With that, Mr. ’Rusalem began to grope about the bed, chuckling, yet somewhat anxious, for not a vestige of an occupant appeared, till a dive downward produced a sudden agitation of the clothes, a squeak, and the unexpected appearance out at the foot of the bed of a singular figure that dodged into a corner with one arm up, as if to ward off a blow, while a sleepy little voice exclaimed beseechingly, “I’m up, I’m up; don’t hit me!”
“Lord, love the child; who’d think of doing that! Wake up, Joe, and see your friends,” said Mr. ’Rusalem, advancing cautiously.
At the sound of his voice, down went the arm, and Mrs. Podgers saw a boy of nine or ten, arrayed in a flannel garment that evidently belonged to Mr. ’Rusalem; for though none too long, it was immensely broad, and the voluminous sleeves were pinned up, showing a pair of wasted arms, chapped with cold and mottled with bruises. A large blue sock still covered one foot. The other was bound up as if hurt. A tall cotton nightcap, garnished with a red tassel, looked like a big extinguisher on a small candle; and from under it, a pair of dark, hollow eyes glanced sharply with a shrewd, suspicious look that made the little face more pathetic than the marks of suffering, neglect, and abuse, which told the child’s story without words. As if quite reassured by ’Rusalem’s presence, the boy shuffled out of his corner, saying coolly, as he prepared to climb into his nest again:
“I thought it was the old one when you grabbed me. Ain’t this bed a first-rater, though?”
Mr. ’Rusalem lifted the composed young personage into the middle of the big bed, where he sat bolt upright, surveying the prospect from under the coverlet with an equanimity that quite took the good lady’s breath away. But Mr. ’Rusalem fell back and pointed to him, saying, “There he is, Mum,” with as much pride and satisfaction as if he had found some rare and valuable treasure; for the little child was very precious in his sight. Mrs. Podgers really didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and settled the matter by plumping down beside the boy, saying cordially, as she took the grimy little hands into her own:
“He’s heartily welcome, ’Rusalem. Now tell me all about it, my poor dear, and don’t be afraid.”
“Ho, I ain’t afraid a you nor he. I ain’t got nothin’ to tell; only my name’s Joe, and I’m sleepy.”
“Who is your mother, and where do you live, deary?” asked Mrs. Podgers, haunted with the idea that some woman must be anxious for the child.
“Ain’t got any. We don’t have ’em where I lives. The old one takes care of me.”
“Who is the old one?”
“Granny. I works for her, and she lets me stay alonger her.”
“Bless the dear! What work can such a mite do?”
“Heaps a things. I sifts ashes, picks rags, goes beggin’, runs arrants, and sometimes the big fellers lets me sell papers. That’s fun; only I gets knocked ’round, and it hurts, you’d better believe.”
“Did you come here begging, and, being afraid to ring, stand outside looking in at me enjoying myself, like a selfish creeter as I am?”
“I forgot to ask for the cold vittles a-lookin’ at warm ones, and thinkin’ if they was mine what I’d give the little fellers when I has my tree.”
“Your what, child?”
“My Christmas tree. Look a-here, I’ve got it, and all these to put on it tomorrer.”
From under his pillow the boy produced a small branch of hemlock, dropped from some tree on its passage to a gayer festival than little Joe’s; also an old handkerchief which contained his treasures—only a few odds and ends picked up in the streets: a gnarly apple, half a dozen nuts, two or three dingy bonbons, gleaned from the sweepings of some store, and a bit of cheese, which last possession he evidently prized highly.
“That’s for the old one; she likes it, and I kep it for her, ’cause she don’t hit so hard when I fetch her goodies. You don’t mind, do you?” he said, looking inquiringly at Mr. ’Rusalem, who blew his nose like a trumpet and patted the big nightcap with a fatherly gesture more satisfactory than words.
“What have you kept for yourself, dear?” asked Mrs. Podgers, with an irrepressible sniff, as she looked at the poor little presents and remembered that they “didn’t have mothers” where the child lived.
