One year in the last quarter of the present century John Frost, Esquire,
of Arctic Hall, paid an unusually long visit to the British Islands.
John, or Jack, Frost, as he was familiarly called by those who did not
fear him, was a powerful fellow; an amazingly active, vigorous,
self-willed fellow, whom it was difficult to resist, and, in some
circumstances, quite impossible to overcome.
Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a
"giant-killer,"--an insolent, self-assertive, cold-hearted giant, who
swaggered with equal freedom into the palaces of the rich and the
cottages of the poor; but he did not by any means meet with the same
reception everywhere.
In palaces and mansions he was usually met in the entrance hall by a
sturdy footman who kicked him out and slammed the door in his face,
while in cottages and lowly dwellings he was so feebly opposed that he
gained entrance easily--for he was a bullying shameless fellow, who
forced his way wherever he could--and was induced to quit only after
much remonstrance and persuasion, and even then, he usually left an
unpleasant flavour of his visit behind him.
But there were some abodes in which our hero met with no opposition at
all, where the inmates scarcely made any attempt to keep him out, but
remained still and trembled, or moaned feebly, while he walked in and
sat down beside them.
Jack was somewhat of a deceiver too. He had, for the most part, a
bright, beaming, jovial outward aspect, which made the bitter coldness
of his heart all the more terrible by contrast. He was most deadly in
his feelings in calm weather, but there were occasions when he took
pleasure in sallying forth accompanied by his like-minded sons, Colonel
Wind and Major Snow. And it was a tremendous sight, that few people
cared to see except through windows, when those three, arm-in-arm, went
swaggering through the land together.
One Christmas morning, at the time we write of, Jack and his two sons
went careering, in a happy-go-lucky sort of way, along the London
streets towards the "west end," blinding people's eyes as they went,
reversing umbrellas, overturning old women, causing young men to
stagger, and treating hats in general as if they had been black
footballs. Turning into Saint James's Park they rushed at the royal
palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from basement to
roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, assaulted the
Admiralty and the Horse-Guards--taking a shot at the clubs in passing.
It need scarcely be recorded that they made no impression whatever on
those centres of wealth and power.
Undismayed--for Jack and his sons knew nothing either of fear or
favour--they went careering westward until they came to a palatial
mansion, at the half-open front door of which a pretty servant girl
stood peeping out. It was early. Perhaps she was looking for the
milkman--possibly for the policeman. With that quick perception which
characterises men of war, Major Snow saw and seized his opportunity.
Dashing forward he sprang into the hall. Colonel Wind, not a whit less
prompt, burst the door wide open, and the three assailants tumbled over
each other as they took possession of the outworks of the mansion.
But "Jeames" was not far distant. The screams of Mary drew him forth,
he leaped into the hall, drove out the intruders, and shut the door with
a crash, but with no further damage to the foe than the snipping off
part of Major Snow's tails, which Mary swept up into a dust shovel and
deposited in the coal-hole, or some such dark region below.
Our trio possessed neither fear nor pride. They were also destitute of
taste, and had no respect for persons. Treating their repulse as a good
joke, they turned round and went hilariously along the Strand, embracing
every one they met, young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, with
pointed impartiality, until they reached the City. There we will leave
them to revel amongst the poor, while we return to the mansion at the
west end.
In two snug bedrooms thereof two young men lay in their comfortable
beds, partially awake and yawning--the one flat on his back as if laid
out for his last sleep; the other coiled into a bundle with the
bedclothes, as if ready to be carried off to the laundry with the next
washing. The rooms were connected by a door which stood open, for the
occupants were twin brothers; their united ages amounting to forty
years.
"Ned," said the straight one to the bundle.
"Well, Tom," (sleepily).
"Did you hear that noise--like a cannon-shot?"
"Ya-i-o-u yes--som'ing tumbled--door bang'd," (snore).
"Hallo, Ned!" cried Tom, suddenly leaping out of bed and beginning to
dress in haste; "why, it's Christmas morning! I had almost forgot. A
Merry Christmas to you, my boy!"
"M'rry Kissm's, ol' man, but don' waken me. What's use o' gettin' up?"
"The use?" echoed Tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; "why, Ned,
the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his
work in good time, and I've a deal of work to do to-day at the
east-end."
"So 'v' I," murmured Ned, "at th' wes' end."
"Indeed. What are you going to do?"
"Sk-t."
