The Coxswain's Bride; also, Jack Frost and Sons; and, A Double Rescue by Ballantyne (reading fiction .TXT) 📕

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 blasé 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,