It is a curious and interesting fact that Christmas-tide seemed to have
a peculiar influence on the prospects of our hero Jack Matterby, all
through his life. All the chief events of his career, somehow, happened
on or about Christmas Day.
Jack was born, to begin with, on a Christmas morning. His father, who
was a farmer in the middle ranks of life, rejoiced in the fact,
esteeming it full of promise for the future. So did his mother. Jack
himself did not at first seem to have any particular feeling on the
subject. If one might judge his opinions by his conduct, it seemed that
he was rather displeased than otherwise at having been born; for he
spent all the first part of his natal day in squalling and making faces,
as though he did not like the world at all, and would rather not have
come into it.
"John, dear," said his mother to his father, one day not long after his
birth, "I'm so glad he is a boy. He might have been a girl, you know."
"No, Molly; _he_ could never have been a girl!" replied the husband, as
he gently patted his wife's shoulder.
"Now, don't laugh at me, John, dear. You know what I mean. But what
shall we call him?"
"John, of course," replied the farmer, with decision. "My father was
called John, and _his_ father was called John, and also his grandfather,
and so on back, I have no doubt, to the very beginning of time."
"Nay, John," returned his wife, simply, "that could hardly be; for
however many of your ancestors may have been Johns, the first, you know,
was Adam."
"Why, Molly, you're getting to be quite sharp," returned the farmer.
"Nevertheless this little man is to be John, like the rest of us."
Mrs Matterby, being meek, gave in; but she did so with a sigh, for she
wished the little one to be named Joseph, after her own deceased father.
Thus it came to pass that the child was named John. The name was
expanded to Johnny during the first period of childhood. Afterwards it
was contracted to Jack, and did not attain to the simple grandeur of
John till the owner of it became a man.
In the Johnny period of life our hero confined his attention almost
exclusively to smashing and overturning. To overturn and to destroy
were his chief amusements. He made war on crockery to such an extent
that tea-cups and saucers were usually scarce in the family. He
assaulted looking-glasses so constantly, that there was, ere long,
barely enough of mirror left for his father to shave in. As to which
fact the farmer used to say, "Never mind, Molly. Don't look so
down-hearted, lass. If he only leaves a bit enough to see a corner of
my chin and the half of my razor, that will do well enough." No window
in the family mansion was thoroughly whole, and the appearance of a fat
little fist, on the wrong side of a pane of glass, was quite a familiar
object in the nursery.
As for toys--Johnny had none, so to speak. He had only a large basket
full of bits, the misapplication of which to each other gave him many
hours of profound recreation. Everything that would turn inside out was
so turned. Whatever was by nature straight he bent, whatever bent he
straightened. Round things he made square when possible, and square
things round; soft things hard, and hard things soft. In short, nothing
was too hard for Johnny. Everything that came into his clutches, was
subjected to what we may style the influence of experimental philosophy;
and if Farmer Matterby had been a poor man he must soon have been
ruined, but, being what is styled "well-to-do," he only said, in
reference to these things--
"Go ahead, my boy. Make hay while the sun shines. If you carry on as
you've begun, you'll make your mark _somewhere_ in this world."
"Alas!" remarked poor Mrs Matterby, "he has made his mark already
_everywhere_, and that a little too freely!"
Nevertheless she was proud of her boy, and sought to subdue his spirit
by teaching him lessons of self-denial and love out of the Word of God.
Johnny listened intently to these lessons, gazing with large wondering
eyes, though he understood little of the teaching at first. It was not
all lost on him, however; and he thoroughly understood and reciprocated
the deep love that beamed in his mother's eyes.
Soon after Johnny had slid into the Jack period of life he became
acquainted with a fisher-boy of his own age, whose parents dwelt in a
cottage on the sea-shore, not a quarter of a mile from his own home, and
close to the village of Blackby.
Natty Grove was as fine a little fellow as one could wish to see: fair,
curly-headed, blue-eyed, rough-jacketed, and almost swallowed up in a
pair of his father's sea-boots, which had been cut down in the legs to
fit him. As to the feet!--well, as his father Ned Grove remarked, there
was plenty of room for growth. Natty had no mother, but he had a little
sister about three years of age, and a grandmother, who might have been
about thirty times three. No one could tell her age for certain; but
she was so old and wrinkled and dried up and withered and small, that
she might certainly have claimed to be "the oldest inhabitant." She had
been bed-ridden for many years because of what her son called
rum-matticks and her grandson styled rum-ticks.
