It was early next morning when Ransey Tansey ran off through the fields
for a double allowance of milk.
"Double allowance to-day, Mrs Farrow," he shouted. "Oh, yes, father's
come; and we're goin' on to-day. Isn't it just too awfully jolly for
anything?"
"Well, I'm sorry to lose you and Babs."
"Back in a month, Mrs Farrow. It'll soon pass, ye know. But I--I am a
kind o' sorry to leave you too, for ye've been so good to Babs and Bob
and me."
There was a tear in Ransey's eye as he took the milk-can and prepared to
depart.
"The Admiral can take care o' his little self," he said, "but there's
Murrams."
"Yes, dear boy, and our nipper shall go over every morning, and put
Murrams's bowl of milk in through the broken pane."
"Oh, now I'm happy, just downright happy."
"Well, off you run. Mind never to forget to say your prayers."
"No; and I'll pray for Murrams, for the Admiral, for you, and all."
He waved his hand now, and quickly disappeared.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The world wasn't a very wide one just yet to these poor children, Ransey
and Babs. It was chiefly made up of that little cottage which went by
the uncanny name of Hangman's Hall, and of the carrying barge or
canal-boat yclept _Ye Merry Maiden_. But when at home, at the hut, they
had all the sweet, green, flowery fields around them, the stream, and
the wild woods. These formed the grand seminary in which Ransey studied
nature, and moreover, studied it without knowing he was studying
anything. To him every creature, whether clad in fur or in feather, was
a friend. He knew all their little secrets, and they _knew_ that he
knew them. Not a bird that sang was there that he did not know by its
eggs, its nest, or its notes; not a rabbit, hare, vole, or field-mouse
that he could not have told you the life-story of. His was a--
"Knowledge never learned at schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase.
Of the wild flowers' time and place;
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell;
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground mole makes his well;
How the robin feeds her young;
How the oriel's nest is hung;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay;
And the architectural plans
Of grey hornet artisans."
It is true enough that this family was poor in the eyes of the world. I
am sure they were not ashamed of it, however.
The poverty that goes hand in hand with honesty may hold up its head
before the Queen.
"Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by;
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that?"
So sang the immortal Robert Burns.
But could any boy, or girl either, be really poor who had so many
friends in field and forest, and by the winding stream? No; and such a
one as this, who has been in touch with nature in his or her early days,
may grow up, grow old, but never forget the days of youth, and never,
never lose faith in Heaven and a happy Beyond.
The cottage and the surrounding country, however, did not constitute all
the children's world. There was the ship--as I have said--the barge
that went to sea, and in which they so often sailed.
For to them as yet the barge was a brig, and the canal the ocean wide
and wild. Well, I might on second thoughts withdraw those "wee
wordies," _wide_ and _wild_. The canal was not a very wide one, nor was
it ever very wild, in summer time at all events.
Never mind, to the imagination of Ransey, Babs, and Bob, the _Merry
Maiden_ was--
"A gallant ship, with a crew as brave
As ever sailed the ocean wave."
The crew of the _Merry Maiden_, I may tell you at once, was a very small
one indeed, and consisted--all told, that is--of the captain himself,
who was likewise cook, boatswain, and bedmaker all combined; one sturdy,
great boy of sixteen, strong enough to lift almost any weight, Sammy by
name, who was first lieutenant, supercargo, and chief engineer, and who
often took his trick at the wheel--that is, he took the tiller and
relieved his captain, or mounted Jim and relieved Ransey; Ransey
himself, who was second engineer--Jim, the stout old bay nag, being the
engine itself, the moving power when no fair wind was blowing; and Bob,
whose station was at the bows, and his duty to keep a good look-out and
hail those aft if any other ship hove in sight or danger was near.
The _Merry Maiden_ rejoiced in one mast, which had to be cleverly
lowered when a bridge had to be negotiated. The sail was a fore-and-aft
one, though very full at times. Picturesquely reddish-brown it was, and
looked so pretty sometimes against the green of the trees that, as the
craft sailed slowly on in the sunshine, dreamy artists, seated smoking
at their out-door easels, often made the _Merry Maiden_ part and parcel
of the landscape they were painting.
I think that Tandy himself liked being on board. The barge was his own,
and carrying light wares or parcels from village to village, or town to
town, his trade.
Things had gone backwards with Tandy as long as he looked upon the rum
when it was red; he had got into debt. But now he was comfortable,
jolly once more, because his keel was clear, as he phrased it; and as he
reclined to-day on the top of the cuddy, or poop, with the tiller in his
hand, Babs nestling near him, with the greenery of the woods, the
fields, and little round knolls floating dreamily past him in the
silvery haze of the sunshine, he looked a picture of health, happiness,
and contentment.
Ransey and Babs took their canal life very easily. They never knew or
cared where they were going to, nor thought of what they might see.
Even the boy's knowledge of the geography of his own country was very
limited indeed.
