"What is it, Ollie?" asked Mr. Cloudesley, while he bathed the girl's face and rubbed her hands—such poor little, thin, cold hands!
"I don't know, sir," Ollie said, dismally. "Ruth said she must go down again, even if Mrs. Cricklade beat her, for we had nothing in the room, not even water. And so she went, but in a moment she came running back, and fell down on the bed, and never said a word until you came."
"Was it long before we came?" said Ralph.
"Hours and hours!" said poor Ollie. It had not really been very long, but it had truly seemed so to the terrified and helpless child. "I couldn't move, because Ruth fell upon me; and oh, but I am hungry and thirsty, and frightened too. Ruth was so dead, you know."
Ruth was again recovering consciousness.
"Sit down on the bed, Trulock, and hold her in your arms—do. Let her see only you and Ollie. Peters wants me to go with him, and he will find out what frightened her. Here, Ollie, drink this water, and I will bring you something better as soon as I can."
Peters, who had been standing at the door, beckoning incessantly for Mr. Cloudesley to follow him, now led the way to the next floor. There, on the narrow landing-stage, he stopped short.
"I don't wonder the child was scared well-nigh to death, sir," said he. "I don't know yet whether it's 'visitation of Providence,' or 'feller-deasy,' but whatever it is the old woman is lying dead in her bed!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Cloudesley. "The poor old creature! But are you sure she is dead? Let us go and see, for we ought to send for the doctor if not."
"It's the coroner she wants, poor soul, not the doctor," remarked Peters, as he followed him into the room.
A moment's inspection satisfied Mr. Cloudesley that the poor old woman was indeed dead, and had been dead for some hours. On a little table near the bed lay a candlestick with a burned-out candle in it, a quart bottle of whisky, nearly empty, and a breakfast-cup.
"Do you think it's 'feller-deasy,' sir?" inquired Peters.
"Not intentional, but a case of murder, Peters, and there stands the murderer," pointing to the bottle.
"True for you, reverend sir; and not the first murder he's committed—not by many. Pity as he can't be hanged for it! But you see, sir, she is surely dead; and I must lock the door now, and keep things as they are for the coroner. If you'd take my advice, sir, you'd remove the children; the girl will have to appear at the inquest, but she'd be best out of the house now."
"You're quite right there, Peters, if she is fit to be moved, but such a shock may have made her really ill. I can be of no use here, so I shall leave you to do your duty, and see to the children. I must run first to the Blue Bear, and beg for a little soup for the boy."
"Don't you let any one in, sir, and send some one to the station for the sergeant, and I will keep the people out until you get the children off. Any of the boys out there will run to the station for you."
Any of the boys! No, but all the boys; for when Mr. Cloudesley made it plain that he really did not mean to admit any of them to the mysterious house, the next best thing, in the estimation of the youth of Fairford, was to run to the police station in a long, straggling, vociferating procession. Every boy there had his own private theory as to what had happened, and every boy roared out that theory at the policemen as loud as he could yell. And consequently the whole available police force of Fairford (consisting of two men, and the wife and baby of the absent Peters) rushed up the hill to the scene of action, under the impression that Mrs. Cricklade had poisoned Ruth and Oliver Garland, stuck a knife into old Mr. Trulock and Peters the policeman, and driven Mr. Cloudesley from the house in terror of his life!
Meantime Mr. Cloudesley had procured a fine bowl of good soup from good-natured Mrs. Hawes, and had returned to the children's attic. He found Ruth much recovered, though still faint and weak. A few spoonfuls of soup they persuaded her to swallow, but she shivered and seemed hardly able to do so. What did her far more good was to watch Ollie—who was quite "over" the measles, and very hungry—absorbing the good soup with much satisfaction.
"I like a soup," said the little Frenchman.
"Come here, Trulock; I want a word with you. Ruth will sit there and watch her big baby. Trulock, the poor child has had a terrible shock. Mrs. Cricklade is dead, must have died some hours ago, and Ruth must have gone to her room, and found her lying there. Peters says that Ruth will be better out of the house until the inquest, for everybody would be questioning her. What shall we do with the children?"
"I will take them home, sir. Ollie has been telling me that they have been in sore want. I didn't know it, you may be sure, but I am to blame all the same. The poor child, sir, she has had no work, for of course they couldn't employ her while the boy had measles; and I thought she had money laid by, but it seems it had been spent by degrees. Any way, I'll take them home for the present."
