's. And Bob and I would
make it warm for anybody as tried to take Babs away. Wouldn't us, Bob?"
Just then his little sister awoke, all smiles and dimples as usual.
Ransey Tansey went to talk to her, and for a time the boy forgot all the
world except Babs.
Book 1--CHAPTER FOUR.
"RANSEY, FETCH JIM; WE'RE GOIN' ON."
"I'se glad 'oo's tome back, 'Ansey. Has I been afeep [asleep], 'Ansey?"
"Oh, yes; and now I'm goin' to feed Babs, and Babs'll lie and look at
the trees till I cook dinner for Bob and me."
"That wady [lady] won't take Babs away, 'Ansey?"
"No, Babs, no."
Ransey Tansey fed Babs once more from the pickle bottle with the horn
spoon, much to Miss Scragley's and little Eedie's astonishment and
delight.
Then he commenced to build a fire at a little distance, and laid out
some fish all ready to cook as soon as the blazing wood should die down
to red embers.
"You're a very interesting boy," said Miss Scragley politely. "May I
look on while you cook?"
"Oh, yes, mum. Sorry I ain't got a chair to offer ye."
"And oh, please, interesting boy," begged Eedie, "may I talk to Babs?"
"Cer--tain--lee, pretty missie.--Babsie, sweet," he added, "talk to this
beautiful young lady."
"There's no charge for sittin' on the grass, mum," said Ransey the next
minute.
And down sat Miss Scragley smiling.
The boy proceeded with the preparation of the meal in real gipsy
fashion. He cooked fish, and he roasted potatoes. He hadn't forgotten
the salt either, nor a modicum of butter in a piece of paper, nor bread;
and as he and Bob made a hearty dinner, he gave every now and then the
sweetest of tit-bits to Babs.
Eedie and the child got on beautifully together.
"May I ask you a question or two, you most interesting boy?" said Miss
Scragley.
"Oh, yes, if ye're quite sure ye ain't the gamekeeper's wife. The
keeper turned me out of the wood once. Bob warn't there that day."
"Well, I'm sure I'm not the gamekeeper's wife. I am Miss Scragley of
Scragley Hall."
The boy was wiping his fingers and his knife with some moss.
"I wish I had a cap on," he said.
"Why, dear?"
"So as I could take her off and make a bow," he explained.
"And what is your name, curious boy?"
"Ransey; that's my front name."
"But your family name?"
"Ain't got ne'er a family, 'cepting Babs."
"But you have a surname--another name, you know."
"Ransey Tansey all complete. There."
"And where do you live, my lad?"
"Me and Babs and Bob and Murrams all lives, when we're to home, at
Hangman's Hall; and father lives there, too, when 'ee's to home; and the
Admiral, yonder, he roosts in the gibbet-tree."
"And what does father do?"
"Oh, father's a capting."
"A captain, dear boy?"
"No, he's not a boy, but a man, and capting of the _Merry Maiden_, a
canal barge, mum. An' we all goes to sea sometimes together, 'cepting
Murrams, our pussy, and the Admiral. We have such fun; and I ride Jim
the canal hoss, and Babs laughs nearly all the time."
"So you're very happy all of you, and always were?"
"Oh, yes--'cepting when father sometimes took too much rum; but that's a
hundred years ago, more or less, mum."
"Poor lad! Have you a mother?"
"Oh, yes, we has a mother, but only she's gone dead. The parson said
she'd gone to heaven; but I don't know, you know. Wish she'd come back,
though," he added with a sigh.
"I'm so sorry," said Miss Scragley, patting his hand.
"Oh, don't ye do that, mum, and don't talk kind to me, else I'll cry. I
feels the tears a-comin' now. Nobody ever, ever talks kindly to me and
Babs when at home, 'cepting father, in course, 'cause we're on'y common
canal folks and outcasts from serciety."
Ransey Tansey was very earnest. Miss Scragley had really a kind heart
of her own, only she couldn't help smiling at the boy's language.
"Who told you so?"
"W'y, the man as opens the pews."
"Oh, you've been to church, then?"
"Oh, yes; went the other Sunday. Had nuthin' better to do, and thought
I'd give Babs a treat."
"And did you go in those--clothes?"
"Well, mum, I couldn't go with nuthin' on--could I, now? An' the
pew-man just turned us both out. But Babs was so good, and didn't cry a
bit till she got out. Then I took her away through the woods to hear
the birds sing; and mebbe God was there too, 'cause mother said He was
everywhere."