He had some notion that his father's canal--he grandly termed it so
occasionally--was somewhere away down in the midlands. And he was
right. He hadn't learned to box the compass, however; and even had he
possessed the knowledge, there wasn't a compass on board the _Merry
Maiden_ to box or be boxed. Besides, the ship's head was seldom a whole
hour in any one particular direction. The canal was a very winding one,
its chief desire seeming to be to visit all the villages it could reach
without being bothered with locks. These last were few and far between,
because the country was rather a level one on the whole.
Nevertheless the fact of their not knowing exactly where they were going
to, or what they would see next, lent an additional charm to the
children's canal life. It was like the game children play on moonlight
nights in Scotland. This is a very simple one, but has a great
fascination for tiny dwellers in the country, and, besides, it gives
excellent scope for the imagination. One child blindfolds another, and
leads him here, there, and everywhere, without going far away from
home--round the stackyards, over the fields by the edge of the woods, or
across bridges, the blindfolded wondering all the time where he is, but
feeling as if he were in fairyland, till at last his eyes are free, and
he finds himself--well, in the very last place he could have dreamt of
being.
There is no reason why canal life in England should not be most
pleasant, and canal people just as happy as was the crew, all told, on
board the _Merry Maiden_.
The saloon of the _Maiden_, as Tandy grandly called it, was by no means
very large. It was simply a dear little morsel of a doll's-house, but
the taste of the owner was shown in many different ways. By day the
beds were folded up and were prettily draped with bright curtains.
There were a lounge, an easy-chair, a swing-lamp, a beautiful brass
stove, and racks above and at both sides of it for plates and mugs and
clear, clean tin cooking utensils; there were tiny cupboards and
brackets and mirrors, and in almost every corner stood vases of wild
flowers, culled by Babs and Ransey whenever they had a chance. And this
was often enough, for really Jim was so wise a horse that he never
required any urging to do his duty. He was never known to make either
break or stumble. But when sail was on the ship, Jim had nothing to do
except to walk after her and look about him. Sometimes the oats or the
wheat grew close to the path, and then, although a very honest horse,
Jim never failed to treat himself to a pluck. So he was as sleek and
fat as any nag need be.
The weather was not always fine, of course, but on wet days Babs could
be sent below, with Bob to mind her, to play with her picture-books, her
lady doll, and her dolly-bone.
Ransey's father had made him discard now, for ever and ay, his ragged
garments, although the boy had not done so without a sigh of regret--
they were so free and easy.
His best clothes, presented by Miss Scragley, were stowed away for high
days and holidays, and the suit his father bought him and brought him
was simply neat and somewhat nautical.
Let us take a little cruise in the _Merry Maiden_. Shall we, reader?
It will be a cruise in imagination certainly, but very real for all
that, because it is from the life.
It is very early, then, in the joyous month of June, and the _Merry
Maiden_ is lying alongside a green bank. There is no pier here. It is
a country place. Yonder on the right is a pretty little canal-side inn,
the "Jolly Tapsters." You can read its name on the sign that is
swinging to and fro beneath a wide-spreading elm-tree. Under this tree
is a seat, and a table also; and on fine evenings, after their day's
work is done, honest labourers, dressed in smocks, who have been
haymaking all day, come here to smoke long clays, to talk to their
neighbours, and now and then beat the table with their pewters to ask
for "another pint, landlord, if _you_ please."
Tandy lay in here last night and left a whole lot of parcels and things
at that cosy hostelry; for the country all about is an agricultural one,
beautifully wooded with rolling hills, with many a smiling mansion
peeping grey or red above the trees, and many a well-tilled farm. The
parcels will all be called for in due time.
The barge-master is up before even Ransey is stirring. He has lit the
fire and made ready for breakfast. Before going on shore by the little
gangway, he stirs Sammy up. Sammy, the sixteen-year-old boy, has been
sleeping among the cargo with a morsel of tarpaulin for a blanket. He
rubs his eyes, and in a few seconds pulls himself up, and begins, lazily
enough, to sort and arrange the parcels and make notes for the next stop
in a small black book, with a very thick pencil that he sticks in his
mouth about once every three seconds to make it write more easily.
"What a lovely morning!" thinks Tandy, and Bob, who has come bounding
after him, thinks so too. The sun is already up, however. From every
copse and plantation comes the melody of birds. Flocks of rooks are
flying heavily and silently away to the distant river, where among the
reeds they will find plenty to eat. Swimming about in the canal yonder
are half a score of beautiful ducks. No, not wild; wild birds seldom
build on a busy canal side. They are the innkeeper's Rouens, and that
splendid drake is very proud indeed. He lifts himself high out of the
water and claps his wings in defiance as Bob passes.
Yonder is a lark lilting loudly and sweetly high above the green corn.
There are linnets and greenfinches in the hedges, and warblers among the
snow-white blossoms of the may.
There is a wealth of wild flowers everywhere--blue-eyed speedwells, the
yellow celandine, the crimson of clover, the ragged robin, and ox-eye
daisies weeping dew.