"Very good. Then I will go to the Cottage Hospital, and ask Mrs. Francis if we can have their old cab; and if so, I will bring it to the door at once. Ollie ought to be well wrapped up. Have him ready, for we shall not be able to keep the neighbours out much longer. And don't ask Ruth any questions as yet; let her tell you of herself. Don't let Mrs. Short get at her, Trulock," added Mr. Cloudesley with a smile.
"No fear of that, sir," replied Trulock grimly.
Mr. Cloudesley found that the aged cab which was maintained at the little hospital in High Fairford was fortunately at home, and so without loss of time the two Garlands were carried off to Lady Mabel's Rest. The crowd seemed rather disappointed when the children appeared at the door, apparently uninjured; but the truth was now be coming generally known, and there was great excitement in the town. One woman was heard by Mr. Cloudesley to say with great solemnity,—
"And I bought a loaf from her only a week ago—think of that now, and there she lies dead now!"
Mr. Cloudesley failed to see how the purchase of that particular loaf affected the matter one way or the other, but he was very glad that he had not allowed his pretty May to enter the house.
BY the time the cab reached Lady Mabel's Rest, Ruth Garland had quite regained both her senses and her self-command. She was even ready to lift Ollie out of the cab, but this Mr. Cloudesley would not allow her to do.
"Why, Ruth," he said, "the boy is nearly as big as yourself; but you're an ambitious little party, and think you can do everything. I'll whisk him into the house before he can say Jack Robinson."
"But why should I say Jack Robinson?" inquired Ollie, laughing.
"Little boy," said Mr. Cloudesley, setting him gently on his feet in the hall, "your education has been dreadfully neglected! You are seven years old, and you never heard of Jack Robinson!"
"No, sir; is he in English history, or in Roman? No, he can't be in Roman history; I suppose I have not come to him yet."
"Let me know what you think of him when you do," said Mr. Cloudesley. "Now I must take the old cab back to the hospital; so good-bye, all of you. Mr. Trulock, don't let Ruth sit up late to-night. Indeed, I am not sure that I would not send her to bed, as well as Master Curlypate here."
Ollie was soon disposed of, Ruth contriving a comfortable bed for him by the help of sundry pillows and a big chair cushion. Then the question arose, where was a bed for poor Ruth herself?
However, Ralph bethought himself of kind Miss Jones, and never remembered, in his anxiety to make Ruth comfortable, that he was actually asking a favour of his neighbour! Miss Jones was delighted to be appealed to, and lent everything that was wanted. She begged Ralph to allow her to provide a nice meal for the two children that afternoon, that he might have nothing to do but to take care of Ruth. Ollie was soon fast asleep, and then it was that Ruth told her story. Ralph was rather unwilling to let her speak of it at all, but she declared she should feel better when she had told him.
"Poor Mrs. Cricklade!" she said; "you don't know what a kind-hearted woman she was. When we first came to Fairford, she took so much trouble about us, and let us live there rent-free. But when she found that you were helping us, she began to drink again; she had never quite left it off, but she only drank on Sunday, or quite late at night for some time; now she began to drink much more. She made me pay rent, and yet more than once she gave me back the shilling, and said, 'It's not me, Ruthie, it's the devil that has possession of me that makes me take your hard-earned shilling.' That was after she found out that you didn't pay the rent for me."
"But I never knew that you paid rent, Ruth."
"No," she said, colouring. "You did too much for us already. But though she gave me back the shilling, she generally came for it again at night, and was so noisy and angry that she frightened me very much. Then Ollie got ill, you know; and I pawned poor father's clothes to keep us until I could get work again."
"But, Ruth, you had money laid by, dear," interrupted Ralph anxiously.
Ruth grew crimson, and tried to answer carelessly. "Very little of it was left: the rent came out of it, and—other things."
"That wine for me," groaned Ralph, "and I never paid you. Oh, Ruth, you ought to have told me."
"How could I, sir? you had been ill, you are nearly as poor as I am, and you had given us so much help. I knew you had not the money, and that you would pay me when you had it."
"I had plenty, dear child. Oh, I have been a fool! Never mind, Ruth, finish your story now, and I can explain some other time."
