Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

A New Zealand Courtship and other Work-A-Day Stories

Nackie

page 135

Nackie

A Little boy, with a thin, eager face and very bright blue eyes, stood on the wharf of a London dock, looking up at the black side of a huge Australian liner making ready to start. An older lad darted down the gangway and put a sixpence into his hand.

'My first tip. Go and get dinner there,' he said breathlessly, pointing in the direction of the grand big coffee-house inside the dock gates, and was back again before he was missed.

They were brothers. Bob, the elder, was working his way out to Australia as an under-steward on the big ship, leaving his little brother to fight the world alone, with no work and no prospects; but Nackie was far too much excited to think of that. His little voice rang in the cheer that rose page 136as the vessel moved. He wanted the people to cheer again and again. The ship moved slowly out into the lock. Nackie, as he was called (his name was John Smith), climbed on a pile of wood to watch her. Directly he began to mount, it seemed as if an iron hand clutched hold of his chest inside, to throw him down again; but he mastered that, and reached the top, with all the world before him.

His mother had died when he was a baby, leaving him and an older brother and sister to the cruel mercies of a drunken father and stepmother. Yet their childhood had not been all sad. The inspector swept them into school by day; the Band of Hope and Ragged School got hold of them in the evenings and on Sundays, and gave them happy hours. Nackie, the youngest and most helpless, had the worst of it. As the others grew old enough, they both escaped, and earned their own living bravely, keeping in touch with one another and Nackie at a mission-room where they held trysts. Nackie dared not know where the others lived, for if the parents could have found out, they would have swooped down upon them and taken their hard earnings; but the people at the mission knew, and when the boy was twelve years old he too ran away, and went to Bob. Blows, starvation, the daily terror of violence, and page 137agonies of suspense over the chances of getting food, had done their work; he was stunted, subject to bronchitis, with the beginnings of organic disease in his heart. Yet he was a bright and dauntless little fellow, inured to hardness, and fired with a wild ambition to earn his own living—not to snatch it, and catch it, and pick it up, like the cadgers, but steadily earn it, as his brother, and James Morris, his sister's sweetheart, had risen to do.

Bob was employed at a coffee-house near the docks, and Nackie went to work there too, and had his food in return. The woman where Bob lodged let them turn in together at night. For one year the boy was happy, intensely happy, without a care in the world. But the dreaded time was drawing near when Bob would be eighteen, and must either be turned off or spend his young manhood in working for boys' wages. A chance of getting out to Australia was too good to be lost: he took it, hoping that Nackie would get promotion; but the coffee - house people said he was too small, and turned him off altogether.

His sister Louisa, who had been working away steadily as a maid-of-all-work, was now married, and lived in Stepney. Nackie had her roof to shelter him, sixpence in his pocket, hope—and an page 138appetite. He watched the ship out of sight, and then made his way to the coffee - house, where, for the sum of fourpence - halfpenny, he had a sumptuous dinner (he called it 'scrumptious'), and felt himself the proudest young man in London, especially when he paid the reckoning. This done, he walked boldly up to a man who seemed to be in charge, and said: 'Please, sir, do you want a boy?'

'Do you want a master, eh?' said the man.

'Yes, sir.'

The man shook his head. 'I've got boys enough,' he said, 'and I'm afraid you wouldn't be smart enough for me if I hadn't. That is, not strong enough,' he added kindly. 'You'd be as smart as you could, I'll believe you; but you see, we can't afford to give people a dinner like that for fourpence-halfpenny, and keep any cats about but what can catch mice in double-quick time.'

Nackie looked down, abashed at his own presumption. The big man was sorry for the little fellow's disappointment.

'Look out for something not quite so stiff, to begin with,' he said. 'You'll be getting bigger and stronger every year. Keep up your heart, and you're sure to come into your luck one of these days,' and away he walked, whistling page 139'There's a good time coming, boys, Wait a little longer.'

Nackie had to pause a moment, to get over the sickness of that hope deferred, and the sudden rush of longing for Bob that came over him. Then he walked off, very upright, with his hands in his pockets, and whistled 'There's a good time coming,' like the manager. He had a very sweet and tuneful little whistle, though after that man's it was like the crow of a bantam compared with a Brahma cock's.

James and Louisa wanted to hear all about the embarkation.

'And now, what are you going to be after, young chap?' said James. 'You'll have to make a fight for your bread, you know.'

'I'm going to,' said Nackie. It was rather sore for him to feel that James thought he must have done badly where he was, or he would have been kept on. He had tried to explain, and he could not go over it all again. James was kind, but he wanted to make a man of him — perhaps rather too fast.