So balmy is the air and fresh that the barge-master has wandered further
than he had intended. Hunger warns him to beat a retreat. Canal
people, like caravan folks, have excellent appetites.
But here he is on board again. Ransey has already cooked and laid the
breakfast, dressed Babs, and folded up the beds. With the ports all
open the tiny saloon is sweet and clean.
"For what we are about to receive," the father begins, and little
Ransey's head is bent and Babs's hands are clasped till grace is said.
Those eggs are fresh. The fish was caught but yesterday. Butter and
beautiful bread are always to be had cheap all along the canal.
Sammy's breakfast and Bob's are duly handed up the companion-way, and in
half an hour after this the horse is yoked, the landlord has wished them
all good luck, and they have gone on.
But the wind, though slight, is dead ahead for miles, and Jim has a
heavy drag. Jim doesn't mind that a bit. He jingles his light harness,
strains nobly to his work, and jogs right merrily on.
Gradually the country wakens up to newness of life. Smoke comes curling
up from many a humble cottage; cocks are crowing here and there; and
busy workman-like dogs are hurrying to and fro as they drive cattle or
sheep to distant pasture lands.
There are houses dotted about everywhere, some very close to the canal
side, from the doors of which half-dressed children rush out to wave
naked arms and "hooray" as the barge goes slowly floating past. To
these Babs must needs wave her wee hands and give back cheer for cheer.
Many of those cots, humble though they be, have the neatest of gardens,
with flowers already blooming in beds and borders, in tubs and in boxes;
neat little walks all sanded and yellow; and strings along the walls, up
which, when summer is further advanced, climbers will find their way and
trail in their loveliness over porch and windows.
There are orchards behind many of these, the gnarled trees snowed over
with bloom, many clad in pink or crimson. All this brings to one's mind
snatches from Mrs Hemans:--
"The cottage homes of England,
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep
As the bird beneath their eaves."
The sun climbs higher and higher, and the mists have disappeared from
the far-off hills, and now you can tell it is school time.
Well-dressed children, in groups, are wending their way all in one
direction. But they find time to cull wild flowers for teacher; and
see, a bold, bright-faced lad comes near to the edge of the canal.
Perhaps he is charmed by the innocent beauty of little Babs. Who can
tell? One thing we _are_ sure of--he has learned a little French, and
is proud to air it.
"_Bon voyage_," he shouts.
And next moment a bonnie bunch of flowers falls right into the child's
lap.
"Kiss your hand to him, dear," says father.
Babs smilingly does as she is told. No actress could do so more
naturally.
Then the boy runs off, looking happy, and the barge floats on.
Book 1--CHAPTER EIGHT.
"POOR MARY! SHE HAS GONE ON."
The barge floats on, and soon the village appears in sight. Yes,
thoroughly English, and therefore pretty: the old grey houses only half
seen in the midst of the foliage; the wreaths of blue smoke; the broad,
squat steeple; wooded hills behind, and amongst these latter here and
there a tall Elizabethan house sheltering itself in a hollow, for wildly
in winter do the winds sweep through the leafless oaks and elms now clad
in all the glory of summer's green.
The canal makes a sweep just before it comes up to the village, as if it
had entertained some thoughts of going past without calling. But it
hasn't the heart to do so, and presently the barge is close alongside a
kind of wooden platform which is dignified by the name of wharf.
Ransey dismounts to water his horse and slip on the nose-bag. Then,
while Sammy is busy with his note-book, handing out cargo and taking
fresh orders, he takes delighted Babs and Bob on shore to look at the
shops. These visits to villages are much appreciated by her tiny
ladyship, but if the streets are steep Ransey Tansey must take her on
his back, and thus the two go on.
No fear of the "ship" leaving without them; and why, here is father
himself, his hands deep in the pockets of his pilot jacket, and smoking.
A penny to Ransey and a halfpenny to Babs secure them additional
happiness; but in less than an hour the anchor is weighed, and the
_Merry Maiden_ is once more going on.
The wind changes, or the canal, or something; anyhow sail can now be
set, and Jim thinks himself about the happiest horse in all creation.
On and on through the quiet country, by the most silent of all
thoroughfares, goes the barge. Babs is getting drowsy; father makes her
a bed with a bundle of sacks, shading her face from the sun; and soon
she is in the land of forgetfulness.
Were it not for the breeze that blows freshly over the meadows, the day
would be a warm and drowsy one. No fear of Sammy falling asleep,
however, for as the canal winds in and out he has to tighten or loosen
the sheet according to the shift.
Just at present the sounds that are wafted towards the barge are all
lulling and dreamy: the far-off singing of birds; the sound of the
woodman's axe in the distant wood; the rattle of a cart or carriage on a
road that is nowhere visible; the jangle of church bells from a village
that may be in the sky for anything any one can tell; and now the merry
laughter of young men and maidens making hay, and these last come in
sight just round the next green bend.
It suddenly occurs to Jim that a dance wouldn't be at all a bad idea.