"Sk-t? What's that?"
"Skate--ol' man, let m' 'lone," growled Ned, as he uncoiled himself to
some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze.
With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose,
and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better
known as Matty, met him with a warm reception.
Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire,
of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a
distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and
arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it
was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was
unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it
was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit. Outside, the self-registering thermometer
indicated 5 degrees below zero!
"Why, Matty," exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument,
"I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames
if it lasts long enough."
Matty made no reply, but stood with her hands clasped on her brother's
arm gazing contemplatively at the driving snow.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Tom.
"About the poor," answered Matty, as she went and seated herself at the
breakfast-table. "On such a terrible morning as this I feel so
inexpressibly selfish in sitting down to an overflowing meal in the
midst of such warmth and comfort, when I know that there are hundreds
and thousands of men and women and children all round us who have
neither fire nor food sufficient--little clothing, and no comfort. It
is dreadful," added Matty, as an unusually fierce gust dashed the snow
against the windows.
Tom was like-minded with his sister, but he could not suppress a smile
as he looked into her pretty little anxious face.
"Yes, Matty, it _is_ dreadful," he replied, "and the worst of it is that
we can do so little, so very little, to mend matters. Yet I don't feel
as you do about the selfishness of enjoying a good breakfast in
comfortable circumstances, for it is God who has given us all that we
have, as well as the power to enjoy it. I grant, that if we simply
enjoyed our good things, and neither thought of nor cared for the poor,
we should indeed be most abominably selfish, but happily that is not our
case this morning. Have we not risen an hour earlier than usual to go
out and do what we can to mitigate the sorrows of the poor? Are we not
about to face the bitter blast and the driving snow on this Christmas
morning for that very purpose? and should we not be rendered much less
capable of doing so, if we were to start off on our mission with cold
bodies and half-filled--I beg pardon, pass the muffins, dear. Besides,
sister mine, if you were to go out on such a morning cold and underfed,
would it not be probable that I should have to go and fetch a doctor for
you instead of taking you out to help me in aiding and comforting poor
people?"
"That may be all very true, Tom," returned Matty, with a dissatisfied
and puzzled look, "but I cannot help feeling that I have so much, so
_very_ much, more than I need of everything, while the thousands I speak
of have so little--so very little. Why could not rich people like us be
content with plainer things, and use fewer things, and so have more to
give to the poor?"
"You have broached a very wide and profound subject, Matty, and it would
probably take us a week to go into it exhaustively, but a few words may
suffice to show you that your remedy would not meet the case. Suppose
that all the people in England were all at once smitten with your desire
to retrench in order to have more to spare to the poor--and were to act
upon their convictions; to determine that henceforth they would live on
the plainest food, such as potatoes, mutton, and bread; what, I ask you,
would become of the great army of confectioners? Would they not be
thrown out of employment, and help, perhaps, to swell the ranks of the
poor? If the rich ceased to buy pictures, what would become of
painters? If they gave up books, (horrible to think of!) what would be
the consequences to authors, and what the result to themselves? If
carriages and horses were not kept, what would become of coachmen and
grooms and ostlers--to say nothing of coach-makers, saddlers,
harness-makers, and their innumerable dependants? No--living plainly or
simply is not what is wanted, but living reasonably--according to one's
means. Then, as to your having, as you say, much more than you need--
that does not injure the poor, for nothing of it is wasted. Does not
part of the surplus go to Mary and James and the other servants, and
much of what they do not consume goes in charity, directly, to the poor
themselves?"
"Well, but," returned Matty, with the distressed and puzzled look still
unabated, "though all you tell me may be quite true, it does not in the
least degree alter the fact that there _is_ something quite wrong in the
condition of the poor of our great cities, which _ought_ to be
remedied."
"Of course it does not, little woman, but it relieves my mind, and it
ought to relieve yours, as to the selfishness of enjoying a good
breakfast."
"But, surely," resumed Matty, with a slightly indignant look and tone,
"surely you don't mean to tell me that there is no remedy for the
miserable condition of the poor, and that the rich must just sigh over
it, or shut their eyes to it, while they continue to revel in luxury?"
"How you fly to extremes, sister!" said Tom, with a laugh, as he neatly
cut the top off a fourth egg. "I combat your erroneous views, and
straightway you charge me, by implication, with having no views at all!
