CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
THE LAST.
A certain Christmas-day approached. On the morning of the daypreceding, Will Garvie--looking as broad and sturdy as ever; a perfectman, but for the empty sleeve--stood at his post near his sentry-box.His duties that day were severe. At that season of the year there is agreat increase of traffic on all railways, and you may be sure that theGrand National Trunk Railway had its full share.
On ordinary occasions about three hundred trains passed Will Garvie'sbox, out and in, during the twelve hours, but that day there had beennearly double the number of passengers, and a considerable increase inthe number of trains that conveyed them, while goods trains had alsoincreased greatly in bulk and in numbers.
Garvie's box abutted on a bridge, and stood in the very midst of alabyrinth of intricate crossing lines, over which trains andpilot-engines were constantly rushing and hissing, backing and whistlingviciously, and in the midst of which, Will moved at the continual riskof his life, as cool as a cucumber (so Bob Garvie expressed it), and assafe as the bank.
Although thus situated in the midst of smoke, noise, dust, iron, andsteam, Will Garvie managed to indulge his love for flowers. He had agarden on the line--between the very rails! It was not large, to besure, only about six feet by two--but it was large enough for hislimited desires. The garden was in a wooden trough in front of hissentry-box. It contained mignonette, roses, and heart's-ease amongother things, and every time that Will passed out of or into his box inperforming the duties connected with the station, he took a look at theflowers and thought of Loo and the innumerable boys, girls, and babiesat home. We need not say that this garden was beautifully kept.Whatever Will did he did well--probably because he tended well thegarden of his own soul.
While he was standing outside his box during one of the brief intervalsbetween trains, an extremely beautiful girl came on the platform andcalled across the rails to him.
"Hallo! Gertie--what brings _you_ here?" he asked, with a look of gladsurprise.
"To see _you_," replied Gertie, with a smile that was nothing short ofbewitching.
"How I wish you were a flower, that I might plant you in my garden,"said the gallant William, as he crossed the rails and reached up toshake Gertie's hand.
"What a greedy man you are!" said Gertie. "Isn't Loo enough for you?"
"Quite enough," replied Will, "I might almost say more than enough attimes; but come, lass, this ain't the place for a palaver. You came tospeak with me as well as to see me, no doubt."
"Yes, Will, I came with a message from Mrs Tipps. You know that therailway men are going to present father with a testimonial to-night;well, Mrs Tipps thinks that her drawing-room won't be large enough, soshe sent me to ask you to let the men know that it is to be presented inthe schoolroom, where the volunteer rifle band is to perform and make asort of concert of it."
"Indeed!" said Will.
"Yes; and Mrs Tipps says that Captain Lee is going to give them whatshe calls a cold collation, and brother Bob calls a blow-out."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Will.
"Yes, I do; won't it be delightful?" said Gertie.
"Splendid," replied Will, "I'll be sure to be up in good time. But, Isay, Gertie, is young Dorkin to be there?"
Gertie blushed, but was spared the necessity of a reply in consequenceof a deafening whistle which called Will Garvie to his points. Nextmoment, a passenger-train intervened, and cut her off from furthercommunication.
According to promise, Will was at the schoolroom in good time thatevening, with some thirty or forty of his comrades. Loo was there too,blooming and matronly, with a troop of boys and girls, who seemed toconstitute themselves a body-guard round John Marrot and his wife, whowere both ignorant at that time of the honour that was about to be donethem. John was as grave, sturdy, and amiable as ever, the onlyalteration in his appearance being the increased number of silver locksthat mingled with his black hair. Time had done little to Mrs Marrot,beyond increasing her bulk and the rosiness of her countenance.
It would be tedious to comment on all our old friends who assembled inthe schoolroom on that memorable occasion. We can only mention thenames of Captain Lee (_alias_ Samuel Tough), and Mr Abel, and MrsTipps, and Dr Noble, and Mr Sharp, and David Blunt, and Joe Turner,and Mrs Durby, with all of whom time seemed to have dealt as lenientlyas with John Marrot and his wife. Sam Natly was also there, with hisinvalid wife restored to robust health, and supported on either side bya blooming boy and girl. And Edwin Gurwood was there with his wife andson and three daughters; and so was Joseph Tipps, looking as if theworld prospered with him, as, indeed, was the case. And, of course,Netta Tipps was there, and the young curate, who, by the way, was muchstouter and not nearly so stiff as when we first met him. He wasparticularly attentive to Netta, and called her "my dear," in a coolfree-and-easy way, that would not have been tolerated for a moment, butfor the fact that they had been married for the last three months. BobMarrot was there also--as strapping a young blade as one could wish tosee, with a modest yet fearless look in his eye, that was quite inkeeping with his occupation as driver of the "Flying Dutchman."
There was there, also, a tall, slim, good-looking youth, who seemed tobe on very intimate terms with Bob Marrot. He was well-known as one ofthe most rising men at the Clatterby works, who bade fair to become anoverseer ere long. Bob called him Tomtit, but the men of the linestyled him Mister Dorkin. He had brought with him an extremelywrinkled, dried-up old woman, who appeared to have suffered much, and tohave been dragged out of the lowest depths of poverty. To judge fromappearances she had been placed in a position of great comfort. Suchwas in truth the case, and the fine young fellow who had dragged her outand up was that same Mister Dorkin, who may be said to have been all butstone-blind that evening, because, from first to last, he saw but oneindividual there, and that individual was Gertie. He was almost deaftoo, because he heard only one voice--and that voice was Gertie's.