Ransey is some distance behind his horse, when he sees him lower his
head and fling his heels high in air. This is merely preparatory; next
minute he is off at a gallop, making straight for that meadow of
fragrant hay, the wind catching mane and tail and blowing it straight
out fore and aft.
When tired of galloping round the field, Jim bears right down upon the
haymakers themselves.
"That stuff," he says, with distended nostrils, "smells uncommonly nice.
Give us a tuft."
He is fed handsomely by both lads and lasses gay. But they get gayer
than ever when Jim throws himself down on his back, regardless of the
confused entanglement of bridle and traces. But Jim knows better than
to roll on the bare ground. He has thrown down a hay-cock for himself,
and it is as good as a play to witness the girls bury him up till there
is nothing to be seen of him except his four legs kicking skywards.
He gets up at last, and looks very sober and solemn. One girl kisses
him on the muzzle; another is busy doing something that Ransey cannot
make out, but a minute or two after this, when Jim comes thundering
back, there is a huge collar of hay around his neck. Ransey mounts him
bareback, and, waving his hand to the haymakers, goes galloping off to
overtake the barge, and throw the hay on board. A nice little snack it
will make for Jim some time later on!
To-day Mr Tandy has bought a newspaper. He had meant to read it, but
he is too fond of country sights and sounds to bother about it now. In
the evening, perhaps, over a pipe.
On, ever on. There are locks to get through now, several of them, and
lockmen are seldom, if ever, more than half awake; but everybody knows
Tandy, and has a kindly word to say to Ransey Tansey, and perhaps a kiss
to blow to Babs, who has just awakened, with eyes that shine, and lips
and cheeks as red as the dog-roses that trail so sweetly over a hedge
near by.
The country here is higher--a bit of Wales in the midlands, one might
almost say. And so it continues for some time.
Sammy takes his trick at the wheel, and prefers to steer by lying on his
back and touching the tiller with one bare foot. Sammy is always
original and funny, and now tells Babs wonderful stories about fairies
and water-babies that he met with a long time ago when he used to dwell
deep down beneath the sea.
Babs has never seen the real sea, except in pictures, and is rather hazy
about it. Nevertheless, Sammy's stories are very wonderful, and
doubtless very graphic. The sail is lowered at last, and the saucy
_Merry Maiden_ moored to a green bank.
The dinner is served, and all hands, including Jim, do justice to it.
I said the barge was "moored" here. Literal enough, for a wide, wild
moor stretches all around. Sheep are feeding not far off, and some
droll-looking ponies that Jim would like to engage in conversation.
There are patches of heath also, and stunted but prettily-feathered
larch-trees now hung with points of crimson. Great patches of golden
gorse hug the ground and scent the air for yards around. Linnets are
singing there, and now and then the eye is gladdened by the sight of a
wood-lark. Sometimes he runs along the ground, singing more sweetly
even than his brother musician who loves to soar as high as the clouds.
Here is a cock-robin, looking very independent and lilting defiance at
everybody. Robins do not always live close to civilisation. This robin
comes close enough to pick up the crumbs which Ransey throws towards
him. He wants Ransey to believe that all the country for miles and
miles around belongs to him--Cock-Robin--and that no bird save him has
any real business here.
There are pine-trees waving on the hills yonder, and down below, a town
much bigger than any they yet have arrived at.
But see, there is a storm coming up astern, so, speedily now, the _Merry
Maiden_ is once more under way.
Babs is bundled down below, and Bob goes with her.
Presently the air is chilly enough to make one shiver. A puff of high
wind, a squall we may call it, brings up an army of clouds and darkness.
Thunder rolls, and the swift lightning flashes--red, bright, intense--
then down come the rain and the big white hailstones. These rattle so
loudly on the poop deck, and on the great tarpaulin that covers the
cargo, that for a time the thunder itself can scarcely be heard.
But in twenty minutes' time the sun is once more shining, the clouds
have rolled far to leeward, the deck is dry, and but for the pools of
water that lie in the hollows of the hard tarpaulin, no evidence is left
that a summer storm had been raging.
But away with the storm has gone the wind itself, and Jim is once more
called into requisition. Then onwards floats the barge.
Through many a bridge and lock, past many a hamlet, past woodlands and
orchards, and fields of waving wheat, stopping only now and then at a
village, till at last, and just as the sun is westering, the distant
town is reached.
Oh, a most unsavoury sort of a place, a most objectionable kind of a
wharf, at which to pass a night.
Tandy sends Babs and Bob below again; for a language is spoken here he
does not wish the child to listen to, sights may be seen he would not
that her eyes should dwell upon. Yonder is an ugly public-house with
broken windows in it, and a bloated-faced, bare-armed woman, the
landlady, standing with arms akimbo defiantly in the doorway. Ah! there
was a time when Tandy used to spend hours in that very house. He
shudders to think of it now.