For ten sad days Nackie tried for work, and James, and Will Parker, Bob's chum at their lodgings, tried for him: and no one would give him any, because he was so small and frail. On the tenth night he came in late, but with sparkling page 140eyes — he had found employment as 'boy' at a small public-house near, with board, lodging, and eighteenpence a week.

'A Band of Hope boy go to a public-house!' said James.

Nackie's face flushed up, but he answered bravely, 'That's why they want me, because they think I shan't get tight.'

James had seen too much of child-drunkenness to laugh at that. 'You might have tried a bit longer for something better,' he said.

'I've tried all round. I ain't good enough for anything better,' said Nackie, and in spite of himself the tears started into his eyes. 'At least, not yet,' he added stoutly. 'I must take what I can get, till I'm bigger.'

It seemed to him rather hard that James should insist so much on his getting to work, and then look down upon the only work that offered. He felt discouraged, and went out to tell the news to Will Parker.

'I wouldn't mind so much if he wasn't to sleep there,' said Louisa.

Her eyes and her husband's both turned involuntarily from the month-old baby on her lap, to the place under the shelves which served as a dresser, where Nackie had been sleeping on a doubled - up rug. Both were thinking the same page 141thing, and thinking, too—they could not help it—that if they took him in altogether, the burden of his illnesses and breakdowns must fall upon them; and this little baby, and perhaps others after it, would have to suffer. Yet James could not look at his own child and say that the boy who had never known a father's love must go out and fend for himself.

'I'll just step round and see what the place is like,' he said.

The baby was in the cradle when he came back, and Louisa sewing by the little lamp.

'Well, I've settled it,' he said. 'He is to have three shillings a week and his dinner there, and sleep and get the rest of his tuck with us. That's what I've let you in for, old woman.'

'Oh, James!' Louisa drew his face down for a long kiss.

'They won't give him any more, because they say he could sleep there if he liked,' said James, 'but I wouldn't have that. But whatever trouble comes of it, you'll get the worst of, old girl.'

'Oh, perhaps it will be the other way,' said Louisa cheerfully. 'They say doing anything like this brings luck.'

'I've not seen it,' said James. 'As far as I see, doing a kindness mostly lets people in for a page 142lot of trouble, and that's all they get. But if it turns out well for the boy, that's what we want.'

It was rather a blow to Nackie's pride to find that he was not to be quite independent, after all; but when he lay down in his corner that night, he could not help feeling a deep sense of relief that it was his own, now. One place in this dear little home belonged to him.

James got wood and canvas, and knocked up a stretcher bed, which was made up for Nackie at night. He had a box of his own to keep his things in, and a peg for his coat and hat. It was grandeur, after sleeping in his clothes or on them, for fear of their being pawned for drink. Even in the last happy year he had never had a place of his own for anything — only half of Bob's.

He was to pay Louisa eighteenpence a week. She assured him that that would cover all he cost her, out of pocket; and in her anxiety to make this come true she began developing that marvellous power of making a little go a long way which marks good housewives among the poor, and seems miraculous to those who are called their 'betters.' She had not been trained to this, and while she had only herself and James to think of, she could get on without working miracles; page 143but now that she wanted to feed up poor Nackie and make him very comfortable, without costing James a farthing, a miracle was wanted, and she gave her mind to finding out how to work it, with the help of a Mothers' Meeting, and of wise neighbours who had done as much before her. James had regular work on the Great Eastern Railway, but he allowed his parents a shilling a week; and after the rent and the sick-club money were paid, what remained was no more than they could very well have spent as it came in, though they felt bound to put by some of it every week towards the time when their expenses were likely to be greater. And James was a fellow who hated pinching and paring and having to give hard pulls to make the two ends meet: he would have liked to see them, as Dora Greenwell says, 'not only meet, but tie in a handsome bow.' And yet he took in Nackie.

Louisa tried to make it up to him, and succeeded so well that, with only Nackie's eighteenpence towards it, they were actually able to put by more than they had done before. Every day since her marriage she had prayed, 'Lord, make me a good wife to my good husband.' James did not know how he was opening the way for the answer to that prayer, when he did this kindness to her little brother.

page 144

That was all the luck that Nackie brought; and as no one gave him the credit of it, he was generally regarded as a misfortune to the family, especially when winter came, and he had turns of illness which compelled him to lose his work for several days together. People were apt to sigh when his name came up, though they commonly added, in a hopeless sort of way, 'Well—you will have your reward.'

James shrugged his shoulders at that. The only reward he did it for, or ever hoped to get, was to see Nackie well on his own feet, respectable and good.

