Chapter Twenty Three.Hopes revive.Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants’ hall, delivered himself of the opinion that “things was comin’ to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin’ of a low family in Whitechapel.”“But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls,” objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal.“Of course not, my dear,” replied Balls, with a paternal smile. “I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an’ he ’as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. Whether he’s right or whether he’s wrong ain’t for me to say. I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master ’as come to a wonderful pass.”“It’s all along of Miss Diana,” said Mrs Screwbury. “That dear child ’as taken the firm belief into her pretty ’ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she’s taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she’s been introduced to them at that ’Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. And Mrs Twitter goes about the ’Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she’s grown quite fond of her.”“But weain’tall equal, Mrs Screwbury,” said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, “an’ nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it.”“Quite right, cook,” said Balls. “For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a ’ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he’s not very particular as to who it is he’s cuttin’ down when he’s got the order.”A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. “That’s for the cab,” remarked Mr Balls as he went out.Now, while these things were taking place at the “West-End,” in the “East-End” the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves—that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. For the cloud that Sammy’s disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed.Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents’ thoughts. They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. They also took every possible step to discover their boy’s retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up: but all in vain.It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street.At the Twitter social board—which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned—sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular. Thus the small table was full.“Mariar, my dear,” said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, “we must just take things as we find ’em. The world is not goin’ to change its course on purpose to pleaseus. Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether.”“You’re right, Mr Twitter. I always said so,” remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. “If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we’d have to—have to—”“Succumb to it,” suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles.“No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb—from principle I never do so. The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. I would bow to it.”“Quite right, ma’am, quite right,” said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; “to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?”As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage.These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely. Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument—which was not always the case.Poor Twitter! He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire—his house having been uninsured—but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child’s bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only “got into difficulties.”But this was a small matter in his and his good wife’s eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, “sosensitive.” It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace.“You have not yet advertised, I think?” said Crackaby.“No, not yet,” answered Twitter; “we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn’t wonder if that was him,” he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic, “Mr Welland’s at the door with another gentleman. ’E says ’e won’t come in—’e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment.”“Oh! bid ’em come in, bid ’em come in,” said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.“Come in, and welcome,do,” said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. “And Miss Diana, too! I’msoglad you’ve brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain’t much room anywhere else, but—get out of the way, Stickler.”The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled “barrow-knighted,” he would have lain down and let it walk over him—perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick—certainly would not have resented one.“Allow me, Sir Richard,” he said, with some reference to the knight’s hat.“Hush, Stickler!” said Mrs Twitter.The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.“Your stick, Sir Richard,” said Stickler, “permit—”“Hold your tongue, Stickler,” said Mrs Twitter.The black sheep held his tongue—between his teeth,—and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter’s head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.“You are heartily welcome. Come in,” said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, “come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You’ll not object to a humble seat, I know.”“I am afraid,” said Sir Richard, “that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests.”“Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests—the more unexpected the more I—Molly, dear,” (to her eldest girl), “take all the children up-stairs.”Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.“But what of Sam?” asked young Welland in a low tone; “any news yet?”“None,” said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.“Dear, darling child,” said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.“But I have brought you news,” said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.“News!” echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. “Oh! Mr Seaward,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.“Yes,” continued Seaward; “as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil.”An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.“I—I—beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that—”“No harm done, ma’am,” said Giles. “May I come in?”“Certainly, and most welcome.”When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles’s calm countenance with tearful eyes.“Yes, ma’am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him.”“And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?” asked the poor woman breathlessly.“Oh! dear, no, ma’am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me.”“How d’you know he’s not willing?” demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.“Because I heard him say so, sir. I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. I knew North well, and recognised your son at once. North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return,” (“bless him! bless him!” from Mrs Twitter), “for I heard him say as I passed—‘Oh! no, no, no, I canneverreturn home!’”“Where is he? Take me to him at once. My bonnet and shawl, Molly!”“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Giles. “It is not a very fit place for a lady—though there aresomeladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it—”“Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place,” interposed Twitter. “Come, it ismyduty to go to this place. Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?”“Oh! and I should like to go too—so much, soverymuch!”It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous.“Pardon me, Sir Richard,” said Mr Seaward, “this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying. If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him.”“Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself,” said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. “Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward. Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me. I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. Are you ready?”“Quite ready,” said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man’s sudden display of resolution. Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call.“You see,” he said, “I have been in similar places before now, but—not with my little child!”As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company—feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,—they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned.It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666. That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself.On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.“Hallo! young feller,” exclaimed the man, “you’re the chap that was livin’ wi’ Ned Frog the night I called to see ’im—eh! Sam Twitter, ain’t you?”“Yes,” said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. “Yes, I am. T–Twitterismy name. You’re the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin’ to speak to him about his soul?”“The same, young feller. That’s me, an’ Reggie North is my name. He’d ’ave ’ad some trouble to turn me outonce, though, but I’ve given up quarrellin’ and fightin’ now, havin’ enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace,” replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech—“Bah!” and “Pooh!” at the Gospel-temperance meeting. “Where are you going?”Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound.“Well, I’m going there too, so come along.”Sam could not choose but go with the man. He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off.Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half.Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal.“What made you leave Ned?” asked North.“How did you know I’d left him?”“Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn’t be here!”This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile.“I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I’ve got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can’t resist it, so I came away. And there’s no chance of any one offering me beer in this place.”“Not much,” said North, with a grin. “But, young feller,” (and there was something earnestly kind in the man’s manner here), “if you feel anawfuldesire for drink, you’d better put on this.”He touched his bit of blue ribbon.“No use,” returned Sam, sorrowfully, “I once put it on, and—and—I’ve broke the pledge.”“That’s bad, no doubt; but what then?” returned North; “are we never to tell the truth any more ’cause once we told a lie? Are we never to give up swearin’ ’cause once we uttered a curse? The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from—if we’ll only come to Him.”Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. He was discoursing on poverty and its causes.“It is nothing more nor less,” he said, with emphasis, “than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty.”“Hear! hear!” cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence.“What right,” asked the man, somewhat indignantly, “what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that ’e don’t know what to do with, when we’re starvin’?” (Hear!) “He didn’t earn these millions; they was left to ’im by his father, an’hedidn’t earn ’em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an’ back to the time of the robber who came over with William—the greatest robber of all—an’ stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers.” (Hear! hear!) “An’ what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he’s got?” (‘Ha! you may say that!’ from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) “What right has he, I say, to his lands? The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? If I had my way,” (Hear! hear! and a laugh), “I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me—such as this poor fellow,” (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said ‘Just so’ feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). “Do I not speak the truth?” he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him.“Well, mister, I ain’t just quite clear about that,” said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. “I’m not a learned man, you see, an’ hain’t studied the subjec’, but isn’t there a line in the Bible which says, ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor?’ Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an’ no rich to consider ’em!”There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with—“’Old on, sir, I ain’t done yet. You said that Sir Cowley Cross—”“Crossly Cowel,” cried his opponent, correcting.“I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel—that ’e ’ad no right to ’is millions, ’cause ’e didn’t earn ’em, and because ’is father left ’em to ’im. Now, I ’ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing—but of coorse that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment—an’ she was left a fi’ pun note by ’er father as ’ad a game leg—though that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment neither. Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow—Cross—”A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer.“What puzzles me is,” continued North, “that if Sir Crossly Cowel ’as no right to ’is millions, my old grandmother ’ad no right to ’er fi’ pun note!” (“Hear, hear,” and applause.) “I don’t know nothin’ about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein’ ’ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in ’is principles—”“Of course I does,” said the social reformer indignantly.“Well, then,” resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, “do you see that man? If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. What right have you to two coats when he has none?”The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity.To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up.“See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, ‘The Lord ’as given me success to-day in sellin’ His word,’—you know, some of you, that I’m a seller of Bibles and Testaments?”“Ay, ay, old boy.Weknow you,” said several voices.“And I wasn’t always that,” added North.“That’strue, anyhow,” said a voice with a laugh.“Well. For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart. For what I am I thank the Lord. But, as I was goin’ to say, I came here intendin’ to give this sixpence—it ain’t much, but it’s all I can spare—to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way. But it seems to me that, seein’ what’s turned up, I’ll do more good by givin’ it in a public way—so, there it is, old man,” and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes.The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity.The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a “thank ’ee,” to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North.“Stop, stop, my fine fellow! Not quite so fast. If you’ll wait till I’ve finished my little business here, I’ll take you to where you’ll get some warm grub for nothin’, and maybe an old coat too.” Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted.“The first thing you must do, my boy,” said North, kindly, “is to return to your father’s ’ouse; an’ that advice cuts two ways—’eaven-ward an’ earth-ward.”“Oh! no, no,no, I can never return home,” replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father.It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family.