The name of Natty's little sister was Nellie; that of his grandmother,
Nell--old Nell, as people affectionately called her.
Now it may perhaps surprise the reader to be told that Jack Matterby, at
the age of nine years, was deeply in love. He had, indeed, been in that
condition, more or less from the age of three, but the passion became
more decided at nine. He was in love with Nell--not blue-eyed little
Nellie, but with wrinkled old Nell; for that antiquated creature was
brimming over with love to mankind, specially to children. On our hero
she poured out such wealth of affection that he was powerfully attracted
to her even in the period of Johnny-hood, and, as we have said, she
captured him entirely when he reached Jack-hood.
Old Nell was a splendid story-teller. That was one of the baits with
which she was fond of hooking young people. It was interesting to sit
in the fisherman's poor cottage and watch the little ones sitting
open-mouthed and eyed, gazing at the withered little face, in which
loving-kindness, mingling with fun, beamed from the old eyes, played
among the wrinkles, smiled on the lips, and asserted itself in the
gentle tones.
"Jack," said Mrs Matterby, on the Christmas morning which ushered in
her boy's ninth birthday, "come, I'm going to give you a treat to-day."
"You always do, mammy, on my birthdays," said Jack.
"I want you to go with a message to a poor woman," continued the mother.
"Is that all?" exclaimed Jack, with a disappointed look.
"Yes, that's all--or nearly all," replied his mother, with a twinkle in
her eye, however, which kept her son from open rebellion. "I want you
to carry this basket of good things, with my best love and Christmas
good-wishes, to old Nell Grove."
"Oho!" exclaimed Jack, brightening up at once, "I'm your man; here, give
me the basket. But, mother," he added with a sudden look of perplexity,
"you called old Nell a _poor_ woman, and I've heard her sometimes say
that she has _everything_ that she needs and _more_ than she deserves!
She can't be poor if that's true, and it _must_ be true; for you know
that old Nell never, _never_ tells lies."
"True, Jack; old Nell is not poor in one sense: she is rich in faith.
She has got `contentment with godliness,' and many rich people have not
got that. Nevertheless she has none too much of the necessaries of this
life, and none at all of the luxuries, so that she is what people
usually call poor."
"That's a puzzler, mammy--poor and rich both!"
"I daresay it is a puzzler," replied Mrs Matterby, with a laugh, "but
be off with your basket and message, my son; some day you shall
understand it better."
Pondering deeply on this "puzzler," the boy went off on his mission,
trudging through the deep snow which whitened the earth and brightened
that Christmas morning.
"She's as merry as a cricket to-day," said Natty Grove, who opened the
cottage door when his friend knocked.
"Yes, as 'erry as a kiket," echoed flaxen-haired Nellie, who stood
beside him.
"She's always 'erry," said Jack, giving the little girl a gentle pull of
the nose by way of expressing good will. "A merry Christmas both! How
are you? See here, what mother has sent to old Nell."
He opened the lid of the basket. Nattie and Nellie peeped in and
snuffed.
"Oh! I _say_!" said the fisher-boy. He could say no more, for the
sight and scent of apples, jelly, roast fowl, home-made pastry, and
other things was almost too much for him.
"I expected it, dearie," said old Nell, extending her withered hand to
the boy as he set the basket on the table. "Every Christmas morning,
for years gone by, she has sent me the same, though I don't deserve it,
and I've no claim on her but helplessness. But it's the first time she
has sent it by you, Jack. Come, I'll tell ye a story."
