Frozen to Death

Or the Cottage on the Hill.

A Christmas Story.


CHAPTER I.

The last strain of the grand old Christmas hymn had just been warbled
forth from the throats and hearts of a number of happy folks, who were
seated around the blazing log one Christmas eve; and on the face of each
one of that family circle the cheering light revealed the look of
happiness; the young--happy in the present, and indulging in hopeful
anticipations for the future; the old,--equally happy as the young, and
revelling in many a darling memory of the past.

"Come, Uncle John!" said a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired beauty, over whose
head not more than ten Christmas days had passed,--"Come, uncle, _do_
tell us a story; you know that we always expect one from you."

"Well, my pretty little niece," he replied, "I fear that I have
exhausted all my store of ghosts and hobgoblins, and if I tell you a
story now, it must be from the cold, stern world of fact, which, I fear,
will be less interesting to you than the romantic fictions I have
rehearsed on former occasions."

"Oh dear, no! tell us a story, a true story--we shall be all the more
delighted to know that we are listening to an account of what has really
occurred. Do begin at once, please".

Knocking the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and having carefully
reared it against the hob, he commenced:--

"The factory bells had just ceased ringing, and the whistles had given
out their last shrieks, like the expiring yells of some agonized demon,
as the old church clock drowsily tolled the hour of six, on one of the
most miserable of December mornings. High on a bleak hill stood a little
whitewashed cottage, from the door of which issued two children,
apparently about ten years of age. As they stept into the cold morning
air they shuddered, and drew their scanty garments closer around them.

"Nah, yo'll ha' to luk sharp! yond's th' last whew!--yo've nobbut
fifteen minutes," cried a voice from within.

It was with great difficulty that the little couple succeeded in
reaching the high road, for the ground was covered with ice, on which a
continual sleet fell, and the wind, in fitful blasts, howled about them,
threatening at almost every step to overthrow them. But they had no time
to think of these things; slipping and running, giving each other all
the aid in their power, they pressed on in the direction of the
factory--the fear of being too late over-whelming every other
consideration.

"Come on, Susy!" said the little lad, whom we should take to be the
older of the two. "Come on, we shall niver be thear i' time; come on!
stand up! tha hasn't hurt thi, has ta?" he said, as she fell for the
third time upon the slippery pavement.

Tenderly he helped her to rise, but poor Susy had hurt herself, and
although she strove to keep back her tears and smother her sobs, Tom saw
that she had sustained a severe injury.

"Whisht!" he said, "tha munnot cry; whear ar ta hurt? Come, lain o' me,
an' aw'l hug thi basket."

"O, Tom, aw've hurt mi leg--aw cannot bide to goa any farther; tha'd
better leave me, for aw'm sure we'st be too lat."

"Happen net--tha'll be better in a bit,--put thi arm raand mi shoulder,
tha'rt nobbut leet; aw could ommost hug thi if it worn't soa slippy. Sup
o' this tea, si thee, it's warm yet, an' then tha'll feel better: an' if
we are a bit too lat, aw should think they'll let us in this mornin'."

Susy drank of the tea, and, revived by its warmth, she made another
attempt to pursue her way. But it was slow work; Tom did his best to
help her, and tried to cheer her as well as he could, though now an'
then a tear fell silently from his eyes, for his little fingers were
numbed with cold, and he felt the rain had already penetrated to his
skin, and the dreadful prospect of being late, and having to remain in
the cold for two hours, was in itself sufficient to strike dread into
the heart of one older and stronger than he. Even the watchman as he
passed, turned his light upon them for a moment, and sighed. It was no
business of his,--but under his waterproof cape there beat a father's
heart, and he murmured as he paced the solitary street, "Thank God, they
arn't mine."

But we must leave them to pursue as best they can, their miserable way,
whilst we return to have a glance at the occupants of the cottage from
which we saw them start. It is a one storied building, with but one room
and a small out-kitchen; in one corner is a bed, on which is laid a
pale, emaciated young man, to all appearance not yet thirty years of
age: he is asleep, but from the quick short breath, it is not difficult
to infer that his best days are over. In another corner, a number of
boxes are arranged so as to extemporize a bed, now unoccupied, but from
which the two little factory-workers have but lately arisen. A jug of
herb tea is on the table. The fire is very low, and the light from it is
only sufficient to render all indistinctly visible. In a chair opposite
is a young woman with such a mournful, careworn face, that a glance
inspires you with sorrow; and from a bundle of clothes on her knee
issues the fretful wail of a restless child. The monotonous tick of an
old clock is the only sound, saving the longdrawn sigh of that young
mother, or the quick, hollow breathing of the sleeping man. Now and then
the wind whistles more shrilly through the crevices of the door, and the
rain beats with greater force against the little window. The mother
draws still nearer to the few red embers, and turns a timid glance to
the window and then to the bed: another sigh, and then the overburdened
heart overflows at her eyes, and the large bright drops fall quickly on
that dearly loved infant.