A remedy there surely is, but the wisest among us are not agreed as to
_what_ it is--chiefly, I think, because the remedy is not simple but
extremely complex. It cannot be stated in a few words. It consists in
the wise and prompt application of multiform means--"
"Brother," interrupted Matty with a smile, "do you think I am to be
turned from my quest after this great truth by the stringing together of
words without meaning--at least words vague and incomprehensible?"
"By no means, Matty. I hope that nothing will ever turn you from your
quest after the best method of helping the poor. But my words are not
meant to be vague. By multiform means I would indicate legislation in
numerous channels, and social effort in all its ramifications, besides
the correction of many erroneous modes of thought--such, for instance,
as the putting of the less before the greater--"
"Tom," again interrupted Matty, "I think it is about time to go and put
on my things."
"Not so, sister dear," said Tom impressively; "I intend that you shall
hear me out. I think that you put the less before the greater when you
talk of `giving' to the poor instead of `considering' the poor. The
greater, you know, includes the less. Consideration includes judicious
giving, and the teaching of Scripture is, not to give to, but to
_consider_, the poor. Now you may be off and get ready--as quickly as
you can, too, for it would never do to keep the poor waiting breakfast!"
With a light laugh and a vigorous step--the result of goodwill to
mankind, good intentions, good feeding, and, generally, good
circumstances--Matilda Westlake ran upstairs to her room at the top of
the house to put on a charming little winter bonnet, a dear little cloak
lined with thick fur, and everything else to match, while Tom busied
himself in meditating on the particular passage of God's Word which he
hoped, by the Spirit's influence, to bring home to the hearts of some of
the poor that Christmas morning.
Half an hour after these two had gone forth to do battle with John Frost
and Sons, Edward Westlake sauntered into the breakfast-room, his right
hand in his pocket and his left twirling the end of an exceedingly
juvenile moustache.
Turning his back to the fire he perused the morning paper and enjoyed
himself thoroughly, while James re-arranged the table for another
sumptuous meal.
Ned was by no means a bad fellow. On the contrary, his companions
thought and called him a "jolly good fellow." His father was a jolly,
though a gouty old widower. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that there
was no mother in the household that Ned smoked a meerschaum in the
breakfast-room while he read the paper.
"Have my skates been sharpened?" he asked, looking over the top of the
paper.
James said that they had been sharpened, and were then lying ready on
the hall table.
Sauntering to the window Ned looked out, and, James having retired, he
made a few remarks himself, which showed the direction of his thoughts.
"Capital! Ice will be splendid. Snow won't matter. Lots of men to
sweep it. Looks as if the wind would fall, and there's a little bit of
blue sky. Even if it doesn't clear, the pond is well sheltered. I do
like a sharp, stinging, frosty day. Makes one's blood career so
pleasantly!"
With such agreeable thoughts and a splendid appetite Ned Westlake sat
down to breakfast. Thereafter he put on a thick overcoat, edged with
sable, a thick pair of boots and softly lined gloves, and went out with
the skates swinging on his arm.
Jack Frost and his two sons were still holding high revelry outside.
They met him with impartial violence, but Ned bent forward with a smile
of good-humoured defiance, and went on his way unchecked.
Not so a stout and short old female of the coster-monger class, who,
after a series of wild gyrations that might have put a dancing dervish
to shame, bore down on Ned after the manner of a fat teetotum, and
finally launched herself into his arms.
"Hallo old girl--steady," exclaimed Ned, holding her up with an effort.
"You carry too much sail to venture abroad in such weather."
"Which it were my only one!" gasped the old woman, holding out her
umbrella that had been reversed and obviously shattered beyond repair.
Then, looking up at Ned, "You'd better leave a-go of me, young man.
What will the neighbours think of us?"
Which remark she uttered sternly--all the more that she had securely
hooked herself to the railings and could afford to cast off her friend.
With a solemn assurance that he esteemed her, "the sweetest of the
fair," Ned went smilingly on his way, receiving in reply, "La, now,
who'd 'a' thought it!"
Having twisted this lady's bonnet off, blown her unkempt hair straight
out, and otherwise maltreated her, Colonel Wind, with his father and
brother, went raging along the streets until he came to the
neighbourhood of Whitechapel. The three seemed rather fond of this
region, and no wonder; for, although never welcomed, they found
themselves strong enough to force an entrance into many a poor home, and
to remain in possession.
