CHAPTER III

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.'