Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[The Bouverie Series. No. 11.]
How Little Bessie Kept the
Wolf from the Door
BY
Mrs. COATES
THE BOUVERIE SERIES OF POPULAR PENNY STORIES
1 PROBABLE SONS. By AMY LE FEUVRE. 41 JACK; OR, THE STORY OF A POCKET-
2 TEDDY'S BUTTON. By AMY LE BOOK. By H. F. CHARLES.
FEUVRE. 42 BENEDICTAS STRANGER. By K. E.
3 JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER. By VERNHAM.
HESBA STRETTON. 43 AUDREY. By Mrs. O. F. WALTON.
4 SAVED AT SEA. By Mrs. O. F. 44 CLIMBING THE LADDER; OR, BRAVE
WALTON. ROBERT DAWSON.
5 LITTLE FAITH; OR, THE CHILD OF 45 IT'S ALL REAL TRUE. By EGLANTON
THE TOY-STALL. By Mrs. O. F. THORNE.
WALTON. 46 THE MAKING OF TEDDY. By EVA
6 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. By HESBA JAMESON.
STRETTON. 47 KITTY AND TODDLES. By Mrs. PHILIP
7 NOBODY LOVES ME. By Mrs. O. F. BARNES.
WALTON. 48 A WAIF AND A WELCOME. By MABEL
8 LITTLE MEG'S CHILDREN. By HESBA QUILLER-COUCH.
STRETTON. 49 DOT'S PROMISE. By ADELA FRANCES
9 HUNGERING AND THIRSTING. By MOUNT.
AGNES GIBERNE. 50 DAVIE'S LEDDY. By GERTRUDE DOUGHTY.
10 CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN. By Mrs. 51 BELLE'S LITTLE EVANGEL. By P. A.
O. F. WALTON. BLYTH.
11 HOW LITTLE BESSIE KEPT THE WOLF 52 ENID DUNCAN. By EDITH E. RHODES.
FROM THE DOOR. By Mrs. COATES. 53 SID AND FIDO. By MARY CORBETT
12 CHARITY'S BIRTHDAY TEXT. By SEYMOUR.
AGNES GIBERNE. 54 CINDERELLA'S PRINCE. By MARIAN I.
13 HARRY'S WHALING ADVENTURES. By HURRELL.
G. E SARGENT. 55 MADE A MAN OF. By SARA M. HARDWICH.
14 MAGGIE'S MESSAGE. By EMMA 56 OLD BILLY THE SWEET-MAKER. By
LESLIE. GERTRUDE DOUGHTY.
15 THE VOYAGE OF THE "STEADFAST." 57 TWO BRAVE BOYS. By MARY E. ROPES.
By W. H. G. KINGSTON. 58 THE WRONG TWIN. By MARY E. ROPES.
16 ERIC'S GOOD NEWS. By AMY LE 59 HARRY'S MAGIC GLASSES. By A. C.
FEUVRE. MERCER.
17 THE BOY WHO NEVER LOST A CHANCE. 60 THE WIZARDS CAVE. By EGLANTON
By ANNETTE LYSTER. THORNE.
18 JOYCE'S LITTLE MAID. By NELLIE 61 THE LITTLE ORANGE-SELLERS. By
CORNWALL. SARAH M. FRY.
19 DIBS. A Story of Young London 62 HUMPTY-DUMPTY'S SILVER BELLS. By
Life. By JOSEPH JOHNSON. MARGARET SCOTT HAYCRAFT.
20 JESSICA'S MOTHER. A Sequel to 63 THE OLD WORCESTER JUG. By EGLANTON
"Jessica's First Prayer." By THORNE.
HESBA STRETTON. 64 UNDER THE OLD ROOF. By HESBA
21 POPPY'S PRESENTS. By Mrs. O. F. STRETTON.
WALTON. 65 LEFT ALONE; and A NIGHT AND
22 OUR STORY. By C. A. BURNABY. A DAY. By HESBA STRETTON.
23 ALONE IN LONDON. By HESBA 66 MAX KROMER. A Story of the Siege
STRETTON. of Strasburg. By HESBA STRETTON.
24 NOBODY CARES. By CRONA TEMPLE. 67 THE COTTAGE BY THE LYNN. By
25 ERIC, A WAIF. By EMMA LESLIE. EGLANTON THORNE.
26 PANSY. A Story for Girls. 68 SAM AND SAMMIE. By JESSIE
27 BEN HADDEN'S ADVENTURES; OR, DO ARMSTRONG.
RIGHT WHATEVER COMES OF IT. 69 NOEL AND HIS STAR. By KATE M.
By W. H. G. KINGSTON. JOHNSON.
28 TAKEN OR LEFT. By Mrs. O. F. 70 A LITTLE CRUSADER. By MARY E.
WALTON. MURRAY.
