CHAPTER I
THE HERO AND HIS ONLY RELATIVE
Martin Rattler was a very bad boy. At least his aunt, Mrs. DorothyGrumbit, said so; and certainly she ought to have known, if anybodyshould, for Martin lived with her, and was, as she herself expressed it,"the bane of her existence,--the very torment of her life." No doubt ofit whatever, according to Aunt Dorothy Grumbit's showing, Martin Rattlerwas "a remarkably bad boy."
It is a curious fact, however, that, although most of the people in thevillage of Ashford seemed to agree with Mrs. Grumbit in her opinion ofMartin, there were very few of them who did not smile cheerfully on thechild when they met him, and say, "Good day, lad!" as heartily as if theythought him the best boy in the place. No one seemed to bear MartinRattler ill-will, notwithstanding his alleged badness. Men laughed whenthey said he was a bad boy, as if they did not quite believe their ownassertion. The vicar, an old whiteheaded man, with a kind, heartycountenance, said that the child was full of mischief, full of mischief;but he would improve as he grew older, he was quite certain of that. Andthe vicar was a good judge, for he had five boys of his own, besidesthree other boys, the sons of a distant relative, who boarded with him;and he had lived forty years in a parish overflowing with boys, and hewas particularly fond of boys in general. Not so the doctor, a pursylittle man with a terrific frown, who hated boys, especially little ones,with a very powerful hatred. The doctor said that Martin was a scamp.
And yet Martin had not the appearance of a scamp. He had fat rosy cheeks,a round rosy mouth, a straight delicately-formed nose, a firm massivechin, and a broad forehead. But the latter was seldom visible, owing tothe thickly-clustering fair curls that overhung it. When asleep Martin'sface was the perfection of gentle innocence. But the instant he openedhis dark-brown eyes, a thousand dimples and wrinkles played over hisvisage, chiefly at the corners of his mouth and round his eyes; as if thespirit of fun and the spirit of mischief had got entire possession of theboy, and were determined to make the most of him. When deeply interestedin anything, Martin was as grave and serious as a philosopher.
Aunt Dorothy Grumbit had a turned-up nose,--a very much turned-up nose;so much so, indeed, that it presented a front view of the nostrils! Itwas an aggravating nose, too for the old lady's spectacles refused torest on any part of it except the extreme point. Mrs. Grumbit invariablyplaced them on the right part of her nose, and they as invariably sliddown the curved slope until they were brought up by the little hillock atthe end. There they condescended to repose in peace.
Mrs. Grumbit was mild, and gentle, and little, and thin, andold,--perhaps seventy-five; but no one knew her age for certain, not evenherself. She wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned cap, and a gown ofbed-curtain chintz, with flowers on it the size of a saucer. It was acurious gown, and very cheap, for Mrs. Grumbit was poor. No one knew theextent of her poverty, any more than they did her age; but she herselfknew it, and felt it deeply,--never so deeply, perhaps, as when herorphan nephew Martin grew old enough to be put to school, and she had notwherewithal to send him. But love is quick-witted and resolute. Aresidence of six years in Germany had taught her to knit stockings at arate that cannot be described, neither conceived unless seen. She knittedtwo dozen pairs. The vicar took one dozen, the doctor took the other. Thefact soon became known. Shops were not numerous in the village in thosedays; and the wares they supplied were only second rate. Orders camepouring in, Mrs. Grumbit's knitting wires clicked, and her little oldhands wagged with incomprehensible rapidity and unflaggingregularity,--and Martin Rattler was sent to school.
While occupied with her knitting, she sat in a high-backed chair in avery small deep window, through which the sun streamed nearly the wholeday; and out of which there was the most charming imaginable view of thegardens and orchards of the villagers, with a little dancing brook in themidst, and the green fields of the farmers beyond, studded with sheep andcattle and knolls of woodland, and bounded in the far distance by thebright blue sea. It was a lovely scene, such an one as causes the eye tobrighten and the heart to melt as we gaze upon it, and think, perchance,of its Creator.
Yes, it was a scene worth looking at; but Mrs. Grumbit never looked atit, for the simple reason that she could not have seen it if she had.Half way across her own little parlour was the extent of her naturalvision. By the aid of spectacles and a steady concentrated effort, shecould see the fire-place at the other end of the room; and the portraitof her deceased husband, who had been a sea-captain; and the white kittenthat usually sat on the rug before the fire. To be sure she saw them veryindistinctly. The picture was a hazy blue patch, which was the captain'scoat; with a white patch down the middle of it, which was his waistcoat;and a yellow ball on the top of it, which was his head. It was rather anindistinct and generalized view, no doubt; but she _saw_ it, and that wasa great comfort.