And Nackie, all the time, was fighting his desperate fight for bread and independence, with a spirit that deserved respect, if ever pluck and patience did; but alas, the world judges not by effort, but by success; and try as he might, he could not be as smart as other boys, for want of breath. Other boys could jump when they were called, without feeling that vulture's clutch upon the heart. Nackie felt it every time, and yet he jumped. In his years of work, he bore the pain of a hundred battle-wounds, and never thought he was a hero—only 'a poor tool.' As long as he could struggle on, he was happy. He dragged through each long day's work, whistling cheerfully when he had any breath to spare—enduring in page 145silence when he had not; and he went home—yes, home, to a warm supper and kind words.

As winter drew on, how he prized the warm, cosy place to sleep in, where a fire had burned all day! On cold nights, James would throw up the cinders at bedtime to make it burn a little longer. Then, when the lamp was out, and the walls lit up with a still, red glow from the dying fire, and it was all quiet, save for an occasional noise outside, or the sound of a cinder dropping on the hearth, Nackie lay on his stretcher bed; and while his aches and pains subsided under the warmth and rest, and the nervous tension of the day relaxed till sleep became possible, he dreamed dreams. The landlord's son took in the Boys' Own Paper, and let him share it: he devoured it and every other adventurous reading that came in his way. In the witching firelight the stories enlarged, like the shadows on the walls, and he was part of them. He went out hunting wolves upon the plains; he climbed precipices, leaped gulfs, rode madly to give warning of prairie fires, on a horse that went faster than any butcher's pony he had ever seen; he slew Turks and rescued young damsels — till delicious dreaminess of another kind overpowered his waking dreams, and he slept until his cough woke him, and he started up to choke and struggle and prop himself up against page 146the wall, all in the dark and cold, with the fire out. But he had no more sense of revulsion in waking to find himself a little, coughing, breathless, pothouse boy than a child has when called away from its make - believe play. It was hard to quit the make - believe, because it was so delightful in itself; but there was always the confidence that it would go on again to-morrow, quite independent of circumstances.

That was a long, hard winter. It seemed as if the warm weather would never come. Late in the spring, Nackie went to an old scholars' party at the dear old mission-room, and after tea there was a show of dissolving views. One was of a caravan in the desert, men and camels ready to sink on the burning sand, and an effect of mirage in the distance,—palm trees and a cool blue lake towards which the travellers' longing eyes were turned. The speaker explained that it was not water—only a vision quivering in the hot desert air; the thirsty wanderer, seeking it, would find still the same dry, burning sand.

That slide was taken out, and the next one bore the words, 'The mirage shall become a pool' (Isa. xxxv. 7, R.V. margin). So many of our hopes and dreams are mirage, now, the speaker said: the palm trees vanish as we draw near; but it page 147will not be so for ever. One day we shall come up to the blue waters and feathery palms of our desire, and find them all real. 'Delight thyself in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thy heart.'

Nackie drank in those words. He was fourteen now, and he could not quite live upon dreams. He had whistled 'There's a good time coming, boys,' all the year long, and was as far as ever from any sign of 'coming to his luck,' as the coffee-house man said he would. He went home that night and told James and Louisa that the Bible says, 'all our mirradges—that's things what we'd like to have,' he explained, 'are to come true.'

'That must be in kingdom come, I think,' said James drily.

'Well, that's what we ask for every day, isn't it?' said Louisa, 'so I suppose we expect to get it. The Lord wouldn't have told us to say, "Thy kingdom come" unless it was to.'

Nackie curled down in his little bed that night very happy. It was so much easier to wait, if one could make sure that some good time would really come. Of course he did not expect ever really to go out hunting and sailing and mountaineering, as he did in his stories; but he had caught hold of a confidence that somehow, somewhere, he would feel the glow, the glory and the rush of life, page 148the passion and zest that his stories figured, and that he would never find—no, never—while he toiled and panted on in Stepney, where the winters were so long, and the summers so short and dim. He did not exactly know what it meant to 'delight thyself in the Lord,' but he knew he wanted to do whatever would make the Lord pleased with him, so he thought he might claim the promise about his 'mirradges'—the desires of his heart.

There was one definite hope of bringing some of them to pass—if he went 'beyond seas.' Bob had not come back in the big ship; he found work in Adelaide, where the sun was even too hot; and when the chary sunshine poured down on Stepney, and Nackie basked in it, and felt almost well while it lasted, he thought about 'beyond seas.'

