The Thorogood Family, Robert Michael Ballantyne [books to read to be successful txt] 📗

from my home, and have no place to lay my head in here. But oh! sir, I want to be saved!"

The lame man looked with the deepest commiseration into the appealing eyes. "Come," he said, "walk with me. I will tell you of One who had no place where to lay His head."

She took his arm without a word, and the two hurried through the still crowded streets. Arrived at his own door, the lame man knocked. It was opened by a fair, soft, and exceedingly pretty little woman of about thirty years of age, whose fresh face was the very personification of goodness.

"Why, Jim!" she exclaimed, looking at the girl in surprise.

"Here we are, Molly," exclaimed the lame man, bustling into a snug room in which a fire was blazing, and cheering preparations for tea were going on, "and I've brought a friend to spend the night with us. There's plenty of room on your floor for a shake-down, eh? This is my sister," he added turning to the girl, "Mary Thorogood, but we always call her Molly. She has come to visit me this Christmas--much against her will, I believe, she's so fond of the old folk at home. Come now, take her into your room, Molly; make her comfortable, and then we'll have tea."

Molly took the girl into her room. Returning a moment later for something forgotten, she was touched on the shoulder by her brother, who whispered low in her ear:--

"A brand, Molly dear, plucked from the burning."

Molly turned her eyes upon her brother with a glad smile as she re-entered her little room, and shut the door.


CHAPTER SEVEN.

Twelve months passed away, and Christmas came again, with its frost and snow and sunshine--its blazing fires, its good cheer, and its merry greetings.

Many a Christmastide had now passed over the head of our blacksmith, John Thorogood, and his excellent wife Mary, but Time had touched them lightly in its flight. They both looked young and hale, and full of vigour. The only difference in them was a wrinkle or two at the corners of the eyes, and a few grey hairs mingling with the brown. Perhaps John was a little more corpulent than when he was a youth; but he could wield the fore-hammer as easily and powerfully as ever.

A cloud, however, had been gathering over their happy home during the past year. Molly--the sweet active girl who had never known a day's illness from her childhood--had fallen into bad health. Her step had lost its spring, but her cheerful spirit was unsubdued.

"You're better to-day, Molly darling?" asked the smith, in a tone which showed he was not sure of the answer.

"Yes, father, much better." Molly did not use endearing terms, but the sweetness of her looks and voice rendered such needless.

She was pale and thin, and could not check the touch of sadness in her tones.

"Fred is sure to come, darling," said Mrs Thorogood, stopping in her preparations for supper to smooth her daughter's fair head.

"Oh yes, mother, I know that Fred is sure to come," returned Molly, with a laugh and a little blush. "No fear of _him_. I was not thinking of him, but of Jim. It is the first Christmas we shall have spent without him. Dear Jim! I wonder what company he will have to spend it with him in the backwoods."

"Whatever company it may be," returned the mother, "they'll only have his body and mind--his spirit will be here."

"Well said, old Moll; we shall have the best part of him to-night in spite of the Atlantic Ocean," cried the blacksmith, who was seated on a stool making fun with the terrier, the cat, and the kitten--not the original animals, of course, but the lineal descendants of those which were introduced at the beginning of our tale.

"I hope they won't be late," remarked Mrs Thorogood, looking with some anxiety into a big pot which rested on the roaring fire.

"The boys are never late, Moll," remarked the smith, giving the cat a sly poke on the nose, which it resented with a fuff, causing the terrier to turn its head on one side inquiringly.

As he spoke the front door opened, and feet were heard in the passage stamping off the snow.

"There they are!" exclaimed old Moll, slipping the lid on the big pot, and wiping her hands hastily.

"No, it is too soon for them yet; they're always sharp to time. It is Fred," said Molly with a quiet smile.

She was right. Fred Harper, a fine strapping young fellow--a carpenter--had met Molly in London, and got engaged to her. She offered to let him off when she became ill and delicate, but he would not be let off. "Molly," this enthusiast had said, "if you were to become so thin that all your flesh were to disappear, I'd be proud to marry your skeleton!"

Fred sat down by her side, but had scarcely begun to make earnest inquiries after her health, when the outer door again opened, and another stamping of feet was heard in the passage. It was a tremendous stamping, and accompanied with strong, loud, manly voices.