Mr Thomas Balls, butler to Sir Richard Brandon, standing with his legs wide apart and his hands under his coat tails in the servants’ hall, delivered himself of the opinion that “things was comin’ to a wonderful pass when Sir Richard Brandon would condescend to go visitin’ of a low family in Whitechapel.”
“But the family is no more low than you are, Mr Balls,” objected Jessie Summers, who, being not very high herself, felt that the remark was slightly personal.
“Of course not, my dear,” replied Balls, with a paternal smile. “I did not for a moment mean that Mr Samuel Twitter was low in an offensive sense, but in a social sense. Sir Richard, you know, belongs to the hupper ten, an’ he ’as not been used to associate with people so much further down in the scale. Whether he’s right or whether he’s wrong ain’t for me to say. I merely remark that, things being as they are, the master ’as come to a wonderful pass.”
“It’s all along of Miss Diana,” said Mrs Screwbury. “That dear child ’as taken the firm belief into her pretty ’ead that all people are equal in the sight of their Maker, and that we should look on each other as brothers and sisters, and you know she can twist Sir Richard round her little finger, and she’s taken a great fancy to that Twitter family ever since she’s been introduced to them at that ’Ome of Industry by Mr Welland, who used to be a great friend of their poor boy that ran away. And Mrs Twitter goes about the ’Ome, and among the poor so much, and can tell her so many stories about poor people, that she’s grown quite fond of her.”
“But weain’tall equal, Mrs Screwbury,” said the cook, recurring, with some asperity, to a former remark, “an’ nothink you or anybody else can ever say will bring me to believe it.”
“Quite right, cook,” said Balls. “For instance, no one would ever admit that I was as good a cook as you are, or that you was equal to Mrs Screwbury as a nurse, or that any of us could compare with Jessie Summers as a ’ouse-maid, or that I was equal to Sir Richard in the matters of edication, or station, or wealth. No, it is in the more serious matters that concern our souls that we are equal, and I fear that when Death comes, he’s not very particular as to who it is he’s cuttin’ down when he’s got the order.”
A ring at the bell cut short this learned discourse. “That’s for the cab,” remarked Mr Balls as he went out.
Now, while these things were taking place at the “West-End,” in the “East-End” the Twitters were assembled round the social board enjoying themselves—that is to say, enjoying themselves as much as in the circumstances was possible. For the cloud that Sammy’s disappearance had thrown over them was not to be easily or soon removed.
Since the terrible day on which he was lost, a settled expression of melancholy had descended on the once cheery couple, which extended in varying degree down to their youngest. Allusion was never made to the erring one; yet it must not be supposed he was forgotten. On the contrary, Sammy was never out of his parents’ thoughts. They prayed for him night and morning aloud, and at all times silently. They also took every possible step to discover their boy’s retreat, by means of the ordinary police, as well as detectives whom they employed for the purpose of hunting Sammy up: but all in vain.
It must not be supposed, however, that this private sorrow induced Mrs Twitter selfishly to forget the poor, or intermit her labours among them. She did not for an hour relax her efforts in their behalf at George Yard and at Commercial Street.
At the Twitter social board—which, by the way, was spread in another house not far from that which had been burned—sat not only Mr and Mrs Twitter and all the little Twitters, but also Mrs Loper, who had dropped in just to make inquiries, and Mrs Larrabel, who was anxious to hear what news they had to tell, and Mr Crackaby, who was very sympathetic, and Mr Stickler, who was oracular. Thus the small table was full.
“Mariar, my dear,” said Mr Twitter, referring to some remarkable truism which his wife had just uttered, “we must just take things as we find ’em. The world is not goin’ to change its course on purpose to pleaseus. Things might be worse, you know, and when the spoke in your wheel is at its lowest there must of necessity be a rise unless it stands still altogether.”
“You’re right, Mr Twitter. I always said so,” remarked Mrs Loper, adopting all these sentiments with a sigh of resignation. “If we did not submit to fortune when it is adverse, why then we’d have to—have to—”
“Succumb to it,” suggested Mrs Larrabel, with one of her sweetest smiles.
“No, Mrs Larrabel, I never succumb—from principle I never do so. The last thing that any woman of good feeling ought to do is to succumb. I would bow to it.”
“Quite right, ma’am, quite right,” said Stickler, who now found time to speak, having finished his first cup of tea and second muffin; “to bow is, to say the least of it, polite and simple, and is always safe, for it commits one to nothing; but then, suppose that Fortune is impolite and refuses to return the bow, what, I ask you, would be the result?”
As Mrs Loper could not form the slightest conception what the result would be, she replied with a weak smile and a request for more sausage.
These remarks, although calculated to enlist the sympathies of Crackaby and excite the mental energies of Twitter, had no effect whatever on those gentlemen, for the latter was deeply depressed, and his friend Crackaby felt for him sincerely. Thus the black sheep remained victorious in argument—which was not always the case.
Poor Twitter! He was indeed at that time utterly crestfallen, for not only had he lost considerably by the fire—his house having been uninsured—but business in the city had gone wrong somehow. A few heavy failures had occurred among speculators, and as these had always a row of minor speculators at their backs, like a row of child’s bricks, which only needs the fall of one to insure the downcome of all behind it, there had been a general tumble of speculative bricks, tailing off with a number of unspeculative ones, such as tailors, grocers, butchers, and shopkeepers generally. Mr Twitter was one of the unspeculative unfortunates, but he had not come quite down. He had only been twisted uncomfortably to one side, just as a toy brick is sometimes seen standing up here and there in the midst of surrounding wreck. Mr Twitter was not absolutely ruined. He had only “got into difficulties.”
But this was a small matter in his and his good wife’s eyes compared with the terrible fall and disappearance of their beloved Sammy. He had always been such a good, obedient boy; and, as his mother said, “sosensitive.” It never occurred to Mrs Twitter that this sensitiveness was very much the cause of his fall and disappearance, for the same weakness, or cowardice, that rendered him unable to resist the playful banter of his drinking comrades, prevented him from returning to his family in disgrace.
“You have not yet advertised, I think?” said Crackaby.
“No, not yet,” answered Twitter; “we cannot bear to publish it. But we have set several detectives on his track. In fact we expect one of them this very evening; and I shouldn’t wonder if that was him,” he added, as a loud knock was heard at the door.
“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic, “Mr Welland’s at the door with another gentleman. ’E says ’e won’t come in—’e merely wishes to speak to you for a moment.”
“Oh! bid ’em come in, bid ’em come in,” said Mrs Twitter in the exuberance of a hospitality which never turned any one away, and utterly regardless of the fact that her parlour was extremely small.
Another moment, and Stephen Welland entered, apologising for the intrusion, and saying that he merely called with Sir Richard Brandon, on their way to the Beehive meeting, to ask if anything had been heard of Sam.
“Come in, and welcome,do,” said Mrs Twitter to Sir Richard, whose face had become a not unfamiliar one at the Beehive meetings by that time. “And Miss Diana, too! I’msoglad you’ve brought her. Sit down, dear. Not so near the door. To be sure there ain’t much room anywhere else, but—get out of the way, Stickler.”
The black sheep hopped to one side instantly, and Di was accommodated with his chair. Stickler was one of those toadies who worship rank for its own sake. If a lamp-post had been knighted Stickler would have bowed down to it. If an ass had been what he styled “barrow-knighted,” he would have lain down and let it walk over him—perhaps would even have solicited a passing kick—certainly would not have resented one.
“Allow me, Sir Richard,” he said, with some reference to the knight’s hat.
“Hush, Stickler!” said Mrs Twitter.
The black sheep hushed, while the bustling lady took the hat and placed it on the sideboard.
“Your stick, Sir Richard,” said Stickler, “permit—”
“Hold your tongue, Stickler,” said Mrs Twitter.
