_LITTLE MISS JOY._
Little Miss Joy was the pride of the row, and always seemed to bring a
ray of sunshine with her.
She lived with an old man she called "Uncle Bobo," who kept a curiously
mixed assortment of wares, in the little dark shop where he had lived,
man and boy, for fifty years.
He was professedly a dealer in nautical instruments, the manufacture of
which was carried on in Birmingham or Sheffield. Every now and then a
large packing-case would excite the inhabitants of the row, as it was
borne on one of the Yarmouth carts constructed on purpose for the
convenience of passing through the rows, and dropped down with a
tremendous thud on the pavement opposite Mr. Boyd's door.
No wheels but the wheels of these carts were ever heard in the row,
unless it were a wheelbarrow or a truck. And none of these were
welcome, as it was difficult for foot-passengers to pass if one of
these vehicles stopped the way.
The nautical instruments by no means represented all Mr. Boyd's
stock-in-trade. Compasses and aneroids and ship's lamps were the
superior articles to be sold. But there were endless odds and
ends--"curiosities"--bits of carving, two or three old figure-heads of
ships, little ship-lanthorns, and knives of all shapes and sizes, balls
of twine, rolls of cable, and all packed into the narrow limits of the
tiny shop.
"Uncle Bobo" was coming home one night--a Christmas night--a few years
before the time my story opens, when he heard a wailing cry as he
fitted the latch-key into his own door.
The cry attracted him, and looking down on the threshold of his home he
saw--a bundle, as it seemed to him, tightly tied up in a handkerchief.
Stooping to pick it up, the faint wailing cry was repeated, and Uncle
Bobo nearly let the bundle fall.
"It's a child--it's an infant!" he exclaimed. "Where's it dropped
from? Here, Susan!" he called to his faithful old servant, "here's a
Christmas-box for you; look alive!"
Susan, who had appeared with a light, groped through the various
articles in the shop, and received the bundle from her master's hand.
"Dear life, Mr. Boyd, what are you going to do with it then?"
"Can't say," was the answer, as Mr. Boyd rolled into the parlour, where
a bright fire was burning and the kettle singing on the hob. "Unpack
the parcel, Sue, and let's have a look."
Susan untied many knots and unrolled fold after fold of the long
scarf-shawl of black and white check in which the child was wrapped:
and then out came, like a butterfly out of a chrysalis, a little dainty
girl of about two years old, who, looking up at Mr. Boyd, said,
"Dad-da!"
There was no sign of ill-usage about the child. She was neatly
dressed, and round her waist a purse was tied. Mr. Boyd fitted his
large black-rimmed spectacles on his nose, and while Susan sat with the
child on her knee, warming her pink toes in the ruddy blaze, he untied
the ribbon with which the purse was fastened to the child's waist, and
opened it.
It was an ordinary purse, with pockets, and within the centre one,
fastened by a little spring, was one sovereign and a bit of paper, on
which was written:
"It is the last money I have in the world Take care of the bearer till
you hear more. Keep her for me."
Eight years had gone by since that Christmas night, and nothing more
had ever been heard about this "Christmas-box;" but Uncle Bobo never
repented that he had kept the child. She had been the interest and
delight of his old age, and he had fondly called her "My little Joy."
The neighbours wondered a little, and some looked severely on this deed
of kindness of Mr. Boyd's.
The person who looked most severely at it was Miss Amelia Pinckney, who
kept a small haberdasher's and milliner's shop opposite Mr. Boyd's.
Now neighbours in the Yarmouth rows, especially opposite neighbours,
are very near neighbours indeed; and if it was almost possible to shake
hands over the heads of the passers-by from the upper windows, it was
quite possible to hear what was said, especially in summer, when the
narrow casements were thrown open to admit what air was stirring.
Thus Miss Pinckney's voice, which was neither soft nor low, reached
many ears in the near vicinity, and Mr. Boyd was well aware that she
had called him "a foolish old fellow," adding that "the workhouse was
the place for the child, and that she had no patience with his folly."
Truth to tell, Miss Pinckney had but little patience with any one. She
had, as she conceived, done a noble deed by allowing her stepsister and
her boy to take up their abode with her. But for this deed she took
out very heavy interest; and poor Mrs. Harrison, who was, as her sister
continually reminded her, "worse than a widow"--a deserted wife--had to
pay dearly for the kindness which had been done her. Many a time she
had determined to leave the uncongenial roof, and go forth to face the
world alone; but then she was penniless, and although she worked, and
worked hard too, to keep herself and her boy, by executing all Miss
Pinckney's millinery orders, and acting also as general servant as well
as shopwoman of the establishment, still she was never allowed to
forget that she was under an obligation to her sister, and that she
ought to be "thankful for all her mercies!"