“Oh, I had my treat alonger him,” said the boy, nodding toward ’Rusalem, and adding enthusiastically, “Wasn’t that prime! It was real Christmasy a settin’ by the fire, eating lots and not bein’ hit.”
Here Mrs. Podgers broke down; and, taking the boy in her arms, sobbed over him as if she had found her lost Neddy in this sad shape. The little lad regarded her demonstration with some uneasiness at first. But there is a magic about a genuine woman that wins its way everywhere, and soon the outcast nestled to her, feeling that this wonderful night was getting more “Christmasy” every minute.
Mrs. Podgers was herself again directly; and seeing that the child’s eyelids were heavy with weakness and weariness, she made him comfortable among the pillows and began to sing the lullaby that used to hush her little son to sleep. Mr. ’Rusalem took something from his drawer and was stealing away, when the child opened his eyes and started up, calling out as he nodded, till the tassel danced on his preposterous cap:
“I say! Good night, good night!”
Looking much gratified, Mr. ’Rusalem returned, shook the little hand extended to him, kissed the grateful face, and went away to sit on the stairs with tear after tear dropping off the end of his nose as he listened to the voice that, after two years of silence, sung the air this simple soul thought the loveliest in the world. At first, it was more sob than song, but soon the soothing music flowed on unbroken, and the wondering child, for the first time within his memory, fell asleep in the sweet shelter of a woman’s arms.
When Mrs. Podgers came out, she found Mr. ’Rusalem intent on stuffing another parcel into a long gray stocking already full to overflowing.
“For the little chap, Mum. He let fall that he’d never done this sort of thing in his life, and, as he hadn’t any stockings of his own, poor dear, I took the liberty of lending him one of mine,” explained Mr. ’Rusalem, surveying the knobby article with evident regret that it wasn’t bigger.
Mrs. Podgers said nothing, but looked from the stocking to the fatherly old gentleman who held it; and if Mrs. Podgers had obeyed the impulse of her heart, she would have forgotten decorum and kissed him on the spot. She didn’t, however, but went briskly into her own room, whence she presently returned with red eyes and a pile of small garments in her hands. Having nearly exhausted his pincushion in trying to suspend the heavy stocking, Mr. ’Rusalem had just succeeded as she appeared. He saw what she carried, watched her arrange the little shirt, jacket, and trousers, the half-worn shoes and tidy socks, beside the bed, with motherly care, with an expression which caused Mr. ’Rusalem to dart downstairs and compose himself by rubbing his hair erect, and shaking his fist in the painted face of the late Podgers.
An hour or two later the store was closed, the room cleared, Mrs. Podgers in her armchair on one side of the hearth with her knitting in her hand, Mr. ’Rusalem in his armchair on the other side with his newspaper on his knee, both looking so cozy and comfortable that anyone would have pronounced them a contented couple on the spot. Ah, but they weren’t, you see, and that spoilt the illusion, to one party at least. Both were rather silent, both looked thoughtfully at the fire, and the fire gave them both excellent counsel, as it seldom fails to do when it finds any kindred warmth and brightness in the hearts and souls of those who study it. Mrs. Podgers kindled first and broke out suddenly with a nod of great determination.
“’Rusalem, I’m going to keep that boy, if it’s possible!”
“You shall, Mum, whether it’s possible or not,” he answered, nodding back at her with equal wisdom.
“I don’t know why I never thought of such a thing before. There’s a many children suffering for mothers, and heaven knows I’m we
arying for some little child to fill my Neddy’s place. I wonder if you didn’t think of this when you took that boy in; it would be just like you!”
Mr. ’Rusalem shook his head, but looked so guilty, that Mrs. Podgers was satisfied, called him “a thoughtful dear,” within herself, and kindled still more.
“Between you and Joe and the teapot, I’ve got another idea into my stupid head, and I know you won’t laugh at it. That loving little soul has tried to get a tree for some poor babies who have no one to think of them but him, and even remembered the old one, who must be a wretch to hit that child, and hit hard, too; I know by the looks of his arms. Well, I’ve a great longing to go and give him a tree—a right good one, like those Neddy used to have; to get in ‘the little fellers’ he tells of, give them a good dinner, and then a regular Christmas party. Can’t it be done?”