And Nanny Stocks was there, with "the baby," but _not_ the baby Marrot!_That_ baby--now a stout well-grown lad--was seated beside his mother,paying her all sorts of delicate attentions, such as picking up herhandkerchief when she dropped it, pushing her bonnet on her head when,in her agitation, it fell back on her neck, and beating her firmly onthe back when she choked, as she frequently did that evening from sheerdelight. No doubt in this last operation he felt that he was paying offold scores, for many a severe beating on the back had Mrs Marrot givenhim in the stormy days of his babyhood.
The baby of whom Nanny Stocks was now the guardian was baby Gurwood, anda strong resemblance it bore to the old baby in the matters of health,strength, fatness, and self-will. Miss Stocks was one of those humanevergreens which years appear to make no impression on at all. From hershoe-latchet to her topmost hair-pin she was unalterably the same as shehad been in days gone by. She treated the new baby, too, as she hadtreated the old--choked it with sweetmeats and kisses, and acted thepart of buffer to its feet and fists.
It would take a volume to give the full details of all that was said anddone, and played and sung, on that Christmas-eve. We can only touch onthese things. The brass band of the volunteers surpassed itself. Thesongs--volunteered or called for--were as good as songs usually are onfestive occasions, a few of them being first-rate, especially one whichwas sung by a huge engine-driver, with shoulders about a yard broad, anda beard like the inverted shako of a guardsman. It ran thus--
SONG OF THE ENGINE-DRIVER.
Oh--down by the river and close by the lake We skim like the swallow and cut though the brake; Over the mountain and round by the lea, Though the black tunnel and down to the sea. Clatter and bang by the wild riven shore, We mingle our shriek with the ocean's roar. We strain and we struggle, we rush and we fly-- We're a terrible pair, my steed and I.
_Chorus_--Whistle and puff the whole day round, Over the hills and underground. Rattling fast and rattling free-- Oh! a life on the line is the life for
me.
With our hearts a-blazing in every chink, With coals for food and water to drink, We plunge up the mountain and traverse the moor, And startle the grouse in our daily tour. We yell at the deer in their lonely glen, Shoot past the village and circle the Ben, We flash through the city on viaducts high, As straight as an arrow, my steed and I.
_Chorus_--Whistle and puff, etcetera.
The Norseman of old, when quaffing his mead, Delighted to boast of his "ocean steed;" The British tar, in his foaming beer, Drinks to his ship as his mistress dear. The war-horse good is the trooper's theme-- But what are all these to the horse of steam? Such a riotous, rollicking roadster is he-- Oh!--the Iron Horse is the steed for me!
_Chorus_--Whistle and puff, etcetera.
The collation also, or, according to Bob Marrot, the "blow-out," wassuperb. Joseph Tipps declared it to be eminently satisfactory, and themen of the line evidently held the same opinion, if we may judge fromthe fact that they consumed it all, and left not a scrap behind.
The speeches, also, were excellent. Of course the great one of theevening was the best being, delivered by Mr Abel, who not unnaturallymade a remarkably able oration.
When that gentleman rose with a beautiful silver model of a locomotivein his hand, which he had been deputed by the men of the line to presentas a mark of their regard, admiration, and esteem, to John Marrot, hetook the worthy ex-engine-driver very much by surprise, and caused MrsMarrot to be seized with such a fit of choking that the baby (not thenew one, but the old) found it as hard work to beat her out of it, asshe had formerly found it to beat _him_ out of a fit of wickedness.When she had been restored, Mr Abel launched off into a glowingoration, in the course of which he referred to John Marrot's longservices, to his faithful and unwearied attention to his arduous duties,and to the numerous instances wherein he had shown personal courage anddaring, amounting almost to heroism, in saving the lives of comrades indanger, and in preventing accidents on the line by coolness and presenceof mind.
"In conclusion," said Mr Abel, winding up, "let me remark that the giftwhich is now presented might have been of a more useful character, butcould not have been more appropriate; because the wish of those whodesire to testify their regard for you this evening, Mr Marrot, is notto give you an intrinsically valuable or useful present, but to presentyou with a characteristic ornament which may grace your dwelling whileyou live, and descend, after you are gone, to your children's children(here he glanced at Loo and her troop), to bear witness to them that younobly did your duty in driving that great iron horse, whereof thislittle silver pony is a model and a memorial. To perform one's dutywell in this life is the highest ambition that any man can have inregard to temporal things. Nelson, our greatest naval hero, aimed atit, and, on the glorious day of Trafalgar, signalled that Englandexpected every man to do it. Wellington, our greatest soldier, made_duty_ his guiding-star. The effectual and earnest performance of dutystamps with a nobility which is not confined to great men--a nobilitywhich kings can neither give nor take away--a nobility which is very,_very_ difficult to attain unto, but which is open alike to the princeand the peasant, and must be wrought hard for and won--or lost withshame,--for, as the poet happily puts it--
"`Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part,--there all the honour lies.'
"For myself I can only say that John Marrot has won this nobility, and Icouple his name with a sentiment with which all here, I doubt not, willheartily sympathise.--Prosperity to the men of the line, and success tothe Iron Horse!"
Reader, we can do no better than echo that sentiment, and wish you akind farewell.
THE END.
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