He had hoped to get more money by this time, but in the autumn he had a bad attack of bronchitis, and it left him so weak that he was obliged to accept shorter hours instead of higher pay—thankful not to be turned off altogether. They were all ill, in the course of that winter, but not all at once. James had a bronchial attack. He managed to pull through without losing a day's work, but the experience greatly increased his respect for Nackie; it taught him something of what the little fellow had to bear. Often at page 149night, when, just as the baby settled off, Nackie's cough would begin, and it was so distressing to hear him, Louisa felt as if it would send her distracted if he did not stop; James would get up and go to see if he was warmly covered, and had his cough-stuff by him. He knew the boy was grateful, but never guessed how his heart swelled at the token of love from a brave runner in the race of life, where he felt himself so sadly far behind.

The winter passed, and in the spring another little daughter came. Nackie struggled on, with aching bones and tugging heart, living on hope; but instead of coming to his luck, in the late autumn he took a chill and fought too long against it. When at last he dropped, he had to be taken to the hospital. There for weeks he lay with Death at his pillow; and when the scale slowly turned, and Death went a little farther off, it took him all the rest of the winter to struggle back to life. But as soon as the extremity of suffering relaxed, he began to enjoy the long leisure for reading and dreaming. Such fine 'mirradges' the books he read conjured up! The long rest and good food gave him a sense of physical comfort such as he had scarcely known before in all his life; and the leisure for reading and dreaming was a delight. He was sure he would go out better page 150than he came in, after all this rest; but in time he began to be home-sick, and longed for work and friends. He was glad when the doctor told him, one morning, that he would soon be discharged.

A little later, he saw the doctor speaking to the sister of the ward, and heard him say, 'Yes, next Thursday, I should say. But he will never be good for anything again.'

When the sister came down the ward, she said cheerfully, 'The doctor thinks you will be going out next Thursday, Nackie.'

The boy's heart died within him. He had been trying to think they had not been speaking of him; there was hardly a doubt about it now. Never good for anything—except the workhouse! And he had made such a brave fight for his bread! Where was that promised luck? He had waited so long—so long for the good time, and it was not coming.

His friend, the landlord's son, had brought him his beloved Boys' Own Paper. It lay on his bed now. For once, he could not read it; he could not lose himself in a story yet.

Getting-up time came. He struggled up, and sat forlornly in a strip of sunshine where the nurse had placed an easy-chair for him.

'Hallo, little Whistling Thief—where's your luck to-day?' said another convalescent kindly.

page 151

'I've lost it,' said Nackie, with a rueful smile. The man saw only the smile, and passed on.

Nackie drew a book from his locker, to avoid observation by seeming to read it. Two or three letters lay beneath it—one, a Christmas letter which he had found under his pillow on Christmas morning, when he was too ill to take much notice of it. As he saw it now, however, he seemed faintly to remember that it was about being good-for-nothing. He opened it, and read—

'Poor, weak, and worthless though I am,
I have a rich, almighty Friend:
Jesus the Saviour is His name,
He freely loves, and without end.'

Nackie hardly ever cried: he met his troubles with a laugh and a whistle instead; but when he read those words a lump came in his throat, and the tears to his eyes. He winked them away desperately, not to be seen, and sat down again in the sunshine, with the letter open within his open book; he wanted to learn that verse to say to himself at night. All the rest of the day he had to master that rising in his throat, and whistle 'Lily Baker, oh,' or anything else the men called for; but at last night came; the lights burned low, and he could pull up the bed-clothes round him and weep over his doom, all secretly. Never good for anything! Nothing before him but the page 152workhouse, or being a drag on poor working folks like James and Louie! Ah, but one Friend was rich!

He had heard all about that Saviour and His free love—heard in Sunday school, when he used to be swinging his restless heels and looking to see if the superintendent was not soon going to ring the bell; but the sweet words had, been lodged in his strong memory unawares; they came back now—now that he knew he was good for nothing. And mingled with them was a strain of music which had come floating through his long fevered dream of suffering at Christmastide. It was the voice of a lady singing in the ward—

'He was despised—despised and rejected. Rejected of men—a Man of Sorrows, and acquainted with grief.'

Rich, almighty,—yet He had been despised. He knew all about it. Rejected,—men told Him He was not good enough to suit them. Acquainted with grief!

From the day when his sister and brother took him in, Nackie had felt a sort of reliance in belonging to a household who lived respectable and feared God. But now, in his extremity, a share in the family claim upon a Father in heaven was not enough. His griefs were his own. It was he who had to bear them—keep them as much to himself as he could, and go out into the page 153hard world without a chance of being fit to face it. And straight upon that word of doom had come the message: 'I—I have a rich, almighty Friend.'