The black sheep held his tongue—between his teeth,—and wished that some day he might have the opportunity of punching Mrs Twitter’s head, without, if possible, her knowing who did it. Though thus reduced to silence, he cleared his throat in a demonstratively subservient manner and awaited his opportunity.
Sir Richard was about to apologise for the intrusion when another knock was heard at the outer door, and immediately after, the City Missionary, John Seaward, came in. He evidently did not expect to see company, but, after a cordial salutation to every one, said that he had called on his way to the meeting.
“You are heartily welcome. Come in,” said Mrs Twitter, looking about for a chair, “come, sit beside me, Mr Seaward, on the stool. You’ll not object to a humble seat, I know.”
“I am afraid,” said Sir Richard, “that the meeting has much to answer for in the way of flooding you with unexpected guests.”
“Oh! dear, no, sir, I love unexpected guests—the more unexpected the more I—Molly, dear,” (to her eldest girl), “take all the children up-stairs.”
Mrs Twitter was beginning to get confused in her excitement, but the last stroke of generalship relieved the threatened block and her anxieties at the same time.
“But what of Sam?” asked young Welland in a low tone; “any news yet?”
“None,” said the poor mother, suddenly losing all her vivacity, and looking so pitifully miserable that the sympathetic Di incontinently jumped off her chair, ran up to her, and threw her arms round her neck.
“Dear, darling child,” said Mrs Twitter, returning the embrace with interest.
“But I have brought you news,” said the missionary, in a quiet voice which produced a general hush.
“News!” echoed Twitter with sudden vehemence. “Oh! Mr Seaward,” exclaimed the poor mother, clasping her hands and turning pale.
“Yes,” continued Seaward; “as all here seem to be friends, I may tell you that Sam has been heard of at last. He has not, indeed, yet been found, but he has been seen in the company of a man well-known as a rough disorderly character, but who it seems has lately put on the blue ribbon, so we may hope that his influence over Sam will be for good instead of evil.”
An expression of intense thankfulness escaped from the poor mother on hearing this, but the father became suddenly much excited, and plied the missionary with innumerable questions, which, however, resulted in nothing, for the good reason that nothing more was known.
At this point the company were startled by another knock, and so persuaded was Mrs Twitter that it must be Sammy himself, that she rushed out of the room, opened the door, and almost flung herself into the arms of Number 666.
“I—I—beg your pardon, Mr Scott, I thought that—”
“No harm done, ma’am,” said Giles. “May I come in?”
“Certainly, and most welcome.”
When the tall constable bowed his head to pass under the ridiculously small doorway, and stood erect in the still more ridiculously small parlour, it seemed as though the last point of capacity had been touched, and the walls of the room must infallibly burst out. But they did not! Probably the house had been built before domiciles warranted to last twenty years had come into fashion.
“You have found him!” exclaimed Mrs Twitter, clasping her hands and looking up in Giles’s calm countenance with tearful eyes.
“Yes, ma’am, I am happy to tell you that we have at last traced him. I have just left him.”
“And does he know you have come here? Is he expecting us?” asked the poor woman breathlessly.
“Oh! dear, no, ma’am, I rather think that if he knew I had come here, he would not await my return, for the young gentleman does not seem quite willing to come home. Indeed he is not quite fit; excuse me.”
“How d’you know he’s not willing?” demanded Mr Twitter, who felt a rising disposition to stand up for Sammy.
“Because I heard him say so, sir. I went into the place where he was, to look for some people who are wanted, and saw your son sitting with a well-known rough of the name of North, who has become a changed man, however, and has put on the blue ribbon. I knew North well, and recognised your son at once. North seemed to have been trying to persuade your boy to return,” (“bless him! bless him!” from Mrs Twitter), “for I heard him say as I passed—‘Oh! no, no, no, I canneverreturn home!’”
“Where is he? Take me to him at once. My bonnet and shawl, Molly!”
“Pardon me, ma’am,” said Giles. “It is not a very fit place for a lady—though there aresomeladies who go to low lodging-houses regularly to preach; but unless you go for that purpose it—”
“Yes, my dear, it would be quite out of place,” interposed Twitter. “Come, it ismyduty to go to this place. Can you lead me to it, Mr Scott?”
“Oh! and I should like to go too—so much, soverymuch!”
It was little Di who spoke, but her father said that the idea was preposterous.
“Pardon me, Sir Richard,” said Mr Seaward, “this happens to be my night for preaching in the common lodging-house where Mr Scott says poor Sam is staying. If you choose to accompany me, there is nothing to prevent your little daughter going. Of course it would be as well that no one whom the boy might recognise should accompany us, but his father might go and stand at the door outside, while the owner of the lodging might be directed to tell Sam that some one wishes to see him.”
“Your plan is pretty good, but I will arrange my plans myself,” said Mr Twitter, who suddenly roused himself to action with a degree of vigour that carried all before it. “Go and do your own part, Mr Seaward. Give no directions to the proprietor of the lodging, and leave Sammy to me. I will have a cab ready for him, and his mother in the cab waiting, with a suit of his own clothes. Are you ready?”
“Quite ready,” said the missionary, amused as well as interested by the good man’s sudden display of resolution. Mrs Twitter, also, was reduced to silence by surprise, as well as by submission. Sir Richard agreed to go and take Di with him, if Giles promised to hold himself in readiness within call.
“You see,” he said, “I have been in similar places before now, but—not with my little child!”
As for Loper, Larrabel, Crackaby, Stickler, and Company—feeling that it would be improper to remain after the host and hostess were gone; that it would be equally wrong to offer to go with them, and quite inappropriate to witness the home-coming,—they took themselves off, but each resolved to flutter unseen in the neighbourhood until he, or she, could make quite sure that the prodigal had returned.
It was to one of the lowest of the common lodging-houses that Sam Twitter the younger had resorted on the night he had been discovered by Number 666. That day he had earned sixpence by carrying a carpet bag to a railway station. One penny he laid out in bread, one penny in cheese. With the remaining fourpence he could purchase the right to sit in the lodging-house kitchen, and to sleep in a bed in a room with thirty or forty homeless ones like himself.
On his way to this abode of the destitute, he was overtaken by a huge man with a little bit of blue ribbon in his button-hole.
“Hallo! young feller,” exclaimed the man, “you’re the chap that was livin’ wi’ Ned Frog the night I called to see ’im—eh! Sam Twitter, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” said young Sam, blushing scarlet with alarm at the abruptness of the question. “Yes, I am. T–Twitterismy name. You’re the man that gave him the Bible, are you not, whom he turned out of his house for tryin’ to speak to him about his soul?”
“The same, young feller. That’s me, an’ Reggie North is my name. He’d ’ave ’ad some trouble to turn me outonce, though, but I’ve given up quarrellin’ and fightin’ now, havin’ enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace,” replied the man, who was none other than our Bible-salesman, the man who contributed the memorable speech—“Bah!” and “Pooh!” at the Gospel-temperance meeting. “Where are you going?”
Sam, who never could withhold information or retain a secret if asked suddenly, gave the name of the common lodging-house to which he was bound.
“Well, I’m going there too, so come along.”
Sam could not choose but go with the man. He would rather have been alone, but could not shake him off.
Entering, they sat down at a table together near the kitchen fire, and North, pulling out of his pocket a small loaf, cut it in two and offered Sam half.
Several men were disputing in the box or compartment next to them, and as they made a great noise, attracting the attention of all around, North and his friend Sam were enabled the more easily to hold confidential talk unnoticed, by putting their heads together and chatting low as they ate their frugal meal.
“What made you leave Ned?” asked North.
“How did you know I’d left him?”
“Why, because if you was still with him you wouldn’t be here!”
This was so obvious that Sam smiled; but it was a sad apology for a smile.
“I left him, because he constantly offered me beer, and I’ve got such an awful desire for beer now, somehow, that I can’t resist it, so I came away. And there’s no chance of any one offering me beer in this place.”
“Not much,” said North, with a grin. “But, young feller,” (and there was something earnestly kind in the man’s manner here), “if you feel anawfuldesire for drink, you’d better put on this.”
He touched his bit of blue ribbon.
“No use,” returned Sam, sorrowfully, “I once put it on, and—and—I’ve broke the pledge.”
“That’s bad, no doubt; but what then?” returned North; “are we never to tell the truth any more ’cause once we told a lie? Are we never to give up swearin’ ’cause once we uttered a curse? The Lord is able to save us, no matter how much we may have sinned. Why, sin is the very thing He saves us from—if we’ll only come to Him.”
