The Coxswain's Bride; also, Jack Frost and Sons; and, A Double Rescue

“Indeed. Is grandfather very poor?”

“Oh yes, sir, very, very poor; an’ he’s got nobody but me to take care of him.”

“If that be so, who is taking care of him just now?” asked Matty, who had joined her brother, leaving another “worker” at the harmonium to play the people out,—a difficult thing to do, by the way, for the people seemed very unwilling to go.

You see, among other things, Jack Frost and Sons could gain no footing in that hall, and the people knew only too well that the firm was in great force awaiting them outside.

“Nobody’s takin’ care on ’im, ma’am,” replied Martha, somewhat shyly. “I locked ’im in, an’ he’s takin’ care of hisself.”

“Would you like to give grandfather anything in particular, little woman, if a fairy were to offer to give it you?”

“Oh, wouldn’t I just?”

“Yes? What would you ask for?”

Martha pursed her little mouth and knitted her brows in thought for a minute. Then she said slowly, “I’d ask for a mug of hot soup, an’ a blanket, an’ some coals, and—oh! I forgot, a teapot, for ours is cracked an’ won’t ’old in now.”

“Do you live far from this hall?” asked Tom.

“No, sir, quite close.”

“Come, Matty, you and I will go with this little one and see grandfather. What is your name, child?”

“Martha Burns, sir.”

“Well, Martha, give me your hand, and come along.”

They were soon in the shabby little room,—for Martha was eager to give the food to the old man. Of course Jack Frost and Sons were still in possession, but there had come another visitor during the child’s absence, whom they were scarce prepared to meet.

Death sat beside the lowly bed. He had not yet laid his hand on his victim, but his chill presence was evidently felt.

“Darling, I’m glad you’ve come,” said the old man, faintly. “I’ve been longing so for you. Give me your hand, dear. I’m so cold—so cold.”

He shivered as he spoke until the miserable bed shook. Poor Martha forgot the food in her anxiety, for a striking change had come over gran’father—such as she had never seen before. She took his thin hand in hers, and began to weep softly.

But Matilda Westlake did not forget the food. She took up the tin can in which it had been brought there, and poured some of the still warm contents into a cracked soup plate that stood on the table. Finding a pewter spoon, she at once put her hand under the pillow, and raising the old man’s head gently, began to feed him like a child. Meanwhile Tom Westlake took off his thick overcoat and spread it over the bed. Then he went out, bought some sticks and coal from a neighbour, and, returning, soon kindled a fire in the rusty grate.

The old man did not seem surprised. His face wore a dazed, yet thoroughly pleased, look as he quietly accepted these attentions. All the time he kept fast hold of Martha’s hand, and smiled to her once or twice. It was evident that he relished the soup. Only once he broke silence to thank them and say, “Jesus sent you, I suppose?”

“Yes, Jesus sent us,” replied Matty, thoroughly meaning what she said.

At that moment Death raised his hand and laid it gently on the old man’s brow. The hoary head bowed to the summons, and, with a soft sigh, the glad spirit fled to that region where suffering cannot enter.

Oh, it was sad to witness the child-grief when Martha at last came to understand that gran’father was really gone. And it required no little persuasion to induce her to leave the lowly sordid room that she had known as “home.”

While his sister comforted the child, Tom went to the “authorities” to inform them that an old pauper had gone the way of all flesh.

When at last Martha permitted her new friends to remove her, she was led by Miss Westlake to the not far distant house of a lady friend, whose sympathies with the suffering, the sorrowful, and the fallen were so keen that she had given up all and gone to dwell in the midst of them, in the sanguine hope of rescuing some. To this lady’s care Martha was in the meantime committed, and then Tom and his sister went their way.

Their way led them to a very different scene not far from the same region.

“We’re rather late,” remarked Tom, consulting his watch as they turned into a narrow street.

“Not too late, I think,” said his sister.

“I hope not, for I should be sorry to go in upon them at dinner-time.”

They were not too late. David Butts, whom they were about to visit, was a dock-labourer. In early youth he had been a footman, in which capacity he had made the acquaintance of the Westlakes’ nursery-maid, and, having captivated her heart, had carried her off in triumph and married her.

