GRANFER'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
FAIR dawned the morning of Granfer's eightieth birthday. The sun rose
behind a gray mist which it quickly dispelled, and shone on a world
decked with fresh green fields, tender budding leaves, and myriads of
flowers. Never during all the eighty years of his long life had Granfer
seen a more beautiful May morning; never had his heart beat happier,
or his soul been filled with a greater joy, than to-day as he came
downstairs to be greeted with good wishes, loving kisses, and kindly
looks from each member of the family in turn.
At Coombe Villa Mr. Manners was awake and up early. He went into the
garden and gathered a bunch of flowers for his little girl; then
returned to the house to wait till she should come downstairs. At last
she entered the room, looking a trifle pale still as a result of the
shock of her fall, and limping in her walk, but smiling and bright as
ever.
"Oh, you dear old father!" she cried when she caught sight of the
flowers. "I know those are for me!"
She went up to him and put her arms around his neck, giving him a
tender, loving kiss.
"Has my darling slept well?" he enquired.
"I fell asleep the minute I was in bed, and never woke up till Nanny
called me just now," she answered.
"Is it not a lovely morning?"
"Beautiful. There has been a heavy dew during the night, and everything
in the garden is the fresher for it."
"It is Granfer's birthday," she reminded him. "I wonder if his son has
come home?"
"Yes, Una; he returned last night!"
"Oh!"
For a moment she said no more; her lips trembled with emotion, and her
eyes shone through a mist of tears. Presently she said simply:
"God has answered Granfer's prayers at last."
Her father kissed her again and again.
"Was Granfer very delighted to see him?" she asked. "How did you know,
father?"
Then he told her the whole story, how he himself was Granfer's son,
and how he had gone to Lowercoombe Farm the night before and become
reconciled to his father. She listened in silence, too amazed to
utter a word, but there was a glad light upon her face and joy in her
tremulous smile.
"So you see, Una darling, Granfer is your grandfather as well as
Nellie's and Bessie's; and Mrs. Maple is my sister Mary, and your
aunt," Mr. Manners said in conclusion. "They are so pleased to think
that you are related to them, and I have promised that we will have tea
at the farm this afternoon because it is Granfer's birthday, and he
wishes it."
"Oh!" cried Una again, with a little gasp of astonishment. "Oh, how
wonderful! Father, you only told me half the secret, after all! You
never said you were Granter's son! I am so glad you are! Oh, dear
Granfer, how pleased and happy he must be!"
"And I am happy too, Una, happier than I have been for many a long
year. It was you who told me my father had forgiven me and wished to
see me again."
"Granfer loves you so much, father darling, and I am sure you love him,
don't you? Fancy Nellie and Bessie being my cousins! But I don't think
I can care for them any more than I do now, because I am really very
fond of both of them, and I'm sure I don't know which I like best!"
Una was full of excitement. After breakfast there was Nanny to be told
the wonderful news, and to the little girl's great astonishment she
discovered that her nurse was not so surprised as she had anticipated
she would be.
"I have guessed your father was old Mr. Norris's son for some while
now," Nanny confessed, "on account of different things I have heard
Mrs. Maple say about her brother, and by putting two and two together.
I am glad it has come out at last. Ah, Miss Una, this life is too short
for folks who love each other to be angry long; we ought to learn to
forgive and forget!"
"Granfer is not angry now!" Una said quickly, fearful lest Nanny should
not have grasped that fact.
"I should think not! There, dear, I won't say a word against your
grandfather, for I believe the good Lord has really softened his heart;
even to my eyes, he doesn't look quite so grim as he used," and Nanny
gave Una a kiss, adding gently, "God does everything for the best, my
dear, and He makes all right in the end!"
At four o'clock the gig arrived from Lowercoombe Farm, driven by the
farmer himself, and with the faithful Rags in attendance.
"I hope you are going to take kindly to your new uncle?" Mr. Maple said
with a merry twinkle in his eye as he lifted Una in his arms to put her
into the conveyance.
For answer the little girl clasped him tightly round the neck, and,
after pressing a kiss on his bronzed cheek, answered promptly:
"Indeed, I love you very dearly already! You are so very kind!"
They drove off, Una seated between her father and the farmer, the
latter amusing her with an account of how the tame lamb was daily
growing bolder, so that they had great difficulty in keeping it out of
the house.
"It's so tame that it follows my wife everywhere," he declared, "and
she has to shut it up on Sundays when we go to church, or we should
never keep it at home!"
In ten minutes they arrived at Lowercoombe Farm, where Una was carried
into the kitchen, and surrounded by her aunt, and grandfather, and
the children. They had so many questions to ask and to be answered,
and made so much of her, that she felt quite bewildered at first; but
by-and-by she noticed that Granfer was wearing the suit of clothes he
usually wore on Sundays, and that Mrs. Maple and Nellie and Bessie were
attired in their best gowns in honour of the day.
Presently, they had tea in the best parlour, which room was only used
on great occasions, or when there were visitors at the farm. Una sat
between her father and grandfather in a sort of dream-like happiness.
In the centre of the table was Granfer's birthday cake, which he cut
himself, and every one declared to be most delicious.
The old man and each member of the little party seemed merry and
pleased. Now and again Una met her father's eyes and smiled in answer
to his affectionate glance that mutely asked if she was happy and
content. She was both, though it seemed very strange to find herself
and her father so much at home at Lowercoombe Farm.
During the evening the little girl had a few words alone with her
grandfather, and took the opportunity to tell him how glad she was to
know of the relationship between them.
"God has been very good to me, my dear," he said gratefully. "He has
given me back my son."
"Yes," she answered, smiling brightly, "God is good." She took his hand
in her little, soft fingers, and looked tenderly into his aged face, as
she added lovingly:
"He has given me my Granfer too!"
ONE CHRISTMAS TIME
CHAPTER I
CONCERNING A DOLL
IN AN AMBER-COLOURED GOWN
IT was a wretched evening, only a few days before the joyful Christmas
season. The weather was damp and chill, and the London streets were
slippery and comfortless. Pale, shivering forms sheltered themselves in
every conceivable nook which was safe, for a time at any rate, from the
keen scrutiny of the police; business men and women were wending their
different ways homewards from the City, and the theatres and other
places of amusement were not yet open. The shops were with enticing
articles displayed to the best advantage, and many a poor child stood
wistfully gazing at the fruit in the grocers' windows, so temptingly
set out, as though to purposely tantalize hungry eyes.
And then the toys! Wonderful inventions made for the children of the
wealthy! Engines worked by machinery! Dolls that opened and shut
their eyes, and even walked and talked! Noah's arks of marvellous
workmanship, containing every known animal on the face of the globe!
A young man, hurrying along, turned his head and glanced smilingly at
a shop window full of dolls of all sizes and conditions and prices,
from the gorgeously apparelled waxen bride-dollie in satin and orange
blossom to her penny Dutch sister with flat figure and nondescript
features.
"That would be the place to buy a doll for Nellie!" exclaimed the young
man, as he came to a full stop and stood with his hands in his pockets,
gazing at the motley faces that seemed to stare at him unblinkingly
with their glassy eyes. "I suppose she would rather have a doll than
anything else, although she has so many already!"
He was a good-looking lad, a medical student, Jim Blewett by name,
and Nellie was the only child of his brother in Cornwall, and a great
favourite with her uncle.
"I think I could afford half-a-sovereign," he ruminated; "for that
price it would appear one can get a most desirable dollie!"
