His Grandson
CHRISTMAS, as they guessed, overheard all their gossip, as he sat
in his own little room behind the screen, with the door ajar. He
felt pricked and stung, and he stole away noiselessly, that none
of them might know he had been there, and went down to his garden
beside the river, where he was secure of being alone. His heart had
always been readily melted at the thought of a widow's loneliness and
helplessness; and now Easter was coming back to her native place, his
little daughter, a poor, friendless widow, burdened with a child!
Why! It seemed but a few days ago that she was tottering along these
smooth walks, her little feet tripping at the smallest pebble, and her
little fingers clasping his own thick finger closely. How long was it
since she watched with him the ripening of the fruit upon the trees,
and with all a child's delight took from his hands the first that was
ready for gathering! How many a time had Easter been seated dry and
warm on his wheelbarrow, and watched him at work, digging, and pruning,
and grafting with his own hands, while he listened all the while to
her prattle! Those were happy, blessed days! And all these pure and
innocent joys might be beginning for him again. His little grandson
would soon be old enough to totter along these same garden paths, and
to call him grandfather. He felt almost heartsick as he looked at the
dream for a moment.
But it was only for a moment. Christmas could not relent; his
long-cherished pride in being a man of his word could not so easily be
conquered. He lashed himself up into more bitter anger against Easter
for this momentary weakness. She might pinch and starve, for him. It
was a strange sort of religion that set a daughter at variance against
her father; and those who preached it might provide for those who
believed them. He would not suffer it, or any one who professed it, in
his house—no, not for a day. He would let Easter know that if she would
humble herself, and promise, even now, to have done with these new
notions, he would take her and her boy home again. But never—he looked
across at his father's and grandfather's graves as he swore it—never
should any canting nonsense be spoken under his roof!
Easter was reluctant to come back to her native village, but there
was no one else to wait upon and nurse her aged mother-in-law. It was
harder work than any one supposed to live on eight shillings a week;
what had been just enough for one was far too little for three. Easter
hoped that it would be possible to get a little needlework from some of
the neighbours' wives; if not, she must take to field-work, and go out
weeding and hoeing with the poorest of the villagers. There proved to
be very little work for her needle; so Easter might be seen going out
to the fields early in the morning on those days when her mother was
well enough to take care of little Chrissie: for she had called her boy
after her father, both because she loved the old name and because she
cherished a secret hope that he would own him as his grandson.
But that hope slowly yet surely died away as year after year passed
by, and no sign was given by Christmas Williams that he ever saw his
daughter. He could not but see her almost daily about the village,
and he could not go to his meadows without passing the little cottage
where she and her baby dwelt. He saw her plainly enough: the sad
girlish face, worn with sorrow and hard times, that gazed at him with
beseeching eyes. He had sent his message to her, and she had answered
firmly that she could not go back from professing her faith in Christ.
The first time they met after that, Easter turned pale, nearly as pale
as her dead mother had been when he saw her last in her coffin; and she
had uttered, in the same clear yet faint voice as that in which her
mother had breathed good-bye, the one word "Father!"
Christmas heard her as distinctly as if the word had been shouted in
his ear, but he passed on in silence with a heavy frown upon his face;
though in his heart of hearts there was a secret hope that she would
run after him, and catch him by the arm, and hang about his neck, and
not let him go—let him speak as roughly as he might—until she had
forced him to be reconciled to her. If Easter had but known!
Now that Easter was at home in her mother's cottage, the meetings,
which had become irregular on account of Widow Evans' failing health,
began again with renewed vigour. Every Sunday a large class was held
in the cottage, and Easter started a singing-class, taught by herself,
which attracted all the young folks of the place to it. There was
a slow, but quite a perceptible change in the little village. Even
the farmers and their wives would sometimes condescend to be present
at the service when some preacher from town was coming, for the old
rector was growing more and more careless of his duties, and the
conviction was spreading that there was need of some change. There was
a rumour that the duke had been asked to grant land for the purpose of
building a chapel, and that he was willing to do it if the majority
of the parishioners wished it. The rector said nothing against it,
but Christmas Williams, as churchwarden, opposed it with unflagging
vehemence. The scheme, if ever indeed there had been one, must have
fallen through for want of funds; but the mere rumour of it helped to
widen the breach between him and his daughter.