29 LOST! STOLEN! OR STRAYED! By 71 RUTH ARNOLD. By J. BYERLEY.
JESSIE ARMSTRONG. 72 A SHAM PRINCESS. By EGLANTON
30 LOST GIP. By HESBA STRETTON. THORNE.
31 KATIE BRIGHTSIDE. By RUTH LAMB. 73 NORAH'S STRONGHOLD. By L. C.
32 TWO BRIGHT SHILLINGS. By EVELYN SILKE.
EVERETT-GREEN. 74 AUNT SELINA'S LEGACY. By EMMA
33 THE MERRY-GO-ROUND. By C. J. LESLIE.
HAMILTON. 75 SARAH, A PRINCESS. By FAITH
34 WHEN HEARTS ARE YOUNG. By DEAS CHILTERN.
CROMARTY. 76 WHEN THE SWALLOWS COME AGAIN. By
35 FIVE LITTLE BIRDIES. By AGNES M. F. WILSON.
GIBERNE. 77 BRAVE FRED; OR, FROM ERRAND BOY
36 CASSY. By HESBA STRETTON. TO PROFESSOR.
37 DAD'S DOROTHY. By M. B. 78 SOLDIER FRITZ. By EMMA LESLIE.
MANWELL. 79 HOW DICK FOUND HIS SEA LEGS. By
38 THREE LITTLE GREAT LADIES. By MARY E. PALGRAVE.
W. PERCY SMITH. 80 GATTY'S ADVENTURES. By Mrs.
39 MR. HATHERLEY'S BOYS. By EVELYN FORREST GRANT.
EVERETT-GREEN. 81 SIR ROLAND'S HEIR. By MARIAN
40 ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS, AND LITTLE ISABEL HURRELL.
DOT. By Mrs. O. F. WALTON. 82 A LITTLE SEA KING. By JESSIE
M. E. SAXBY.
LONDON: THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
[I. The Dwellers in the Old House]
[IX. The Worn-Out Copying Machine]
[XIII. Turning Over a New Leaf]
How Little Bessie Kept the Wolf
from the Door.
—————————
[CHAPTER I.]
THE DWELLERS IN THE OLD HOUSE.
NOT many years ago, in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields, stood an old house, which has only recently been swept away, together with several others, in order to make room for a block of modern buildings which have since been erected on its site. It was said, and there appears to be little doubt of the fact, that it had once been a noble and princely mansion; but at the time of which we write, it was let out in separate tenements to the poor of the surrounding district. And thus it came to pass that up and down that wide staircase, where silken robes were wont to sweep and rustle, pale scantily-clad men and women might be seen passing to and fro to their various rooms, or homes, as they called them, gathered together under that spacious roof. It is of one of these homes that we are about to write.
Matthew Reardon had been at one time engaged on a daily newspaper, but at the period to which we refer, he was endeavouring to earn a precarious livelihood by copying law papers, or any other writing he could manage to procure.
He was a tall, pale, gaunt-looking man, with thin cheeks, and long thin hands, and large hollow eyes, and hair that seemed to have grown grey less from age than trouble; a man who had evidently seen better days, but so long ago that he had well-nigh forgotten them.
It was hard work, writing as he did from morning till evening, and often far into the night; but it would have been harder still if he had not had the writing to do, in which case, he and his family must have starved. As it was, the weary "bread winner," with all his toil, could often earn barely sufficient for their maintenance. It seems strange that knowing this, and with the cares of life pressing so heavily upon him, the old familiar Christ-taught prayer, "Give us this day our daily bread," should have remained unuttered by him. From generation to generation, for eighteen hundred years, this has been the cry of God's children in all ages to their Heavenly Father: but he knew it not.
Mrs. Reardon was several years younger than her husband. Like him, she was always employed. She was a clever needle-woman, and worked for a baby-linen warehouse in the City. The delicate children's garments which she made formed a striking contrast with the coarse although neatly-mended clothes of her own little girls, who used to regard them with profound admiration, sometimes longing to be old enough to help her, and pricking their tiny fingers in the vain attempt; and, at others, wondering what the children were like who were destined to wear these beautiful things, and where they lived, and what they did all day long. Little Bessie, the youngest, used to dream about them as clothed in fine linen, with crowns on their heads, and each carrying in her hand a small golden harp.
If Mrs. Reardon was less silent than her husband, it was not because she had any more heart for conversation, but in the hope of cheering him; and because she remembered what a dull life it must be for those two neglected little children, with no one to talk to or play with them, and nowhere to play but that one room: for she never permitted them to associate with the other children in the house, and had no time to take them out for a walk.
Once or twice during the summer months they had gone with her to the Gray's Inn Gardens, she taking her needlework, and sewing while they wandered about beneath the green trees to their great delight. The children called it "going into the country." But somehow the delicate work got soiled and their mother did not venture again.
It was at Mrs. Reardon's suggestion that Polly and little Bessie regularly attended a Sunday school which had been established in the neighbourhood. It would be a change for the poor children, she said, and might help to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. She liked hearing them repeat their hymns and texts, just as she used to do at their age, although she had forgotten them all long since. But oftentimes of late, they seemed to come echoing back like a pleasant tune learned years ago. More particularly upon one occasion, when she heard little Bessie singing softly to herself:
"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds!"
She remembered how sweet it had seemed to her in the happy days gone by, before sin and sorrow, and neglect of that blessed Saviour, had dimmed the brightness of her first love. While her thoughts still wandered in the past, Bessie had finished her hymn and begun another, the words of which sounded strangely appropriate:
"What peaceful hours I once enjoyed,
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill."
Too well did Mrs. Reardon know the weary feeling of that "aching void."