He was turning into the doorway of the shop when he espied a child
at his side, watching him with great interest, and he paused. She
was a little girl of about seven years old, with a pale, thin face,
and large dark eyes. She drew back when she saw he had observed her,
and coloured. His shrewd glance noted she was poorly though neatly
clad, and that her toes had worn through her boots, whilst her head
was covered by an old sailor hat much too large for her, and with a
dilapidated brim.
"I suppose I must have been talking aloud," Jim Blewett thought; then
nodded encouragingly at the child, who responded with a smile.
The young man was not a Londoner; he was only studying at one of
the London hospitals, and looking forward to the day when, fully
qualified, he would be at liberty to practise his profession in the
country. Brought up in a small provincial town, where he had known
all the inhabitants, at any rate by sight, he could never understand
the unconcern with which Londoners regard those who cross their path.
He was always picking up acquaintances in an eccentric manner, as
his fellow students declared, or mixing himself up in other people's
business.
"It would be a much more unhappy world than it is, if no one interfered
with what did not immediately affect himself!" Jim would retort
good-naturedly. He was certainly in disposition very unlike the priest
and the Levite in the parable, for he was always ready to go out of
his way to assist any one; his desire was to be neighbourly to all the
world. The young man was a general favourite, and though many of his
acquaintances laughed at him, they could not help admiring him for his
open, manly Christianity.
"Well, little one," he said cheerily, "are you having a peep at the
dolls?"
"Yes, sir," the little girl responded, in a slightly abashed tone.
"I suppose you have a doll of your own at home?" he proceeded to
enquire.
The child shook her head, whilst a smile crossed her face, as though
she was amused at the thought. Then she turned to the window again and
sighed. After watching her a few moments in silence, Jim drew nearer
and asked:
"If you had the money, which would you buy?" She glanced at him
doubtfully, being mistrustful of a stranger, but, reassured by his kind
face, pointed to a large rosy-cheeked doll, in a gaudy amber-coloured
frock. Jim saw it was ticketed half-a-crown.
"If I gave you that doll, would you be pleased?"
She looked at him hesitatingly, then drew back, the tears springing to
her eyes, her cheeks crimsoning.
"You're making game of me!" she cried.
"On my honour I am not! See here!" Jim seized the child's chill hand in
his warm clasp, and drew her into the brilliantly-lighted shop. "Will
you please let us see one of the dolls in the window?" he asked of the
young woman who came forward to serve him. "It is the one in the yellow
dress we want. The one marked half-a-crown."
In a minute the much-coveted doll was laid on the counter, and Jim
turned to his companion.
"Is that the one you would like?"
The little girl lifted her eyes to his smiling countenance, her face
alternately paling and flushing with excitement.
"Oh, sir!" she gasped. "Oh, sir! Do you really mean it?"
"Mean it? Of course I do! I'm going to give you a Christmas present
because I have a little niece about your age, and you remind me of her,
and I know if she was here she would want you to have this doll!"
"Oh!"
"I will put the doll in paper," said the young woman behind the counter.
"Perhaps you would rather take her as she is?" asked Jim. "Or shall the
lady wrap her up for you?"
"She might feel the cold!" the child answered, looking at the doll with
longing eyes.
"She might," he agreed laughingly. "We will have her put in paper,
please."
The assistant turned aside, and in a minute brought forward a cardboard
box, into which she carefully laid the doll, then, after wrapping the
box in paper and securely fastening the parcel with a string, she
handed it across the counter.
"There, my dear," she said, as the little girl took possession of her
present, "your doll will be perfectly safe now."
"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"
"Thank you," Jim said, as he paid his half-a-crown. "You are very good
to take so much trouble!"
"Not at all, sir! I am only too pleased!"
The young woman, who was weary with standing all day, and had been
feeling decidedly cross and disheartened, seemed considerably cheered
by the sale of the doll. She watched Jim and his companion leave the
shop with interested eyes.
"What an odd couple!" she thought. "Fancy him spending his money on
that street child! Well, he must have a kind heart!"
Meanwhile Jim Blewett was saying good-bye, and refusing to listen to
the thanks which the delighted little girl was trying to put into words.
"Run away home," he said, "and take care of your dollie. I hope she'll
be a good child, and give you no trouble!"
"Oh, sir! I can never, never thank you!"
"Never mind. I don't want thanks. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir!"
The child gave him a long look full of gratitude; then, clasping her
treasure closely in her arms, she darted down the street, and was soon
lost in the hurrying crowd of pedestrians.
"Poor little soul!" Jim thought. "I'm glad I was able to gratify her
desire. Well, Miss Nellie will not have such an expensive present as I
intended, but she won't mind, and I think I'll write and tell her of
this little adventure; she will be interested."
The young man hastened home, swinging along with easy strides, his
thoughts busy with his little niece in Cornwall and the child whom he
had rendered happy in his impulsive way. Arrived at his lodgings, he
found his tea awaiting him, and his landlady forgot her household cares
as she answered his cheery greeting.
"A dull evening, Mrs. Metherell," he remarked, as she brought in the
tea-pot, and he sat down to his frugal meal; "but I never mind the
weather! We shall soon have Christmas now, and I begin to feel quite
Christmassy already!"
CHAPTER II
HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED
IN THE BLUNDELL FAMILY
"OH, how my eyes ache!"
The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the
light of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder
if her poor eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till
late at night is no easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a
grumbler, and she rarely complained. To-night she was very tired, and
a fear that had haunted her for months took strong hold upon her, and
filled her soul with dismay. Supposing there should be something really
amiss with her eyes—more than weariness? Supposing her precious sight
should be really leaving her? She shuddered at the thought, for she had
two children to support, and, as things were, existence was hard enough.
But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill.
She had been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years
ago. Her husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil
companions, and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is
always a swift one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he
had died, nearly two years since, he had left his widow and two little
girls totally unprovided for; and Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a
button-hole maker, as she had done during her husband's lifetime, in
order to supply those necessaries which were so hard to provide.
"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured
to herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon
her would have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She
had learnt to turn to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of
trouble, and trusted in Him with all her heart. But to-night she was
wearied out, mentally and bodily; and as she glanced round the garret
that was home to her and her children she shuddered at the thought that
even this humble abode might not be theirs much longer.
"Mother!"
The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner
of the room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.
"Yes, my darling!"
The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to
make cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill.
She suffered from a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that
it was the result of a fall she had had from her father's arms when
an infant. John Blundell had been intoxicated when the accident had
happened, and, though it had been a shock to him at the time, he had
soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had never had a day's
health since.
"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"
"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you
been asleep, Annie?"
"Yes, mother. Where is Maggie?"
"I sent her out to get some thread an hour ago. She ought to be back by
this time."
"I expect she is looking at the shops. She was telling me this morning
how they were. Oh, how I wish I could see them!"
"I wish so too, Annie."
"It does seem hard not to be able to get about like Maggie. Oh, mother,
why are we so poor? Has God forgotten us, do you think?"
"Oh, hush, my dear! No! God has not forgotten us; that is impossible!
All the world may forget us, but not God!"
"But, mother, it's so hard to be poor at Christmas time!"
"Oh, Annie, don't say that! The joy of the Christmas season has nothing
to do with riches, although it must be pleasant to be able to give
happiness to others for Christ's sake. If we have no money to buy
presents for those we love, the love is in our hearts the same; and the
angels' message was to the whole world, rich and poor alike. Never mind
our poverty, Annie, so long as Jesus is with us. Have you forgotten how
He was born in a stable, and cradled in a manger, because His mother
was of so little account that they could not make room for her in the
inn?"