There were Bibles in the ward, and he had taken one to bed with him. With the first daylight he was awake, devouring the gospel story. He had heard it often, but it all seemed to come new, and belong to him. This Friend—his Friend—had really lived and walked about, and done carpentering. And He looked out for the weak ones. The heroes in story-books were always splendid strong fellows. They would stoop to pick up a weak fellow very kindly, but they could not be stopping about with him, going his crawling pace. Jesus the Saviour loved the weak ones best, and seemed to know just how they felt —like the doctors!

Nackie had suffered the loneliness of ill-health year after year, without thinking about it. He was not like other boys—he could not be. It was of no use trying, and he never expected others to understand it, thankful if they only despised and did not blame him. In hospital, the doctors and nurses did understand! It was a great surprise, and he liked it. In hospital, sickness made your value; it was the well who were rejected and had to go. Outside, it would be so different! And he was going out; but this great Physician was page 154not bound to the hospital; He was so great that He could stay with the sick and yet go out with every poor soul sent forth to begin again his unequal battle with the world.

It was a great mystery. 'But He can,' thought Nackie, 'and if He couldn't, He wouldn't be much good to me.'

He read through the four Gospels, every word, and could not find 'He was despised.' One of the nurses showed him where it was, and he read over and over that wonderful chapter, and feasted on the glorious visions before and after it—such good times coming! and such plain, straight words of comfort for the time between. He was past existing upon 'mirradges.' He could not have lived on any prospects, not even heavenly ones, without some succour for each hard day now; and here it was. 'Fear not, thou worm Jacob.' He put in his own name and took the promise, 'For I the Lord will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not, I will help thee.'

Thursday came, and among the discharged patients one little, frail, wasted figure went forth, hand in hand with One who is mighty, whom the porter did not see.

It was a beautiful, bright spring day, and when Nackie walked away from the hospital, it felt so exhilarating to be out in the fresh air again, and page 155get into the stream of people in the main road, where the dark blue trams were running,—he said to himself, 'See if I don't dish the doctors, and be good for something after all!'

Louisa could not come to fetch him, because the baby was teething, but she had his dinner ready, and a welcome. James came in to dinner, shook hands, and said, 'Oh, you'll soon be as hearty as ever. Tuck in now, and get your strength up.'

His old place was open for him. They had tried in every way to get him something better, but in vain. There had been several boys in his place at the Green Man; one stole, one drank, one was 'as lazy as he was high,' the landlady said, and sauced her too; she was quite looking out for Nackie. It was something to be wanted, even at a Green Man. The brave spirit rose up again. Nackie rested a few days, and then went out once more to fight for his bread.

He never knew how right the doctor was until he went to work. Each day was a martyrdom—every active hour one long struggle for breath. Every weight he lifted brought that vulture's grip at his heart. Yet he held on, and never let them know at home how hard it was. Twiggy, the landlord's son, helped him all he could. Will Parker was rising in life, had good, steady work, page 156and had dropped him long ago: but Twiggy was staunch. He gave Nackie the keep-still work, and ran about all day long himself. It was one of the finest summers on record, and the merry sunshine helped. Somehow each desperate day's fight was fought, and the brave boy dropped on his stretcher bed, and slept from sheer exhaustion. He did not cough much while the fine days lasted. The autumn was long and warm. Then cold came suddenly, and Nackie was stricken. He was taken to the hospital again, and went through sharper suffering, and a slower, more painful recovery than before.

When he was able to read again, pleasures began. He got hold of some Australian stories, and in the bitter, gloomy winter days he would lie with his eyes shut, and see himself landing on that far-off shore. He saw the masses of scarlet cactus open to the sun; he smelt the orange blossoms (he supposed they would smell pretty much like oranges), and felt the hot sun striking down upon him.

March had come, and he had not yet left his bed, when a letter from Robert arrived.

My dear Brother,

—I am in Reseat of a letter from Morris, telling me that You are down again, and likely In for another hospital winter.

page 157

This won't do, old Chap. You may do that Trick once to orphen. And I write to advise that you Pack up your traps and come over to me. I have had a rise Since August, and can help you till you get something. Since August I have saved £3, & hear it is towards your Passage. A new chum hear says the Emigration Society in —— Street will tell you How to go about it, & if they pass your case they Will pay your passage & all. But you Have to do something towards it. Bring the best Kit you can for cloths are deer out hear. It is Piping hot now, just what you like. Won't I pitch up my hat to See you coming orf the Ship.

Your loving Brother,

'Robert Smith.'