Sam shook his head, but the manner of the man had attracted him, and eventually he told all his story to him. Reggie North listened earnestly, but the noise of the disputants in the next box was so great that they rose, intending to go to a quieter part of the large room. The words they heard at the moment, however, arrested them. The speaker was, for such a place, a comparatively well-dressed man, and wore a top-coat. He was discoursing on poverty and its causes.
“It is nothing more nor less,” he said, with emphasis, “than the absence of equality that produces so much poverty.”
“Hear! hear!” cried several voices, mingled with which, however, were the scoffing laughs of several men who knew too well and bitterly that the cause of their poverty was not the absence of equality, but, drink with improvidence.
“What right,” asked the man, somewhat indignantly, “what right has Sir Crossly Cowel, for instance, the great capitalist, to his millions that ’e don’t know what to do with, when we’re starvin’?” (Hear!) “He didn’t earn these millions; they was left to ’im by his father, an’hedidn’t earn ’em, nor did his grandfather, or his great-grandfather, and so, back an’ back to the time of the robber who came over with William—the greatest robber of all—an’ stole the money, or cattle, from our forefathers.” (Hear! hear!) “An’ what right has Lord Lorrumdoddy to the thousands of acres of land he’s got?” (‘Ha! you may say that!’ from an outrageously miserable-looking man, who seemed too wretched to think, and only spoke for a species of pastime.) “What right has he, I say, to his lands? The ministers of religion, too, are to be blamed, for they toady the rich and uphold the unjust system. My friends, it is these rich capitalists and landowners who oppress the people. What right have they, I ask again, to their wealth, when the inmates of this house, and thousands of others, are ill-fed and in rags? If I had my way,” (Hear! hear! and a laugh), “I would distribute the wealth of the country, and have no poor people at all such as I see before me—such as this poor fellow,” (laying his hand on the shoulder of the outrageously miserable man, who said ‘Just so’ feebly, but seemed to shrink from his touch). “Do I not speak the truth?” he added, looking round with the air of a man who feels that he carries his audience with him.
“Well, mister, I ain’t just quite clear about that,” said Reggie North, rising up and looking over the heads of those in front of him. There was an immediate and complete silence, for North had both a voice and a face fitted to command attention. “I’m not a learned man, you see, an’ hain’t studied the subjec’, but isn’t there a line in the Bible which says, ‘Blessed are they that consider the poor?’ Now it do seem to me that if we was all equally rich, there would be no poor to consider, an’ no rich to consider ’em!”
There was a considerable guffaw at this, and the argumentative man was about to reply, but North checked him with—
“’Old on, sir, I ain’t done yet. You said that Sir Cowley Cross—”
“Crossly Cowel,” cried his opponent, correcting.
“I ax your pardon; Sir Crossly Cowel—that ’e ’ad no right to ’is millions, ’cause ’e didn’t earn ’em, and because ’is father left ’em to ’im. Now, I ’ad a grandmother with one eye, poor thing—but of coorse that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment—an’ she was left a fi’ pun note by ’er father as ’ad a game leg—though that’s nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment neither. Now, what puzzles me is, that if Sir Cow—Cross—”
A great shout of laughter interrupted North here, for he looked so innocently stupid, that most of the audience saw he was making game of the social reformer.
“What puzzles me is,” continued North, “that if Sir Crossly Cowel ’as no right to ’is millions, my old grandmother ’ad no right to ’er fi’ pun note!” (“Hear, hear,” and applause.) “I don’t know nothin’ about that there big thief Willum you mentioned, nor yet Lord Lorrumdoddy, not bein’ ’ighly connected, you see, mates, but no doubt this gentleman believes in ’is principles—”
“Of course I does,” said the social reformer indignantly.
“Well, then,” resumed North, suddenly throwing off his sheepish look and sternly gazing at the reformer while he pointed to the outrageously miserable man, who had neither coat, vest, shoes, nor socks, “do you see that man? If you are in earnest, take off your coat and give it to him. What right have you to two coats when he has none?”
The reformer looked surprised, and the proposal was received with loud laughter; all the more that he seemed so little to relish the idea of parting with one of his coats in order to prove the justice of his principles, and his own sincerity.
To give his argument more force, Reggie North took a sixpence from his pocket and held it up.
“See here, mates, when I came to this house I said to myself, ‘The Lord ’as given me success to-day in sellin’ His word,’—you know, some of you, that I’m a seller of Bibles and Testaments?”
“Ay, ay, old boy.Weknow you,” said several voices.
“And I wasn’t always that,” added North.
“That’strue, anyhow,” said a voice with a laugh.
“Well. For what I was, I might thank drink and a sinful heart. For what I am I thank the Lord. But, as I was goin’ to say, I came here intendin’ to give this sixpence—it ain’t much, but it’s all I can spare—to some poor feller in distress, for I practise what I preach, and I meant to do it in a quiet way. But it seems to me that, seein’ what’s turned up, I’ll do more good by givin’ it in a public way—so, there it is, old man,” and he put the sixpence on the table in front of the outrageously miserable man, who could hardly believe his eyes.
The change to an outrageously jovial man, with the marks of misery still strong upon him, was worthy of a pantomime, and spoke volumes; for, small though the sum might seem to Sir Crossly Cowel, or Lord Lorrumdoddy, it represented a full instead of an empty stomach and a peaceful instead of a miserable night to one wreck of humanity.
The poor man swept the little coin into his pocket and rose in haste with a “thank ’ee,” to go out and invest it at once, but was checked by North.
“Stop, stop, my fine fellow! Not quite so fast. If you’ll wait till I’ve finished my little business here, I’ll take you to where you’ll get some warm grub for nothin’, and maybe an old coat too.” Encouraged by such brilliant prospects, the now jovially-miserable man sat down and waited while North and Sam went to a more retired spot near the door, where they resumed the confidential talk that had been interrupted.
“The first thing you must do, my boy,” said North, kindly, “is to return to your father’s ’ouse; an’ that advice cuts two ways—’eaven-ward an’ earth-ward.”
“Oh! no, no,no, I can never return home,” replied Sam, hurriedly, and thinking only of the shame of returning in his wretched condition to his earthly father.
It was at this point that the couple had come under the sharp stern eye of Number 666, who, as we have seen, went quietly out and conveyed the information direct to the Twitter family.
Chapter Twenty Four.The Returning Prodigal.For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them.They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all their time—and, may we not add, all their hearts—to the rescue of the perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns.After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward.“A bloated haristocrat!” growled one of the men.“Got a smart little darter, anyhow,” remarked another, as Di, holding tight to her father’s hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm.For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything incouleur de rose, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true heights—which was out of sight higher than the false one!There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work—like the visit of Di and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast.They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine—in the person of Hetty Frog—sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang—“Come to the Saviour.”The others joined—even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing—as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature’s simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around.Butwemust not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon just now!Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was riveted.While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled—as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. The man’s hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him.These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion.When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand.Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it.A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy’s frame. He stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father!“Sammy—dear, dear Sammy,” whispered the man, in a husky voice.But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his father speak, for he was choking.But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation.“Now then, old gen’lm’n,” he whispered, “don’t you go an’ make a fuss, if you’re wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an’ leave this young ’un to me. It’s all right. I’m onyourside.”Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man’s manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed.They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son’s hand with the words, “Sammy, my boy—dear Sammy;” but he never got further than that.Number 666 was there too.“You’ll find the cab at the end of the street, sir,” he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along—not unwillingly—by North and his father.A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.“Mother!”“Sammy—darling—”The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round.“Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are,” he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there.“No thanks to me, sir. Look higher,” said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. “Now then, cabby, drive on.”The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered—if he considered anything at all just then—a preposterously small room.The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, “The bath is quite ready, sir.”“Now, Sammy,—dear boy,” said Mr Twitter, “off with your rags—and g–git into that b–bath.”Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.“Now then, Sammy—look sharp! You didn’t use—to—be—so—slow! eh?”“No, father. I suppose it—it—is want of habit. I haven’t undressed much of late.”This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress.“It—it’s not too hot—eh?”“Oh! no, father. It’s—it’s—v–very nice.”“Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy—down with it. And don’t spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy—no end of soap!”The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.“Oh! hold on, father, it’s getting into my eyes.”“My boy—dear Sammy—forgive me. I didn’t quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy—head and all. That’s it. Now, that’s enough; out you come.”“Oh! father,” said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, “it’s so good of you to forgive me so freely.”“Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I’d—I’d—” He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.“You dirty boy! what d’you mean by it?”“It’s your own fault, daddy,” replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel.A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.“Please, sir,” said a female voice, “the lady in the cab sends to say that she’s gettin’ impatient.”“Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes,” replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.“Yes, sir.”“Now, my boy, here’s your toggery,” said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle—“your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow.”Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed.Next morning early—before breakfast—Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row—according to order, for Mrs Twitter’s mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:—Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice—with Alice’s doll on a doll’s chair at the left flank of the line.“Now children,” said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large—in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice’s doll. “Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home.”“Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!” were the various expressions with which the news was received.“Silence.”The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild.“Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away—no notice at all.”“Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?” asked little Alice with a look of wonder.“Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy back, and so thankful—so glad—that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to himexcept,” (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), “exceptask himwhere—he—has—been.”“Mayn’t we ask him how he liked it, mamma?” said Alice.“Liked what, child?”“Where he has been, mamma.”“No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back.”Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that Sammy had beensomewherethat was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing.“Now, dolly,” whispered little Alice, bending down, “’member dat—you’re so glad Sammy’s come back; mustn’t say more—not a word more.”“It is enough for you to know, my darlings,” continued Mrs Twitter, “that Sammy has been wandering and has come back.”“Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy’s been wandering an’ come back. Dat’s ’nuff for you.”“You see, dears,” continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy’s feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, “you see, Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won’t like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like—your lessons,—for instance, when he comes down.”“Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?” asked Alice, who was extremely conscientious.“Darling child,” exclaimed the perplexed mother, “you’ll never take it in. What I want to impress on you is—”She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself was heard on the stair.“Now, mind, children, not a word—not—a—word!”The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek—pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction.Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly’s recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and paint.Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy’s somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them.Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father’s house.