There is one dead tree at the gable of this inn, which--half a century
ago, perhaps--may have been a country hostelry surrounded by meadows and
hedges. That tree would then be green, the air fresh and sweet around
it, the mavis singing in its leafy shade. Now the sky is lurid, the air
is tainted, and there is smoke everywhere. Not even the bark is left on
the ghastly tree. It looks as if it had died of leprosy.
But the work is hurried through, and in a comparatively short time the
_Merry Maiden_ is away out in the green quiet country.
What a blessed change from the awful town they have just left!
The sun has already gone down in such a glory of crimson, bronze, and
orange, as we in this country seldom see.
This soon fades away, however, as everything that is beautiful to behold
must fade.
The stars come out now in the east, and just as gloaming is merging into
night the boat draws near to a little canal-side inn, and Jim, the
horse, who is wiser far than many a professed Christian, stops of his
own accord.
For Ransey had gone to sleep--oh, he often rode thus and never fell. He
awakes now, however, with a start, and gazes wonderingly around him.
His eyes fall upon the sign. And there, in large white letters, the boy
can read easily enough though the light is fading--the "Bargee's
Chorus."
And not only could he read, but he could remember: it was here they lay
that sad, sad night--what a long time ago it seemed--when mother died.
Here was the landlord himself with his big apron on, a burly fellow with
a kindly face, and as Tandy stepped on shore he was welcomed with a
hearty handshake.
"Ah: Cap'en Tandy, and 'ow's you. And here is Ransey Tansey, bright and
bobbish, and little Babs, and Bob, and everybody. How nice you all
look! But la!" he added, "it do seem such a long, long time since you
were here before."
"I've not had the heart to come much this way, Mr Shirley. I've been
trading at the southern end o' the canal."
"And ye've never been here once since you put up the bit of marble slab
to mark the spot where _she_ lies?"
Ransey knew his mother was referred to, and turned aside to hide the
tears.
"Never since," says Tandy.
"Ah, cap'en, many's the one as asks me about that slab. And the old
squire himself stopped here one day and got all the story from me. And
when I'd finished, never a word he said. He just heaved a biggish sort
of a sigh, and went trotting on.
"But come in, Ransey, Babs, and Bob, and all. The night's going to be
chilly, and an air of the fire will do the children good.
"Sammy, just take the horse round to the stable. We'll have a bit o'
frost to-night, I thinks."
Ransey runs on board for a few minutes to touch up the fire, put on the
guard, and make down the beds; then he joins the group around the cosy
parlour fire.
The kindly landlady, as plump and rosy as her husband, makes very much
of the children, and the supper she places before them is a right hearty
one, nor is Bob himself forgotten.
A very quiet and pleasant evening is spent, then good-nights are said,
and the seafaring folks, as they humorously call themselves, go on board
to bed.
Sammy is already sound asleep beneath the tarpaulin, and Ransey takes
his little sister below to bed at once.
But father stops on deck a little while, to think and muse.
How still the night is! Not a breath of wind now; not a sound save the
distant melancholy hooting of an owl as he flies low across the fields,
the champ-champing of the horse in the stable, and an occasional plash
in the canal as some great frog leaps off the bank.
Nothing more.
But high above shine God's holy stars. There may be melancholy in the
old sailor's heart as he gazes skywards, but there is hope as well, for
these little points of dazzling light bear his thoughts away to better
worlds than this.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is early morning again, and soon the barge is well on its way.
But when it is stopped in the middle of a somewhat lonesome moor, and
Tandy takes his children on shore, the boy knows right well where they
are going, though innocent little Babs doesn't.
"Father," he says presently, as they are near to a clump of tall trees,
"isn't it just _here_ where mother was laid?"
The rough weather-beaten old sailor uncovers his head.
He points to a spot of the canal that is gleaming bright in the rays of
the morning sun.
"Just down there, dear boy," he says. "The coffin was leaded; it could
never rise."
The last words are spoken apparently to himself, as he turns sadly away
towards the trees.
Still holding Ransey's hand, and with Babs in his arms, he points to the
tallest, strongest tree of all. It is a beautiful beech.
And there, about eight feet from the ground, and evidently let deeply
into the tree, is a small and lettered slab of marble.
The bark has begun to curl in a rough lip over its edge all round as if
to hold it more firmly in its place.
POOR MARY.
She has gone on.
_Feby. 19th--82_.
The letters were not over-well formed. Perhaps they were cut by Tandy's
own hand. What mattered it? The little tablet was meant but for _his_
eyes. Simplicity is best.
"Poor Mary! She has gone on."
And the words are written not only there upon the marble, but upon the
honest sailor's heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
End of Book One.
Book 2--CHAPTER ONE.
"JUST THREE YEARS SINCE RANSEY WENT TO SEA."
"O father," said Babs one autumn evening, "aren't _you_ frightened at
the roaring of the sea?"
Tandy and his child were sitting together, that autumn evening, in the
best parlour. They were waiting for the postman to come round the
corner; and as the waves were making a clean breach over the black,
smooth rocks down yonder, and the spray was dashing high over the road
and rattling like hail upon the panes of glass in the little cottage
window, the postman would be wearing his waterproof cape to-night to
keep the letters dry.