"No mistake now!" said the smith, rising and opening the door, when in walked four such men as any father and mother might be proud of. It was not that they were big--plenty of blockheads are big: nor was it that they were handsome--plenty of nincompoops are well-favoured; but, besides being tall, and strong, and handsome, they were free, and hearty, and sensible, and wise--even in their joviality--and so thorough-going in word, sentiment, and act, that it was quite a pleasure merely to sit still and watch them, and listen.

"I told 'ee they'd come in their togs, old woman," said the smith, as his son Tom appeared, dusting the snow from his Coastguard uniform, on the breast of which was displayed the gold medal of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

"You might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised," said Dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war's man, as he printed a kiss on his mother's cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, "from the main truck to the keelson." At the same time bushy-browed Harry, with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery Bob,--the old uniform on his back and the Victoria Cross on his breast,--seized his father's hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son of Vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.

They were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and what a noise they did make, to be sure!

"You're not too soon, boys," said the smith; "old Moll has been quite anxious about a mysterious _something_ in the big pot there."

"Let me help you to take it off the fire, mother," said the gallant tar, stepping forward.

"Nay, that's my duty," cried Harry, leaping to the front, and seizing the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.

When the _something_ was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous meat-pudding of the most tempting character--round and heavy like a cannon-ball. Of course it did not flourish alone. Old Moll had been mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, "of the King of the Cannibal Islands."

"Talking of Cannibal Islands," said Dick, the sailor, during a pause in the feast, "you've no idea what a glorious place that Pacific Ocean is, with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. It would be just the place to make you well again, Molly. You'd grow fat in a month."

"Ha; get fat, would she," growled Bob, the soldier, "so as to be ready for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for supper--eh? Never fear, Molly, we won't let you go to the Cannibal Islands. Give us another cut o' that cannon-ball, mother. It's better eating than those I've been used to see skipping over the battlefield."

"But they're not _all_ Cannibal Islands, man," returned Dick; "why, wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as well-behaved as you are. D'you know, Molly, I've really been thinking of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and Fred would go with me."

"It would be charming!" replied Molly, with a sweet though languid smile. "We'd live in a wooden hut, roofed with palm-leaves, and while you and Fred were away hunting for dinner, I would milk the buffaloes, and boil the cocoa-nuts!"

"Ah, Molly," said Tom, the Coastguardsman, stroking his bushy beard, "the same idea has been running in my head, as well as in Dick's, ever since we got that letter from Jim, telling us of the beauty of his new home, and urging us all to emigrate. I've more than half a mind to join him out there, if you and the old folk will consent to go."

"You're not serious, are you, Tom?" asked Harry, the fireman, laying down his knife and fork.

"Indeed I am."

"Well, you might do worse. I would join you myself, if there were only houses enough to insure a fire or two every month."

"Why, man," said Fred Harper, "in these lands the whole forest goes on fire sometimes--surely that would suffice to keep your spirits up and your heart warm."

"Let's have a look at Jim's last epistle, mother," said Dick, when the feast was nearly over, and fragrant coffee smoked upon the board, (for you know the Thorogood Family were total abstainers), "and let Fred read it aloud. He's by far the best reader amongst us."

"Well, that's not sayin' much for him," remarked the fireman, with a sly glance at his sister.

"Your lamp is not as powerful as it might be, mother," said Fred, drawing his chair nearer to that of the fair invalid, as he unfolded the letter. "Turn your eyes this way, Molly,--there, keep 'em steady on the page; I can see _now_!"

"Eagle's Nest, Rocky Mountain Slopes, 5th October 18---," began Fred. "Darling Mother,--You've no idea what a charming place God has given me here, with plenty of work to do of the most congenial kind. I have only an opportunity for a short letter this time, because the postboy has arrived unexpectedly, and won't wait. Postboy! You would smile at that word if you saw him. He's a six-foot man in leather, with a big beard, and a rifle and tomahawk. He was attacked by Indians on the way over the mountains, but escaped, and he attacked a grizzly bear afterwards which didn't escape--but I must not waste time on _him_, Well, I must devote all my letter this post to urging you to come out. This is a splendid country for big, strong, hearty, willing men like father and my brothers. Of course it is no better than other countries--rather worse--for weak men, either in mind or body. Idlers go to the wall here as elsewhere; but for men willing and able to work--ready to turn their hands to anything--it is a splendid opening. For myself--I feel that my Heavenly Father