Swaggering, in their own noisy and violent manner, into several courts
and blind alleys, they caught up all the lighter articles of rubbish
that lay about, hurled them against the frail and cracked windows--some
of which they broke, and others of which they could not break by reason
of their having been broken already. They did what was next best,
however,--drove in the old hats and coats and other garments, with which
the square holes had been inefficiently stopped.
"Jolly! ain't it?" remarked a street boy, with a ruddy face and hair
blown straight on end all round, to another street boy with a cast-iron
look and a red nose--both being powerfully robust.
"Prime!" asserted the knight of the red nose.
And then both went eagerly to take liberties with a neighbouring pump,
from the spout of which hung an icicle like a stalactite, the droppings
from which, at an earlier period, had formed a considerable stalagmite
on the stones below.
It is probable that the sick old man on the poor bed in the small room
close to the pump did not think the state of matters either "jolly" or
"prime," for, besides being very old, he was very weak and thin and cold
and hungry; in addition to which Jack Frost had seated himself on the
rickety chair beside the empty grate, and seemed bent on remaining--the
colonel having previously blown open the door and removed a garment
which had sheltered the old man's head, thus permitting the major to
sprinkle a miniature drift on his pillow.
"I hardly like to leave you, gran'father, in such blustery weather,"
said a little maiden of about ten years of age, with filthy garments and
a dirty face, who, if she had been washed and dressed, would have been
distinctly pretty, but who, in the circumstances, was rather plain. As
she spoke she re-adjusted the garment-screen and removed the snowdrift.
"Don't say that, Martha," replied the old man in a thin weak voice--it
had been strong and deep and resonant once, but Time and Want and
Disease play sad havoc with strong men.
"You _must_ go, darling," resumed the old man after a few seconds' pause
to recover breath. "You've no chance of a breakfast otherwise. And--
perhaps--they may give you a bit to bring home for--"
Martha eagerly interrupted the hesitating voice,--and it was easily
interrupted! "Yes, yes, gran'father. They'll be sure to let me bring
home some for you. I'll be quite, _quite_ sure to do it."
She made the promise with great decision, as well she might, for she had
made up her mind to pocket all the food that was given to her except
just a small morsel, which she would nibble in order to make believe
that she was feeding!
"Lock the door and put the key in your pocket," said the old man, while
the child tucked in about him the thin torn counterpane which formed the
only covering to his straw bed. "An' don't fear for me, darling. The
Lord is with me. Be sure to eat as much as you can."
Having regard to her secret intentions, Martha refrained from pledging
herself, but she laughed and nodded significantly as she quitted the
cold, dismal, and shabby room.
It was little Martha's first experience of a "free breakfast." She had,
indeed, heard of such a thing before, but had not up to that time met
with anything of the kind, so she advanced to "the hall" with some
timidity and much expectation.
The hall was very full, and, as poor little Martha was rather late, she
could not manage to crush in much beyond the door. Besides, being
small, she could see nothing. In these depressing circumstances her
heart began to sink, when her attention was attracted by a slight stir
outside the door. A lady and gentleman were coming in. It so happened
that the lady in passing trod upon one of Martha's cold little toes, and
drew from the child a sharp cry.
"Oh, my dear, _dear_ little girl!" cried the shocked lady, with a gush
of self-reproach and sympathy, "I'm _so_ sorry--so _very, very_ sorry.
It was so stupid of me! Have I hurt you much, _dear_ little girl?
Come--come with me."
"Bring her to the stove, Matty, there's more room there to have it
looked to," said the gentleman, in a kind voice.
Much consoled by all this, though still whimpering, little Martha
suffered herself to be led to the front seats, and set on a bench just
below the platform, where she began to bloom under the genial influence
of the stove, and to wonder, with inexpressible surprise, at the mighty
sea of upturned faces in front of her. As for the toe, it was utterly
forgotten. The lady's foot, you see, being almost as light as her
heart, had done it no serious injury. Nevertheless, she continued for a
few minutes to inspect it earnestly and inquire for it tenderly,
regardless of dirt!
"You're _sure_ it is better, dear little child?"
"Oh yes, ma'am, thank you. I don't feel it at all now. An' it's _so_
nice to feel warm again!"
What a depth of meaning was unwittingly given to the last two words by
the emphasis of the child-voice.--"Warm"--"Again!" The lady almost
burst into tears as she thought of all that they implied. But her
services were required at the harmonium. With a parting pat on Martha's
curly head, and a bright smile, she hurried away to ascend the platform.
