"No, no. Not she. It was my two grandsons. Well-fixed men they be too, for
Philip had a fine cow until the bailiff took her; and Zachary thinks naught
on a Fair day o' buying meat pasties for hisself and his missus, and
parading about before the nation wi' the gravy fair running down their
wrists. Ay--but the work'us was good enough for old Granfa. 'Darn'ee,' says
I to Philip, 'there's life in the old dog yet, and I'll escape from here in
the fulness of time!' Which I did."
We grouped ourselves about him in easy attitudes of attention. We felt
strangely drawn to this ancient rebel against authority. We pictured the
workhouse as a vast schoolroom where white-haired paupers laboured over
impossible tasks, superintended by a matron, cold and angular, like Mrs.
Handsomebody.
"Are your own children all dead?" I put the question timidly, for I feared
to recall more filial ingratitude.
"Dead as door-nails," he replied, solemnly. "All of them."
"Were there many?"
"When I had been married but seven years, there were six; and after that I
lost count. At that time I was moved to compose a little song about them,
and I'd sing it to 'ee this moment if I had a bite o' victuals to stay me."
"Look here, Seraph," I cried, "You cut back to the hamper and fetch some
beef and bread, and anything else that's loose. Look sharp, now."
The Seraph ran off obediently, and it was not long till he re-appeared with
food and the dregs of the ale.
It was a treat to see Granfa make way with these. He smacked his lips and
wiped his beard on his sleeve with the relish born of prolonged abstinence.
As he ate, the apple-blossoms fell about him, settling on the rim of his
ragged hat, and even finding shelter among the white waves of his beard. We
sat cross-legged on the grass before him eagerly awaiting the song.
At last, in a voice rich with emotion, he sang to a strange lilting tune:
"I be in a terr'ble fix,
Wife have I and childer six.
"I'd got married just for fun,
When in popped Baby Number one--
"I'd got an easy job to do,
When in strolled Baby Number Two--
"I was fishin' in the sea,
When up swum Baby Number Three--
"My boat had scarcely touched the shore,
When in clumb Baby Number Four!
"I was the scaredest man alive,
When wife found Baby Number Five.
"The cradle was all broke to sticks
When in blew Baby Number Six--
"And now I'm praying hard that Heaven
Will keep a grip on Number Seven."
"And did Heaven keep a gwip on it?" inquired The Seraph as soon as the last
notes died away.
"Not a bit of it," responded our friend. "They come along so fast that I
was all in a mizmaze trying to keep track on 'em. And good childer they
was, and would never have turned me out as their sons have had the stinkin'
impidence to do. But now, souls, tell me all about yourselves, for I be a
terr'ble perusin' man and I like to ponder on the doings of my
fellow-creatures. Did you mention the name of a parson, over by yon
honeysuckle hedge?"
We thought the old man was excellent; and we found it an easy thing to make
a confidant of him. So, while he puffed at a stubby clay pipe, we drew
closer and told him all about the Bishop and about father and how lonely we
were for him. Blue smoke from his clay pipe spun about us, seeming to bind
us lightly in a fine web of friendship. Through it his blue eyes shone
longingly, his pink face shone with sympathy, and his white beard with its
clinging apple-blossom petals, rose and fell on his ragged breast.
"It's a great pity," said Angel, "that father isn't here now, because I'm
certain he'd be jolly glad to adopt you for a grandfather for us. He's a
most reasonable man."
Our new friend shook his head doubtfully.
"It would be a noble calling," he said, "but I ban't wanted by nobody I'm
afeard. I think I'll just bide here by this pleasant stream, till in the
fulness of time I be food for worms."
"Could Charles Augustus have a little of you?" asked The Seraph, sweetly.
"Ess Fay, he may have his share." It appeared that the story of Charles had
been told before Angel and I had arrived.
"Well, you're not going to be deserted," said Angel, in his lordly way,
"we'll just adopt you on our own. Mrs. Handsomebody won't let us have a
dog, nor a guinea pig, nor rabbits, nor even a white rat, but, you bet,
she's got to let us keep a grandfather, if we take him right home and say
he's come for a visit, and, of course, father'll have to pay for his board.