"It is not as if it was only yourself, Patience. Think what it is to
have a boy like yours! Enough to drive one mad, with his monkey tricks
and his impudence. I don't say that I regret taking you in. Blood is
thicker than water, and you are my poor father's child, though he had
cause to rue the day he married your silly mother--he never had a day's
peace after that."
Such sentiments, expressed with freedom and without intermission, were
a trial in themselves; but lately things had assumed a far more serious
aspect.
Jack had been a mere baby when first he and his mother had been taken
in by Miss Pinckney. But eleven years had changed the baby of two
years old into a strong, self-willed boy of thirteen, impatient of
control, setting all his aunt's rules at defiance, and coming in from
school every day, more antagonistic, and more determined, as he said,
to "pay the old auntie back in her own coin."
In vain Mrs. Harrison had remonstrated; in vain she had striven to keep
the peace. For ever before her eyes was the dread that Jack would
carry his oft-repeated threat into execution, and go to sea. Then,
indeed, the light of her stricken life would finally go from her, and
she would have nothing left to live for!
Jack was a boy likely, in spite of all his faults, to fill a mother's
heart with pride. He was the picture of merry, happy boyhood, with a
high spirit, which was like a horse without a bridle, and carried him
away beyond all bounds of tongue and temper. But to his mother he
could be gentle and penitent, acknowledging his faults, and showing
real sorrow at having grieved her by warfare with his aunt. There was
an excellent boys' school in Yarmouth, where he made good progress with
his lessons, and was a favourite with his school-fellows; and the
master, though often irritated by his tricks and carelessness, found it
hard to be angry with him, or to inflict the punishment he deserved.
It is possible that Jack would have been able to get on more peaceably
at home, had there not been another person frequently at his aunt's
home with whom he waged a perpetual warfare. This person was a tall,
meagre-looking young man, a clerk in an Excise office, who made great
profession of being better than his neighbours.
He was always coming into Miss Pinckney's to tea or supper, and
invariably, when listening to the aunt's stories of Jack's
misdemeanours, talked of the bad end to which naughty boys were
brought, and of the sins of disobedience bringing their sure reward.
Mr. Skinner had the disagreeable habit of uttering truths in the most
unpleasant manner. A great deal that he said was correct; but somehow
his words seemed to have no effect on those whom he addressed. There
was a dash of unreality about Mr. Skinner, and a certain want of
candour, which Jack's eyes were quick to detect.
He suspected that Mr. Skinner came to Miss Pinckney's "for what he
could get," that he liked a chair by her fire in the back parlour, and
that the glass of hot gin and water, sweetened to his taste, with a bit
of lemon floating on the top, was his grand attraction.
The smell of this glass of spirit and water was odious to Jack; and he
naturally felt aggrieved, when on one occasion Mr. Skinner, coming in
to tea, devoured the whole plate of hot buttered toast or muffins, and
talked of the duty of thankfulness, and how much more any of us had
than we deserved--Jack meantime having slices of very stale bread
scraped with a little salt butter. The contrast between his own share
of the fare and Mr. Skinner's was sufficiently provoking. Then too of
late Jack had been conscious that both Mr. Skinner and his aunt had
been doing their best to bring his mother round to their view--that he
was "the worse-behaved and most ill-conditioned boy that ever lived."
That last great outbreak of temper, when he had rushed off, and left
his mother to pass a sleepless and tearful night, had been caused not
so much by the shower of reproaches heaped on him, as by his aunt's
bitter words: "If you go on like this, you'll break your mother's
heart. Even she is getting sick of you, and you would be a good
riddance!"
He knew well enough it was not true. He knew that if all the world
were against him, his mother would never give him up. But, stung to
the quick, he had poured out a torrent of angry words; and addressing
his aunt as "an old cat, who shouldn't have the chance of setting her
claws into him again!" he had rushed off and left his mother miserable.
As soon as the house was quiet and Miss Pinckney's long tirade against
"spoilt wicked boys" had ceased, Patience Harrison had crept downstairs
again, and, slipping the bolt off the door, had taken up her position
there. And there George Paterson had found her, pale and worn with
sleepless sorrow, and with an aching sense of loss which was well-nigh
hopeless.