"Oh, mother, I do remember, but—"
"He was poor all His life," Mrs. Blundell continued softly, "and His
friends were the working people. That thought has helped me to bear a
great deal, for He understands all our trials and sorrows."
"Still, I should like to have some money to buy presents for you and
Maggie, mother?"
"What would you give me, my dear?"
"A new gown, mother; it should be so warm and soft! I am not sure what
I would give Maggie! A pretty new hat, I think, for that old sailor hat
of hers is dreadfully shabby."
There was silence for a few minutes, then the sick child spoke again:
"Mother, I can't see the stars to-night; I expect it is raining."
Mrs. Blundell put down her work, and rising, went to the tiny window,
and looked out.
"It is very misty," she said. "I do wish Maggie would come! Where can
she be?"
"She is coming, mother!"
Annie's quick ears had told her truly, for in another minute the
rickety door was flung open, and a breathless little figure ran into
the room, and stood panting before her astonished mother and sister.
"Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blundell, with mingled anxiety and reproof in
her voice. "Where have you been?"
For answer the child laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, full of pure
enjoyment, that echoed strangely through the miserable garret. Annie
raised herself on her elbow, her eyes open wide with amazement, whilst
Mrs. Blundell pointed to the parcel in Maggie's arms for an explanation.
"Oh!" the excited little girl cried at length. "You'll never guess what
has happened."
She laid the parcel on the bed, and bade Annie open it, then stood
by, somewhat impatiently watching the weak, tremulous fingers as they
fumbled with the string. The cover was removed from the box at last,
and the doll in the bright amber gown lay revealed.
For a moment there was an awed silence; then:
"Where did she come from, Maggie? Who is she for?"
"She is for you, Annie," Maggie answered brightly, "for your very own!
A Christmas present! A gentleman gave her to me, and I ran as fast as
ever I could to bring her home to you! You remember my telling you
yesterday about that shop where there was a big window full of dolls?
Well, I was looking in, and the gentleman asked me which doll I would
like if I had the money to buy her; and then, when I told him, he took
me into the shop and gave her to me!"
"Oh, Maggie!"
"And the lady in the shop put her in this box because she should not
get damp," the excited child continued, "and then I ran home as fast as
I could!"
"What a kind gentleman he must be!" cried Annie. "I wonder what made
him do it! I think God must have told him!"
"I shouldn't wonder," Maggie agreed. "How do you like her, Annie? You
haven't touched her yet!"
"She is so pretty, and her dress is so grand," the sick child answered
in awe-struck tones. "I never saw such a lovely doll before."
"She is your very own, Annie."
"Oh, I don't like to take her from you, Maggie; the gentleman meant you
to have her!"
"I would rather give her to you!"
Taking the doll carefully from the box, Annie placed her in her
sister's arms, whilst Mrs. Blundell stood by, watching the children
with tears in her eyes. She was pleased to see Maggie acting so
unselfishly, for she well knew that in giving up her doll the child was
making no slight sacrifice.
"See what lovely pink cheeks she has!" cried Annie. "And, oh, how blue
her eyes are! Oh, you beautiful creature!"
"I knew you would like her," Maggie remarked complacently. "I was
longing to be to able buy her for you when the gentleman spoke to me."
"Was he an old gentleman, Maggie?"
"Oh, no—quite young."
"He must have a kind heart," Mrs. Blundell said gratefully. "The doll
will be quite a companion for Annie when you are at school, Maggie, and
I am busy."
It was a strange scene in that humble garret home—a scene full of
pathos and tender human nature. The sick child with the gaudily dressed
doll clasped in her frail arms; her sister, her face radiant with
happiness; and the careworn mother looking on with eyes that smiled
through a mist of tears.
It was Mrs. Blundell who broke the silence in words that came straight
from a heart full of thankfulness and gratitude:
"There, children! You have had a beautiful Christmas present! You have
no idea who the kind gentleman was, my dear? No. Well, God bless him,
whoever he may be!"
CHAPTER III
CONCERNING JIM BLEWETT AND HIS LANDLADY
THE following morning the children awoke early, and the chill winter's
dawn found them busily discussing the marvellous attractions of the
wonderful doll. Annie was so excited that she could scarcely eat a
mouthful of breakfast, and Maggie was nearly as bad. It was certainly
not an inviting meal, being composed of a little weak tea and slices of
bread and dripping; but the children ate so sparingly. Annie, posted
up in bed, looked better than usual. She was a pretty child really,
but sickness had made her wan, and had sharpened her features till she
seemed all nose and eyes.
"What shall we call her?" she asked, pointing to the doll lying on the
counterpane by her side. "She must have a name."
"Call her 'Rose,'" suggested Mrs. Blundell; "or do you want something
that sounds grander?"
"I don't know," doubtfully. "What do you think, Maggie?"
"I think 'Rose' would do splendidly. She has such rosy cheeks, hasn't
she?"
"Yes. And such lovely hair and eyes! She is beautiful! We will call her
'Rose,'" and the little invalid looked at the doll with admiring eyes,
and gently smoothed the amber gown.
When breakfast was over Maggie started for school, and Mrs. Blundell
was obliged to go out to take her work to the business-house that
employed her; and for the first time in her life the time Annie spent
alone did not seem very long. She lay back in bed, feeling perfectly
happy and contented, talking to her doll, which she held in her weak
arms, and every now and again pressing tender kisses on the blooming
cheeks.
"Let us 'make believe,'" she whispered. "We are in a palace, a
beautiful palace made of white marble, and the walls are shining with
diamonds, and there is a grand feast for every one, and there are
flowers everywhere! The King is having a party, and nobody is cold or
hungry, because the King is so good and wise, he won't allow people to
be unhappy or want for anything. It is warm, and oh, so comfortable!
The King has asked us to sit by the fire with a lot of other little
children, and we can feel the heat!"
The child paused, and shivered involuntarily, awakening suddenly to the
reality; but in a minute she smiled, and continued to "make believe."
Meanwhile, the wintry sunshine was peeping through the tiny window; the
mist was clearing, and in the streets people were remarking that there
was a promise of a real old-fashioned Christmas.
Jim Blewett as he sat at his breakfast table looked at the sunshine,
and smiled.
"The weather is going to change," he remarked to his landlady as
she placed his fried bacon in front of him; indeed, "it has changed
already. There's a more cheerful outlook this morning."
"Yes," she assented, "I expect we shall have a spell of real cold now.
God help the poor folk if we do!"
"It will be healthier than all the damp we've been having, Mrs.
Metherell."
"Maybe, but it'll be a deal more trying for the poor. You don't know
London like I do, sir, or you'd know that!"
"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I
was brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father
was the Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had
had some experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the
East End. He accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my
knowledge of London is built on what I heard from him, and my own two
years' sojourn here."
"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've
an affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I
don't suppose people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal
of wickedness done in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of
goodness too! For my part, I love the bustle, the continual movement,
the life! It seems to me country folk are never properly alive!"
"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he
looked at his landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that
you always strike me as being very much alive, and you say you're a
real Londoner. You do not let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs.
Metherell."
Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She
was at it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always
bright and cheerful.
Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of
honest gray eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness
by a beautiful smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly,
as though she had been accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she
was quick in her movements, and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left
a widow at thirty, she had, by means of this lodging-house in a quiet
side street, contrived to bring up three children, and put them out in
the world. They all had homes of their own now; but their mother kept
on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance grew brighter still
as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier circumstances.
Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They
had taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship,
for, strange though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The
toil-worn Londoner and the country lad had much in common; they met on
the ground of their wide-hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often
lingered thus for a few minutes' conversation, and Jim, being of a
decidedly sociable disposition, always encouraged her to talk.