The preliminaries of a feast at which most of the feasters are cold and
hungry--some of them starving--should not be long. Full well did Tom
Westlake know and appreciate this truth, and, being the donor,
originator, and prime mover in the matter, he happily had it all his own
way.
In the fewest possible words, and in a good loud voice which produced
sudden silence, he asked God to give His blessing with the food
provided, and to send His Holy Spirit into the hearts of all present, so
that they might be made to hunger and thirst for Jesus, the Bread and
Water of Life. Then the poor people had scarcely recovered from their
surprise at the brevity of the prayer, when they were again charmed to
silence by the sweet strains of the harmonium. You see, they had not
yet become _blase_ and incapable of enjoying anything short of an organ.
Indeed, there were some among them who deliberately said they preferred
a harmonium to an organ!
But no instrument either of ancient or modern invention could drown the
clatter that ensued when enormous mugs of earthenware were distributed
to the company, by more or less rich and well-off "workers"; so the
clatter and the hymns went on together until each lung was filled with
some delectable fluid, smoking hot, and each mouth crammed with
excellent bread and meat. Then comparative quiet ensued, during which
temporary calm Tom read a few verses of the Word of God, commenting on
them briefly in language so forcible that it went right home to many
hearts, yet so simple that even little Martha understood it.
True to her intention, little Martha, although much surprised and
charmed and perplexed by all that was going on around her, did not
forget to pocket something for gran'father. She was met, however, by an
exasperating difficulty at the very outset. Her pocket was not large
enough to contain the huge roll which, with some meat, had been put
hastily into her small hand by a lady with a red rose in her bonnet. To
achieve her object with the roll and meat in one hand and the mug in the
other was, she found, impossible, so she set the mug on the floor
between her feet and proceeded to wrestle with the loaf and pocket,
having previously torn off a very small portion of the bread for her own
use. Still the loaf was too large; so she tore off another morsel, and
finally, after a severe struggle, succeeded in getting it and the bit of
meat in.
"You'll go for to kick it over, if you don't mind," said a small boy
near her, referring to the mug.
"You mind your own business--Imperence!" replied Martha, sharply. It
must be remembered that she was a child of the "slums."
"Wot a cheeky little shrimp it is," retorted the boy, with as much of a
grin as a stuffed mouth would admit of.
Just then Matilda Westlake, having finished a hymn, and being mindful of
the little toe, came quietly down to where Martha was sitting.
"Why, dear child," she said, in surprise, "have they not given you
something to eat?"
"Oh yes, ma'am. But I've--"
She was going to say, "I've eaten it," but gran'father had so earnestly
impressed on her mind the sinfulness of telling lies, that she felt
constrained to hesitate, and, with a trembling lip, finished by saying
she had eaten _some_ of it.
"And what has become of the rest, dear?"
"Please, miss, she've putt it in 'er pocket," said "Imperence" promptly.
Without noticing the remark, Matty moved so as to make herself an
effectual screen between Imperence and Martha.
"Tell me, dear child," she said, stooping low and putting a gentle hand
on Martha's shoulder, "are you not hungry?"
"Oh yes," answered the little one quickly; "I'm so 'ungry. You can't
think 'ow 'ungry; but I promised to--to--"
At this point her lip quivered, and she began to cry quietly.
"Stay, don't tell me anything more about it, dear, till you have
breakfasted. Here, eat _this_ before you say another word."
She took a roll from the basket of a passing "worker" and put it in the
child's hand. Nothing loth, Martha began to eat and drink, mingling a
warm tear or two with the hot soup, and venting a sob now and then as
she proceeded.
Watching her for a few moments, Matty left her.
In passing she stopped and said to Imperence, in a whisper of terrible
intensity, "If you speak to that girl again you shall have--_no more_."
No more! To be "hanged by the neck till you are dead" would not have
sounded so appalling just at that time. So Imperence collapsed.
It is not our purpose to go much further into the details of the feast.
Suffice it to say that the poorest of the poor were there; that they
were encouraged to eat as much as possible, and allowed to carry away
what they could not eat, and there is reason to believe that, judging
from the prominence of pockets, a considerable quantity found its way to
hungry mouths which had been found incapable of attending the feast.
