Chapter 9

"Out wid ye!" he cried, "the Act of Emancipation's passed, and ye're all free--ivery mother's son of ye."

Accustomed to his voice and his caressing hand, the astonished creatures seemed to look up at him in surprise.

"Be aff, at wance, hooroo!" cried the excited man, with a clap of his hands and a Donnybrook yell that sent all the "pets" leaping and squealing into their native jungle.

Soon after that the boat was bounding out to sea under the impulse of strong arms and willing hearts. A few minutes more, and they were receiving the warm congratulations of the passengers and crew of the steamer. Then the order was given to go ahead full speed, and the engine's great heart seemed to throb sympathetically within the hearts of the rescued ones as the vessel cut her way swiftly through the Southern Ocean--homeward bound for Old England! Nevertheless, there was a touch of sadness in the breasts of all as they turned their farewell gaze on the receding island and thought of the pets, the old hut, the long period of mingled pleasure and suffering, and the lonely grave.

We cannot part from the friends whose footsteps we have followed so long and so far without a parting word or two.

On returning to his native village, Bob Massey found that his successor as coxswain had died, and that another man had not yet been appointed to the lifeboat--he was therefore installed, with much rejoicing, in his old position as a rescuer of human lives. Joe Slag, naturally and pleasantly, also fell into his old post at the bow. Nellie found that Aunt Betty had had what the villagers called "a stroke" during her absence; which crushing blow had the effect of opening her eyes to many things regarding herself and others, to which she had been particularly blind before. It also had the effect--indirectly--of subduing much of the evil in her character and bringing out much of the good. As evil begets evil, so good begets good; and one result of this law was, that the seven children, whom she had brought--or banged--up, became seven repentant and sympathetic and reasonably good creatures when they saw the old mother, whom they used to think so harsh and so physically strong, reduced to amiable helplessness. Thus it came to pass that there was not in all the village an old woman who was so well looked after by her progeny as Aunt Betty.

Terrence O'Connor continued to rove about the world in the capacity of a ship's cook till near the end of his days. John Mitford and Peggy unexpectedly came into a small inheritance soon after returning home, and settled down for life close to the coxswain's cottage. Tomlin went to New Zealand to seek his fortune. Whether he found it or not, we cannot tell! Last, but not least, Dr Hayward and his wife returned to their native land, and for many years afterwards kept up a steady correspondence with Nell Massey, in which, you may be sure, there were frequent and pleasant allusions to the time which they had spent together on the lonely isle in the southern seas.

One morning, Nellie presented her husband with a baby boy. Bob was out with the lifeboat rescuing a shipwrecked crew at the time the presentation was made. On his return, he opened the door and stood before his wife dripping wet.

"Fifteen saved this time, Nell," he began, but the nurse stopped him by exhibiting the baby boy.

"Thank the Lord!" he said, with a glad look in his wet eyes.

"You mustn't come near us," said the nurse, with a look of warning. "Only a look just now."

"The tide has risen to the flood now, Bob," murmured the young mother, softly.

"Ay," said the coxswain in a deep voice, "an' it's a high spring tide too. God bless you, Nell!"

THE END.

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

JACK FROST AND SONS--A SHORT STORY.

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.