"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she
asked.
Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.
"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to
come, and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be
like Christmas if I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go
down till Easter. I want to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I
know. If my mother and father were alive it would be different!"
"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs.
Metherell remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house
will be well-nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away.
I am going to give a party on my own account, sir!"
There was a twinkle in Mrs. Metherell's eyes as she spoke, which Jim
was quick to notice.
"I hope you are going to invite me," he said, smiling; then, seeing
Mrs. Metherell looked a little doubtful, "You surely won't leave me out
in the cold!"
"It's a children's party, sir."
"So much the better! They are ever so much jollier than grown-up
people's parties! I will help you amuse the children!"
"They are a few I know who will not be very likely to have anything
done for their pleasure at home. I am going to ask them to come on
Christmas Eve from four to eight. I shall give them a good tea—poor
little souls! And I mean to dress up a Christmas tree for the occasion!"
"I shall insist on being present, Mrs. Metherell; and I'll help you
dress the tree!"
A smile of gratification spread over the landlady's face as she
answered:
"I am sure I shall be very glad of your assistance, sir. It's not much
I'm able to do for my fellow creatures; but now, at Christmas, I think
one ought to make a little extra effort to try to make others happy. It
always seems to me Christmas is the children's festival especially, and
I should like to think I was able to make some of His little ones glad,
for His sake."
"Yes," Jim agreed. "I remember—oh! As long ago as I can remember
anything—the excitement there used to be at home when this season drew
near, and how my father used to remind us children that we must never
forget in the midst of all the festivity the cause of our rejoicing."
"He was quite right, sir."
"Indeed, he was. Well, I hope you and I shall have a happy Christmas."
His thoughts flew to the child to whom he had given the doll the night
before, but he made no mention of the matter to his landlady. And
after a few more words she retired downstairs, and Jim turned to his
breakfast.
CHAPTER IV
MAGGIE IS INVITED TO A PARTY
IT wanted but two days to Christmas, and it was intensely cold. For a
few hours in the morning the sun had shone brightly in a cloudless blue
sky; but now evening had come, and the keen, frosty air was cruelly
biting to those who lacked thick garments and warm furs to shelter
them from the severity of the weather. It promised to be a trying
Christmastide for the London poor, but those who had cosy firesides to
turn to, said it was healthy and seasonable.
To an onlooker, things would not have appeared very comfortable in the
Blundells' home. There was scarcely more than a handful of coals in
the little fire-place. Mrs. Blundell, as usual, was stitching away at
her work, whilst the children held a whispered conversation together.
Yet, cheerless though the garret looked, there was an atmosphere of
quiet contentment about its inmates. Christmas was coming! That was the
thought which cheered their hearts, that made the mother almost forget
her misgivings for the future, as she hummed softly to herself the
lines of the well-known hymn:
"He comes the broken heart to bind,
The bleeding soul to cure;
And with the treasures of His grace
To bless the humble poor."
Suddenly Mrs. Blundell dropped her work on her lap, and turned her head
expectantly to the doorway. She had heard a footstep, and in a minute
there was a knock. Maggie ran to the door, and admitted a little woman
with stooping shoulders—no other than Jim Blewett's landlady.
"Oh, Mrs. Metherell!" Mrs. Blundell exclaimed in quick, pleased tones.
"Do please come in and sit down! Why, you're quite breathless with
climbing up the stairs! I am glad to see you, ma'am!"
Brisk and smiling, Mrs. Metherell greeted the children cordially, and
then, turning to their mother, said:
"I am not going to stay long, but in my basket here are a few things
for you. The fact is, all my lodgers but one have gone away for
Christmas, and they've left some provisions behind that it would be
a pity to let spoil. Here's half a cold chicken and a knuckle of
ham—'Nearer the bone, the sweeter the meat,' they say—and a few other
trifles."
"Oh, ma'am, I shall never be able to thank you for all the thoughtful
goodness you've shown to me and mine! If you had not been such a friend
to us before now, I believe we should have starved!"
"You have a better friend than me, you know, Mrs. Blundell. We are all
in God's hands."
"I do know it, ma'am; but sometimes one's faith seems weak!"
"'There hath not failed one word of all His good promise,'" Mrs.
Metherell quoted in her pleasant, cheery tones. "Now please to empty
the basket, and I hope you'll have a good supper, and enjoy it. Annie,
my dear, how are you to-night?"
"Oh, much better, thank you, ma'am."
"Much better, eh? That's right. And what have you there?" Suddenly
becoming aware that the little girl was evidently desiring her to
notice the object in her arms.
"It is a doll, my doll, ma'am," in proud accents. "She is called
'Rose.' Isn't she a beauty?"
In a few words Mrs. Blundell explained how the child had become
possessed of her treasure. Mrs. Metherell nodded her head approvingly
as she listened to the tale, whilst her face simply beamed with smiles.
"Well, now!" she exclaimed. "That was kindly done! Don't you wish you
knew who the gentleman was?"
"Yes, indeed," Mrs. Blundell answered earnestly. "I feel quite sorry to
think he will never know how thankful my children are to him for his
gift."
"I can't thank him myself," Annie put in, "I only wish I could. But
Maggie and I speak of him to God every night. I think God will bless
him, don't you, ma'am?"
"Yes, I do," Mrs. Metherell returned in cordial tones, "I feel sure of
it. She is, indeed, a beautiful doll, Annie; and I don't wonder you are
pleased."
"I love her very much," answered the little invalid simply.
"There is one thing more I have to say before I go," Mrs. Metherell
said, as she turned to Maggie, "and it's to do with you, my dear. I am
going to give a little party on Christmas Eve to a few children I know,
and I want you to join us. Would you like to come to my party, Maggie?"
In her astonishment Maggie turned very red, then quite pale, and for
a minute did not answer. At length she gave a little gasp of mingled
pleasure and surprise as she exclaimed:
"Oh, ma'am! A party!"
"From four to eight. Will you allow Maggie to come, Mrs. Blundell?"
The mother looked doubtful, as she mentally pictured Maggie's best
frock, which was decidedly more than a little shabby. Then she
reflected that her visitor, who knew her position very well, would not
expect her child to be dressed smartly, and she gave a cordial consent.
"It is indeed kind of you to ask Maggie, ma'am," she said, "and I'm
sure I shall be only too pleased for her to go. It will be a rare treat
for her."
"It is decided, then. At four, mind, and be in good time, Maggie."
The little girl accompanied their visitor down the rickety stairs
in order to pour into her ears the thanks she had at first been too
astonished to utter. When she came upstairs again she found her mother
and sister in quite a state of excitement.
"Oh, I am so glad!" the latter exclaimed. "Oh, what a wonderful week
this has been! First came my doll, and, now, to think that you are
going to a real party, Maggie, not a 'make believe' one! Mind you
notice everything, so as to be able to tell me all about it!"
"That I will," Maggie agreed readily, "I only wish you were going too,
Annie."
"Oh, I don't mind now I have Rose for company. I shall be able to
imagine it all, and that will be nearly as good as being there," was
the contented reply.
"I am very pleased too. It seems to me that we have more friends than
we thought. I am sure I'm delighted that Maggie should have this
pleasure," Mrs. Blundell said, with a loving glance at her little
daughters, and remembering how the younger child had given up her doll
to her invalid sister.
"I wish we were all going," Maggie went on, "but, never mind, I'll tell
you everything about it afterwards. I wonder what we shall do? Play
games, I expect."
"And there will be refreshments—all sorts of nice things!" Annie
suggested.