For a considerable time the Bible-seller plied Sam with every argument he could think of in order to induce him to return home, and he was still in the middle of his effort when the door opened, and two young men of gentlemanly appearance walked in, bearing a portable harmonium between them.
They were followed by one of the ladies of the Beehive, who devote all their time—and, may we not add, all their hearts—to the rescue of the perishing. Along with her came a tall, sweet-faced girl. She was our friend Hetty Frog, who, after spending her days at steady work, spent some of her night hours in labours of love. Hetty was passionately fond of music, and had taught herself to play the harmonium sufficiently to accompany simple hymns.
After her came the missionary, whose kind face was familiar to most of the homeless ones there. They greeted him with good-natured familiarity, but some of their faces assumed a somewhat vinegar aspect when the tall form of Sir Richard Brandon followed Seaward.
“A bloated haristocrat!” growled one of the men.
“Got a smart little darter, anyhow,” remarked another, as Di, holding tight to her father’s hand, glanced from side to side with looks of mingled pity and alarm.
For poor little Di had a not uncommon habit of investing everything incouleur de rose, and the stern reality which met her had not the slightest tinge of that colour. Di had pictured to herself clean rags and picturesque poverty. The reality was dirty rags and disgusting poverty. She had imagined sorrowful faces. Had she noted them when the missionary passed, she might indeed have seen kindly looks; but when her father passed there were only scowling faces, nearly all of which were unshaven and dirty. Di had not thought at all of stubbly beards or dirt! Neither had she thought of smells, or of stifling heat that it was not easy to bear. Altogether poor little Di was taken down from a height on that occasion to which she never again attained, because it was a false height. In after years she reached one of the true heights—which was out of sight higher than the false one!
There was something very businesslike in these missionaries, for there was nothing of the simply amateur in their work—like the visit of Di and her father. They were familiar with the East-end mines; knew where splendid gems and rich gold were to be found, and went about digging with the steady persistence of the labourer, coupled, however, with the fire of the enthusiast.
They carried the harmonium promptly to the most conspicuous part of the room, planted it there, opened it, placed a stool in front of it, and one of the brightest diamonds from that mine—in the person of Hetty Frog—sat down before it. Simply, and in sweet silvery tones, she sang—“Come to the Saviour.”
The others joined—even Sir Richard Brandon made an attempt to sing—as he had done on a previous occasion, but without much success, musically speaking. Meanwhile, John Seaward turned up the passage from which he had prepared to speak that evening. And so eloquent with nature’s simplicity was the missionary, that the party soon forgot all about the Twitters while the comforting Gospel was being urged upon the unhappy creatures around.
Butwemust not forget the Twitters. They are our text and sermon just now!
Young Sam Twitter had risen with the intention of going out when the missionary entered, for words of truth only cut him to the heart. But his companion whispered him to wait a bit. Soon his attention was riveted.
While he sat there spell-bound, a shabby-genteel man entered and sat down beside him. He wore a broad wide-awake, very much slouched over his face, and a coat which had once been fine, but now bore marks of having been severely handled—as if recently rubbed by a drunken wearer on whitewashed and dirty places. The man’s hands were not so dirty, however, as one might have expected from his general appearance, and they trembled much. On one of his fingers was a gold ring. This incongruity was lost on Sam, who was too much absorbed to care for the new comer, and did not even notice that he pushed somewhat needlessly close to him.
These things were not, however, lost on Reggie North, who regarded the man with some surprise, not unmixed with suspicion.
When, after a short time, however, this man laid his hand gently on that of Sam and held it, the boy could no longer neglect his eccentricities. He naturally made an effort to pull the hand away, but the stranger held it fast. Having his mind by that time entirely detached from the discourse of the missionary, Sam looked at the stranger in surprise, but could not see his face because of the disreputable wide-awake which he wore. But great was his astonishment, not to say alarm, when he felt two or three warm tears drop on his hand.
Again he tried to pull it away, but the strange man held it tighter. Still further, he bent his head over it and kissed it.
A strange unaccountable thrill ran through the boy’s frame. He stooped, looked under the brim of the hat, and beheld his father!
“Sammy—dear, dear Sammy,” whispered the man, in a husky voice.
But Sammy could not reply. He was thunderstruck. Neither could his father speak, for he was choking.
But Reggie North had heard enough. He was quick-witted, and at once guessed the situation.
“Now then, old gen’lm’n,” he whispered, “don’t you go an’ make a fuss, if you’re wise. Go out as quiet as you came in, an’ leave this young ’un to me. It’s all right. I’m onyourside.”
Samuel Twitter senior was impressed with the honesty of the man’s manner, and the wisdom of his advice. Letting go the hand, after a parting squeeze, he rose up and left the room. Two minutes later, North and Sammy followed.
They found the old father outside, who again grasped his son’s hand with the words, “Sammy, my boy—dear Sammy;” but he never got further than that.
Number 666 was there too.
“You’ll find the cab at the end of the street, sir,” he said, and next moment Sammy found himself borne along—not unwillingly—by North and his father.
A cab door was opened. A female form was seen with outstretched arms.
“Mother!”
“Sammy—darling—”
The returning prodigal disappeared into the cab. Mr Twitter turned round.
“Thank you. God bless you, whoever you are,” he said, fumbling in his vest pocket; having forgotten that he represented an abject beggar, and had no money there.
“No thanks to me, sir. Look higher,” said the Bible-seller, thrusting the old gentleman almost forcibly into the vehicle. “Now then, cabby, drive on.”
The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered—if he considered anything at all just then—a preposterously small room.
The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, “The bath is quite ready, sir.”
“Now, Sammy,—dear boy,” said Mr Twitter, “off with your rags—and g–git into that b–bath.”
Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.
“Now then, Sammy—look sharp! You didn’t use—to—be—so—slow! eh?”
“No, father. I suppose it—it—is want of habit. I haven’t undressed much of late.”
This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress.
“It—it’s not too hot—eh?”
“Oh! no, father. It’s—it’s—v–very nice.”
“Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy—down with it. And don’t spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy—no end of soap!”
The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.
“Oh! hold on, father, it’s getting into my eyes.”
“My boy—dear Sammy—forgive me. I didn’t quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy—head and all. That’s it. Now, that’s enough; out you come.”
“Oh! father,” said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, “it’s so good of you to forgive me so freely.”
“Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I’d—I’d—” He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.
Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.
“You dirty boy! what d’you mean by it?”