“Nothing could be easier, Mum,” and Mr. ’Rusalem, who had been taking counsel with the fire till he quite glowed with warmth and emotion, nodded, smiled, and rubbed his hands, as if Mrs. Podgers had invited him to a Lord Mayor’s feast or some equally gorgeous jollification.
“I suppose it’s the day, and thinking of how it came to be, that makes me feel as if I wanted to help everybody, and makes this Christmas so bright and happy that I never can forget it,” continued the good woman with a heartiness that made her honest face quite beautiful to behold.
If Mrs. Podgers had only known what was going on under the capacious waistcoat opposite, she would have held her tongue; for the more charitable, earnest, and tenderhearted she grew, the harder it became for Mr. ’Rusalem to restrain the declaration which had been hovering on his lips ever since old Podgers died. As the comely woman sat there talking in that genial way, and glowing with goodwill to all mankind, it was too much for Mr. ’Rusalem; and finding it impossible to resist the desire to know his fate, he yielded to it, gave a portentous hem, and said abruptly:
“Well, Mum, have I done it?”
“Done what?” asked Mrs. P., going on with her work.
“Made you uncomfortable, according to promise.”
“Oh dear, no, you’ve made me very happy and will have to try again,” she answered, laughing.
“I will, Mum.”
As he spoke, Mr. ’Rusalem drew his chair nearer, leaned forward, and looking straight at her, said deliberately, though his voice shook a little:
“Mrs. Podgers, I love you hearty; would you have any objections to marrying me?”
Not a word said Mrs. Podgers; but her knitting dropped out of her hand, and she looked as uncomfortable as she could desire.
“I thought that would do it,” muttered Mr. ’Rusalem, but went on steadily, though his ruddy face got paler and paler, his voice huskier and huskier, and his heart fuller and fuller every word he attempted.
“You see, Mum, I have took the liberty of loving you ever since you came, more than ten years ago. I was eager to make it known long before this, but Mr. Podgers spoke first, and then it was no use. It come hard for a time, but I learned to give you up, though I couldn’t learn not to love you, being as it was impossible. Since Podgers died, I’ve turned it over in my mind frequent, but felt as if I was too old and rough and poor in every way to ask so much. Lately, the wish has growed too strong for me, and tonight it won’t be put down. If you want a trial, Mum, I should be that I’ll warrant, for do my best, I could never be all I’m wishful of being for your sake. Would you give it name, and if not agreeable, we’ll let it drop, Mum; we’ll let it drop.”
If it hadn’t been for the teapot, Mrs. Podgers would have said yes at once. The word was on her lips, but as she looked up, the fire flashed brightly on the teapot (which always occupied the place of honor on the sideboard, for Mrs. P. was intensely proud of it), and she stopped to think, for it reminded her of something. In order to explain this, we must keep Mr. ’Rusalem waiting for his answer a minute.
Rather more than ten years ago, old Podgers happened to want a housekeeper and invited a poor woman to fill that post in his bachelor establishment. He never would have thought of marrying her, though the young woman was both notable and handsome, if he hadn’t discovered that his partner loved her. Whereupon, the perverse old fellow immediately proposed, lest he should lose his housekeeper, and was accepted from motives of gratitude. Mrs. Podgers was a dutiful wife, but not a very happy one; for the world said that Mr. P. was a hard, miserly man, and his wife was forced to believe the world in the right, till the teapot changed her opinion.
There happened to be much suffering among the poor one year, owing to the burning of the mill, and contributions were solicited for their relief. Old Podgers, though a rich man, refused to give a penny, but it was afterwards discovered that his private charities exceeded many more ostentatious ones, and the word “miserly” was changed to “peculiar.” When times grew prosperous again, the workmen, whose families had been so quietly served, clubbed together, got the teapot, and left it at Mr. Podgers’ door one Christmas Eve. But the old gentleman never saw it, for sudden apoplexy struck and took him off that very afternoon.