In the meanwhile Chrissie was growing as fast as a healthy child grows
who is always out in the open air, braving all kinds of weather, and
only kept indoors by sleep. He was a lovely baby, and a bold, bonny
little boy, restless, daring, and resolute; a favourite with all the
neighbours, as Easter herself had been in her motherless childhood.
Chrissie was free of every house in the village: there was no door
closed to him except his grandfather's, and a seat at every table was
ready for Easter's child. His mother, busy with making both ends meet,
hardly knew how to put a stop to the boy's vagrant life. As soon as
he was old enough to dress himself, he would be up and away at the
earliest dawn, rambling about the fields and hedgerows, climbing the
trees, or helping to bring in the cows to be milked from the meadows,
where they had passed the short, cool, summer nights. Chrissie
seemed to be everywhere, and to know everything that passed in the
neighbourhood. Many an hour of silent prayer while she was at work,
and many an hour of wakeful anxiety during the night, did Easter pass.
So long, however, as Chrissie did not fall into any evil ways, she was
wise enough to leave him free. He was truthful and affectionate, and,
on the whole, obedient; and no child could be more apt to learn and
remember the little lessons she tried to teach him whenever she had
time.
Such a child was sure to be constantly under the ken of his
grandfather. It was barely possible for a day to pass without Christmas
Williams having him under his eye half a dozen times. He could hear
the shrill young voice calling up the cows before he left his chamber
in the morning. He would find Chrissie swinging on the gates of his
neighbours' fields, never on his own, the handsome face rosy with
delight. Sometimes, in a more quiet mood, the lad would turn into
the old churchyard, close beside his garden; and one day, Christmas,
hidden behind a tree, hearkened to him spelling out the epitaph on his
forefathers' headstones in a clear, slow voice, loud enough for half
the village to hear.
Was it love or hatred for the boy that filled his heart? Christmas
could not tell, though to himself he called it hatred. It was a
constant source of mortification and bitterness to see one of his own
flesh and blood wandering about in ragged clothing, and half barefoot,
and to know that he was fed by the charity of his neighbours, who
were poor folks compared with himself. After all, it was but little
satisfaction to look over his savings, and see how rich he was growing,
while the very boy who ought in nature to be his heir was hardly
better than a beggar. Not that he would leave a farthing to Easter or
her child. His will was already made, and his money was bequeathed to
rebuild the decaying church, of which he and his forefathers had been
faithful wardens so long, and where a marble tablet on the walls should
proclaim the deed and keep his memory alive.
Churchwarden and constable he was yet; but the other post he had
inherited from his father was gone. Though no chapel had been built in
the parish, a new inn had been opened, and Christmas, in angry disgust,
had not renewed his old licence. He had a farm, which occupied him in
the daytime; but the evenings and nights were dreary past telling. The
large old kitchen, once filled with neighbours, was now always empty
and silent, and seemed to need more than ever the presence of a child
to cheer it up. Christmas used to fall into half-waking, half-sleeping
dreams, in which his little grandson was gambolling about the place,
and filling it with noise and laughter. He could see Easter, sitting
opposite to him, in the cosy chimney-corner, smiling back to him
whenever she caught his eye. Why had he ever vowed that such times
should never be?
Loving him or hating him, Chrissie was never out of his grandfather's
thoughts. He took note of every change in him, as he shot up rapidly
from infancy to the age when lads like him, little lads of eight,
were sent to work in the fields. He knew the exact day when Chrissie
went out for his first day's work, and he watched him from afar off,
plodding up and down the heavy furrows of the ploughed land to scare
away the birds from the springing corn. He saw how footsore and weary
the little fellow was as he trudged homewards through the dusky lanes,
too tired to whistle and sing, as he was wont to do.
Better than Easter herself, he knew how old Chrissie was when he began
to walk, or jump, or run, and he had seen what Easter did not see—the
first time Chrissie ever climbed a tree. The lad's childhood brought
back his own to him. He could look back upon the days when he had gone
nutting under the same hedgerows, and fishing for minnows in the little
brown river. Chrissie would stand patiently an hour at a time on his
own favourite spots, waiting for the long-hoped-for nibble. To watch
the boy was like reading over again an old, half-forgotten story. But
there was no softening of his heart towards Easter. Many a time he
wished the lad never crossed his path, or that he was a sickly, puny
child, such as his father had been before him, who 'stayed at home,
tied to his mother's apron-strings, singing hymns, and making believe
he was a special favourite with God Almighty.'