Babs had been watching for a man in a glittering oilskin, very
anxiously, too, with her little face close to the glass, when a bigger
wave than any she had yet seen rolled green and spumy and swiftly across
the boulders, till meeting the resistance offered by the cliff it rose
into the air for twenty feet at least, then broke like a waterfall on
the asphalt path which was dignified by the name of esplanade.
No wonder she rushed back from the window, and now stood trembling by
her father's side.
He took her gently on his knee.
Though five years have elapsed since the night they had visited mother's
tree, and she is now eight years of age, she is but a little thing. Ay,
and fragile.
As she sits there, with one arm about his neck, he looks at her, and
talks to her tenderly. She has her mother's eyes.
But how lonely he would be, he cannot help thinking, if anything
happened to his little Nelda--to Babs. The thought causes him to shiver
as he sits there in his easy-chair by the fire, for chill is the breeze
that blows from off the sea to-night.
"Daddy!"
"Yes, dear."
"To-morrow, when it comes, will make it just three years since Ransey
went to sea."
"Three years? Yes, Babs, so it will. Oh, how quickly the time has
flown! And how good your memory is, darling!"
"Flown quickly, father? Oh, I think every one of those years has been
much, much longer than the other. And I think," she added, "lazy postie
will never come to-night. But I dreamt, daddy, we would have a letter
from Ransey, and it is sure to come."
Three years. Yes, and years do fly fast away when men or women get
elderly.
Those years though--ay, and the whole five--had been very busy ones with
Ransey Tansey, very eventful, I might almost say.
Old Captain Weathereye had proved a right good friend to Ransey. Nor
did he take the least degree of credit to himself for being so.
"The boy has got the grit in him," he told Miss Scragley, "and just a
spice of the devil; and without that, I can assure you, madam, no boy is
going to get well on in this world."
Miss Scragley didn't care to swallow this doctrine quite; but Eedie,
whom Ransey looked upon as a kind of fairy, or goddess, immeasurably
better than himself, took the captain's view of the matter.
"Oh, yes," she astonished Miss Scragley by exclaiming, "the devil is
everywhere, auntie. Mr Smith himself said so in the church. He is in
roaring lions and in lambs when they lie down together, and in little
boys, and then they are best and funniest."
Miss Scragley sighed.
"It is a world of sin and sorrow," she murmured.
"A world of fiddlesticks, madam!" cried Weathereye. "I tell you, it is
a splendid world, a grand old world; but you've got to learn how to take
your own part in it. Take my word for it, Miss Scragley, the world
wasn't made for fools. Fools have got to take a back seat, and just
look on, while men of grit do the work and enjoy the reward. Ahem!"
"I've got to make a man of that lad," he went on, "and, what's more, I'm
doing it. He needs holy-stoning--I'm holy-stoning him. He may want a
little polishing after, but rubbing against the world will do that."
"You're very good, Captain Weathereye; you will be rewarded, if not in
this world, in the next--"
"Tut--tut--tut," cried the old sailor impatiently, and it must be
admitted somewhat brusquely, "women folks will talk, especially when
they don't know what to say; but pray keep such sentiments and
platitudes as these for your next Dorcas meeting, madam. Reward,
indeed! Next world, forsooth! I tell you that I'm having it in _this_.
I live my own early days over again in the boy's youth. It is moral
meat and drink for the old--well, the middle-aged, like myself, ahem!--
to mingle with the young and get interested, not so much in their
pursuits, because one's joints are too stiff for that, but in their
hopes and aspirations for the future which is all before them. Ever
hear these lines, Miss Scragley?
"`In the lexicon of youth
That fate reserves for a bright manhood,
There is no such word as fail.'
"I'd have them printed on the front page of every copybook laid before a
child in school, and I'd have him to learn them as soon as he can lisp."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, right happy years these had been for Ransey Tansey, and little
Babs as well, to say nothing of gentle Eedie. As the world began to
smile upon Tandy himself, he tried to do all he could for his children's
comfort. Even the little cottage at the foot of the hill was made more
ship-shape, and furnished with many a comfort it had previously lacked.
Tandy was a man of a speculative turn of mind, and moreover inventive.
His speculations, however, did not succeed so well as he could have
wished. I am never sorry for the downfall of speculators; for, after
all, what is speculation but a species of gambling--gambling for high
stakes? And supposing that a man wins, which once in a way he may;
supposing even that he is strong enough in pocket to establish a
"corner," as it is called in Yankee-land, to buy up the whole of some
great commodity, and shut it up until the people are starving for it and
glad to pay for it at three times the original value, well, the corner
knight becomes a millionaire. Yes; and very often a miser, and
miserable at that. Can a millionaire enjoy sport or play any better
than you or I, reader? No, nor so much.
Has he a better appetite from the fact that he can afford to coax it
with every costly dainty that cash can purchase? More likely a worse.
Is he more healthy? That were impossible.