"Well, you know the man could only give me a very little for father's clothes, because of the risk of infection. I got five shillings the first day; then I got three for other things. But after that, Ollie was so poorly that I did not like to leave him, and I asked Mrs. Cricklade to go for me; and, poor thing, she never would have done this if she had been quite herself, but she came home quite tipsy, and told me she had lost all the money except one shilling. And I had no coal left! I was so vexed that I said, Oh, Mrs. Cricklade, you will not keep it from me! Do give me my money, please.' But she was terribly angry, and she struck me and drove me upstairs before her. I had to bolt our door to keep her out; and she stood on the landing-place for ever so long, calling to me that I had accused her of stealing. And after all, perhaps I was mistaken, and she had really lost it. That was yesterday."
"Yes, and you had no fire, and it was a bitter night."
"I had no fire and no food, for I was afraid to go down again. But Ollie was beginning to get well, you know; and this morning he said he was hungry. I knew he ought to get food, so I ventured down. I had no water left besides, and I thought she would be in bed, because it was very early, quite dark still. I found the place all shut-up, and though I looked about I could see no food of any kind (I knew she would not mind if I borrowed from her for Ollie); so I went up again and coaxed Ollie to wait until it was light. I thought that if I found the poor thing was not yet quite recovered, I should not be so much afraid if it were light and people were moving about, because I could call from the window."
"I think we both fell asleep, and when we awoke it was quite light, and I ventured down again. I went to her door and knocked again and again, but there was no answer. Then I went in, and she was asleep, I thought. I spoke to her, shouted to her, but she never stirred; so I was frightened, and was going away, when it struck me that she was very, very still. I went back and took her hand. Oh, Mr. Trulock, it was so cold! I ran upstairs to Ollie then; I was so frightened I did not know what I was doing. And the next thing I knew was that you were giving me water. How did you come there?"
"I should have come to see you before, my dear, only I had another sharpish turn,—not so bad as the first, but I was afraid to be out, and I little knew how things were with you. When I did get so far, I found the place all shut-up. We had to get help to open it; and it was well that I was able to go that morning, for—there's a knock. No, dear, don't you stir. It is Miss Jones, I'm sure, and I'll let her in."
Ralph was so sure that the person who knocked was Miss Jones, that he opened his door wide, standing aside to let her pass in with the expected tray; and the visitor did pass in, but there was no tray, and, to his horror, it was Mrs. Short! Taking advantage of his mistake, she waddled up the little hall as fast as her rapidly increasing size would permit, and was actually in the little parlour before Ralph had recovered his senses. He rushed after her, and found her embracing Ruth with every appearance of affection.
"You poor, unfortunate, ill-used child!" she panted out. "To think that to-day, of all the days in the year, I should have gone to Derby to buy a warm shawl; for as to choice of colours, there's no such thing at Price's, but dum-ducketty-mud colour and greys, that looks like poorhouse folk. My 'art bleeds for you, Ruth Golong. I'm that good-natured, I never could bear malice. I know you behaved rude-like when you turned me out, as one may say, when Mr. Trulock was so bad. But truly he was over the worst of it by that time, and so it did him no harm getting a unexperienced nuss instead of me. But there, I forgive and forget, Ruth, my dear. I'm full of sympathy with you. And now tell me all about it. I'm told the wicked old creetur beat you and half killed Ollie, and then killed herself a-purpose; is that true, child? Is it true, Ruth Golong? Can't you speak, child?"
"Ruth," said Ralph, "I think this noise may waken Ollie; you'd better go and have a look at him."
"Mrs. Short," continued Ralph, "there will be an inquest to-morrow, and Ruth will be the principal witness. So she must not be talked to about the matter now. And Ollie has the measles, ma'am; did you ever have them?"
"Oh yes, when I was a little gel."
"I've known several people have them a second time," remarked Ralph thoughtfully; "and they go hard with people of a full habit, and not so young as they have been."
Mrs. Short grew red with fear and anger mixed. "Good evening," said she, "and I only hope you won't take 'em yourself, Mr. Trulock; for full habit or no full habit, you're little or no better than a walking skelington, and can't have it in you to throw out a rash handsome."
With this cutting remark she tossed her head and left the house, Ralph laughing to himself as she disappeared. Before he could call Ruth down again, Miss Jones and her tray made their appearance, and Ruth was kissed and fed and put to bed, with the utmost tenderness, to a running accompaniment of scolding that was wonderful to listen to.