The neighbours mistook her reserve for pride. She was, as we have said, a quiet woman, keeping herself to herself, and neither associating or suffering her children to associate with the people of the house. Even the district visitor, as she went to and fro on her labour of love, failed to gain admission.
Upon one occasion, Mrs. Reardon came to the door herself in answer to her gentle knock, and, holding it half-closed in her hand, respectfully declined to receive the offered tract.
"Thank you," said she, "but neither my husband nor myself have got any time for reading."
"On Sunday, perhaps," quietly suggested the visitor.
"On Sunday we are too tired. You had better take the book away, ma'am, if you please. It will save you the trouble of calling again."
"It is no trouble to me," said the lady, with a smile; "I like coming."
"But it is a trouble to me to open the door," replied Mrs. Reardon. "To poor people like us, time is money."
"Forgive me," said her visitor, gently; "I will not detain you any longer. You will allow me to leave the book; I shall not want it."
"Neither do we, thank you all the same," replied Mrs. Reardon. And wishing the lady "Good morning," she quietly shut the door, thereby shutting out one who would have been a kind friend in the hour of trial.
"Mother," said little Bessie, "I wish you had taken the lady's book; I wanted to look at the pictures."
"Poor child!" replied her mother. "I wish now that I had, for your sake."
[CHAPTER II.]
THE CHILDREN'S FRIEND.
IT was a happy day for Polly and Bessie when God put it into their mother's heart to send them to a Sunday school, in order, as she said, to amuse and give them something to think and talk of. From that time, the poor neglected children were no longer dull and lonely, for Jesus was with them, and they thought and spoke of little else.
"Have you ever noticed," inquires a Christian writer, "that little children sometimes seem to understand something about Jesus before they can be made to understand anything else. I suppose God teaches them. There is no other way of accounting for it."
Doubtless He does. And thus it was that God the Holy Spirit taught the little children of whom we write, even before they were able to read for themselves; opening their hearts to understand and love those heavenly truths "hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes."
The Bible was their one book. Polly was just beginning to read, while little Bessie did not even know her letters. But the latter had a wonderful memory, and could repeat chapters by heart after hearing them read over a few times, stumbling over a hard word now and then, as was only to be expected, but seldom missing the sense. The little Bible was the gift of their kind teacher, and although even Polly could not yet manage to read it well, they prized it very highly, always speaking of it as God's Book. It was the only book they read, and, except the "Pilgrim's Progress," which their teacher read to them sometimes, it was the only book, they knew. Its wonderful narratives with their deep meaning and pathos, yet so simple and childlike, filled their memories and hearth. Their minds were stored with scriptural facts to an extent far beyond their years.
Being, as we have said, the children's only book, it was scarcely to be wondered at that Bessie should often express herself in the beautiful language of Scripture. On a windy day, for instance, she would direct her mother's attention to the trees in Lincoln's Inn Fields "clapping their hands;" or point out in winter the little sparrow "sitting alone on the house-top;" or speak of "the bow in the clouds," after a summer shower. She never spoke of the church, always calling it "the Lord's house," and wondering how it was that her father and mother never "went up to worship in its courts."
Even as the Bible was their only book, so, save their parents, the Lord Jesus Christ was the only friend the poor neglected little ones had ever known. But what a friend! All-powerful, and yet so kind and loving; dying a cruel death upon the cross for them, and living evermore to make intercession for them in heaven; not only graciously permitting, but tenderly inviting, them to come to Him; rebuking even His disciples for their sakes, and for that of every timid and believing child in all ages. "Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
It seemed to the little children of whom we write just as if they had heard the blessed Saviour calling to them, and saying, "Polly—little Bessie—follow Me." And so they did in their hearts by faith, and so may every little child who reads this book, if he or she will only believe and come to Jesus.
It was but natural that the sisters, as they passed to and fro through the crowded thoroughfares in which they dwelt, should talk together about those heavenly things with which their young hearts were filled, while He of whom they spoke drew near and went with them, although their eyes were holden and they saw Him not.
Upon one occasion, a child residing in the same house as the Reardons was run over while crossing Holborn and taken to the hospital, where she died shortly afterwards, in consequence of the injuries which she had received. Mrs. Reardon was very sorry for the poor mother, and felt afraid to trust her own little ones out again, even to attend their Sunday school.
"You need not fear about us, mother," said Bessie, "we shall be quite safe."
"So that poor little girl thought who was buried yesterday," replied Mrs. Reardon.
"Poor Susan!" exclaimed Polly, with tears in her eyes. "But indeed, mother, you need not be afraid because—you tell her, Bessie."
"Because," said little Bessie, "Polly and me always pray when we come to a crossing, and ask the good Lord Jesus to take care of us, and not to let us be run over. I used to be very frightened sometimes, but I don't care a bit now."
"And yet little Susan Grey was run over," replied Mrs. Reardon.
"Maybe she forgot to pray," suggested Bessie, thoughtfully. "Or, perhaps, it was God's will."
"Then even those who do pray are run over sometimes, if it is God's will?" asked Matthew Reardon, looking up from his writing with a curious smile.
"I suppose they are," was the hesitating reply. "But God knows best about everything," added the child, decidedly.
"Then you do not think it safe for the children, Matthew?" inquired his wife.