In the midst of her grief, Mrs. Podgers was surprised, touched, and troubled by this revelation; for she had known nothing of the affair till the teapot came. Womanlike, she felt great remorse for what now seemed like blindness and ingratitude; she fancied she owed him some atonement, and remembering how often he had expressed a hope that she wouldn’t marry again after he was gone, she resolved to gratify him.
The buxom widow had had many opportunities of putting off her widow’s clothes, but she had refused all offers without regret till now. The teapot reminded her of Podgers and her vow; and though her heart rebelled, she thought it her duty to check the answer that sprung to her lips, and slowly, but decidedly, replied:
“I’m truly grateful to you, ’Rusalem, but I couldn’t do it. Don’t think you’d ever be a trial, for you’re the last man to be that to any woman. It’s a feeling I have that it wouldn’t be kind to Podgers. I can’t forget how much I owe him, how much I wronged him, and how much I can please him by staying as I am, for his frequent words were, ‘Keep the property together, and don’t marry, Jane.’”
“Very well, Mum, then we’ll let it drop and fall back into the old ways. Don’t fret yourself about it. I shall bear up, and—” There Mr. ’Rusalem’s voice gave out, and he sat frowning at the fire, bent on bearing up manfully, though it was very hard to find that Podgers dead as well as Podgers living was to keep from him the happiness he had waited for so long. His altered face and broken voice were almost too much for Mrs. P., and she found it necessary to confirm her resolution by telling it. Laying one hand on his shoulder, she pointed to the teapot with the other, saying gently:
“The day that came and I found out how good he was, too late to beg his pardon and love him for it, I said to myself, ‘I’ll be true to Podgers till I die, because that’s all I can do now to show my repentance and respect.’ But for that feeling and that promise, I couldn’t say no to you, ’Rusalem, for you’ve been my best friend all these years, and I’ll be yours all my life, though I can’t be anything else, my dear.”
For the first time since its arrival, the mention of the teapot did not produce the accustomed demonstration from Mr. ’Rusalem. On the contrary, he looked at it with a momentary expression of indignation and disgust, strongly suggestive of an insane desire to cast the precious relic on the floor and trample on it. If any such temptation did assail him, he promptly curbed it and looked about the room with a forlorn air that made Mrs. Podgers hate herself, as he meekly answered:
“I’m obliged to you, Mum; the feeling does you honor. Don’t mind me. It’s rather a blow, but I’ll be up again directly.”
He retired behind his paper as he spoke, and Mrs. Podgers spoilt her knitting in respectful silence, till Mr. ’Rusalem began to read aloud as usual, to assure her that, in spite of the blow, he was up again.
In th
e gray dawn, the worthy gentleman was roused from his slumbers by a strange voice whispering shrilly in his ear:
“I say, there’s two of ’em. Ain’t it jolly?”
Starting up, he beheld a comical little goblin standing at his bedside with a rapturous expression of countenance and a pair of long gray stockings in its hands. Both were heaping full, but one was evidently meant for Mr. ’Rusalem, for every wish, whim, and fancy of his had been guessed and gratified in a way that touched him to the heart. If it were not indecorous to invade the privacy of a gentleman’s apartment, I could describe how there were two boys in the big bed that morning; how the old boy revelled in the treasures of his stocking as heartily as the young one; how they laughed and exclaimed, pulled each other’s nightcaps off, and had a regular pillow fight; how little Joe was dressed into his new clothes and strutted like a small peacock in them; how Mr. ’Rusalem made himself splendid in his Sunday best and spent ten good minutes in tying the fine cravat somebody had hemmed for him. But lest it should be thought improper, I will merely say that nowhere in the city did the sun shine on happier faces than these two showed Mrs. Podgers, as Mr. ’Rusalem came in with Joe on his shoulder, both wishing her a merry Christmas as heartily as if this were the first the world had ever seen.
Mrs. Podgers was as brisk and blithe as they, though she must have sat up one-half the night making presents for them and laid awake the other half making plans for the day. As soon as she had hugged Joe, toasted him red, and heaped his plate with everything on the table, she told them the order of her schedule.