Among those who did great execution in the pocketing line was, as you
may well believe, little Martha. Finding, to her ineffable joy, that
there was no limit assigned to consumption, and that pocketing was not
esteemed a sin, she proceeded, after stuffing herself, to stuff to
overflowing the pocket with which she had previously wrestled, as
already described, and then attempted to fill the pocket on the other
side. She did so in utter and child-like forgetfulness of the fact that
she had recently lost several small articles in consequence of the
condition of that pocket, and her memory was not awakened until, having
just completed the satisfactory filling of it, she beheld, or rather
felt, the entire mass of edibles descending to the floor, proving that
the pocket was indeed a very bottomless pit.
"Never mind, little one," said Tom Westlake, coming forward at the
moment, for he had just closed the meeting; "I'll find a bag for you to
put it in. I hope the toe is all right."
"Oh yes, sir, thank you, it's quite well," answered Martha, blushing
through the dirt on her face, as she eyed the fallen food anxiously.
"Tell me now, little one," continued Tom, sitting down on the bench and
drawing the child gently towards him, "whom are you pocketing all these
good things for?--not for yourself, I'm quite sure of that."
"Oh dear, no, sir; it's for gran'father."
"Indeed. Is grandfather very poor?"
"Oh yes, sir, very, _very_ poor; an' he's got nobody but me to take care
of him."
"If that be so, who is taking care of him just now?" asked Matty, who
had joined her brother, leaving another "worker" at the harmonium to
play the people out,--a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the
people seemed very unwilling to go.
You see, among other things, Jack Frost and Sons could gain no footing
in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in
great force awaiting them outside.
"Nobody's takin' care on 'im, ma'am," replied Martha, somewhat shyly.
"I locked 'im in, an' he's takin' care of hisself."
"Would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little
woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?"
"Oh, wouldn't I just?"
"Yes? What would you ask for?"
Martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a
minute. Then she said slowly, "I'd ask for a mug of hot soup, an' a
blanket, an' some coals, and--oh! I forgot, a teapot, for ours is
cracked an' won't 'old in now."
"Do you live far from this hall?" asked Tom.
"No, sir, quite close."
"Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see
grandfather. What is your name, child?"
"Martha Burns, sir."
"Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along."
They were soon in the shabby little room,--for Martha was eager to give
the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in
possession, but there had come another visitor during the child's
absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet.
Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his
victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt.
"Darling, I'm glad you've come," said the old man, faintly. "I've been
longing so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I'm so cold--so cold."
He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha
forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over
gran'father--such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand
in hers, and began to weep softly.
But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can
in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm
contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a
pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the
old man's head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom
Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then
he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and,
returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate.
The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet
thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All
the time he kept fast hold of Martha's hand, and smiled to her once or
twice. It was evident that he relished the soup. Only once he broke
silence to thank them and say, "Jesus sent you, I suppose?"
"Yes, Jesus sent us," replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said.
At that moment Death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man's
brow. The hoary head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the
glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter.
Oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when Martha at last came to
understand that gran'father was really gone. And it required no little
persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid room that she had
known as "home."
While his sister comforted the child, Tom went to the "authorities" to
inform them that an old pauper had gone the way of all flesh.
When at last Martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led
by Miss Westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose
sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so
keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them,
in the sanguine hope of rescuing some. To this lady's care Martha was
in the meantime committed, and then Tom and his sister went their way.
Their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same
region.
"We're rather late," remarked Tom, consulting his watch as they turned
into a narrow street.
"Not too late, I think," said his sister.
"I hope not, for I should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time."
They were not too late. David Butts, whom they were about to visit, was
a dock-labourer. In early youth he had been a footman, in which
capacity he had made the acquaintance of the Westlakes' nursery-maid,
and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and
married her.
David had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. He had
acquired, while in service, a liking for beer, which had degenerated
into a decided craving for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the
world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with
his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on
beggary. But God, who never forgets His fallen creatures, came to this
man's help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb. A
humble-minded city missionary was sent to him. He was the means of
bringing him to Jesus. The Saviour, using one of the man's companions
as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an
eloquent, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling
man in the shape of a blue ribbon. David Butts seized it, and held on
for life. His wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he
possessed--including his night-shirt--and the result was that he got to
be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty
constant employment.
How far Matilda Westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need
not stop to tell. It is enough to say that she had a hand in it--for
her heart yearned towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when
she was a little child.