The inquest took place next day. Ralph took Ruth to the house, and Miss Jones sat with Ollie during their absence. Ruth's evidence was given with such modest self-possession, and was so clear and plain, that it did not matter that no one else could give any evidence at all, except to the fact that the woman was dead. The verdict was "Died of alcoholic poisoning;" and then the inquest was over, and nothing remained but for the parish authorities to bury the poor remains of one who had once been a kind-hearted, honest, hard-working woman. Ruth had spoken so gratefully of her kindness, that the memory of a time when Mrs. Cricklade was a pleasant neighbour was revived among the listeners, and one woman said, as they all watched the funeral going up the hill next morning,—
"Poor soul! She was a good creetur, for sure,—a kind body; no fault but the drink."
"Ah, Mrs. Jeffars," said Miss Jones, who had been collecting Ruth's few possessions, and was now at the door, "there's the misfortune. That one fault swallows up all the good qualities one may happen to have. She was a kind woman, as you say, and yet she took rent from that poor child, and struck and abused her more than once. And she was an honest woman too, and yet you see she took the child's money that she was trusted with, to get drink. Whatever a person may have been, never reckon on them, once they take to drinking; for the one thing that's certain about a drunkard is, that he'll do anything to get the means of drinking."
Miss Jones walked off down the hill, followed by a man carrying Ruth's big trunk.
Mrs. Jeffars looked thoughtfully after her.
"She couldn't have known that I take it sometimes," she thought; "but I'll never touch it again. I might go on and on, by degrees, until I ended like that, and disgraced my Paul that's at sea. I'll go this very evening, God helping me, and take the pledge—and I'll take the bottle, and leave it with Mrs. Francis for the use of the hospital."
And she kept her word, and kept the pledge too; so Miss Jones had said a word in season for once, at all events.
Ruth was far from well for some days, and Ralph felt very miserable. The girl had been so badly fed, and so thoroughly chilled, that the shock found her weak and nervous, and therefore had more effect upon her than it would have had some weeks before. She could not sleep, and every noise made her start violently, and turn quite sick and faint. The doctor said, however, that there was nothing seriously wrong, and that with care and quiet she would soon be quite herself again. And after about a fortnight she was much better; and as to Ollie, he was as well as ever again.
"Mr. Trulock," said Ruth, "don't you think I may go to Price's for work again now? Ollie is quite well, and I think he may begin to go to school. And—I wonder where I could find a lodging?" she asked slowly.
"Ollie had better not go back to school until after the Christmas holidays, I think," said Ralph; "and as to the other matters, I will talk to you to-morrow, Ruth."
And taking his hat, Ralph opened the hall door and was passing out, when Ruth ran after him.
"Won't you put on your great-coat, sir, and your comforter? You don't take a bit of care of yourself, Mr. Trulock!"
"I have a good caretaker in you," said he, coming back to her.
Ruth helped him to put on the coat, mounting on a chair for that purpose, and wrapped the comforter round his neck, tucking in the ends snugly.
"Now you may go," said she; "but don't stay out very late, please."
"Bless the child's sweet face!" muttered Ralph. "She certainly grows more like my Annie every day, or else I fancy it as I grow fonder of her. Well, the time has come for me to decide. I can't let things drift any longer, for she won't, the little creature. I must do either one thing or the other, and I'll make up my mind before I eat another meal. I'll go into the Forest—it will be quiet there—and think."
He walked along the forest road until he reached the place where he had found the children on that bright sunny Sunday when he first brought them to his home. This was a still, grey day, very unlike that other, but it was not very cold, here among the trees. Ralph clambered up the bank, found the fallen tree, and seated himself upon it. There he remained deep in thought for some time: then he rose and paced to and fro, then sat down again. At last, he covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud, "I can't! I can't do it!" But even as he said the words he knew and felt that he could do it.