“It’s your own fault, daddy,” replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel.
A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.
“Please, sir,” said a female voice, “the lady in the cab sends to say that she’s gettin’ impatient.”
“Tell the lady in the cab to drive about and take an airing for ten minutes,” replied Mr Twitter with reckless hilarity.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, my boy, here’s your toggery,” said the irrepressible father, hovering round his recovered son like a moth round a candle—“your best suit, Sammy; the one you used to wear only on Sundays, you extravagant fellow.”
Sammy put it on with some difficulty from want of practice, and, after combing out and brushing his hair, he presented such a changed appearance that none of his late companions could have recognised him. His father, after fastening up his coat with every button in its wrong hole, and causing as much delay as possible by assisting him to dress, finally hustled him down-stairs and into the cab, where he was immediately re-enveloped by Mrs Twitter.
He was not permitted to see any one that night, but was taken straight to his room, where his mother comforted, prayed with, fed and fondled him, and then allowed him to go to bed.
Next morning early—before breakfast—Mrs Twitter assembled all the little Twitters, and put them on chairs in a row—according to order, for Mrs Twitter’s mind was orderly in a remarkable degree. They ranged from right to left thus:—
Molly, Willie, Fred, Lucy, and Alice—with Alice’s doll on a doll’s chair at the left flank of the line.
“Now children,” said Mrs Twitter, sitting down in front of the row with an aspect so solemn that they all immediately made their mouths very small and their eyes very large—in which respect they brought themselves into wonderful correspondence with Alice’s doll. “Now children, your dear brother Sammy has come home.”
“Oh! how nice! Where has he been? What has he seen? Why has he been away so long? How jolly!” were the various expressions with which the news was received.
“Silence.”
The stillness that followed was almost oppressive, for the little Twitters had been trained to prompt obedience. To say truth they had not been difficult to train, for they were all essentially mild.
“Now, remember, when he comes down to breakfast you are to take no notice whatever of his having been away—no notice at all.”
“Are we not even to say good-morning or kiss him, mamma?” asked little Alice with a look of wonder.
“Dear child, you do not understand me. We are all charmed to see Sammy back, and so thankful—so glad—that he has come, and we will kiss him and say whatever we please to himexcept,” (here she cast an awful eye along the line and dropped her voice), “exceptask himwhere—he—has—been.”
“Mayn’t we ask him how he liked it, mamma?” said Alice.
“Liked what, child?”
“Where he has been, mamma.”
“No, not a word about where he has been; only that we are so glad, so very glad, to see him back.”
Fred, who had an argumentative turn of mind, thought that this would be a rather demonstrative though indirect recognition of the fact that Sammy had beensomewherethat was wrong, but, having been trained to unquestioning obedience, Fred said nothing.
“Now, dolly,” whispered little Alice, bending down, “’member dat—you’re so glad Sammy’s come back; mustn’t say more—not a word more.”
“It is enough for you to know, my darlings,” continued Mrs Twitter, “that Sammy has been wandering and has come back.”
“Listen, Dolly, you hear? Sammy’s been wandering an’ come back. Dat’s ’nuff for you.”
“You see, dears,” continued Mrs Twitter, with a slightly perplexed look, caused by her desire to save poor Sammy’s feelings, and her anxiety to steer clear of the slightest approach to deception, “you see, Sammy has been long away, and has been very tired, and won’t like to be troubled with too many questions at breakfast, you know, so I want you all to talk a good deal about anything you like—your lessons,—for instance, when he comes down.”
“Before we say good-morning, mamma, or after?” asked Alice, who was extremely conscientious.
“Darling child,” exclaimed the perplexed mother, “you’ll never take it in. What I want to impress on you is—”
She stopped, suddenly, and what it was she meant to impress we shall never more clearly know, for at that moment the foot of Sammy himself was heard on the stair.
“Now, mind, children, not a word—not—a—word!”
The almost preternatural solemnity induced by this injunction was at once put to flight by Sammy, at whom the whole family flew with one accord and a united shriek—pulling him down on a chair and embracing him almost to extinction.
Fortunately for Sammy, and his anxious mother, that which the most earnest desire to obey orders would have failed to accomplish was brought about by the native selfishness of poor humanity, for, the first burst of welcome over, Alice began an elaborate account of her Dolly’s recent proceedings, which seemed to consist of knocking her head against articles of furniture, punching out her own eyes and flattening her own nose; while Fred talked of his latest efforts in shipbuilding; Willie of his hopes in regard to soldiering, and Lucy of her attempts to draw and paint.
Mr and Mrs Twitter contented themselves with gazing on Sammy’s somewhat worn face, and lying in watch, so that, when Alice or any of the young members of the flock seemed about to stray on the forbidden ground, they should be ready to descend, like two wolves on the fold, remorselessly change the subject of conversation, and carry all before them.
Thus tenderly was that prodigal son received back to his father’s house.
Chapter Twenty Five.Canada again—and Surprising News.It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it—for it is a grand truism.Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada.Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God.It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here. Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly.The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. Everything is improved—Well, no, not everything. Mr Merryboy’s legs have not improved. They will not move as actively as they were wont to do. They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. But Mr Merryboy’s spirit has improved—though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good!Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was—especially when she speaks or smiles. The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada. Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny’s coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created!But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? Two young men and a young girl. One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft—just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, “My little pet!”Why, these are two “waifs” and a “stray!” Don’t you know them? Look again. Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild? But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? Nobody—except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are.Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house.“Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think,” said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening.Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled.“He’s either unusually jolly or unusually savage—a little more tea, mother,” said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup.Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother. So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny.“Something for good or evil must have happened,” said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer.At last the door flew open and the storm burst in. And we may remark that Mr Merryboy’s stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din—not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places.“Hallo! good people all, how are ’ee? morning—morning. Boys, d’ee know that the saw-mill’s come to grief?”“No, are you in earnest, father?” cried Tim, jumping up.“In earnest! Of course I am. Pretty engineers you are. Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. Don’t know which, and what’s more I don’t care. Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let’s have a cup of tea. Bother that stick, it can’t keep its legs much better than myself. How are you, mother? Glorious weather, isn’t it?”Mr Merryboy ignored deafness. He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him.And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, “Wot’s the hodds so long as you’re ’appy?”But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches—though he still had some trouble with his R’s.As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman’s report.And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water’s edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw!“H’m! that comes of haste,” muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck. “If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened.”“Never mind, Bob, we must learn by experience, you know,” said Tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. “Luckily, we have a spare saw in the store.”“Run and fetch it,” said Bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation.When he was gone Bob and Tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen.The first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame.“There,” said Bob, as he flung it down, “you won’t use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. Have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, Tim?”“Plenty—more than we want.”“Well, you go to work on it while I fix up the new saw.”To work the two went accordingly—adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house.“So soon!” exclaimed Bob; “dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy.”“D’ye think so, Bob? Well, now, I look on it as a great comfort—specially when you’re hungry.”“Ah! but that’s because you are greedy, Tim. You always were too fond o’ your grub.”“Come, Bob, no slang. You know that mother doesn’t like it. By the way, talkin’ of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expectyourmother?”“Thursday, my boy,” replied Bob, with a bright look. “Ha! thatwillbe a day for me!”“So it will, Bob, I’m glad for your sake,” returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. His friend at once understood its significance.“Tim, my boy, I’m sorry for you. I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her.”“Yes,” said Tim, somewhat absently, “it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you.”“But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations,” said Bob, taking his friend’s arm as they approached the house.“Come along, come along, youngsters,” shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, “the dinner’s gettin’ cold, and granny’s gettin’ in a passion. Look sharp. If you knew what news I have for you you’d look sharper.”“What news, sir?” asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly “groan” with viands—it was too strong for that—but which was heavily weighted therewith.“I won’t tell you till after dinner—just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite.”“But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn’t it?” said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer’s eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.“Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won’t tell you,” said Mr Merryboy firmly. “It will do you good—eh! mother, won’t a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times—eh?”The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room.“I knew you’d agree with me—ha! ha! you always do, mother,” cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention.After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back.“What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?”“I would think he’d gone mad, sir, or changed his nature,” responded Bob.“Well, as to whether he’s gone mad or not I can’t tell—he may have changed his nature, who knows? That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, he is coming. I’ve got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers. But perhaps you may learn more about it inthat.”He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it.“From sister Hetty,” he cried, and tore it open.The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology.“Dearest Bob,” it ran, “you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. Sir Richard has changed his mind! You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter—as well as mother and me, and Matty. He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn’t merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. It’s all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she’s almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary. By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and—he’s a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he’s old enough. He’s big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is?“But I’m wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you! Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus—and not ashamed to say so. As I had already taken our passages in theAmazonsteamer—”“TheAmazon!” interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, “why, that steamer has arrived already!”“So it has,” said Bob, becoming excited; “their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they’ll be here immediately!”“Perhaps to-night!” exclaimed Mrs Merryboy.“Oh!hownice!” murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much.“Impossible!” said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. “They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival.”“That’s true, Tim,” said Mr Merryboy, “but you’ve not finished the letter, Bob—go on. Mother, mother, what a variety of faces youaremaking!”This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses.“As I had already,” continued Bob, reading, “taken our passages in theAmazonsteamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon—which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to. I don’t know exactly where it is—and I don’t know anybody who does, but that’s no matter. Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it’s within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean!“You’ll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band. It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland’s meeting hall, long ago. I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive. Wouldn’t that be charming! But, then,—who would be left to look after London? No, it is better that they should remain at home.“Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London—the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. I don’t think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I’m sure she’s almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard. It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn’t very keen to have them. Mr Stephen Welland is also coming. One of Sir Richard’s friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint—that’s where all the money is coined, you know—but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint—very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint. Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I’m in the middle of packing), Hetty.”Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty’s letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door.He brought a telegram addressed to “Mr Robert Frog.” It was from Montreal, and ran thus: “We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon.”“Why, they’re almost herenow,” cried Bob.“Harness up, my boy, and off you go—not a moment to lose!” cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room. “Take the bays, Bob,” he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, “and the biggest wagon. Don’t forget the rugs!”Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station.