"Oh yes; it's safe enough, if they only look sharp. There is seldom much traffic on a Sunday. If the little ones like going, let them go. Nought never comes to harm."
"Father," asked little Bessie, gravely, "what does 'nought' mean?"
But Matthew Reardon had resumed his writing, and the question remained unanswered.
[CHAPTER III.]
THE WOLF.
THE home of Matthew Reardon and his family consisted of one large room, with a kind of closet opening out of it, in which the children slept. The walls were of dark oak and panelled, with a carved chimney-piece, and deep recesses, and, best of all, a lofty ceiling, such as one seldom meets with in those close and confined dwelling-places in which the London poor are obliged to live.
It was a gloomy room, nevertheless, especially when evening came, and the dim light of the one candle by which Matthew and his wife worked cast all beyond into deep shadow. Then the little handful of fire gleamed and flickered in the large old-fashioned grate, and the shadows began to dance in a strange grotesque manner on the dark oak panels.
A little apart, in one of those deep recesses, sat, on the evening of which we write—and, indeed, on most evenings—the two little children, close together, and speaking in whispers for fear of disturbing their father. One would almost wonder what they could find to talk about—their mother often did—but somehow, they always seemed to have a thousand things to say to one another, especially after they began to attend the Sunday school.
It was a dull life for those lonely children sitting thus hour after hour in the dusk, and neither playing nor speaking aloud, or having any one to speak to or amuse them, and with no sound to be heard save the scratch, scratch, scratch, of Matthew's pen as it flew rapidly over the paper; or the occasional click of their mother's scissors, although she was very careful in this respect, well knowing how every little noise jarred upon the sensitive nerves of her husband, rendered painfully irritable by over-work.
Sometimes an organ-grinder would come into the street and begin playing a melancholy tune. Somehow street organs generally do play melancholy tunes—which the children loved to hear, although it made them feel sad without knowing why. Matthew the while used to fling down his pen, and running his thin fingers through his hair, walk up and down the room with an angry frown, incapable of doing anything until the last note had died away, and often obliged to work late in consequence of the interruption thus occasioned.
The whispering of the children never seemed to disturb him. So good and quiet were they, indeed, that he frequently even forgot that they were in the room. But their mother never did.
Poor loving mother! God only knows the sorrowful thoughts that filled her mind at those times, and that not because she told Him—it would have comforted her if she had—but because He knoweth the secret of all hearts.
Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, it was the same thing over and over again. The same weary toil, the same writing, page after page, and sheet after sheet. The same hemming, and sewing, and frilling little dainty garments for other people's children to wear. The same long silent evenings in that large shadow-haunted room. The same melancholy organ coming and going. The same stir of human life in the street below, and on the stairs without, surging on but never coming near them. The same grand theme of conversation, of which the whispering children never seemed to tire. The same ceaseless, prayerless struggle constantly going on in the parents' hearts and lives.
The evening of which we are about to write was nevertheless an eventful one to Polly and Bessie. The fire had burned low in the wide grate, and the room looked gloomy enough as Mrs. Reardon rose to mend it, using her fingers for that purpose, in order not to make more noise than she could possibly help, for fear of disturbing her husband.
It was a pleasant sight to the children to watch the bright flames leaping and dancing up the chimney, as their mother stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze; after which she washed her hands, and having carefully snuffed the candle, pushing it a little nearer to her husband, and a little farther from herself as she did so, quietly resumed her needlework.
A long silence ensued, so long that the flames had finished their dance and vanished, and the fire was nearly gone, too, before Mrs. Reardon moved again.
"Have you much more to do to-night, Matthew?" asked she.
"Not much," replied her husband, without looking up.
"Is it worth while to put on more coals?"
"Why not?"
"There are so few left," was the reply, "and I do not see how we shall be able to get any more before Saturday."
"Then we must wait till Saturday."
"One begins to feel the cold towards evening in this large room," said his wife, shivering as she spoke.
"I don't mind it."
"But the children, Matthew."
"I had forgotten them. Won't the man let us have more if we promise to pay for them on Saturday?"
"We promised last week, Matthew."
"It was not our fault," said her husband, gloomily. "If we had been paid, we should have paid him. It is a shame to keep a man out of his hardly-earned wages."
"Never mind," said his wife, soothingly, "there will be all the more to receive when Mr. Heighington returns. He never disappointed you before, you know. We must try and make the coals last out. May I put away your papers? I am sure you must be tired." She never remembered her own aching eyes and weary fingers.
"Very well," said Matthew, leaning back in his chair, "only take care what you are about, or I shall have no end of trouble with them in the morning."
And resting thus, he watched her as she gathered them together, and laid them carefully aside, together with her own neatly-folded work.
"You, too, have been busy to-day," continued he, touching the delicate fabric as he spoke.
"Yes, indeed. But then mine is not hard work like yours. I can sit and think of a hundred things all the time I am sewing—not that thinking makes me any happier. It was only to-day that I was wondering to myself whether the children will have to work as hard when they grow up as you and I are obliged to do."
"Before they grow up, perhaps!"
"Oh, Matthew!" exclaimed his wife.
"Well, let us hope not. At any rate, it is of no use meeting trouble half-way. It won't be while I am alive. I do not mind how hard I work, if we can only keep the wolf from the door."