Nackie sat straight up in bed, grasping the letter tight in his hand. It was coming true! Never in his wildest moments had he really, truly expected that any one of his dreams would actually be fulfilled—and it was happening!

Then the vulture gripped him—awfully! He had never felt it as bad before. The nurse ran to help him, and stacked up his pillows. Gradually, the iron claw relaxed. He sank back, with his head upon her arm, and gasped out, 'I'm— to go — to Australia. I've got — a brother there.'

A curious look glanced over her face, unseen by page 158him. But a hospital nurse is used to seeing patients survive almost anything. She said cheerfully, 'Well, I should think that would suit you, for it's a sunny place.'

If the excitement had killed him, he might as well die happy, she thought.

But when the first effects of the shock subsided, Nackie began to revive in a way that astonished them all. All his life long he had been like the Irish girl, repressing a sigh to know that 'there were such good times in the world, and he wasn't in 'em!' Now, for the first time, he had a plain, well-grounded hope of coming in! What lovely dreams he had, as he lay there and felt strength stealing back! 'No more fatigue, no more distress.' Perhaps he hardly went as far as that,—but no more hospital winters; no more dreadful summers, struggling in anguish for dear life. He did not know how hard it had all been, till he lay and revelled in the prospect of deliverance. And Jim—dear old Jim, and Louie, and the children! He would send home money and bring them all out to that sunny place.

It seemed a long age before visiting day, when James came to see him and they could talk over the new proposal. James fell in with it heartily. He had some little savings still, and Nackie should have a pound out of them—two, if necessary page 159—to help towards his passage and outfit. He would soon be able to pay it back.

Nackie devoured more books about Australia, and asked all the other patients if they had friends there; but a little lurking doubt withheld him from speaking of his plans to the doctor. Had he not earned his bread for a whole summer after the doctor said he would never be good for anything? He was not going to have another extinguisher dropped down upon him.

In April the weather was like summer, and he came out. The sun shone in at the great windows in the corridor; he saw the blue sky, and the pigeons flying about, and whistled softly, 'There's a good time coming.' There really was.

The distances were terribly long in that hospital. By the time Nackie had reported himself, he was obliged to sit down for a minute and rest.

'I ain't strong yet,' he thought. 'It doesn't matter. "I have a rich, almighty Friend." He has taken me through all these hard times, and He'll take me on now to Australia.'

What a thing it was to enter the familiar door, a man with prospects! Louisa was looking out for him, and Essie, the eldest child, came dancing to meet him, crying,' Nattie, Nattie!'

page 160

'Why, Essie, do you remember me?' he said. 'How much do you love me?'

'Oh, all wound a net,' she said, putting up her little arms to suit the action to the word. Nackie took her on his knee, and that cruel claw gripped him as he lifted her; but he forgot it while she loved him round the neck. He had to be introduced to a new baby—the first boy. Louisa had been very ill, and there had been heavy expenses which it would take a long time to get over; but she did not speak of that.

Some weeks passed before Nackie was strong enough to apply at the Emigration Society's offices.

In a room on the first floor, at a long table covered with papers, behind a very large desk, sat a straight, dark-haired, compact man, who gave an impression of taking up remarkably little room in proportion to his importance to the situation. He heard a sound of hard breathing on the stairs; the door was pushed open, and there stood the shadow of a boy, white, breathless, but with eyes that shone like coals fixed on the man behind the desk. The man wished him good-day, and looked him over with the impassive expression that secretaries adopt when examining a case — impassive as Jove; and he was Jove, just then, to the page 161trembling boy before him — the arbiter of his fate.

'Where do you want to go?' he asked, when Nackie was seated.

'Australia, sir.'

'We never send anyone to Australia or New Zealand, unless they have either relatives who have invited them, or work to go to.'

'I have, sir—my brother;' and Nackie told the story, surprised to find, as the questioning proceeded, how many things he did not know about Bob, which this man thought essential.

The secretary made notes, summed up, and said that he would investigate. 'What are you doing for a living meanwhile?' he added.

'I'm with my sister and her husband, sir. I've not done anything yet, but I'm going to.'

'You can't do a day's work,' said the secretary shortly.

'Not yet, sir; but I might do a half a day.'

The secretary dropped his official look. 'You are the stuff for an emigrant,' he said, 'if this opening is really a suitable one for you. That we must find out. I am going away for my holiday next week. Ask your brother-in-law if he can come up and see me before then.'

He fixed a time, and shook hands with Nackie, page 162saying kindly, 'Get strong, and don't try to work too hard yet.'

Nackie went downstairs with his bright hopes a little clouded. 'What a lot of things they want to know before they'll send you!' he thought.

