“When I am a man,” Osy was saying, “I s’all be far, far away from here. I s’all be a soldier leading my tompany. I s’an’t do what nobody tells me – not you, Uncle Giles, nor Movver, nobody but the Queen.”
“And I sha’n’t be here at all, Osy,” said the old man. “When you come back a great Captain like your cousin Gerald, there will be no old Uncle Giles to tell you what you said when you were a little boy.”
“Why?” said the child, coming up close to the chair. “Will they put you down in the black hole with Aunt Piercey, Uncle Giles?”
“Master Osy, don’t you speak of no such drefful things,” said Dunning.
“But Parsons said, ‘She have don to heaven,’ ” said the child. “I like Parsons’ way the best, for heaven’s a beau’ful place. I’d like to go and see you there, Uncle Giles. You wouldn’t want Dunning, you’d have an angel to dwive you about.”
“Oh, my little man!” said Sir Giles, “I don’t think I am worthy of an angel. I’m more frightened for the angel than for the black hole, Osy. I don’t think I want any better angel than you are, my nice little boy. I hope God will let me go on a little just quietly with Dunning, and you to talk to your old uncle. Tell me a little more about what you will do when you are a man. That amuses me most.”
“Uncle Giles, Cousin Gervase doesn’t do very much though he’s a man. He’s only don and dot marrwed. I’m glad he’s dot marrwed. I dave him my big silver penny for a marrwage present. If he hadn’t been marrwed he would have tooked it, and a gemplemans s’ouldn’t never do that. So I’m glad. Are you glad, Uncle Giles?”
“Never mind, never mind, my boy. Are you sure you’ll go to India, Osy, and fight all the Queen’s battles? She doesn’t know what a great, grand champion she’s going to have, like Goliath,” said the old man with his rumbling laugh.
“Goliaf,” said Osy, gravely, “wasn’t a nice soldier. He was more big nor anybody and he bragged of it. It’s grander to be the littlest and win. I am not very big, Uncle Giles, not at pwesent.”
“No, Osy. That’s true, my dear,” said the old gentleman.
“But I’ll twy!” cried the boy. “I’m not fwightened of big men. They’re generwally,” he added, half apologetically and with a struggle over the word, “nice to little boys. Cousin Colonel, he is wather like Goliaf. He dave me a wide upon his s’oulder; but when he sawed Movver tomin, he – Are big men ever fwightened of ladies, Uncle Giles?”
“Sometimes, Osy,” said Sir Giles, with a delighted laugh.
“Then it was that!” cried Osy. “I touldn’t understand. Oh, wait, Uncle Giles; just wait till I tatch that butterfly. I’ll tatch him; I’ll tatch him in a moment! I’m a great one,” the child sang, running off – “for tatching butterflies, for tatching – Movver, movver, you sended it away.”
“What did the little shaver mean by giving a wedding present?” said Sir Giles. “Where’s my money, Dunning? have I got any money? If he gave my boy a wedding present, it was the – the only one. They’ll come in now, perhaps, when it gets known; but I’ll not forget Osy for that, I’ll not forget Osy for that. Did you ever see a child like him, Dunning? I never saw a child like him, except our first one that we lost,” said the old man with a sob. “Did I ever tell you of our first that we lost? Just such a child; just such a child! And my poor Gervase was the dearest little thing when he was a baby, before – . Children are very different from men – very different, very different, Dunning. You never know how the most promising is to grow up. Sometimes they’re a – a great disappointment. They’re always a disappointment, I should say from what I’ve seen, comparing the little thing with the big man, as Osy says. But, please God, we’ll make a man of that boy, whatever happens. Ah, Meg! is it you? I was just saying we must make a man of Osy – we must make a man of him – whatever happens.”
“I hope he will turn out a good man, Uncle Giles.”
“Oh, we shall make a man of him, Meg! not but what, as I was saying, they’re always disappointments more or less. Your poor aunt would never let me say that, when she was breaking her poor heart for our first boy that we lost. I used to say he might have grown up to rend our hearts – but she would never hear me, never let me speak. It broke her heart, that baby’s going, Meg.” This had happened a quarter of a century before, but the old gentleman spoke as if it had been yesterday. “You may think she did not show it, and looked as if she had forgotten; but she never forgot. I saw it in her eyes when she saw Gerald Piercey first. She gave me a look as if to say, this might be him coming home, a distinguished man. For he was a delightful child – he might have grown to be anything, that boy!”
“Dear Uncle Giles! You must try to look to the future – to think that there may be perhaps other children to love.” Margaret laid her hand tenderly upon the old man’s shoulder, which was heaving with those harmless sobs – which meant so little, and yet were so pitiful to the beholder. “I wanted to speak to you – about Osy, Uncle Giles.”
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, cheering up. “Did you hear that he gave my poor Gervase a wedding present? that little chap! and the only one – the only one! I’ll never forget that, Meg, if I should live to be a hundred. And, please God, we’ll pay it back to him, and make a man of him, Meg.”
“It was precisely of that, Uncle, I wanted to speak.” But how was she to speak? What was she to say to this old man so full of affection and of generous purpose? Margaret went on patting the old gentleman on the shoulder unconsciously, soothing him as if he had been a child. “Dear Uncle Giles, you know that now Gervase is married, they – he will want to live, perhaps, rather a different way.”
“What different way?” said Sir Giles, aroused and holding up his head.
“I mean, they are young people, you know, and will want to, perhaps – see more company, have visitors, enjoy their life.”
Sir Giles gave her an anxious, deprecating look.
“Do you think then, Meg, that – that she will do? that she will know how to manage? that she will be able to keep Gervase up to the mark?”
“I think,” said Margaret, pausing to find the best words, “I think – that she is really clever, and very, very quick, and will adapt herself and learn, and – yes – I believe she will keep him up to the mark.”
“God bless you for saying so, my dear! that is what I began to hope. We could not have expected him to make a great match, Meg.”
“No, Uncle.”
“His poor mother, you know, always had hopes. She thought some nice girl might have taken a fancy to him. But it was not to be expected, Meg.”
“No, Uncle. I don’t think it was to be expected.”
“In that case,” said Sir Giles – he was so much aroused and interested that there was a certain clearness in his thoughts – “in that case, it is perhaps the best thing that could have happened after all.”
“Dear Uncle, yes, perhaps. But to give them every chance, to make them feel quite at ease and unhampered, I think they should be left to themselves.”
“I will not interfere with them,” he cried; “I will not meddle between them. Once I have accepted a thing, Meg, I accept it fully. You might know me enough for that.”
“I never doubted you, Uncle; but there is more: I think, dear Uncle Giles, I must go away.”
“You – go away!” he said,