She was not in the least a greedy child, but her capricious appetite
often hankered after such luxuries as she rarely tasted.
"We will have supper now," Mrs. Blundell said, and Maggie began to busy
herself preparing the evening meal.
They had not tasted meat for the day, and the knuckle of ham and
scraps of chicken seemed a feast indeed. Cheered by the good food, the
children grew quite merry, and chatted and laughed. The mother watched
them, and thanked God for putting it into Mrs. Metherell's heart to
remember them that Christmas.
Jim Blewett's landlady had been a kind friend to them ever since, two
years ago, she had by chance learnt to know of the hard-working widow
and her children. Many a time Mrs. Metherell had sent a dainty dish
to tempt the little invalid's appetite; and on rare occasions, as on
the present, she had paid a visit to the family, but never before had
she invited one to her home. How deeply Mrs. Blundell appreciated her
kindness to Maggie only one in her position can realise, and Mrs.
Metherell herself would have been surprised and much gratified could
she have known the intense pleasure which the anticipation of her party
was giving in at least one humble home.
CHAPTER V
PREPARING FOR MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY
IT was getting late by the time Mrs. Metherell arrived at home, for she
had had a good bit of shopping to do, which had taken her longer than
she had anticipated. As she was going upstairs a voice called to her:
"Is that you, Mrs. Metherell?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come in here a minute, will you, please?"
There was an eager note in Jim Blewett's voice as he spoke, and as
Mrs. Metherell stepped into his sitting-room she cast an astonished
glance around. An empty hamper was on the floor, whilst the table was
strewn with what had been its contents—a turkey, some sausages, a plum
pudding in a mould, a large cake, a couple of pounds of butter, a tin
of clotted cream, and half-a-dozen pairs of hand-knitted socks.
"You see the folks at home have not forgotten me," Jim remarked
smilingly. "I've had a hamper from my sister-in-law. She says—"
referring to a letter in his hand—"that the pudding is sufficiently
boiled, and only wants warming through. She knitted the socks herself.
Aren't they capital?"
Mrs. Metherell took up the articles and examined them approvingly,
whilst her lodger went on:
"I know my sister-in-law's Christmas puddings of old! You can't beat
them! Mrs. Metherell, I shall never eat that huge turkey all by myself,
although I have such an excellent appetite, and I'm going to dine with
our senior house surgeon on Christmas Day. I want you to cook the
turkey for your little visitors, and have the cake as well. If you are
going to have a high tea, as I think you told me you intended, cold
turkey would come in nicely, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, it would," Mrs. Metherell acknowledged, "but I don't like to take
it from you, sir. The turkey will keep several days, and you might have
it hot for dinner one night, and as to the cake—why, I don't suppose
your sister-in-law meant you to eat all these good things at once!"
"Well, no," he responded, laughing, "but I'd so much rather the
children shared them with me."
"I'm sure, sir, if that's the case, I'm quite agreeable, and I'm very
much obliged to you for wishing it."
"And, Mrs. Metherell, I've bought a few things to help decorate your
Christmas tree. I passed a toy shop on my way home from the hospital
to-night, and the toys were so enticing, I couldn't possibly resist
buying some. The fact is," he explained, speaking in confidential
tones, "my godfather has sent me a five pound note for a Christmas box!"
"Oh, Mr. Blewett, you ought not to have spent your money in that way!"
"Only a small part of it—there's a lot left, I assure you. I've bought
a beautiful doll for my little niece, Nellie—such a grand doll! And
a Russia leather pocket-book for my brother, dear old chap! And
half-a-dozen pairs of gloves for my sister-in-law. And look here, Mrs.
Metherell, what do you think of this?" Drawing a small jeweller's box
from his breast pocket, and exhibiting therein a pretty silver brooch.
"For Clara," he explained, "only I shall not give it to her till
Christmas Day. Do you think she will like it?"
"I am sure she will, sir! I believe you are the only one of my lodgers
who ever shows her the least consideration, and I'm sure you'll be the
only one to give her anything for Christmas."
Clara was the indefatigable maid-of-all-work of the establishment, a
good-natured girl who had imbibed some of her mistress's qualities of
mind and heart.
"When I think of the scores of times she has toiled up to my room here,
in answer to my bell," said Jim, "and what dirty boots she has had to
clean for me, I feel sorry I have no handsomer present to give her."
"She will be delighted," Mrs. Metherell declared. "Clara is a good
girl, and she's a great help to me. I will send her upstairs to tidy up
your room for you, Mr. Blewett. As to the turkey, and that big cake,
which, if looks go for anything, must be simply delicious, I accept
them gladly for the children, and the toys too. I won't say you ought
not to have bought them, for I know it's a pleasure to you to give."
"When do you decorate the tree, Mrs. Metherell? I gave Clara my parcel
of toys as I came in."
"Why, I shall begin as soon as I have taken off my bonnet and cloak.
Would you care to come down to my sitting-room presently? I should be
really glad if you would help me hang up the things, for I'm afraid I
shall not have much taste in arranging them. Of course, sir, if you're
going to work—"
"But I'm not. I don't feel a bit workish. There is nothing I should
like better than to help you decorate the tree."
In another half hour the important business of the evening was in full
swing. The tree, in its pot, was set in the middle of the floor in Mrs.
Metherell's sitting-room, and the presents carefully secured thereto.
It was an undoubtedly fortunate thing that the medical student was
there, for neither the landlady nor Clara had the least idea how to
display the different articles to the best advantage. It was on Jim
that the work fell, and he was quite satisfied that it should be so.
The presents were useful as well as ornamental, for Mrs. Metherell had
knitted several warm comforters, and Clara had crocheted some pairs of
cuffs in brilliantly coloured wools.
"There!" cried the young man at length, withdrawing to a little
distance, to view his work the better. "I don't believe there'll be a
prettier Christmas tree in all London. When the Chinese lanterns are
lit up, it will look splendid!"
Mrs. Metherell and Clara eagerly agreed, the latter uttering
exclamations of admiration and delight.
The girl was a regular Londoner, like her mistress, and had been
brought up in a poor home in a wretched slum. Clara had seen nothing of
the better side of life until she had come to live with Mrs. Metherell,
who had taught her the meaning of that love which is the light of the
world. She had been as ignorant of God as any heathen in a foreign
land, and it had been given to her mistress to plant those seeds in the
girl's heart which were, by God's grace, to take deep root and beautify
her whole life. The Gospel Story poured into her ears by one who humbly
tried to walk in the way that leads to eternal life had made so great
an impression upon her that it had lightened each hard day's work and
sweetened every breath she drew. She was growing in grace, and in the
knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, learning to trust in
Him as her unfailing friend, and casting all her weakness upon Him.
The night out-doors was bright and frosty. The pale moon and twinkling
stars looked down upon the great city with its riches and poverty, its
goodness and sin, upon luxurious homes whose inmates had little thought
for those to whom Christmas meant nothing, and—thank God—upon those
too who busied themselves preparing for the happiness of others; upon
reckless waste and terrible want, and deeds of self-sacrifice and deeds
of love. And to all, gentle and simple, rich and poor, was coming the
angels' message that for nineteen hundred years has resounded through
all Christian lands, scoffed at by some, passed by unheeded by others,
but here and there treasured up in some faithful hearts, bearing its
tidings of joy and good will towards all mankind.
To the three in Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room—three so wide apart
in every way but one, and that their love for Him they were looking
forward to worship as the Babe of Bethlehem on Christmas Day—it seemed
as though an atmosphere of pleasant expectancy surrounded all the world.