Is he more happy? Ah, here we come to the test question. Well, he can
have a larger and a finer house than most people, and it may be
furnished like a palace. Pictures of the old masters may adorn its
walls; musical instruments of rare value, works of art and vertu, may
meet the eye at every turn; the gardens, and rose lawns, and
conservatories may be more gorgeous than the dream of an Eastern prince.
But can he live in more than one room at a time, or enjoy anything
around him a bit better than the friends do whom he invites to his home
that they may admire everything and envy _him_?
But even the millionaire tires of home. He is satiated with the good
things his gold has brought him; and if he travels abroad he will not
find half the enjoyment in those beauties of nature--which even the
millionaire's gold cannot deprive the poorest man of--that the poet or
the naturalist does.
I think there is one thing that most of us have to be thankful for--
namely, that we are not over-ambitious, and have no desire to become
millionaires.
Yes, but Tandy's ambition was not a morbid one; it was not selfish. He
felt that he could die contentedly enough, could he make as sure as any
one can be sure that his boy and girl would not become waifs and strays
on the great highway of life.
How to make sure? That had been the question he had tried to answer
many and many a time as he lay on the poop of his little craft and
sailed slowly through the meadows and moors.
I have said he was inventive. His inventive faculties, however, took
him far too high at first, like a badly ballasted balloon. He thought
of ministering to governments of nations--of putting into their hands
instruments for the destruction of his fellow mortals that should render
war impossible, and many other equally airy speculations.
He failed, and had to come down a piece. There is no use in soaring too
high above the clouds if one would be a useful inventor and a benefactor
to mankind. Darning-needles are of more service to the general public
than dynamite guns, and they are more easily manufactured. So Tandy
failed in all his big things. That balloon of his was still soaring too
high.
"I guess," he said to himself, "I'll have to come a little lower still
before I find out just what the world wants, and what _all_ the world
wants."
Food? Physic? Fire?
Ha! he had it. Fire, of course. How many a poor wretch starves to
death in a garret just because coals are too dear to purchase. "And
why?" he asked himself; and the answer came fast enough, "Because coals
are wasted by the rich."
Then Tandy set his brains on to simmer, and invented one of the simplest
contrivances in the world for saving waste.
Yes, he had it at last, and in two years' time he began to gain a
competence, which was gradually increasing.
This little cottage down by the sad, sad sea, as sentimental old maids
call it, was his own. He and Babs--or little Nelda, as we may now call
her--had only been here for six months. The place was by no means a
fashionable one, although many people came here in summer to seek for
health on the glorious sands and rocks, and among the fields and woods
that stretched northwards into the interior.
As for Ransey Tansey, Captain Weathereye had really done his best to
secure the welfare of this half-wild lad, just as Miss Scragley tried to
assist his wee sister.
Impressionable children learn very quickly, and in a year's time Ransey
was so much improved in manners that Miss Scragley rather encouraged his
visits to the Hall than otherwise, especially when the Admiral and Bob
came along with him.
Grand old lawns and shrubberies surrounded the Hall, and these ended in
woods. There were artificial lakes and islands in them too. These
islands were the especial property of many beautiful ducks; but one was
so large, and surrounded by such a big stretch of water, that the only
thing to make it perfect--so Ransey thought--was a boat or skiff. Eedie
was of the same opinion; so was Babs and Bob.
"Isn't it possible to build one?" thought Ransey. He felt sure it was;
so did Eedie.
Before two months had passed, that skiff, with the assistance of
Weathereye, was a _fait accompli_; and the old captain was just as proud
of it as the children themselves.
The ducks didn't have it all their own way now on the island. For here
a wigwam was built, and almost every fine day--that is, when Ransey was
not at his lessons--the children played at Crusoes and wild Indians, and
I don't know what all.
There was no end to Tansey's imagination, no end to his daring, no end
to his tricks, and in these last, I fear, Eedie encouraged him.
She was but two years younger than Ransey, but she was four years older
as far as worldly wisdom was concerned; and with her assistance the
dramas, or theatrical performances, carried out on the island were at
times startling in the extreme.
When Eedie brought children friends of hers to see these plays, Ransey
would have felt very shy indeed had he not had, figuratively speaking,
Eedie's wing to shelter under. Encouraged by her, he soon found out
that real talent can make its own way, and be appreciated, however
humble its possessor may be.
When Tandy first met Captain Weathereye, he wanted to be profuse in his
thanks to this kindly staff-commander. But the latter would have none
of this.
"Tandy," he said, "I know by your every action that you are a true
sailor, like--ahem!--myself. Perhaps what you call kindness to your boy
is only a fad of mine, and therefore selfishness after all."
"No, no."
"But I can say `Yo, yo,' to your `No, no.' Besides, we are all of us
sailing over the sea of life for goodness knows where, and we are in
duty bound to help even little boats we may sight, if we see they're in
distress."
Tandy and Weathereye had soon became good friends, and smoked many a
pipe together; nor did Tandy hesitate to tell the navy sailor about all
his inventions and little speculations, to which account the latter
listened delightedly enough.