Just then a large cinder fell out of the dying fire; and the children, huddled together in their dark corner, woke up in time to catch the last words which their father had uttered.
"Polly," whispered little Bessie, "did you hear what father said about the wolf?"
"Yes," answered Polly, all of a tremble.
"Hulloa, children!" exclaimed Matthew. "How is this? You ought to have been in bed long ago."
"Poor things!" said their mother. "It is not much later than usual. How white you both look, and how cold your hands are—and no fire to warm them," added she, with a sigh.
"They will be warm enough in bed," said Matthew. "Come, off with you, little ones. What is it, Bess?" added he, touched with the earnest and wistful expression of the child's face.
"Oh, father," exclaimed she, nestling closer to him, "do you think that you shall be able to keep it out?"
"Keep what out?"
"The wolf, father," was the whispered reply.
Matthew thought for a moment, and then a strange rare smile passed over his face.
"You have been listening," said he.
"We could not help it, father. The cinders fell out of the fire and woke us up; and then we heard you telling mother that there was a wolf at the door, and that you meant to try hard to keep him out. Was he really at our door, father?"
"I am afraid he was very near it."
"But he's gone now, isn't he?"
"Yes, he's gone now—but not very far off, I fear."
"Does the wolf ever go to any of the other rooms?" asked little Bessie.
"I dare say he does. He is always prowling about somewhere among the poor."
"'Seeking whom he may devour'?" repeated the child, fearfully.
"That's about it, little one."
"Do you think that you shall be able to keep him out?" asked Bessie again.
"I hope so; at any rate, I'll try hard."
Matthew and his wife exchanged a sad smile as he said it. They little thought, as they spoke of their poverty, of the impression which his words had made upon those poor frightened children, or how they would go to bed that night and dream of the terrible wolf, and start and tremble at every sound.
[CHAPTER IV.]
COMING SHADOWS.
A FEW evenings after this conversation, Matthew having finished his task somewhat earlier than usual, little Bessie, who generally acted as spokeswoman, ventured to approach him, and ask timidly whether he had ever seen a wolf.
"I can't say that I ever did," replied her father.
Bessie looked wistfully into his face with round wondering eyes.
"Don't tease her any more, Matthew," pleaded Mrs. Reardon. "Tell her what you meant."
"I'm not teasing her; am I, Bess? Why, I thought that you would have forgotten all about the wolf long ago."
"We only wanted to know what it was like, father," said Bessie.
"Don't you trouble your head about that, little one," replied Matthew; "you'll know soon enough."
But the children were not so easily satisfied.
"Suppose we ask teacher on Sunday," suggested Polly. "You ask, Bessie."
Accordingly, when Sunday came, the children, having waited till the lessons were over and Miss Maberley was at leisure to attend to them, Bessie asked her if she would have the kindness to tell them what a wolf was like.
Miss Maberley smiled as she looked down upon their little eager faces. It was a strange question, she thought; but then Bessie was one of those children who are continually asking those strange child's questions to which it is frequently so very difficult to reply. Not, that there was any difficulty about this one. It was a pity Miss Maberley did not ask them why they wanted to know. It might have saved those poor children much after-suffering. But she never thought of doing so.
"The wolf," she said, "is something like the dog, only the head is more square. They have, indeed, been called by some writers wild dogs. Their hair is generally of a grey colour, except in very cold countries, where it is white. It has large teeth, and a harsh loud bark, while the expression of the face, besides being fierce and cruel, is very cunning and crafty. Some day, if you remind me, I will bring a picture of one to show you."
"Do wolves eat people up?" asked little Bessie, in a frightened tone.
"I am afraid they do when they are hungry. They are said to come forth, for the most part, on dark and cloudy days, in order to escape the more easily."
"Where do the wolves go?" asked little Bessie, trembling with fear.
"Home, I suppose, to their dens," replied Miss Maberley, with a smile.
"Please, teacher, is there anything about the wolves in the Bible?" asked Polly, in a whisper.
"Yes," answered Miss Maberley. "Jeremiah and other speak of them as the evening wolves, probably from their being more hungry, and therefore more dangerous, then. There is also mention made of the blessed time when the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and Messiah shall reign over the whole earth. But you are too young to understand that at present. St. John mentions the wolf in connection with the hireling and the good shepherd. But you had better go home now. It is growing late, and your mother will wonder what has become of you."
With a timid glance at the fast-gathering twilight, the children thanked their kind teacher, and taking each other by the hand, ran quickly through the gloomy streets and up the wide staircase, without pausing to take breath, until they found themselves in their own room, where Matthew and his wife sat dozing over the little bit of fire, which looked as if it had gone to sleep also.
"Hulloa!" exclaimed the former, starting awake as the children burst into the room. "Who's that?"
"It's only Polly and me, father," replied Bessie, in a trembling voice.
"What a noise you made. I declare I thought it was the wolf."
"Oh, Matthew," interposed his wife, as she stirred the fire into a cheerful blaze.
"Well, we won't say any more about him; will we, little ones?"
The children tried to smile as they gathered round the dim fire.
"How the evenings draw in," observed Mrs. Reardon. "You are later, too, than usual."
"Yes, mother," said Polly. "We stayed to talk to Miss Maberley."
"What did she want to say to you?"
"It was we who wanted to say something to her," answered Polly.