On his way he passed a piece of ground—once a waste bit where rubbish and dead cats were thrown — now transformed by the vicar of the parish into a pretty little public garden, with trees and a fountain, flowers, and a house where pet monkeys lived. These monkeys had got loose, and were careering over the garden, two curates, the sexton, and the gardener all trying to catch them and not succeeding. Nackie stood and laughed to see the clerical figures darting about, leaping, climbing, stretching, and the monkeys away off to the top of the next tree, making game of them.

'Go it, monkeys. Now's your time,' he exclaimed. Once let him get on board ship, he would feel just like them.

His old work was gone. It was partly his own doing. He and Twiggy both hated it so, and the landlord's son had influenced his father to throw up the trade, at last, and take a situation that offered, as manager to a coffee-house in a country town.

It was of no use for Nackie to try for whole-page 163day's work: he could not do it. At last he found an eating-house where a boy was wanted for three or four hours in the middle of the day, to peel potatoes and wash up. For this he had his dinner and a trifle of payment.

'If you ain't strong, it's good luck to be small, so as you can take boy's work,' he said, and sallied forth, more weak and worthless, more suffering than ever, but dauntless still. He missed Twiggy dreadfully. These new people did not care anything about him, only about getting their own living. But he could feel God's hand helping him, every time he had a heavy pile of plates to lift.

The secretary had found his statements correct, of course, and had written to Robert. Nothing more could be done until the answer came.

It was a cold and cloudy summer. Nackie struggled on, with the grip at his heart and the mountain on his chest. His limbs tottered under him; but still, if there was any sign of a break in the clouds, he would look up and whistle to the leaden sky, 'There's a good time coming.' Before winter he would be off and away.

With September, fogs began, and he was in the hospital again when Robert's answer arrived — one to him, one to the secretary. The letter to Nackie was very kind, and full of hope that he would soon be all right, if he could have sun page 164enough. The boy lived upon it through another two months in the ward, and then came out — better, on the whole, than when he went in, but much worse than when the secretary had seen him last, in June; so much worse that that personage put on his impenetrable face, and said there were still points for consideration, and the boy must call again. The fact was, he felt it his duty to write to the hospital doctor for a health report.

It came. From the state of John Smith's heart, he was liable to die at any moment, and ought never to be left alone. A warm climate might lessen his suffering, but nothing could cure him.

That was what the secretary had to act on, when Nackie toiled up the stairs again, with his eager face. They were very good friends by this time, and the boy was accustomed to be told to walk round the end of the long table and sit by the fire while they talked.

It was always hard to dash the hopes of would-be emigrants who had any good stuff in them, however clear it might be that this was the truest kindness. The secretary could turn his face to steel as well as any man, but Nackie was too much for him: the boy saw that something hard was coming, and braced himself for it.

'I'm afraid, John, you are not strong enough to go,' said the secretary.

page 165

Nackie looked up eagerly. 'I'd be all right, sir, in a sunny place,' he said.

'The doctor is afraid not,' said the secretary; 'and you know that your brother has no home to receive you in: he lives where he works. There would be no one to give you the care you ought to have.'

'I would—be all right,' faltered Nackie, and there his voice failed, and he sobbed outright.

'But if you were not—what would become of you, and your brother too? I have to think of what is fair to him,' said the secretary, very gently.

Nackie only sobbed. He had lived on that hope so long—how could he let it go?

'I know you want to go very much'—

'Yes, sir,' sobbed Nackie.

'And I did want to send you. I am not quite sure, now, that I can't,' the secretary continued, against his own judgment, 'but I couldn't do it without writing to tell your brother exactly how you are. I have not given him any idea of—of what the state of your health really is. You wouldn't wish to lead him to act under a false impression?'

'No, sir.' Nackie felt a little better, for he was sure Bob would never throw him over.

'Will you be brave now, and understand that we want only to do what is best for you? I can page 166send you out any time, if it should be clear that it is right to do it, and really good for you to go. And if I can't send you, I'll try and find you something to do here.'

If he could know what suffering it meant to Nackie to have something found for him to do! The boy's heart almost failed him. Then, with a supreme effort, he girt his courage up, looked into the secretary's face, and said—

'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

'Perhaps I can find some place nearer than Australia where it is a good deal sunnier than London,' said the secretary. 'I shan't give you up—you may be sure of that. I'm going to look all round and see what we can do for you, while the next answer from your brother comes.'

Nackie could not smile. Nothing would make up to him for losing his heart's desire. But he managed to say, 'Thank you, sir,' and rose to go. The secretary rose too, and took the boy's cold, trembling hand in his.