Jack was already open-eyed with expectancy and he was soon open-mouthed,
forgetful of past and future, absorbed entirely in the present. Natty
and Nelly were similarly affected and like-minded, while the little old
woman swept them away to the wilds of Siberia, and told them of an
escape from unjust banishment, of wanderings in the icy wilderness, and
of starvation so dire that the fugitives were reduced to gnawing and
sucking the leathern covers of their wallets for dear life. Then she
told of food sent at the last moment, almost by miracle, and of
hair-breadth escapes, and final deliverance. Somehow--the listeners
could not have told how--old Nell inserted a reference to the real
miracle of Jesus feeding the five thousand, and she worked round to it
so deftly, that it seemed an essential part of the story; and so indeed
it was, for Nell intended the key-stone of the arch of her story to be
the fact that, when man is reduced to the last extremity God steps in to
save.
It is certain that little Nellie did not understand the moral of the
story, and it is uncertain how far the boys appreciated it; but it was
old Nell's business to sow the seed beside all waters, and leave the
rest to Him who gave the command.
"Yes, dearies," she said in conclusion, laying her hand on the basket,
"I expected this gift this morning; but many a time does our Father in
heaven send a blessin' when an' where we _don't_ expect it. Mind
that--_mind ye that_."
Jack had more than enough of mental food to digest that morning as he
retraced his steps homeward through the deep snow; for he found that old
Nell, not less than his mother, had treated him to a few puzzlers. Poor
boy, he little knew as he plodded on that he was that day about to enter
into one of the darkest clouds of his young life.
During his absence a letter had been received by his father, intimating
that through the failure of a bank he was a ruined man. The shock had
paralysed the farmer, and when Jack entered his home he found him lying
on his bed in a state of insensibility, from which he could not be
rallied. A few days later the old man died.
Farmer Matterby's widow had few relatives, and none of these were in
circumstances to help her in the day of trial. They and her numerous
friends did indeed what they could. Besides offering sincere sympathy,
they subscribed and raised a small sum to enable the bereaved woman and
her only child to tide over present difficulties, but they could not
enable her to continue to work the farm, and as most of her late
husband's kindred had migrated to Canada, she had no one from whom she
could naturally claim counsel or aid. She was therefore thrown entirely
on God; and it was with strange and solemn feelings that Jack kneeled by
her side, and heard her pray in tones of anguish for help, light, and
guidance, and especially that, whatever might become of herself, her
dear boy might be preserved from evil and guided in ways of
righteousness.
A few months later, and the widow, gathering the small remnant of her
possessions together, set off with her little boy to seek employment in
London. How many poor souls, in various ranks of life, must have turned
their steps, in days gone by, towards that giant city in the sanguine
hope of bettering their condition! Mrs Matterby had no friends to whom
she could go in London; but she could paint and draw and sing, and was
fairly educated. She would teach. In the meantime she had a little
money to start with. Entertaining a suspicion that it might be
considered a wildish scheme by her friends and neighbours, she resolved
to say nothing about her plans to any one, save that she was going to
London for a time.
It was a touching scene, the parting of Jack and the Grove family. The
sturdy fisherman was at sea at the time, but old Nell was in her
accustomed corner in the lowly bed with the ragged counterpane, where
her uneventful, yet happy, life was spent; and little curly-headed
Nellie was there, playing with the cat; and Natty was there, cutting out
a first-rate man of war with a huge knife.
"Granny," (Jack always called her "granny" like the rest), "granny, I've
come to say good-bye. I am going away f-f-for ever an' ever!"
"Amen!" responded Natty, from the mere force of habit, for he was a
constant responder at granny's family worship.
"Ye don't know that, darlin'," replied old Nell. "The Lord leads us in
ways that we know not, an' it may be His good pleasure to bring you here
again."
"N-no; I'm quite _sure_ I'll never see you again," returned the boy,
giving way to the sobs which he could not restrain. "M-mother says we
will never come back again,--n-never, _never_ more--"
He broke down entirely at this point, and a few silent tears trickled
over the kind old face of Nell. Natty was too much of a man to give way
out and out, but he snivelled a little in spite of himself. As for
Nellie, she stood there in open-eyed wonder, for she failed to quite
understand the situation. We will not prolong the painful scene. When
at length Jack had taken leave of them all--had kissed the two Nells and
shaken hands with Natty--the younger Nell seemed to realise the facts of
the case; for Jack saw her, as he glanced back for the last time,
suddenly shut her large blue eyes, throw back her curly little head,
open wide her pretty little mouth, and howl miserably.