"What could that be?" said their mother.
Polly hesitated, and looked at her little sister.
"Come, Bess, out with it," exclaimed Matthew. "Let us hear this wonderful secret."
"It is no secret, father," replied the child. "Polly and me only wanted to ask her about the wolf."
"The wolf again," exclaimed Matthew, much amused. "It was Bess who began it this time, mother. Well, and what did she say?"
"I can't remember all, father," answered the child, gravely, "and I don't think I want to—only that it was something like a dog, with grey hair, and large teeth, and a terrible voice."
"Grey hair," repeated her father. "I suppose by that it must have been an old wolf she was describing."
"I don't know that," said Polly reflectively, "for she told us afterwards that in cold countries the hair was white."
"Quite venerable, I declare," continued Matthew; "the cold in all probability causing them to live to a good old age."
"You would not have laughed, father, if you had heard all that Miss Mahoney said," observed Polly, earnestly.
"Shouldn't I? What was it, Polly?"
"About the wolves being so cruel and cunning, and coming out on dark days, or in the evening, as hungry as could be, and eating up every one who came in their way. You tell, Bessie; you always remember the best."
"I don't want to remember," repeated the child, shuddering. "But do you really think it is true, father?"
"Quite true. When the dark days come, yes, that's the time for them to be prowling about. And let the wolf once get his feet over a poor man's threshold, and there is little chance of escape. What, tears!" added he, as the child laid her head against his knees, and began to cry. "He shan't get in here to hurt my little Bessie while her father's alive. Well keep him out, never fear."
Mrs. Reardon was not one of those wives who are always saying to their husbands, "I told you how it would be." All she did was to make haste and get the tea ready, together with the unwonted addition of a plate of buttered toast, over which the children soon grew cheerful, forgetting for the time all their fears and troubles as children only can.
Neither did she refer to the subject afterwards when they had gone to bed in the little closet before mentioned, leaving Matthew and his wife sitting out the dim fire, apparently occupied by their own thoughts, or occasionally exchanging a few words—but never reading, or praying, or once remembering that it was the Lord's day, and not theirs, which was now quietly drawing to a close.
Presently Mrs. Reardon asked her husband whether he was ready to go to bed.
"Not just yet," was the reply.
His wife flung a shawl over her shoulders, and shivered with the cold. After a time she spoke again.
"It must be nearly eleven o'clock, Matthew."
"What's the use of going to bed?" demanded her husband. "I'm all right here, but the moment I lie down, I begin to cough."
"I think your cough seems worse than usual of late," said Mrs. Reardon, anxiously.
"I don't know about its being worse, but it's bad enough. The end of it will be that I shall have to sit up all night."
"I hope not. But this cold room will not do it any good."
"I wish I knew what would do it good," said Matthew.
"Does it hurt you?" asked Mrs. Reardon.
"Not very much; but it hinders me from sleeping, and unfits me for my work next day. Not that I should mind the pain in my head and side if it did not make my hand shake so. I have been expecting them to find fault with my writing every time I take it back."
"Could you not have some advice about your cough?"
"Plenty, I dare say, if I had only the money to pay for it. Or I might go to some hospital or dispensary, and make it worse, perhaps, waiting about hour after hour in the cold, besides losing a day's work."
"You have had your cough a long time, Matthew," said his wife.
"Long enough to get used to it," was the reply; "anyhow, grumbling won't mend it. It will have to go as it came."
Several times that night, the frightened children in their little bed awoke with a start at the sound of that deep hollow cough, and fancied that they heard the wolf at the door.
[CHAPTER V.]
THE OLD CLERK.
WHAT Matthew had feared, actually came to pass one morning not very long afterwards, when he had gone as usual to take back his papers.
"Reardon," said his employer, sharply.
"I am afraid you are getting careless. Your writing is not nearly so good as it used to be."
"I know it, sir. I can't help it."
"But you must help it," interrupted Mr. Heighington, "or I must find some one else to do the work. You can write well enough when you please."
"I'll try what I can do," said Matthew, "but my hand shakes sometimes."
"Oh! Your hand shakes, does it?" repeated his young employer, with a light laugh. "That's a bad sign, is it not, Mr. Reardon?"
"Perhaps, sir, you think that I drink too much?" said Matthew, interrogatively.
"I did not say so."
"But you looked it, sir."
"Did I! Well, anyhow, I have heard that it is a bad sign when a man like you in the prime of life complains of his hand shaking."
"It would be a hard matter," said Matthew, bitterly, "to get too much to drink out of the wages I receive, if I were ever so inclined."
"If you are not satisfied," replied Mr. Heighington, "all you have to do is to say so. There are dozens to be found any day who would gladly do the work for less."
"Hundreds! Sir," added Matthew, gloomily; "the more's the pity. But I did not mean to complain; a man cannot afford to complain who has a wife and two little children depending upon him—any more than he can afford to drink!"
"Very well," answered Mr. Heighington, with a keen glance. "Give him the papers, Marshall," added he, turning to the head clerk. "And—I say, Reardon—take care and not let your hand shake next time."
Matthew turned away in silence, and they heard him coughing as he went out into the cold air.
"I have a great mind to get rid of that fellow!" said Mr. Heighington.
"I wouldn't, Master Frank, if I were you," replied the old clerk. "He has been here a good many years now, on and off."