"The tree looks lovely," Mrs. Metherell said, when after a few
finishing touches Jim declared his work was done, "and it's due to you,
sir, entirely! We could never have arranged the things so tastefully,
or made them look half so well."
"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed the lad. "I've had some experience, you know,
for we used to have a tree every year at home."
Then he went upstairs, and wrote a long letter to his dear ones in
Cornwall, regaling them with an account of the preparations for Mrs.
Metherell's party, concluding with a glowing account of the Christmas
tree for Nellie's benefit, and confessing he had shared the contents of
his hamper with his landlady, for the children's benefit. He knew well
that his sister-in-law would enter into his feelings, and be perfectly
satisfied that some of her good cheer should go to the little ones.
CHAPTER VI
MRS. METHERELL'S PARTY
IF Mrs. Metherell's party had been anticipated with feelings of
pleasure and delight, the realisation quite came up to every one's
expectations. To many children it would doubtless have appeared a tame
affair, but to those who partook of its joys, it left nothing to be
desired.
First came the substantial high tea in the roomy underground kitchen,
which had been decorated with holly and evergreens for the occasion,
the tins on the mantel-shelf shining like silver, and the plated
dish-covers on the walls looking like mirrors for brightness. Around
the large, square kitchen table sat the children—about a dozen little
girls and boys who were at first too busily occupied with the good
food, that was such a rare treat to them, to have much to say.
But when the appetites of all were satisfied, the children commenced to
chatter, and one small boy whispered audibly to his neighbour: "I never
tasted turkey before, an' ain't it just prime!"
Maggie Blundell, her usually pale cheeks flushed with excitement, her
eyes shining brightly, was one of the quietest of the lot, though she
was thoroughly enjoying herself, and making mental notes of everything
she saw and every word that was said, with which to entertain Annie for
days to come.
Tea over, Mrs. Metherell offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving to
God, during which some of the children bowed their heads reverently,
whilst the others appeared astonished, never having been taught that
all good things come from our Heavenly Father. The kind hostess looked
around on the young faces about her table, and in a few earnest words
reminded them Whose birthday eve it was, and for Whose sake they were
making glad.
Afterwards, the whole party arose, and was ushered by Clara into the
sitting-room. Exclamations of amazement and admiration broke from the
children as they saw the Christmas tree. The Chinese lanterns had been
carefully lighted by Jim Blewett, who stood in the background, watching
the eager faces and listening to the delighted remarks:
"A Christmas tree!" cried one. "Oh, how lovely!"
"I never saw a Christmas tree before!" from another.
"Nor I!"
"Nor I!"
"Doesn't it do one's heart good to see their pleasure?" Mrs. Metherell
whispered to Jim.
He nodded silently, his observant eyes wandering from one child's face
to another, till they rested on Maggie Blundell's animated countenance,
with recognition.
"There is one I know," he said, indicating the little girl. "How
strange she should be here to-night!"
"Do you mean Maggie Blundell, sir?"
"Is that her name? I mean that tidy little figure in black. There, she
is looking at us now, and I believe she recognises me too."
Maggie's eyes had indeed espied her unknown friend, and, darting across
the room towards him, she cried: "Oh, sir!" then paused too agitated to
utter another word.
"How do you do? I hope you are having a good time?" Jim said, genially.
"Oh, yes, sir, thank you! Oh, Mrs. Metherell, ma'am, this is the
gentleman we told you about who gave me the doll!"
Mrs. Metherell comprehended the situation at once, and she laid a
kindly hand on the child's shoulder, smiling down into the excited
face, as she replied:
"This gentleman is Mr. Blewett, one of my lodgers, my dear. What a
strange coincidence! Now you can tell him what has become of his
present, for I am sure he will like to know how much it is appreciated!"
In a few eager words, Maggie explained that she had given the doll to
her sister, because she was always ill, and often lonely; how they had
named the doll "Rose"; and how they loved her dearly. Encouraged by
his evident interest, she proceeded to tell him all about her home,
till Jim knew how hard her mother worked, and what trying times they
had sometimes, to all of which he listened with deep attention. Their
conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Metherell, who thought it was time
to begin distributing the presents to the children.
The little ones were ranged around the tree in a circle, and when they
received their gifts it was quite touching to notice the pleasure on
their faces. Of course, the tree was the most wonderful object of the
evening, but it was dismantled at length, and pushed back into a corner
of the room, shorn of its glory.
Games followed—"blind man's buff," puss in the corner, and a variety
of others, and the medical student proved himself an adept in all. At
first the children were inclined to be shy with him, but when they
played "family coach," and Jim took upon himself to tell the history
of that famous vehicle, and gave a humorous account of all the mishaps
that attended its career, the young people forgot their reserve, and
fairly shouted with laughter.
It was all over at last; the children returned to their different homes
with happy hearts; whilst Mrs. Metherell and Clara began to tidy up
after their little visitors, and the party was an event of the past.
"It has been a complete success," Jim Blewett remarked ere he went
upstairs, "and I, for one, have certainly enjoyed it. You've caused
some happiness any way, Mrs. Metherell!"
"I'm truly glad to think so, sir," the landlady answered, "and I'm sure
I'm most grateful to you for your assistance."
Meanwhile, Maggie Blundell had hastened home, and having exhibited
her presents from the Christmas tree, which were greatly admired, was
giving her mother and sister a graphic description of the party, and
telling of her delight and astonishment at the sight of the "kind
gentleman," as she had grown accustomed to call the young medical
student.
"I was so amazed I could hardly speak at first," she explained, "but
afterwards I told him all about you, mother, and all about you too,
Annie. He asked me lots of questions—had we always lived in London; and
when he heard you were brought up in the country, mother, he said he
thought as much, because I spoke differently from the other children,
and he guessed that was the reason. I suppose he meant I spoke like
you, mother?"
"I dare say, my dear."
"Oh, he did say such a funny thing about himself! He said he was half a
doctor! What could he have meant, mother?"
"I'm sure I can't think. Half a doctor! Are you sure that was what he
said? Oh! Perhaps he is a medical student. He may be learning to be a
doctor. We will ask Mrs. Metherell. By the way, Maggie, you have not
told us his name."
"He is called Mr. Blewett."
"Blewett!" Mrs. Blundell echoed. "I wonder where he comes from! Can it
be? But no, it is not likely!"
"Do you know any one called Blewett, mother?"
"I used to know a family of that name years ago."
"He said he would come to see us one day; and he asked me if Annie had
had a good doctor."
"What did you say, dear?"
"I said, no, not since I could remember."
"Oh, Maggie, do you really think he will come here?" asked Annie,
casting a comprehensive glance around their poor home.
"I should not be surprised. I think he does mean to come. Do have
another chocolate, Annie!"
The little invalid was posted up in bed, regaling herself on chocolates
from a box that her sister had received from the Christmas tree.
"We will keep some for to-morrow," the mother said, smiling, "and
I think we will put off hearing anything more about the party till
to-morrow too. You must be very tired, Maggie: and Annie there ought to
have been asleep long ago."
"I don't feel a bit sleepy, mother," Maggie said.
"I dare say not, but it's time you were in bed, all the same. Put away
your sweets and presents till to-morrow, like a good girl."
The child obeyed obediently; and then Mrs. Blundell brought forward her
Bible, and read slowly and reverently the account St. Luke gives of
the birth of Christ. When she had finished, they all joined in singing
that grand old Christmas hymn, "While shepherds watched their flocks by
night."