"Yes, boy, God is everywhere. And where does your mother sleep,
Ransey?"
"Sleep? Oh, in heaven. Leastways I s'pose so."
"I mean, where was your gentle mother buried?"
"Oh, at sea, mum. Sailor's grave, ye know."
Ransey looked very sad just then.
"You don't mean in the canal, surely?"
"Yes, mum. Father wouldn't have it no other way. I can't forget;
'tain't much more'n a year ago, though it looks like ten. Father, ye
know, 'ad been a long time in furrin parts afore he was capting o' the
_Merry Maiden_."
The lad had thrown himself down on the grass at a respectable distance
from Miss Scragley, and his big blue, eyes grew bigger and sadder as he
continued his story.
"'Twere jest like this, mum. Mother'd been bad for weeks and so quiet
like, and father _so_ kind, 'cause he didn't never touch no rum when
mother was sick. We was canal-ing most o' the time; and one night we
stopped at the `Bargee's Chorus'--only a little public-house, mum, as
perhaps you wouldn't hardly care to be seen drinkin' at. We stopped
here 'cause mother was wuss, and old dad sent for a doctor; and I put
Jim into the meadow. Soon's the doctor saw poor mother, he sez, sez he,
`Ye'd better get the parson. No,' he sez, `I won't charge ye nuthin'
for attendance; it's on'y jest her soul as wants seein' to now.'
"Well, mum, the parson came. He'd a nice, kind face like you has, mum,
and he told mother lots, and made her happy like. Then he said a
prayer. I was kind o' dazed, I dussay; but when mother called us to
her, and kissed me and Babs, and told us she was goin' on to a happier
land, I broke out and cried awful. And Babs cried too, and said, `An'
me too, ma. Oh, take Babs.'
"Father led us away to the inn, and I jest hear him say to the parson,
`No, no, sir, no. No parish burial for me. She's a sailor's wife;
she'll rest in a sailor's grave!'
"I don't know, mum, what happened that night and next day, for me and
Babs didn't go on board again.
"Only, the evenin' arter, when the moon and stars was ashinin' over the
woods and deep down in the watur, father comes to me.
"`Ransey,' sez father, `fetch Jim; we're goin' on.' And I goes and
fetches Jim, and yokes him to and mounts; and father he put Babs up
aside me, 'cause Jim's good and never needs a whip.
"`Go on, Ransey,' sez he, an' steps quietly on board and takes the
tiller.
"Away we went--through the meadows and trees, and then through a long,
quiet moor.
"Father kep' the barge well out, and she looked sailin' among the
stars--which it wasn't the stars, on'y their 'flection, mum. Well, we
was halfway through the moor, and Babs was gone sound asleep 'cross my
arm, when I gives Jim his head and looks back.
"An', oh, mum, there was old dad standin' holdin' the tiller wi' one
hand. The moon was shinin' on his face and on his hair, which is grey
kind, and he kep' lookin' up and sayin' somethin'.
"Then there was a plash. Oh, I knew then it was dead mother; and--and--
I jest let Jim go on--and--and--"
But Ransey's story stopped right here. He was pursing up his lips and
trying to swallow the lump in his throat; and Miss Scragley herself
turned her head away to hide the moisture in her eyes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Grief does not stay long at a time in the hearts of children. It comes
there all the same, nevertheless, and is quite as poignant while it does
last as it is in the breasts of older folks. Children are like the
traditional April day--sunshine and showers.
"I think, mum," said Ransey after a while, "it is time for us to bundle
and go."
Miss Scragley watched the lad with considerable interest while he struck
his little camp. First he scattered the remains of his fire and ashes
carefully, so that there should be no danger to the wood. Then he
prepared to hide his ship.
"Did you make that pretty ship?" said Eedie.
"Oh, yes; I can make beautiful ships and boats, 'cause I seed lots on
'em w'en father took me to Southampton. Oh, that seems millions and
millions o' years ago. And ye see, miss," he added, "I'm goin' to be a
sailor anyhow, and sail all over the wide world, like father did, and
by-and-by I'll be rich enough to have a real ship of my own."
"Oh, how nice! And will Babs go with you?"
"As long as Babs is quite little," he answered, "I can't go to sea at
all, 'cause Babs would die like dead mother if I went away."
He had Babs in his arms by this time, and it was evident enough that the
affection between these two little canal people was very strong indeed.
Seated on his left shoulder, and hugging Ransey's head towards her, Babs
evidently thought she was in a position to give a harangue.