"The sooner he is off the better. I never liked the look of him."
"I can't say that poor Reardon has looked very well lately, sir," replied Marshall. "It's my belief that he's half-starved, and ill besides."
"Then you do not think he drinks?" asked Mr. Heighington.
"Not he, sir. I think that perhaps he would be all the better for a glass Of beer occasionally."
"Why does he not get it, then?"
"After all," said the good old clerk, "the wages, as he says, sir, ain't much to keep four of them. Suppose you were to raise them a little, Mr. Frank?"
"And yet Reardon himself confessed that hundreds would be glad to do the work for less money."
"God help them, poor things! But Mr. Reardon is a man who has seen better days. It's hard to come down in the world, harder even than it is to get up. I don't think he is long for this life, poor fellow, and can only hope that he may be ready for the life to come—that's the great thing, Mr. Frank."
"Do as you please," said Mr. Heighington, carelessly. "I have no objection to raising his wages, if you think that he is worth it."
"I can't say anything about his being worth it, Mr. Frank," replied the conscientious old man. "He does not write nearly so well nor so quickly as he used to do. But I am sure that he needs it, and that you will never regret having done him this kindness."
"You would have made a capital beggar, Marshall," said Mr. Heighington, laughing. "Only you never ask anything for yourself."
"I want nothing, sir," was the reply, "the Lord be praised. He has given me all that I need."
The greater part of Peter Marshall's life had been spent in the small dark office where he then sat. Coming and going at all hours, and in all weathers; ever the first to come and the last to go, and devoting his best energies to the cause of his employer—"not with eye-service, as men-pleasers, but in singleness of heart, fearing God." And even in this world the Lord rewarded him by putting it into the mind of old Mr. Heighington to leave him at his decease, which took place about a twelvemonth before our story commences, a small annuity in appreciation of his long and faithful services.
Peter Marshall was an old man himself now, and might have retired and lived comfortably enough in his humble way; but somehow he had grown used to the place, and had, besides, an old man's fancy, that "Master Frank," whom he had known from a child, would never be able to get on without him—a fancy which his young master was only too glad to encourage, and thus continue to avail himself of his advice and assistance, treating him rather as a friend than a servant.
It was believed by his fellow-clerks that Marshall had saved up a good round sum during his many years of service; the more especially as he was known to be a man of frugal habits, and without either kith or kin. And so he had, but it was in a savings bank with which they had, for the most part, very few dealings. The following inscription was written in shining characters over the door:
"He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again."
Every time Marshall went to put in a deposit, a heavenly voice might be heard by the ear of faith saying—
"Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
And the aged disciple looked for no better acknowledgment.
Many would have thought it a weary life, plodding through the streets early and late, winter and summer, and sitting at his desk from morning till evening, bounded and hemmed in, as it were, by the gloomy walls of the surrounding buildings, which shut out alike both air and sunshine. But it never seemed weary to Peter Marshall. He was always happy—always busy in the service of his earthly employer, but never forgetting that he had also a Master in heaven.
Many an earnest and believing prayer went up from that dark narrow office, to the celestial city, and many a loving answer came quickly down. Many a warning word was uttered there which it pleased the Lord to bless. And many a good seed sown which, although apparently lost for a season, bore fruit in after years to the glory of God.
There it was that a young clerk—he was only a youth then—with no mother, and no friend, save Marshall, to lead him in the right way, first found Christ. And there it was that the same boy, grown up to be a Christian man, came years afterwards from a distant land to tell him, with tears of thankfulness, all that the Lord had done for his soul since then. It was no wonder that the dull city office seemed so bright to Peter Marshall.
Let us listen to him for a moment as he sits with clasped hands and bowed head where Mr. Heighington had left him when he went out just now, after having given him the desired permission to increase Matthew Reardon's wages. He is sending up one of his telegrams to the heavenly city:
"Dear Lord Jesus, Thou knowest how I love him. Oh, do Thou love him also, and draw him to Thyself, in Thine own good time, as Thou alone canst be merciful; also to that poor man, Matthew Reardon, and put it into my heart what I shall say when I go and see him to-night, as I am minded to do. I am getting an old man now, Lord, as Thou well knowest, and the words don't come as readily as they ought, and as they did once."
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE KING'S MESSENGER.
TIRED as he was, the old clerk determined to carry the good news to Matthew Reardon as he went home.
"Poor fellow!" thought he. "Who knows but what it may cheer him up a bit."
Having never been there before, it took him some time to find the home, together with that particular portion of it in which the Reardons lived.
"If it's Matthew Reardon you want," exclaimed a young girl, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a thin coloured shawl, which scarcely concealed her ragged dress, "he's just gone out, and his wife with him. I wonder you didn't hear him cough. A regular churchyard cough it is, and no mistake."
"I am sorry that he should have been obliged to go out in the cold," said Marshall.
"For the matter of that," replied the girl, "poor people can't afford to be particular. It's kill or cure with them!"
"And suppose it should prove to be the former—what then?" asked Marshall.
"Why, they must die, to be sure;" and the girl laughed lightly.
"And after that?" persisted the old man.
"I don't know," was the reply. "It won't bear thinking about."