The mother's voice was tired, and much of its beauty had passed, but
the children's notes were pure and sweet, and resounded through the
house, thrilling many a weary heart with the triumphant words of joy:
"All glory be to God on high,
And on the earth be peace;
Good will henceforth from heaven to men
Begin and never cease."
CHAPTER VII
JIM BLEWETT VISITS THE BLUNDELLS,
AND INTERFERES IN THEIR CONCERNS
CLEAR and bright dawned Christmas morning, and the bells from the
churches rang out their joyful notes, calling all the world to come and
worship the newborn King, the Prince of Peace. It was a very quiet day
for the Blundells. A neighbour came in to sit with Annie, to enable
Mrs. Blundell and Maggie to attend the morning service at church. It
was the same church where Mrs. Metherell worshipped; and after the
service was over, they had a few words with the kind little woman.
Mrs. Metherell was in capital spirits, for she had received loving
remembrances from her children, and a present of a warm Shetland shawl
from her favourite lodger.
"It is pleasant to be remembered at Christmas," she said brightly. "One
of my sons is an engineer settled in Hull, and the other's a clerk in
a shipping office in Liverpool. Both are married and have families,
but they don't forget their old mother. My only daughter's married
too, and living in Dublin: she would like me to live with her, but I
think a young couple's best alone. So you see I've no near relations in
London, and I sometimes feel a bit lonesome. Your relatives live in the
country, I suppose, Mrs. Blundell?"
"Yes, ma'am—many miles away."
When they had parted from Mrs. Metherell, Maggie turned to her mother,
and asked curiously: "Have we any relations, mother?"
"Yes, my dear."
"They never write to us, mother?"
"Never."
A cloud seemed to have overshadowed the mother's face, and she sighed.
She was unusually quiet all the rest of the day, though the children
found so much to talk about, and when they had fallen asleep that
night, she still sat on by the scanty fire, deep in thought.
By-and-by she roused herself, and fetched writing materials, and tried
to write a letter. It was evidently a difficult task, for after writing
a few halting lines, she put down her pen, and covering her face with
her hands wept bitterly.
"Oh!" she sobbed, "if father would only forgive me for the children's
sake!"
She turned to her letter again, but she could not express in words the
feelings of her heart, and at last she laid down her pen in despair.
The next few days passed uneventfully; but one evening there was a
knock at the door of the Blundells' home, and Maggie, who hastened to
answer it, exclaimed as she peeped out:
"Oh, sir! Oh, mother! It's Mr. Blewett!"
The medical student came in, and with that adaptability which promised
to do much towards making him a popular doctor some day, soon made
himself at home. Mrs. Blundell stood by smiling as he talked to her
little girls, his keen eyes fixed on Annie, in whose case he already
felt an interest.
"Do you never get up, little one?" he asked.
"Never, sir. But I am not lonely now I have Rose."
"I am glad you find her companionable." Then, turning to the mother, he
remarked:
"She had an accident, I think you said?"
"Yes, sir. Her spine was injured. I have not been able to afford a
doctor lately, but—"
"Will you allow me to make an examination? I am a medical student, and
interested in spinal complaints."
Mother and child both consented, and Jim proceeded to examine the
little girl's back most carefully.
"There!" he said at last. "I don't think I've hurt you much, have I?
Mrs. Blundell, I should like our senior house surgeon to see your
little girl. He's very clever. You could not have a better man for the
case."
"But, sir, I am not able to pay—"
"There will be no question of payment. May I bring him? I see I may.
He's such a good fellow, and used to be a personal friend of my poor
father's."
"Your poor father, sir? Why do you say poor?"
"It's a way one has of speaking of the dead. My father died three years
ago, and my mother a few months before; but," he said, noticing that
there were tears in Mrs. Blundell's eyes, "you did not know them!"
"Yes, sir, indeed I did, if your father was the Vicar of R—, in
Cornwall!"
"He was. And you?"
"I was parlour-maid in your family for five years. You were a little
boy then, sir, but I dare say, when I tell you what my name was, you'll
remember it."
"How strange! I thought when I came in that your face was familiar to
me, and I felt certain you came from Cornwall by your speech, and your
children have a touch of the dialect, too."
"It comes from being so much with me, I suppose, sir. I was Dinah
Mudford before I married."
"Old John Mudford's daughter? Why, of course, I remember now! I saw
your father only last summer, and had a long chat with him. He's a
hale, hearty man for his years."
Jim Blewett cast a discerning glance around the wretched garret, for
he knew that Mrs. Blundell's father was a man counted well off for his
position in life. He had by hard work and frugality raised himself
from a labouring man to be the owner of a small dairy farm; therefore,
it seemed almost incredible that his daughter should be in needy
circumstances.
Mrs. Blundell saw and comprehended the meaning of the look on the young
man's face, and when he took his leave, she followed him downstairs,
and explained to him how she had married against her father's consent,
and he had accordingly declined to have anything more to do with her.
"Many's the time I've longed and prayed for his forgiveness," she said
sadly, "for I was a bad girl, sir, and wilfully disobeyed him. The
misery my marriage brought me, I cannot tell you, and I don't wish to
speak ill of the dead. My husband turned out as my father told me he
would, only I wouldn't listen to him, and that's why I've been ashamed
to write to him. If I had, I don't suppose it would have been any good,
for father was always hard and unforgiving."
"He may have been once, but that he certainly is not now. He is a
sincere Christian, and I am certain if you appealed to him he would
assist you!"
"Father a Christian!" she exclaimed in accents of amazement.
"Indeed he is. I do not know how the change came about, but it is a
fact. Write to him, and await results."
With this advice Jim Blewett departed, and Mrs. Blundell returned to
her children, who were full of eager questions about the grandfather
of whom they had never heard before; and the mother smiled almost
hopefully as she answered, for the news she had heard had considerably
lightened her heart.
"To think that father, who was always so hard and stern, should be
a Christian!" she thought; "although I don't know why it should be
so wonderful after all. It is God's work, and marvellous in our eyes
because we can't understand how He brings things to pass. What a
Christmas this has been! To think the children's 'kind gentleman'
should turn out to be 'little Master Jim,' as we used to call him. I
knew him at once; he has his father's kind eyes, and yet, he reminds me
of his mother too!"
Meanwhile, Jim Blewett had returned to his lodgings, his mind full
of the visit he had just paid. The evident poverty and want of Mrs.
Blundell and her children appealed forcibly to his sympathy, and he
could not help contrasting the anxious, careworn mother with the
handsome girl he remembered as Dinah Mudford. He recalled having heard
that old John Mudford's daughter had made an unfortunate marriage, and
he thought it more than likely that the father knew nothing of his
daughter's position.
"I've a great mind to write to the old man myself," he thought. "It may
do some good, and I do not see that it can possibly do any harm. Poor
woman! She needs help badly, and who should give it if not her father?
That little sick girl, too! I've a notion something might be done for
her!"
To think was to act with Jim Blewett, and sitting down, he drew pen,
ink, and paper towards him. His pen flew swiftly over the paper, and in
ten minutes he had plainly stated the circumstances of the case, and
boldly said he considered it was John Mudford's duty to provide for his
widowed daughter and her children.
Having finished his letter, he went out and posted it.
"There!" he said, as he dropped it into the letter box. "I'm
interfering with other people's business again; but I think my father
would have done the same."
On his return home he sought Mrs. Metherell, and told her who Mrs.
Blundell was, and how he had acted. The good lady threw up her hands in
astonishment as she exclaimed:
"Good gracious, Mr. Blewett! I never heard anything like it in my life!