It is most refreshing to those who have been long cooped up in a city to fly on the wings of steam to the country and take refuge among the scents of flowers and fields and trees. We have said this, or something like it, before, and remorselessly repeat it—for it is a grand truism.
Let us then indulge ourselves a little with a glance at the farm of Brankly in Canada.
Lake Ontario, with its expanse of boundless blue, rolls like an ocean in the far distance. We can see it from the hill-top where the sweet-smelling red-pines grow. At the bottom of the hill lies Brankly itself, with its orchards and homestead and fields of golden grain, and its little river, with the little saw-mill going as pertinaciously as if it, like the river, had resolved to go on for ever. Cattle are there, sheep are there, horses and wagons are there, wealth and prosperity are there, above all happiness is there, because there also dwells the love of God.
It is a good many years, reader, since you and I were last here. Then, the farm buildings and fences were brand-new. Now, although of course not old, they bear decided traces of exposure to the weather. But these marks only give compactness of look and unity of tone to everything, improving the appearance of the place vastly.
The fences, which at first looked blank and staring, as if wondering how they had got there, are now more in harmony with the fields they enclose. The plants which at first struggled as if unwillingly on the dwelling-house, now cling to it and climb about it with the affectionate embrace of old friends. Everything is improved—Well, no, not everything. Mr Merryboy’s legs have not improved. They will not move as actively as they were wont to do. They will not go so far, and they demand the assistance of a stick. But Mr Merryboy’s spirit has improved—though it was pretty good before, and his tendency to universal philanthropy has increased to such an extent that the people of the district have got into a way of sending their bad men and boys to work on his farm in order that they may become good!
Mrs Merryboy, however, has improved in every way, and is more blooming than ever, as well as a trifle stouter, but Mrs Merryboy senior, although advanced spiritually, has degenerated a little physically. The few teeth that kept her nose and chin apart having disappeared, her mouth has also vanished, though there is a decided mark which tells where it was—especially when she speaks or smiles. The hair on her forehead has become as pure white as the winter snows of Canada. Wrinkles on her visage have become the rule, not the exception, but as they all run into comical twists, and play in the forms of humour, they may, perhaps, be regarded as a physical improvement. She is stone deaf now, but this also may be put to the credit side of her account, for it has rendered needless those awkward efforts to speak loud and painful attempts to hear which used to trouble the family in days gone by. It is quite clear, however, when you look into granny’s coal-black eyes, that if she were to live to the age of Methuselah she will never be blind, nor ill-natured, nor less pleased with herself, her surroundings, and the whole order of things created!
But who are these that sit so gravely and busily engaged with breakfast as though they had not the prospect of another meal that year? Two young men and a young girl. One young man is broad and powerful though short, with an incipient moustache and a fluff of whisker. The other is rather tall, slim, and gentlemanly, and still beardless. The girl is little, neat, well-made, at the budding period of life, brown-haired, brown-eyed, round, soft—just such a creature as one feels disposed to pat on the head and say, “My little pet!”
Why, these are two “waifs” and a “stray!” Don’t you know them? Look again. Is not the stout fellow our friend Bobby Frog, the slim one Tim Lumpy, and the girl Martha Mild? But who, in all London, would believe that these were children who had bean picked out of the gutter? Nobody—except those good Samaritans who had helped to pick them up, and who could show you the photographs of what they once were and what they now are.
Mr Merryboy, although changed a little as regards legs, was not in the least deteriorated as to lungs. As Granny, Mrs Merryboy, and the young people sat at breakfast he was heard at an immense distance off, gradually making his way towards the house.
“Something seems to be wrong with father this morning, I think,” said Mrs Merryboy, junior, listening.
Granny, observing the action, pretended to listen, and smiled.
“He’s either unusually jolly or unusually savage—a little more tea, mother,” said Tim Lumpy, pushing in his cup.
Tim, being father-and-motherless, called Mr Merryboy father and the wife mother. So did Martha, but Bobby Frog, remembering those whom he had left at home, loyally declined, though he did not object to call the elder Mrs Merryboy granny.
“Something for good or evil must have happened,” said Bobby, laying down his knife and fork as the growling sound drew nearer.
At last the door flew open and the storm burst in. And we may remark that Mr Merryboy’s stormy nature was, if possible, a little more obtrusive than it used to be, for whereas in former days his toes and heels did most of the rattling-thunder business, the stick now came into play as a prominent creator of din—not only when flourished by hand, but often on its own account and unexpectedly, when propped clumsily in awkward places.
“Hallo! good people all, how are ’ee? morning—morning. Boys, d’ee know that the saw-mill’s come to grief?”
“No, are you in earnest, father?” cried Tim, jumping up.
“In earnest! Of course I am. Pretty engineers you are. Sawed its own bed in two, or burst itself. Don’t know which, and what’s more I don’t care. Come, Martha, my bantam chicken, let’s have a cup of tea. Bother that stick, it can’t keep its legs much better than myself. How are you, mother? Glorious weather, isn’t it?”
Mr Merryboy ignored deafness. He continued to speak to his mother just as though she heard him.
And she continued to nod and smile, and make-believe to hear with more demonstration of face and cap than ever. After all, her total loss of hearing made little difference, her sentiments being what Bobby Frog in his early days would have described in the words, “Wot’s the hodds so long as you’re ’appy?”
But Bobby had now ceased to drop or misapply his aitches—though he still had some trouble with his R’s.
As he was chief engineer of the saw-mill, having turned out quite a mechanical genius, he ran down to the scene of disaster with much concern on hearing the old gentleman’s report.
And, truly, when he and Tim reached the picturesque spot where, at the water’s edge among fine trees and shrubs, the mill stood clearly reflected in its own dam, they found that the mischief done was considerable. The machinery, by which the frame with its log to be sawn was moved along quarter-inch by quarter-inch at each stroke, was indeed all right, but it had not been made self-regulating. The result was that, on one of the attendant workmen omitting to do his duty, the saw not only ripped off a beautiful plank from a log, but continued to cross-cut the end of the heavy framework, and then proceeded to cut the iron which held the log in its place. The result, of course, was that the iron refused to be cut, and savagely revenged itself by scraping off, flattening down, turning up, and otherwise damaging, the teeth of the saw!
“H’m! that comes of haste,” muttered Bob, as he surveyed the wreck. “If I had taken time to make the whole affair complete before setting the mill to work, this would not have happened.”
“Never mind, Bob, we must learn by experience, you know,” said Tim, examining the damage done with a critical eye. “Luckily, we have a spare saw in the store.”