"The Bible tells us," continued Marshall, "that he who believeth on the Son hath everlasting life, and that he who believeth not the Son, shall not see life; but the wrath of God abideth on him."
"The wrath of God!" repeated his companion, shivering as she spoke. "It is a hard saying!"
"But then the remedy is so easy. You will find them both together in the Bible—
"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"
"You are not a parson—are you?" asked the girl after a pause.
"No," said he, smiling as he spoke, "I am only a poor man. But I have a kind and loving Master and, somehow, I can't help talking of Him wherever I go."
"Does he live near here? If I may make so bold as to ask?" demanded his companion.
"He is always near to those who seek Him."
"And his name?"
"The Lord Jesus Christ," replied the old clerk, reverently uncovering his grey head as he spoke.
"Was it your Master who sent you here to-night?" asked the girl.
"I do believe it was, now that you remind me of it, my poor child, unbeknown as it were, and I thinking all the time that I was going on my own errands. It is a way the dear Lord often has of answering prayer. Truly His ways are not our ways nor His thoughts our thoughts."
His companion looked as if she neither understood or heeded his last words.
"No man can serve two masters!" said she. "It's in the book you told me of just now. I used to read it years ago when I was a child;—but I have forgotten it, for the most part, since then,—and I don't want to remember!"
She passed the corner of her thin shawl over her eyes as she spoke, and ran hastily up the wide staircase before Marshall could utter a word in reply, pausing a moment at the first landing to point out the room in which the Reardons lived.
"You may hear the children singing," said she, "if you like to listen. I often do as I go past at night. They are locked in now. They are a proud set—those Reardons—but it's my belief that they want a friend, bad enough, poor things!"
She passed on quickly as she spoke, and disappeared in the darkness beyond, while the old clerk, after lingering a moment to listen to the children singing their little hymns, retraced his steps somewhat wearily, and prepared to return home.
No one who saw Peter Marshall that night with his hat bent down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up to keep out the cold, walking with slow and feeble steps, hesitating when he came to a crossing, and praying, doubtless, like Polly and Bessie, before he attempted to go over, and pushed, and jostled by the busy crowd, would have taken him to be the messenger of a great King.
The old clerk never thought to notice as he stood outside, on the cold landing, listening to Polly and Bessie, singing their simple hymns, that their young voices were low and tremulous. The poor children, although they knew that the door was safely locked, so that nothing could get in to hurt them, did not like to be left alone. They were afraid, and then, as children have a habit of doing at such times, they began to sing, somewhat faintly at first, until the sound of their own voices, or, it may be, the sweet words of the hymn, gave them courage, and they never left off until they had sung all they knew.
Bessie was the first to break the silence that followed. "Isn't it time father and mother came home?" asked she.
"I should think it was," replied Polly. "They are sure not to be longer than they can help, on account of father's cough. You are not tired, are you, Bessie?"
"No," answered the child; "but I wish they'd come. I don't like being left alone—I don't mind it so much since teacher told us about the Good Shepherd and the hired shepherd."
"Hireling," suggested her sister.
"It's all the same," continued Bessie.
"Don't you recollect what she said about the hireling shepherd who saw the wolf coming, and ran away? And about Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for the sheep—and about you and me, Polly, being His little lambs? I don't believe that He will let the wolf get in and hurt us."
"Perhaps it has gone away," said Polly.
"No; I heard it last night when the wind was blowing so hard. Teacher said that it always came out at night, or on dark cloudy days. I should not wonder," added she, in a whisper, "but what it is prowling about on the stairs at this moment."
"Somehow," said Polly, after a pause, during which the frightened children had drawn closer to each other, "I often think that it can't be a real wolf."
"You heard what father said about it," replied Bessie.
"But then he smiled, and so did mother."
"Mother did not want us to get frightened," said Bessie. "That was why she asked father not to say anything more about it."
Polly looked puzzled, and proposed that they should go on singing, but Bessie declared she could not sing any more that night, and suggested that they should kneel down instead, and ask the Good Shepherd to be pleased to take care of them and their parents, and to keep the wolf from the door.
[CHAPTER VII.]
GOOD NEWS.
THE following day, when Matthew Reardon went us usual to the office to take back his papers, he found Marshall alone.
"I was at your place last night, Reardon," said he.
"Were you? I didn't know it."
"A young woman, whom I met on the stairs, told me that you had just gone out."
"I was obliged to go. I'm sorry to have missed seeing you."
"No matter," said Marshall; "another time, perhaps, if you will allow me."
"To confess the truth," replied Matthew, bluntly, "we have not much time for company."
"But surely you see a friend now and then?"
"We have no friends," was the reply.
"And you won't accept me for a friend?" asked the old man, with a kindly smile. "We have known one another a good many years now, Reardon."
Matthew took the hand extended to him somewhat coldly, as was his wont.
"You have not told me yet," said he, "what you came for."
"You must guess," replied Marshall, rubbing his hands.
"Mr. Heighington has discharged me, perhaps, as he threatened."
"On the contrary, he has raised your wages."
Matthew Reardon, who had been standing until then, sat down hastily. Not only his hands, but his whole frame began to tremble, while the perspiration stood in drops on his pale brow.
"Forgive me," said the old clerk, gently, "for having kept you in suspense."
"It is nothing," replied Matthew; "I shall be all right directly, thank you."