It's Providence, sir, that's what it is! First your meeting Maggie and
giving her that doll; then my party, and you and the child both being
there; and now her mother recognising you! There's no such thing as
chance, sir; we walk on blindly trying to feel our way, and all the
time there's a hand that's guiding our footsteps, though we mayn't
realise it at the time!"
"Do you think I have done wisely in writing to the old man?" he asked,
a trifle anxiously.
"Well, sir," was the laconic reply, "we'll wait and see."
CHAPTER VIII
THE RESULTS OF JIM BLEWETT'S INTERFERENCE
"MOTHER! Do you really mean it? Oh, mother! Will God really make me
well some day?"
It was little Annie Blundell who spoke, in eager, excited tones. The
young medical student and his friend, the clever surgeon, had just gone
away, leaving behind them an atmosphere of hope and joy. In time, Annie
would grow stronger, and perhaps quite well. That had been the doctor's
verdict, which the mother had heard with heartfelt thankfulness.
"Yes," Mrs. Blundell said, in answer to Annie's agitated questions,
"if all goes well, my dear little invalid daughter will be able to run
about like her sister one of these days; only we must do all the kind
doctor says, and follow his directions."
"What was it he said about fresh air, mother?" Annie inquired anxiously.
"He said life in the country with plenty of fresh air would be of the
utmost advantage to help to make you stronger. I am going to write to
your grandfather, Annie, and ask him if he would not like a little
grandchild in his home, one who would grow to love him dearly, I know."
"And you, mother? And Maggie?"
"I don't know, darling, yet."
"I could not leave you, mother!"
"Not if leaving me would mean making you strong and well?"
"No," was the response in determined accents. "Oh, mother, don't ask me
to go!"
Mrs. Blundell sighed. She had again put off writing to her father,
shrinking sensitively from explaining to him the miseries of her
married life; but, now that she knew that fresh air was the one thing
needed to assist in Annie's cure, she determined to appeal to him to
take the child.
Maggie heard her mother's resolve in silence, but she drew near to her
sister, and put her arms in mute protest around her neck.
"Oh, Maggie," Annie whispered, tearfully, "I don't think I want to get
well now."
Meanwhile Jim Blewett had parted from his friend, and had returned to
his lodgings. Clara, who had been evidently on the look-out for his
arrival, met him at the door; and in a mysterious whisper asked him to
walk into Mrs. Metherell's sitting-room.
"There is some one there waiting to see you," she explained.
"Who is it, Clara?"
"Some one called Mudford, sir."
Jim waited to hear no further, but hastened into the room, where he
found his landlady in earnest conversation with a fresh-complexioned
old man, evidently a countryman—no other than Mrs. Blundell's father.
"I am delighted to see you," Jim said cordially. "In fact, I don't know
there is any one I would rather see!"
Old John Mudford took the young man's outstretched hand, and shook it
heartily.
"Sir," he answered, "I am much indebted to you. You see I've replied to
your letter by coming up to London. I'm no great hand at writing, so
I thought I'd better come. This kind lady," he said, indicating Mrs.
Metherell with a jerk of his thumb, "'as been tellin' me all about my
poor maid an' 'er troubles. I knowed what it would be, an' I warned 'er
to no purpose. Maybe I was too rough—well, I own I was! I saw things
different in those days!"
"I'm sure if your daughter disobeyed you, she has repented it
bitterly," Mrs. Metherell remarked. "I have known her for several
years, and have deeply sympathised with her in her troubles."
The old man turned a grateful look upon the speaker as he said: "Ma'am,
I feel that grateful to you, and to Mr. Blewett, that I can't find
words to tell my feelings. If Dinah 'ad sent me a line, I would 'ave
done all I could for 'er. If I spoke in anger long ago, I've repented
of it ever since. The loss a' my maid was a sore trial, but maybe the
Lord knew I wanted a lesson."
"But she is lost no longer," the young man broke in eagerly. "When are
you going to see her?"
"At once, sir, if you'll kindly give me the address!"
"I will take you there, and we can talk on the road."
The landlady watched them depart with eyes full of pleasure and
sympathy.
"I've a notion things are brightening for Mrs. Blundell," she remarked
to Clara. "I believe her father intends to look after her and the
children. How Mr. Blewett hurried the old man off! What an impetuous,
warm-hearted lad he is, to be sure!"
Meanwhile the medical student was pouring into his companion's ears the
story of how he had become acquainted with Maggie, and telling of the
doctor's opinion of Annie.
Who can tell what tumultuous thoughts filled the father's heart as he
followed Jim up the dark, rickety staircase! He was to see his daughter
again, and he had come full of forgiveness and love. She had ever been
in his mind this Christmas season, and the letter telling of her trials
and troubles, clearly pointing out to him his duty, had come at the
very time when his lonely heart had been yearning for her presence.
There were tears in the old man's eyes as, after receiving the usual,
"Come in," in answer to his knock, the medical student took him by the
arm and led him into the badly-lighted room.
Mrs. Blundell put down her work hastily, whilst the children turned
curious eyes on the stranger. Old John Mudford took a step forward and
looked at his daughter's face, exclaiming brokenly:
"Dinah! My poor maid!"
"Father! Father!"
"Dinah! My dear, I've come to take you home with me!"
After that Jim Blewett beat a hasty retreat, for he knew his share in
the work of reconciliation was done.
"This has been the most wonderful Christmas I ever remember!" Maggie
said seriously, when, her mother having become more composed, the
children were introduced to their grandfather.
"And this—the sight of your dear face, father—is the crowning joy of
all," Mrs. Blundell said gladly. "I never thought you would come to
London to look for me."
"Well, you see, it was Mr. Blewett's doing."
"God bless him! We've much to thank him for."
"He gave us the doll, my dear Rose," said Annie, "and he brought the
doctor to see me."
The little girl looked into her grandfather's face appealingly.
"You won't take me away from mother and Maggie will you?" she asked.
"No, my dear. You shall all go back to Cornwall with me."
"Oh, father!" Mrs. Blundell exclaimed joyfully.
"Oh, how splendid!" Maggie cried, clapping her hands.
"Is it in the country?" Annie asked, a wistful longing in her eyes.
"Will there be flowers, and trees, and birds? And shall I get well
there?"
"I trust so, my dear," the old man replied, "and it's quite in the
country. Your mother will tell you all about it."
"And we shall never come back here any more," said Maggie reflectively,
casting a lingering look, not devoid of affection, round the garret
which had been home to them so long. "Poor old place! I shall never
forget it!"
It had been a poor home, but after all, mother and children had
had their happy days there—days when no troubles had been able to
obliterate the sunshine of God's presence in their hearts, and they had
felt secure in His loving care.
There is little more to tell. When old John Mudford returned to
Cornwall, he took his daughter and her children with him, and in her
native air Mrs. Blundell soon lost her careworn looks, and her tired
eyes regained their strength. Maggie became quite rosy and blooming;
but it was Annie who changed the most. The following summer found her
able to move about, and her poor back grew stronger as time went on,
and the fresh, country air did its work.
Mrs. Metherell still keeps on her lodging-house, and Clara remains with
her as servant; but she has lost her favourite lodger, for Mr. Blewett
has been appointed junior house surgeon at the hospital where he was
once a student, so that it is more than probable he will find his
life's work in London, after all.
Meanwhile, first amongst the carefully guarded treasures of Maggie
and Annie Blundell is the doll, in its gaudy amber gown, that was
the humble means of bringing a shower of blessings in its train. The
children declare they will never forget their last Christmas in London,
which, in the midst of their poverty and many anxieties, was full of
unlooked-for happiness and joy.
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