"I say," he said to Tandy one day, "your lad is now over ten, and we
should send him right away to sea. I tell you straight, Tandy, I'd get
him into the Royal Navy if it were worth while. But he'd never be a
sailor, never learn seamanship."
"Confound their old tin-kettles," he added, bringing his fist down on
the table with a force that made the glasses jingle, "there isn't a
sailor on board one of them; only gunners and greasers. [Greaser, a
disparaging name for an engineer in the Royal Navy.] Let Ransey rough
it, Mr Tandy, and you'll make a man of him."
An apprenticeship in a Dundee trader, owned in Belfast, and sailing from
Cardiff, this was secured; though what use a lad not yet eleven might be
put to on board such a craft, I confess I hardly know. But this I _do_
know, that the sooner a boy who is to be a British sailor goes to sea
the better.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Babs ventured back to the window at last, and glanced once more out into
the now gathering gloom. Far away beyond Selsea Bill the sun had set
behind lurid coppery clouds, that boded little good for ships that were
toiling up the Channel.
"O daddy, here is postie at long, long last, and he's all, all dressed
in oilskins! He is coming to the door! Oh!"
She could not say another word for a few moments, but flew toward her
father.
"It is--it is--O daddy! _it's Ransey_!"
Book 2--CHAPTER TWO.
"SHIP-SHAPE AND SEAMAN-FASHION."
There wasn't a doubt about that, and no lad surely ever got a happier
welcome home.
Bob and Murrams knew him, and the Admiral too, who danced for joy in the
back-garden when Ransey Tansey went to see him.
Everybody, with the exception of the father, seemed to walk on air that
night. Mr Tandy was simply quietly happy.
Ransey was quite a man, Babs told him, and she felt sure he would soon
have a moustache. Indeed, she brought a small magnifying-glass to
strengthen her convictions on this point.
What a lot lads have to tell when they return from sea for the first
time! and their friends cannot give them greater pleasure than by
listening to all their adventures and "hairbreadth scapes;" sympathising
with them in sorrows past and gone, and dangers encountered, and
thanking Providence that they have been spared to come safely home from
off the stormy ocean.
Ransey had gone to the old cottage first, not knowing anything about the
change. He had found strangers there, and his heart had sunk to zero.
"Perhaps," he thought, "they are dead and gone."
No Bob to meet him! no Babs! no dancing crane!
He hadn't had the heart to go in; he just ran right away to Captain
Weathereye's, and he told him all.
Ransey had had to sling his hammock here the first night, and visit Miss
Scragley's next day.
And Eedie was now ten years of age, and shy, but welcomed Ransey with a
soft handshake and a bonnie blush, and in her little secret morsel of a
heart admired him.
"Didn't I tell you I'd make a man of him, Miss Scragley? See how tall
he is. Look at those bold blue eyes of his, and the sea-tan on his
cheeks," said the captain.
No wonder that it was Ransey's turn to blush.
"Tell your father, dear boy, that in four or five days I'm coming down
to B--to see him. A breath of the briny will do an old barnacle like me
a power of good."
"That I will," the boy had replied.
Then, after saying good-bye, Ransey went off to see Mrs Farrow; and
that good lady was indeed pleased, for she had always had an idea that
those who went to sea hardly ever returned.
She had to put the corner of her apron to her eyes now; but, if she did
shed a tear, it was one of joy and nothing else.
Well, it would have done your heart good to have witnessed the happiness
of Ransey and Babs, as they wandered hand in hand along the golden
sands. Bob, too, was so elated that he hardly knew what to do with
himself at first. This joy, however, settled down into a watchful kind
of care and love for his young master; and he used to walk steadily
behind him on the beach as if afraid that, if he once let him out of
sight, he might be spirited away and never be seen again.
The Admiral was quite a seafarer now, and wonderful and sweet were the
morsels he found or dug up for himself on the wet stretches of sand.
The sea-gulls at first had taken him for something uncanny; but they now
took him for granted, and walked about quite close to him, although at
times, when this marvellous bird took it into his long head that a dance
would do him good and increase his circulation, they were scared indeed,
and flew screaming seawards.
But the Admiral didn't mind that a bit; he just kept dancing away till
there really didn't seem to be a bit more dance left in him. Then he
desisted, and went in for serious eating once more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
One beautiful day, while the dancing crane was holding a levee of
sea-gulls, with a sprinkling of rooks, far seawards on the wet sands,
while Mr Tandy was seated, smoking as usual, on a bench with his
children near him, Bob uttered a defiant kind of a growl, and stood up
with his hair on end from ears to rump. A gentleman dressed in blue,
with sailor's cap on his head, and reading a newspaper, was approaching
the seat, on which there was plenty of room for one more.
But it was not at him that Bob was growling. No, but at a beautiful
Scottish collie which was walking by his side.
Bob rushed forward at once, and the two met face to face and heads up.
Scottie carried his tail defiantly high.
Young England would have done the same with his, had he had anything to
show.