The church clock chimes a quarter after six--this rouses the mother once
more to set aside her own griefs; the wind still howls, and the rain
beats with unabated fury against the glass: her thoughts are of those
little ones, and a tremor passes over her as she fears lest they should
be shut out. The man moves wearily in his bed, and opening his eyes, he
looks towards his wife. She is at his side in an instant.

"Have they gooan, Bessy?" he asks.

"Eea, they've gooan, an' aw hooap ther thear before nah."

"It saands vary wild. We ne'er thowt it ud come to this twelve year sin,
Bess,--an' it's all along o' me!"

"Nay, Jim, tha munnot say soa--tha knows we can nooan on us help bein
poorly sometimes, but when spring comes tha'll pick up thi crumbs agean,
an' things 'll be different."

"That's true, lass,--aw feel that's true--things _will_ be different
when spring comes, an' afoor it comes, aw'm feeard. Has ta iver been i'
bed to-neet?"

"Nay, aw couldn't come to bed, 'coss th' child wor cross, but aw've
slept a bit i' th' cheer: dooant thee bother, aw'l look after mi sen.
Will ta have a sup o' this teah?"

"Whisht!" he said, "that's awr Susy callin, aw'm sure it is! Oppen th'
door!"

She flew to oppen th' door, and the storm rushed in with fury; the snow
had begun to fall thickly: she strained her eyes and called, "Susy!
Susy!" but she heard no response: yet her heart misgave her, for the
thoughts of her darlings being exposed to such a storm made her shudder;
but necessity knows no law, and on the slender earnings of these two
children depended the subsistence of herself and husband.

"Aw think tha wor mistakken, Jim: aw con see nowt," she said, as she
returned and closed the door.

"Well, happen aw wor; but it's a sorry mornin to turn aght two little
lambs like them. Bessy," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "aw
know aw'm i'th' gate,--aw con do nowt but lig i' bed, an' aw know 'at
thee an' th' childer have to goa short mony a time for what aw get, but
it willn't be for long. Dooant rooar! tha knows it's summat 'at we've
nowt to do wi; an' tha heeard what th' parson said, 'Ther's One aboon at
'll work all things together for gooid,' an' aw feel my time's commin'
varry near; but aw'm nooan freetened like aw used to be; aw think it's
gooin to be a change for th' better--an' He'll luk after thee an' th'
little ens."

"O! Jim! tha munnot talk abaght leavin us yet; tha'll be better in a
bit."

"Niver i' this world, Bessy! Come, put thi heead o' th' pillow here
beside me, aw think aw want to rest."

She placed the little babe upon the coverlet, laid her head upon the
pillow, and worn out with watching, she wept herself asleep.

The church clock had chimed the half-hour before Tom and his little
sister landed at the mill yard, and it was closed. The storm was still
raging, but to his repeated entreaties for admission the same answer was
returned, "Tha'rt too lat! tha connot come in afoor th' braikfast."
Experience had taught him how vain his endeavours would be to obtain
admission; and had it been himself alone that was shut out, he would
have gone quietly away and spent the time as best he might; but he felt
emboldened by the responsibility that was upon him on his sister's
account, and he redoubled his efforts, but the timekeeper was
inexorable:--"My orders iz, az nubdy mun come in after a quarter past,
an' if tha doesn't goa away aw'l warm thi Jacket for thi; tha should ha
come i' time same as other fowk." Poor Tom! there had still lingered
some little faith in the goodness of human nature in his breast, but as
he turned away, the last spark died out. To attempt to go home he knew
would be useless, and therefore he sought as the only alternative, some
place where he might find shelter. At a short distance from the gate,
but within the sound of the whirling wheels, he sat down with his
uncomplaining sister upon his knee. The snow began to fall gently at
first, and he watched it as the feathery flakes grew larger and larger.
He did not feel cold now; he wrapped his little scarf around his
sister's neck. The snow fell still thicker: he felt so weary, so very
weary; his little sister too had fallen asleep on his breast;--he laid
his head against the cold stone wall, and the snow still fell, so
softly, so very gently, that he dozed away and dreamed of sunny lands
where all was bright and warm: and in a short time the passer-by could
not have told that a brother and sister lay quietly slumbering there,
wrapped in their shroud of snow.

The hum of wheels has ceased; the crowd of labourers hurry out to their
morning's meal; a few short minutes, and the discordant whistles again
shriek out their call to work. Tom and Susy, where are they? The gates
will soon be closed again!

Well, let them close! other gates have opened for those little suffering
ones. The gates of pearl have swung upon their golden hinges; no harsh
voice of unkind taskmaster greets them on their entrance, but that
glorious welcome.

"Come, ye blessed!" and their unloosed tongues join in the loud
"Hosannah."

But those pearly gates are not for ever open. The time may come when
those shall stand before them unto whom the words, "Inasmuch as ye did
it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me," shall sound
the death-knell of all hopes throughout an inconceivable eternity.