The Coxswain's Bride Part 16

Jack was a giant. Indeed, it is not improbable that he was also a "giant-killer,"--an insolent, self-a.s.sertive, 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 st.u.r.dy 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 footb.a.l.l.s. Turning into Saint James's Park they rushed at the royal palace, but, finding that edifice securely guarded from bas.e.m.e.nt to roof-tree, they turned round, and, with fearless audacity, a.s.saulted the Admiralty and the Horse-Guards--taking a shot at the clubs in pa.s.sing.

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 a.s.sailants 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 dest.i.tute 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 m.u.f.fins, 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 circ.u.mstances, for it is G.o.d 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, pa.s.s the m.u.f.fins, 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 circ.u.mstances--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 pa.s.sage of G.o.d'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 appet.i.te 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.