“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.”