Jack Frost and his sons, with their usual presumption, were in close
attendance on the Westlakes when they knocked at David's door, and when
it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter,
but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped Jack
and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. Colonel Wind,
however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles,
causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering ashes
all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. The instant the
visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a
bang.
"It do come rather awkward, sir, 'avin' no entrance 'all," said David,
as he made the door fast. "If we even 'ad a porch it would 'elp to keep
the wind and snow hout, but I ain't complainin', sir. I've on'y too
good reason to be thankful."
"Dear Miss Matilda," said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her
apron, and beaming all over with joy, "it's good for sore eyes to see
you. Don't mind the child'n, miss, an' do sit down near the fire. I'm
sure your feet must be wet--such dreadful weather."
"No, indeed, nurse,--thank you," said Miss Westlake, laughing as she sat
down, "my feet are not a bit wet. The frost is so hard that everything
is quite dry."
"Now it's no use to tell me that, Miss Matty," said Mrs Butts, with the
memory of nursing days strong upon her. "You was always such a dear,
thoughtless child! Don't you remember that day when you waded in baby's
bath, an' then said you wasn't wet a bit, only a _very_ little, an' you
rather liked it? Indeed she did: you needn't laugh, Master Tom, I
remember it as well as if it happened yesterday."
"I don't in the least doubt you, Mrs Butts," said Tom, "I was only
laughing at my sister's idea of dryness. But you must not let us
interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly.
Just go about it as if we were not here, for I have some business
matters to talk over with your husband."
"Go away?" echoed Mrs Butts; "you must not talk of going away till
you've had a bite of lunch with us. It's our dinner, you know, but
lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you've got it to
eat? An' there's such a splendid apple dumplin' in the pot, miss; you
see, it's Tommy's birthday, for he was born on a Christmas Day, an' he's
very fond of apple dumplin', is Tommy."
The six children, of various ages and sizes scattered about the small
room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation--some hoping that it
would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined.
As for Tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the
occasion, filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in
his face, but he was promptly relieved by Miss Matty assuring his mother
that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day.
Thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while Tom
Westlake talked "business" with the dock-labourer.
"You seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now," remarked Tom.
"Yes, sir, thank God I am. Ever since I was enabled to cry, `God be
merciful to me a sinner,' things 'as gone well with me. An' the puttin'
on o' the blue ribbon, sir, 'as done me a power o' good. You see,
before that I was sorely tempted by comrades offerin' me a glass, and by
my own wish to _'ave_ a glass, but when I mounted the blue I was let
alone, though they chaffed me now an' then, an' I felt it was no use
thinkin' about it, 'owever much I might wish for it. The missus, bless
'er 'art, sewed a bit o' blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d'ee know,
sir, I do believe it's that 'as cured me o' dreamin' about it, as I used
to do."
"I'm glad to hear that, Butts," said Tom, with a laugh. "Now, tell me;
how long is it since you tasted strong drink?"
"Six months this very day, sir."
"And are you satisfied that you are better without it?"
"Better without it, sir," repeated Butts, with energy, "in course I am--
better in body and better in soul, also in pocket. Of course you know,
sir, we don't carry on every day with such fires an' dinners as we're
a-goin' in for to-day--for Christmas on'y comes once a year, and
sometimes we've been slack at the docks, an' once or twice I've bin laid
up, so that we've bin pinched a bit now an' then, but we've bin able to
make the two ends meet, and the older child'n is beginnin' to turn in a
penny now an' again, so, you see, sir, though the fires ain't always
bright, an Jack Frost do manage to git in through the key 'ole rather
often just now, on the whole we're pretty comfortable."
"I'm glad to hear it, Butts; very glad to hear it indeed," said Tom,
"because I'm anxious to help you, and I make it a point only to help
those who help themselves. Six months of steadiness goes a long way to
prove that your craving for drink has been cured, and that your
reformation is genuine; therefore, I am able now to offer you a
situation as porter in a bank, which for some time I have kept open on
purpose to be ready for you. How will that suit you--eh?"
Whatever David Butts replied, or meant to reply, could only be gathered
from his gratified expression, for at that moment his voice was drowned
by a shriek of delight from the youngest children, in consequence of
Mrs Butts, at Matilda's request, having removed the lid of the pot
which held the dumpling, and let out a deliciously-scented cloud of
steam. It was almost too much for the little ones, whose mouths watered
with anticipation, and who felt half inclined to lay violent hands on
the pot and begin dinner without delay.