'You are a very brave boy,' he said. 'Come and see me again next week, and hear if I have thought of anything for you.'

'Thank you, sir.'

The secretary went with his visitor to the head of the stairs, and shook hands again at parting, saying kind, hopeful words. Then he came back page 167and lit his gas,—for a black fog was coming on,—finding it hard to put this case out of his head and turn to the next in hand. He had killed such bright hopes! And what had he to offer in their place?

The fog met Nackie like a strangling cord as he went out of the house. He could only just see the garden railing. The monkeys were all caught long ago. He wondered how they liked it now.

The walk to the tram seemed endless; the step up into it cost a mortal throe; but once there the brave heart began to pluck itself up again. After all, it was only three months more to wait; and if the gentleman got him away into the country somewhere, he might be a good deal better in that time. Or he might get brush-making or something that he could do at home in the warm room. By the time he reached home he could manage to put on a quivering smile for Louisa; but she saw through it.

'Well, I don't want to part with you, Nackie,' she said. 'Lie down now. How tired you are! I'll get out your bed.'

He did not move to help her—always a sign that he was far gone. She covered him up, and put a hot brick to his feet. The children came round, wanting him to play with them.

page 168

'Don't bother Nattie. He's tired,' said the mother; and he did not gainsay it.

James came back in the evening, and heard the bad news.

'Don't get up to tea, Nackie,' he said; 'I'll bring it to you;' and he waited on him like a sister.

'Oh, now, Nackie, don't give it all to her. Come away, Essie,' said Louisa, seeing the little one stealing round to be fed.

'It will do her more good,' said Nackie. He did not seem to want it.

Louisa took the children to bed after supper, and James came to sit by Nackie.

'Never mind, old chap,' he said. 'You shall stay here till we hear from Bob. You shan't try to work this time.'

'Yes, I shall,' said Nackie. The old spirit flashed up once more.

'No, no.' There was a womanly tenderness in the strong man's voice. 'You have fought for your bread, Nat. You must give in now. The Almighty will never let us be poorer for the bite you get'

Nackie's old smile flitted across his face, for at the name he thought of his rich Friend. He could make it up to James and Louie.

The baby was fretful, and James took it while Louisa went on with her sewing, when she came page 169back. By and by it fell asleep, and the parents sat silent, thinking. Nackie lay and watched their sorrowful faces. A little sound came through the stillness—the faintest whisper of a whistle, broken for want of breath: they could just make out the notes—

'Good time coming, boys,
Wait a little longer.'

The tears stood in James's eyes. At bedtime he made up the fire with precious coals as well as cinders. The glow was red on the walls when Nackie fell asleep, and when he awoke it glowed still. All his old fancies came out and thronged the room. He dozed off again, and thought he was in a sultry desert, with palm trees and a blue lake in sight. He was afraid they might be all a 'mirradge,' but he struggled towards them, nevertheless —oh, how wearily! and as he drew near they did not vanish. The trees grew plainer and plainer—he had his feet on the soft grass, and was stretching out his hand to the water—real, cool water—when again he woke.

When James came in next morning Nackie took no notice. He was either sleeping or away in the sunny place.

'Ah, he is very bad again!' said James.

'Must he go to the hospital?' asked Louisa pitifully.

page 170

'Wait a bit and see,' said James. He felt as if he could not send him away.

That was a Saturday. The secretary went out to see his friends, and consulted them about Nackie, but no one had anything to suggest. Convalescent homes would not take in patients in danger of sudden death.

The fog had put everything out. James had had to work an extra shift, and it was near mid-night when he again reached home. His first look was towards Nackie's corner, and instead of the boy he saw his two little daughters sleeping there.

'What! gone?' he exclaimed.

'Gone,' said his wife, with a burst of tears. She pointed upwards. Then James knew that Nackie had taken a longer voyage than any other emigrant, without money and without price.

'When?' he uttered.

'This evening—near eight o'clock.'

'Oh, why couldn't I get back?' James laid his head upon his arm and wept for Nackie.

'He never missed you,' sobbed Louisa. 'He never took notice of me or anything; only once or twice he talked about blue water.'

Another long, deep sob shook James's chest. 'It was the disappointment killed him,' he said, 'and the fog.'

page 171

He rose, saying, 'I must see him.'

They went together to the other room—and there was Nackie, all the lines of sorrow smoothed away from his wasted face. It wore the look of one who was absolutely, entirely satisfied—every longing wish fulfilled. The mirage was a pool at last—a spring of living waters. The black fog had been God's dark angel, to bid him to the Sunny Land.