Let's do it, eh John?"
When Angel's eyes sparkled with a conquering light, few could resist him.
Certainly not I, his faithful adherent. Anyway I wanted Granfa myself
badly, so I nodded solemnly. "Let's."
"It'll be the greatest lark ever," he said, "and here comes the Bishop."
"Hand me my shoon, quick," said Granfa, nervously.
The Bishop was indeed coming slowly toward us, across the sun-lit meadow,
carrying his rod in one hand, and in the other the tin containing Charles
Augustus. By the time he had reached us Granfa had struggled into his boots
and was standing, hat in hand, with an air of meek expectancy. Angel,
always so fluent when we were by ourselves, balked at explaining things to
grown-ups, and, though the Bishop usually saw things from our point of
view, one could never be absolutely certain that even he would not prove
obtuse on such a delicate issue as this.
So I rose, and met his enquiring look with such explanation as suited his
adult understanding.
"Please, sir," I said, politely, "this nice old man has been turned out by
his grandsons, and he's on his way to town, where he's got some kind
grandsons--"
--"Fwee of 'em," put in The Seraph.
--"And we were wondering," I hurried on, "if you'd give him a lift that
far."
"I expect you're tired out," said the Bishop, kindly, turning to Granfa.
"I be none too peart, but terrible wishful to get under the roof o' my
grandsons, thank 'ee."
"You shall have a seat beside Harry; I see you've had some lunch; and now,
boys, I think we have time for an hour's fishing before we go, but first we
must dispose of Charles Augustus. I don't like the way he looks. I don't
know whether he's just foxy and pretending he's dead so we shan't use him
for bait, or whether the ale was too much for him. At any rate, he's
looking far from well." And the Bishop peered anxiously into the treacle
tin.
So the search began for the ideal mate for Charles Augustus. He was laid in
state on a large burdock leaf, where he stretched himself warily enough in
the fervent heat of the sun. The Seraph, quick as a robin, was the first to
pounce upon a large, but active dew-worm, which, he announced, was
Ernestine.
We made an excited little group around the burdock, as The Seraph, flushed
with pride, deposited her beside the lonely Charles. She glided toward him.
She touched him. The effect was electrical. Charles Augustus, after one
violent contortion, hurled himself from the burdock, and, before we could
intercept him, disappeared into a bristling forest of grass blades.
"He's gone! He's gone!" wailed The Seraph. "He's wun away fwom her!"
But, even as he spoke, the agile Ernestine leapt lightly from the trembling
leaf in hot pursuit. Green spears bent to open a way for her; dizzy gnats
paused in their droning song, feeling in the ether the tremor of the chase;
bees fell from the heart of honey-sweet flowers, and lay murmuring and
booming in the grass.
They were gone. An ant had mounted the burdock leaf, and, careless of the
drama that had just been enacted, sought eagerly among the crevices for
provender. The Bishop spoke first.
"I think she'll get him," he said musingly. "She's got a sort of cave-woman
look, and she has no petticoats to impede her."
"Ess fay," assented Granfa, "her'll get him, and hold him fast too, I'll be
bound. A terr'ble powerful worm."
We stood in silence for a space, our eyes fixed on the ground picturing
that chase through dim subterranean passages, smelling of spring showers;
Charles Augustus, wasted, febrile, panting with agitation; Ernestine,
lithe, ardent, awful in her purpose.
We were still pensive when we retraced our steps across the meadow. The
Bishop and Harry and The Seraph resumed their fishing, but Angel and I
preferred to be on the grass beside Granfa, while he told us tales of old
smuggling days in Devon and Cornwall, where his little cutter had slipped
round about the delicate yet rugged coast, loaded with brandy and bales of
silk from France, guided by strange red and blue lights from the shore; and
where solemn cormorants kept darkly secret all they saw when they sailed
aloft at dawn.