“You know you did sing it yourself, father—so it can’t be wicked!”
The Colonel was puzzled. There was something in the rhythm of the notes that was familiar to him; but what could the child mean? How had he got hold of those absurd words, and what was in his head?
“When did you hear me sing it, Squib?” he asked, still not permitting his face to relax.
“Why, father—you know—when all those people came, and you read such a lot of funny things in turn in the drawing-room and sang songs. There was another song about ‘Ban, ban, Ca-Caliban’—you must remember; but it was you who sang about the father of lies, and it can’t be wicked if you did it, though nurse does say so!”
Colonel Rutland broke into a sudden laugh. The whole thing flashed across him now. From time to time in that neighbourhood there were gatherings generally known by the name of “Shakespeare readings”—friends meeting together at one another’s houses to read a play of the great dramatist’s, the parts being allotted by previous arrangement. Not very long since “The Tempest” had been read in this way at Rutland Chase, and the children had been allowed to come into the room for part of it. It was just the kind of thing to fascinate Squib, and perhaps he had succeeded in hiding away and being up longer than was known. At any rate, he had evidently heard his father sing the well-known song—
“Full fathom five,
Thy father lies;”
and, with the capricious alchemy of a child’s mind over anything not understood, had transformed it to the version which had aroused the ire of his nurse.
Something in this little incident tickled the fancy of the Colonel and attracted his attention towards Squib, who had always amused him when he had had time to notice his children; and the bond was more closely drawn between them by two little incidents which occurred, one after the other, during the ensuing year.
The first of these had reference to a very fine Russian wolf-hound, which had been presented to Colonel Rutland a short time before. It was an animal almost as big as a calf, of a slate colour merging almost in black, with a head very broad across the brows, and a voice like a church bell. He was a very magnificent animal, but he had a fierce temper, and made few friends. Colonel Rutland was one of these few, but even he did not feel that he had the dog very well under control, and always took him out with a certain sense of misgiving.