“Run and fetch it,” said Bob to the man in charge of the mill, whose carelessness had caused the damage, and who stared silently at his work with a look of horrified resignation.
When he was gone Bob and Tim threw off their coats, rolled up their sleeves to the shoulder, and set to work with a degree of promptitude and skill which proved them to be both earnest and capable workmen.
The first thing to be done was to detach the damaged saw from its frame.
“There,” said Bob, as he flung it down, “you won’t use your teeth again on the wrong subject for some time to come. Have we dry timber heavy enough to mend the frame, Tim?”
“Plenty—more than we want.”
“Well, you go to work on it while I fix up the new saw.”
To work the two went accordingly—adjusting, screwing, squaring, sawing, planing, mortising, until the dinner-bell called them to the house.
“So soon!” exclaimed Bob; “dinner is a great bother when a man is very busy.”
“D’ye think so, Bob? Well, now, I look on it as a great comfort—specially when you’re hungry.”
“Ah! but that’s because you are greedy, Tim. You always were too fond o’ your grub.”
“Come, Bob, no slang. You know that mother doesn’t like it. By the way, talkin’ of mothers, is it on Wednesday or Thursday that you expectyourmother?”
“Thursday, my boy,” replied Bob, with a bright look. “Ha! thatwillbe a day for me!”
“So it will, Bob, I’m glad for your sake,” returned Tim with a sigh, which was a very unusual expression of feeling for him. His friend at once understood its significance.
“Tim, my boy, I’m sorry for you. I wish I could split my mother in two and give you half of her.”
“Yes,” said Tim, somewhat absently, “it is sad to have not one soul in the world related to you.”
“But there are many who care for you as much as if they were relations,” said Bob, taking his friend’s arm as they approached the house.
“Come along, come along, youngsters,” shouted Mr Merryboy from the window, “the dinner’s gettin’ cold, and granny’s gettin’ in a passion. Look sharp. If you knew what news I have for you you’d look sharper.”
“What news, sir?” asked Bob, as they sat down to a table which did not exactly “groan” with viands—it was too strong for that—but which was heavily weighted therewith.
“I won’t tell you till after dinner—just to punish you for being late; besides, it might spoil your appetite.”
“But suspense is apt to spoil appetite, father, isn’t it?” said Tim, who, well accustomed to the old farmer’s eccentricities, did not believe much in the news he professed to have in keeping.
“Well, then, you must just lose your appetites, for I won’t tell you,” said Mr Merryboy firmly. “It will do you good—eh! mother, won’t a touch of starvation improve them, bring back the memory of old times—eh?”
The old lady, observing that her son was addressing her, shot forth such a beam of intelligence and goodwill that it was as though a gleam of sunshine had burst into the room.
“I knew you’d agree with me—ha! ha! you always do, mother,” cried the farmer, flinging his handkerchief at a small kitten which was sporting on the floor and went into fits of delight at the attention.
After dinner the young men were about to return to their saw-mill when Mr Merryboy called them back.
“What would you say, boys, to hear that Sir Richard Brandon, with a troop of emigrants, is going to settle somewhere in Canada?”
“I would think he’d gone mad, sir, or changed his nature,” responded Bob.
“Well, as to whether he’s gone mad or not I can’t tell—he may have changed his nature, who knows? That’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. Anyway, he is coming. I’ve got a letter from a friend of mine in London who says he read it in the papers. But perhaps you may learn more about it inthat.”
He tossed a letter to Bob, who eagerly seized it.
“From sister Hetty,” he cried, and tore it open.
The complete unity and unanimity of this family was well illustrated by the fact, that Bob began to read the letter aloud without asking leave and without apology.
“Dearest Bob,” it ran, “you will get this letter only a mail before our arrival. I had not meant to write again, but cannot resist doing so, to give you the earliest news about it. Sir Richard has changed his mind! You know, in my last, I told you he had helped to assist several poor families from this quarter—as well as mother and me, and Matty. He is a real friend to the poor, for he doesn’t merely fling coppers and old clothes at them, but takes trouble to find out about them, and helps them in the way that seems best for each. It’s all owing to that sweet Miss Di, who comes so much about here that she’s almost as well-known as Giles Scott the policeman, or our missionary. By the way, Giles has been made an Inspector lately, and has got no end of medals and a silver watch, and other testimonials, for bravery in saving people from fires, and canals, and cart wheels, and—he’s a wonderful man is Giles, and they say his son is to be taken into the force as soon as he’s old enough. He’s big enough and sensible enough already, and looks twice his age. After all, if he can knock people down, and take people up, and keep order, what does it matter how young he is?
“But I’m wandering, I always do wander, Bob, when I write to you! Well, as I was saying, Sir Richard has changed his mind and has resolved to emigrate himself, with Miss Di and a whole lot of friends and work-people. He wants, as he says, to establish a colony of like-minded people, and so you may be sure that all who have fixed to go with him are followers of the Lord Jesus—and not ashamed to say so. As I had already taken our passages in theAmazonsteamer—”
“TheAmazon!” interrupted Mr Merryboy, with a shout, “why, that steamer has arrived already!”
“So it has,” said Bob, becoming excited; “their letter must have been delayed, and they must have come by the same steamer that brought it; why, they’ll be here immediately!”
“Perhaps to-night!” exclaimed Mrs Merryboy.
“Oh!hownice!” murmured Martha, her great brown eyes glittering with joy at the near prospect of seeing that Hetty about whom she had heard so much.
“Impossible!” said Tim Lumpy, coming down on them all with his wet-blanket of common-sense. “They would never come on without dropping us a line from Quebec, or Montreal, to announce their arrival.”
“That’s true, Tim,” said Mr Merryboy, “but you’ve not finished the letter, Bob—go on. Mother, mother, what a variety of faces youaremaking!”
This also was true, for old Mrs Merryboy, seeing that something unusual was occurring, had all this time been watching the various speakers with her coal-black eyes, changing aspect with their varied expressions, and wrinkling her visage up into such inexpressible contortions of sympathetic good-will, that she really could not have been more sociable if she had been in full possession and use of her five senses.
“As I had already,” continued Bob, reading, “taken our passages in theAmazonsteamer, Sir Richard thought it best that we should come on before, along with his agent, who goes to see after the land, so that we might have a good long stay with you, and dear Mr and Mrs Merryboy, who have been so kind to you, before going on to Brandon—which, I believe, is the name of the place in the backwoods where Sir Richard means us all to go to. I don’t know exactly where it is—and I don’t know anybody who does, but that’s no matter. Enough for mother, and Matty, and me to know that it’s within a few hundred miles of you, which is very different from three thousand miles of an ocean!
“You’ll also be glad to hear that Mr Twitter with all his family is to join this band. It quite puts me in mind of the story of the Pilgrim Fathers, that I once heard in dear Mr Holland’s meeting hall, long ago. I wish he could come too, and all his people with him, and all the ladies from the Beehive. Wouldn’t that be charming! But, then,—who would be left to look after London? No, it is better that they should remain at home.
“Poor Mr Twitter never quite got the better of his fire, you see, so he sold his share in his business, and is getting ready to come. His boys and girls will be a great help to him in Canada, instead of a burden as they have been in London—the younger ones I mean, of course, for Molly, and Sammy, and Willie have been helping their parents for a long time past. I don’t think Mrs Twitter quite likes it, and I’m sure she’s almost breaking her heart at the thought of leaving George Yard. It is said that their friends Mrs Loper, Mrs Larrabel, Stickler, and Crackaby, want to join, but I rather think Sir Richard isn’t very keen to have them. Mr Stephen Welland is also coming. One of Sir Richard’s friends, Mr Brisbane I think, got him a good situation in the Mint—that’s where all the money is coined, you know—but, on hearing of this expedition to Canada, he made up his mind to go there instead; so he gave up the Mint—very unwillingly, however, I believe, for he wanted very much to go into the Mint. Now, no more at present from your loving and much hurried sister, (for I’m in the middle of packing), Hetty.”
Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty’s letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door.
He brought a telegram addressed to “Mr Robert Frog.” It was from Montreal, and ran thus: “We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon.”
“Why, they’re almost herenow,” cried Bob.
“Harness up, my boy, and off you go—not a moment to lose!” cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room. “Take the bays, Bob,” he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, “and the biggest wagon. Don’t forget the rugs!”
Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station.