David had not been quite as steady as might have been desired. He had acquired, while in service, a liking for beer, which had degenerated into a decided craving for brandy, so that he naturally came down in the world, until, having lost one situation after another, he finally, with his poor wife and numerous children, was reduced to a state bordering on beggary. But God, who never forgets His fallen creatures, came to this man’s help when the tide with him was at its lowest ebb. A humble-minded city missionary was sent to him. He was the means of bringing him to Jesus. The Saviour, using one of the man’s companions as an instrument, brought him to a temperance meeting, and there an eloquent, though uneducated, speaker flung out a rope to the struggling man in the shape of a blue ribbon. David Butts seized it, and held on for life. His wife gladly sewed a bit of it on every garment he possessed—including his night-shirt—and the result was that he got to be known at the docks as a steady, dependable man, and found pretty constant employment.

How far Matilda Westlake was instrumental in this work of rescue we need not stop to tell. It is enough to say that she had a hand in it—for her heart yearned towards the nurse, who had been very kind to her when she was a little child.

Jack Frost and his sons, with their usual presumption, were in close attendance on the Westlakes when they knocked at David’s door, and when it was opened they rudely brushed past the visitors and sought to enter, but a gush of genial heat from a roaring fire effectually stopped Jack and the major on the threshold, and almost killed them. Colonel Wind, however, succeeded in bursting in, overturning a few light articles, causing the flames to sway, leap, and roar wildly, and scattering ashes all over the room, but his triumph was short-lived. The instant the visitors entered he was locked out, and the door shut against him with a bang.

“It do come rather awkward, sir, ’avin’ no entrance ’all,” said David, as he made the door fast. “If we even ’ad a porch it would ’elp to keep the wind and snow hout, but I ain’t complainin’, sir. I’ve on’y too good reason to be thankful.”

“Dear Miss Matilda,” said the old nurse, dusting a wooden chair with her apron, and beaming all over with joy, “it’s good for sore eyes to see you. Don’t mind the child’n, miss, an’ do sit down near the fire. I’m sure your feet must be wet—such dreadful weather.”

“No, indeed, nurse,—thank you,” said Miss Westlake, laughing as she sat down, “my feet are not a bit wet. The frost is so hard that everything is quite dry.”

“Now it’s no use to tell me that, Miss Matty,” said Mrs Butts, with the memory of nursing days strong upon her. “You was always such a dear, thoughtless child! Don’t you remember that day when you waded in baby’s bath, an’ then said you wasn’t wet a bit, only a very little, an’ you rather liked it? Indeed she did: you needn’t laugh, Master Tom, I remember it as well as if it happened yesterday.”

“I don’t in the least doubt you, Mrs Butts,” said Tom, “I was only laughing at my sister’s idea of dryness. But you must not let us interrupt you in your cooking operations, else we will go away directly. Just go about it as if we were not here, for I have some business matters to talk over with your husband.”

“Go away?” echoed Mrs Butts; “you must not talk of going away till you’ve had a bite of lunch with us. It’s our dinner, you know, but lawks! what do it matter what you calls it so long as you’ve got it to eat? An’ there’s such a splendid apple dumplin’ in the pot, miss; you see, it’s Tommy’s birthday, for he was born on a Christmas Day, an’ he’s very fond of apple dumplin’, is Tommy.”

The six children, of various ages and sizes scattered about the small room, betrayed lively interest in this invitation—some hoping that it would be accepted; others as evidently hoping that it would be declined. As for Tommy, his fear that the dumpling would be too small for the occasion filled his heart with anxiety that showed itself strongly in his face, but he was promptly relieved by Miss Matty assuring his mother that to stay was impossible, as they had other visits to pay that day.

Thus the lady and nurse chatted of past and present days, while Tom Westlake talked “business” with the dock-labourer.

“You seem to be getting on pretty comfortably now,” remarked Tom.

“Yes, sir, thank God I am. Ever since I was enabled to cry, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner,’ things ’as gone well with me. An’ the puttin’ on o’ the blue ribbon, sir, ’as done me a power o’ good. You see, before that I was sorely tempted by comrades offerin’ me a glass, and by my own wish to ’ave a glass, but when I mounted the blue I was let alone, though they chaffed me now an’ then, an’ I felt it was no use thinkin’ about it, ’owever much I might wish for it. The missus, bless ’er ’art, sewed a bit o’ blue on my night-shirt in fun, but d’ee know, sir, I do believe it’s that ’as cured me o’ dreamin’ about it, as I used to do.”

“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.”