Martin Rattler was a very bad boy. At least his aunt, Mrs Dorothy
Grumbit, said so; and certainly she ought to have known, if anybody
should, for Martin lived with her, and was, as she herself expressed it,
"the bane of her existence; the very torment of her life." No doubt of
it whatever, according to Aunt Dorothy Grumbit's showing, Martin Rattler
was "a remarkably bad boy."
It is a curious fact, however, that, although most of the people in the
village of Ashford seemed to agree with Mrs Grumbit in her opinion of
Martin, there were very few of them who did not smile cheerfully on the
child when they met him, and say, "Good day, lad!" as heartily as if
they thought him the best boy in the place. No one seemed to bear
Martin Rattler ill-will, notwithstanding his alleged badness. Men
laughed when they said he was a bad boy, as if they did not quite
believe their own assertion. The vicar, an old whiteheaded man, with a
kind, hearty countenance, said that the child was full of mischief, full
of mischief; but he would improve as he grew older, he was quite certain
of that. And the vicar was a good judge; for he had five boys of his
own, besides three other boys, the sons of a distant relative, who
boarded with him; and he had lived forty years in a parish overflowing
with boys, and he was particularly fond of boys in general. Not so the
doctor, a pursy little man with a terrific frown, who hated boys,
especially little ones, with a very powerful hatred. The doctor said
that Martin was a scamp.
And yet Martin had not the appearance of a scamp. He had fat rosy
cheeks, a round rosy mouth, a straight delicately-formed nose, a firm
massive chin, and a broad forehead. But the latter was seldom visible,
owing to the thickly-clustering fair curls that overhung it. When
asleep Martin's face was the perfection of gentle innocence. But the
instant he opened his dark-brown eyes, a thousand dimples and wrinkles
played over his visage, chiefly at the corners of his mouth and round
his eyes; as if the spirit of fun and the spirit of mischief had got
entire possession of the boy, and were determined to make the most of
him. When deeply interested in anything, Martin was as grave and
serious as a philosopher.
Aunt Dorothy Grumbit had a turned-up nose,--a very much turned-up nose;
so much so, indeed, that it presented a front view of the nostrils! It
was an aggravating nose, too, for the old lady's spectacles refused to
rest on any part of it except the extreme point. Mrs Grumbit
invariably placed them on the right part of her nose, and they as
invariably slid down the curved slope until they were brought up by the
little hillock at the end. There they condescended to repose in peace.
Mrs Grumbit was mild, and gentle, and little, and thin, and old,--
perhaps seventy-five; but no one knew her age for certain, not even
herself. She wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned cap, and a gown of
bed-curtain chintz, with flowers on it the size of a saucer. It was a
curious gown, and very cheap, for Mrs Grumbit was poor. No one knew
the extent of her poverty, any more than they did her age; but she
herself knew it, and felt it deeply,--never so deeply, perhaps, as when
her orphan nephew Martin grew old enough to be put to school, and she
had not wherewithal to send him. But love is quick-witted and resolute.
A residence of six years in Germany had taught her to knit stockings at
a rate that cannot be described, neither conceived unless seen. She
knitted two dozen pairs. The vicar took one dozen, the doctor took the
other. The fact soon became known. Shops were not numerous in the
village in those days; and the wares they supplied were only second
rate. Orders came pouring in, Mrs Grumbit's knitting wires clicked,
and her little old hands wagged with incomprehensible rapidity and
unflagging regularity,--and Martin Rattler was sent to school.
While occupied with her knitting, she sat in a high-backed chair in a
very small deep window, through which the sun streamed nearly the whole
day; and out of which there was the most charming imaginable view of the
gardens and orchards of the villagers, with a little dancing brook in
the midst, and the green fields of the farmers beyond, studded with
sheep and cattle and knolls of woodland, and bounded in the far distance
by the bright blue sea. It was a lovely scene, such an one as causes
the eye to brighten and the heart to melt as we gaze upon it, and think,
perchance, of its Creator.
Yes, it was a scene worth looking at; but Mrs Grumbit never looked at
it, for the simple reason that she could not have seen it if she had.
Half way across her own little parlour was the extent of her natural
vision. By the aid of spectacles and a steady concentrated effort, she
could see the fire-place at the other end of the room; and the portrait
of her deceased husband, who had been a sea-captain; and the white
kitten that usually sat on the rug before the fire. To be sure, she saw
them very indistinctly. The picture was a hazy blue patch, which was
the captain's coat; with a white patch down the middle of it, which was
his waistcoat; and a yellow ball on the top of it, which was his head.
It was rather an indistinct and generalised view, no doubt; but she
_saw_ it, and that was a great comfort.