"Now, I know by the smell that it is quite ready, so we will say
good-bye at once," said Matilda, getting up with a smile, and drawing
her warm cloak round her. "Be sure to send your eldest girl to me
to-morrow along with your husband."
"And come early, Butts," said Tom Westlake, buttoning up his coat.
"You may depend on me, sir."
"Stand by to shut the door quickly after us," added Tom as he grasped
the handle, "else the wind will get in and blow the fire about."
The brother and sister, being young and active, were pretty smart in
making their exit, and David Butts, being used to doors, was not slow to
shut his own, but they could not altogether baffle the colonel, for he
was waiting outside. Indeed, he had been whistling with furious
insolence through the keyhole all the time of the visit. Sliding in
edgewise, at the moment of opening, he managed to scatter the ashes
again, and whirl about some of the light articles before he was fairly
expelled.
Thereafter, along with his father and brother, he went riotously after
Tom and Matilda Westlake, sometimes shrieking over their heads; now and
then dashing on in front, and, whirling round in an eddy, plunging
straight back into their faces, but they could make nothing of it. The
brother and sister merely laughed at them, and defied them to do their
worst, even, in the joy of their hearts, going the length of saying to
several utter but beaming strangers, that it was "splendid Christmas
weather." And so it was,--to the young and strong. Not so, alas! to
the old and feeble.
It almost seemed as if Colonel Wind and Major Snow had taken offence at
this last sally, for about that time of the day they forsook their
father and left London--probably to visit the country. At all events,
the clouds cleared away, the sky became blue, and the sun shone out
gloriously--though without perceptibly diminishing the frost.
After spending another hour or two in paying visits, during which they
passed abruptly, more than once, from poverty-stricken scenes of
moderate mirth to abodes of sickness and desolation, Tom and Matilda, by
means of 'bus and cab, at last found themselves in the neighbourhood of
the Serpentine.
"What say you to a turn on the ice, Matty?"
"Charming," cried Matty.
Society on the Serpentine, when frozen over, is not very select, but the
brother and sister were not particular on that point just then. They
hired skates; they skimmed about over the well-swept surface; they
tripped over innumerable bits of stick or stone or orange-peel; they ran
into, or were run into by, various beings whose wrong-headedness induced
a preference for skating backwards. In short, they conducted themselves
as people usually do on skates, and returned home pretty well exhausted
and blooming.
That evening, after a family dinner, at which a number of young cousins
and other relatives were present, Tom and his sister left the festive
circle round the fire, and retired to a glass conservatory opening out
of the drawing-room. There was a sofa in it and there they found Ned
Westlake extended at full length. He rose at once and made room for
them.
"Well, Ned, how have you enjoyed yourself to-day?" asked Tom.
"Oh, splendidly! There was such a jolly party in Wharton's grounds--
most of them able to skate splendidly. The pond is so sheltered that
the wind scarcely affected us, and a staff of sweepers cleared away the
snow as fast as it fell. Afterwards, when it cleared up and the sun
shone through the trees, it was absolutely magnificent. It's the
jolliest day I've had on the ice for years, though I'm almost knocked up
by it. Jovially fatigued, in fact. But where have you been?"
"We also have been skating," said Matilda.
"Indeed! I thought you had intended to spend the day somewhere in the
east-end attending some of those free breakfasts, and visiting the poor,
or something of that sort--as if there were not enough of city
missionaries, and sisters of mercy, or charity, or whatever you call
them, to look after such things."
"You are right, Ned," said Tom, "such was our intention, and we carried
it out too. It was only at the end of the day that we took to skating
on the Serpentine, and, considering the number of people we have run
into, or overturned, or tumbled over, we found a couple of hours of it
quite sufficient."
From this point Tom Westlake "harked back" and related his experiences
of the day. He possessed considerable power of graphic delineation, and
gradually aroused the interest of his gay and volatile but
kindly-disposed brother.
"Ned," said he, at last, "do you really believe in the truth of these
words, `Blessed are they that consider the poor?'"
"Yes, Tom, I do," replied Ned, becoming suddenly serious.
What Tom said to his brother after that we will not relate, but the
result was that, before that Christmas evening closed, he succeeded in
convincing Ned that a day of "jolly good fun" may be rendered
inexpressibly more "jolly," by being commenced with an effort to cheer
and lighten the lot of those into whose sad lives there enter but a
small amount of jollity and far too little fun.