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