Chapter 11

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.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1.

A DOUBLE RESCUE--INTRODUCTION.

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.

STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2.

LOST IN LONDON.

London in a fog is too well known to require description. In an uncommonly thick fog, on a day in December of the following year, Mrs Matterby hurried along Fleet Street in the direction of the city, leading Jack by the hand. Both were very wet, very cold, ravenously hungry, and rather poorly clad. It was evident that things had not prospered with the widow.

"Dear Jack," she said in a choking voice, as they hurried along the streets towards the wretched abode in the Tower Hamlets, to which they had been at length reduced, "dear Jack, my last human hope has failed. Mr Block has told me that I need not go there again; he has no more work for me."

Jack's experience of life was too limited to enable him to understand fully the depth of distress, to which his mother had fallen--with health broken, money expended, and work not to be had except on terms which rendered life a misery, and prolonged existence almost an impossibility. But Jack's power of sympathy was strong and his passions were vehement.

"Mother," he said, with tearful eyes, as he clung closer to her side, "I would _kill_ Mr Block if I could!"

"Hush, dear boy! You know that would be wrong and could do no good. It is sinful even to feel such a desire."

"How can I help it, mother!" returned Jack indignantly. Then he asked, "What are we going to do now, mother?"

For some time the poor widow did not reply; then she spoke in a low tone, as if murmuring to herself, "The last sixpence gone; the cupboard empty; nothing--nothing left to pawn--"

She stopped short, and glanced hastily at her marriage ring.

"Mother," said Jack, "have you not often told me that God will not forsake us? Does it not seem as if He _had_ forsaken us now?"

"It only seems like it, darling," returned the widow hurriedly. "We don't understand His ways. `Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him!'"

It seemed as if God were about to test the faith of His servant, for at that moment a cab drove furiously round the corner of a street and knocked her down. Jack was overturned at the same time. Recovering himself, instantly, he found his mother in a state of unconsciousness, with blood flowing from a deep cut in her forehead. In a state of semi-bewilderment the poor boy followed the stretcher, on which Mrs Matterby was carried to the nearest hospital, where he waited while his mother's injuries were examined.

"My boy," said a young surgeon, returning to the waiting room, and patting Jack's head, "your mother has been rather badly hurt. We must keep her here to look after her. I daresay we shall soon make her well. Meanwhile you had better run home, and tell your father--if, that is-- your father is at home, I suppose?"

"No, sir; father's dead."

"Well then your sister or aunt--I suppose there's some relative at home older than yourself?"

"No, sir; none but mother an' me," whispered Jack.

"No relations of any kind at all in London?"

"None, sir. We know nobody--at least not many, and they're all strangers."

"A sad case," murmured the surgeon. "Your mother is poor, I suppose?"

"_Very_ poor, sir."

"But of course you have a home of some sort, somewhere?"

"Yes, it's not far from here."

"Well, them, you'd better go home just now, for you can't see your mother to-night. We dare not let her speak, but come back early to-morrow, and you shall hear about her--perhaps see her. Here, put that in your pocket."

Poor Jack took the shilling which the sympathetic surgeon thrust into his hand, and ran home in a state bordering on distraction; but it was not till he entered the shabby little room which he had begun to consider "home" that he realised the full weight of the calamity that had befallen him. No mother's voice to welcome him; no bit of fire in the grate to warm; no singing kettle to cheer, or light of candle to dispel the gloom of rapidly approaching night.

It was Christmas Day too. In the morning he had gone forth with his mother--she in the sanguine hope of renewing an engagement in a clothier's shop, which terminated that day; he in the expectation of getting a few jobs of some sort--messages to run or horses to hold. Such were the circumstances to which they had been reduced in twelve months, Jack had arranged to call for his mother and walk home with her. On the way they were to invest a _very_ small part of the widow's earnings in "something nice" for their Christmas supper, and spend the evening together, chatting about the old home in Blackby, and father, and Natty Grove, and Nellie, and old Nell, in the happy days gone by.

"And now!" thought Jack, seating himself on his little bed and glancing at that of his mother, which stood empty in the opposite corner--"now!--"

But Jack could think no more. A tremendous agony rent his breast, and a sharp cry escaped from him as he flung himself on his bed and burst into a passion of tears.

Child-like, he sobbed himself to sleep, and did not awake till the sun was high next morning. It was some time before he could recall what had occurred. When he did so he began to weep afresh. Leaping up, he was about to rush out of the house and make for the hospital, when he was checked at the door by the landlord--a hard, grinding, heartless man, who grew rich in oppressing the poor.

"You seem to be in a hurry, youngster," he said, dragging the boy back by the collar, and looking hurriedly round the room. "I've come for the rent. Where's your mother?"

In a sobbing voice Jack told him about the accident.

"Well, I don't really believe you," said the man, with an angry frown; "but I'll soon find out if you're telling lies. I'll go to the hospital and inquire for myself. D'ee know anything about your mother's affairs?"

"No, sir," said Jack, meekly, for he began to entertain a vague terror of the man.

"No; I thought not. Well, I'll enlighten you. Your mother owes me three weeks' rent of this here room, and has got nothing to pay it with, as far as I knows, except these sticks o' furniture. Now, if your mother is really in hospital, I'll come back here and bundle you out, an' sell the furniture to pay my rent. I ain't a-goin' to be done out o' my money because your mother chooses to git run'd over."

The landlord did not wait for a reply, but went out and slammed the door.

Jack followed him in silent horror. He watched him while he inquired at the gate of the hospital, and, after he had gone, went up timidly, rang the bell, and asked for his mother.

"Mrs Matterby?" repeated the porter. "Come in; I'll make inquiry."

The report which he brought back fell like the blow of a sledge-hammer on the poor boy's heart. His mother, they told him, was dead. She had died suddenly in the night.

There are times of affliction, when the human soul fails to find relief in tears or cries. Poor Jack Matterby stood for some time motionless, as if paralysed, with glaring eyes and a face not unlike to that of death. They sought to rouse him, but he could not speak. Suddenly, observing the front door open, he darted out into the street, and ran straight home, where he flung himself on his mother's bed, and burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. By degrees the passion subsided, leaving only a stunned feeling behind, under the influence of which he lay perfectly still.

The first thing that roused him was the sound of a heavy foot on the stair. The memory of the landlord flashed into his mind and filled him with indescribable dread--dread caused partly by the man's savage aspect and nature, but much more by the brutal way in which he had spoken about his mother. The only way in which to avoid a meeting was to rush past the man on the stair. Fear and loathing made the poor boy forget, for the moment, his crushing sorrow. He leaped up, opened the door, and, dashing downstairs, almost overturned the man who was coming up. Once in the street, he ran straight on without thought, until he felt that he was safe from pursuit. Then he stopped, and sat down on a door-step--to think what he should do; for, having been told that the furniture of his old home was to be sold, and himself turned out, he felt that returning there would be useless, and would only expose him to the risk of meeting the awful landlord. While he was yet buried in thought, one of those sprightly creatures of the great city, known as street arabs, accosted him in a grave and friendly tone.

"My sweet little toolip," he said, "can I do anythink for you?"

Despite his grief Jack could scarcely forbear smiling at the absurdity of the question.

"No, thank you," he replied.

"Well now, look 'ere, my toolip," returned the arab in a confidential tone, "I've took quite a fancy to you; you've got such a look, some'ow, of my poor old grandmother. Now, if you've no objection, I'd like to give you your breakfast. You're 'ungry, I suppose?"