Ralph had been reading his Bible to better purpose lately than when he only searched for texts wherewith to confound Mrs. Cloudesley. He had learned many lessons during the last few months. To distrust himself; to fear that he might be mistaken, and May Cloudesley right; to wish earnestly to do what God would have him do, and to ask for help to do it;—all this and more had Ralph Trulock learned, partly from May, partly from Ruth, but still more from his Bible, which had begun to take such new meanings lately. And now he asked for guidance, and felt that he had it—that he knew what he ought to do; now he asked for strength to do it, and even while he said aloud, "I cannot," he felt that he could. And when at last, he walked home, very tired and worn with the conflict, he went up to his own room and, without waiting to take off his great-coat, wrote the following letter:
"Lady Mabel's Rest,""Fairford.""MY DEAR ARNOTT,—""I never wrote to thank you, and those who joined you, in writing to Mr. Barton on my behalf; but I hope you will forgive me, and let me explain why I did not write, and thank you all now.""When I first came here, I had no intention of accepting your kindness except for a time. My health was broken, and I was unfit for work; but I had made up my mind to save every penny I could until I had paid off the small sum still remaining due to all of you with whom I used to have dealings; and then, if my strength would permit, leave this place, and look out for some small situation as clerk or caretaker, which would support me. With these plans before me, I did not write. I felt sore and angry at needing even temporary help, and soothed my pride by continually telling myself that in the end you, and not I, should be the gainer.""But God in His mercy has led me, by means into which I cannot enter (as it would take up so much of your time) to see that such a state of feeling is not right in His eyes. I am old and feeble now, and you all meant to secure peace and comfort for one whom you had known long, and who had been unfortunate. It was nothing but pride that made me resist this kind feeling, as I acknowledge I once did, and determine not to profit by it. I see this now.""So I write to thank you, and through you, if you will allow me, my other creditors, for your kind consideration, which I thankfully accept; and the benefits which you have secured to me I hope henceforth to share with others even more helpless than I am myself.""I remain,""Very faithfully yours,""RALPH TRULOCK."
Ralph put his letter into a cover and addressed it, but did not close it. Next day he went to the garden and asked if he might keep Ollie,—Ruth he had a right to keep, as his housekeeper, or "gel," as Mrs. Short put it. The warden said he was sure there would be no difficulty about it, and promised to arrange it all, for him. Then Ralph toiled up the hill to High Fairford, and went to see Mrs. Cloudesley.
"Madam," said he, "as long ago as last Christmas you said a few words to me, to which I would scarcely listen at the time, but which I could not forget, though I surely did my best. You spoke to me of my pride, of which up to that time I had been very proud; you spoke to me of love and kindness—things I had hardly thought of for years. You advised me to help some one, and that I should find my heart growing softer—and you were right, madam. I began to search the Bible for something to justify my own opinion, and I could not find what I wanted; but I found a great deal about love and humility. And Ruth Garland, madam, has taught me much. If you will kindly look over this letter, you will see that I am in earnest."
May, with tears in her eyes, took the letter and read it. Then she looked up at him with a smile upon her pleasant face, though the tears were there still.
"Now that is what I like in you so much!" she said heartily. "I always knew that you would do what was right the moment you saw it. You don't know how happy you have made me by telling me all this. In trying to help people, one fails so often—and the worst failure of all is, when they acknowledge that they are in the wrong, but won't make any change. One gets sadly disheartened then. It's quite delightful to know a person who no sooner sees what is right, but he goes and does it."
"You must not think that of me," Ralph said sadly. "I think I saw it some time ago, but I would not acknowledge it: and how nearly I lost my children by that delay!"
"Well, it was not a very long delay," said May kindly. "I like your little Ruth so much. I'm sure you will never repent having befriended her: and as to the boy, he is a darling."
"Yes, madam, a fine boy. I will ask you to tell Mr. Cloudesley that Ollie will not attend the Greatrex School any more. I shall send him to Mr. Hawthorne as a day boy, and, when he is older, get him into the Commercial school in Foxton. I think I could do that."
After a little more conversation, Ralph went home, to have a talk with Ruth.
A BRIGHT little fire burned that evening in Ralph Trulock's parlour, and at one side of it sat Ralph, in the easiest chair the house contained (and, with the help of pillows, Ruth had made him very snug, though the chair was by nature angular and uncompromising). Opposite him, in a low wooden chair, sat Ruth, her small fingers plying her knitting-needles with great zeal, while her eyes rested fondly on Ollie, who was stretched at lazy length upon the little rug between the other two, reading a book lent him by Miss Jones. Ollie lay face downward, his round chin propped up on his two hands, and the firelight playing upon his dark hair and bright face, made him "quite a picture," as Ruth privately told herself. Oh, if Ollie could always have such a fire as that to bask before! For the child loved warmth like a little cat.
"Ruth, do you remember what you said to me yesterday about getting work?" said Ralph.
Ruth started and blushed, half afraid that he had discovered what was in her thoughts at the moment.
"Oh yes," she said hurriedly; "do you think people would be afraid of the measles now?"
"No, I don't suppose they would. But, Ruth, I don't want you to work for Price's any more. I want you and Ollie to stay here with me."
"Always?" exclaimed Ollie, turning over on his back suddenly, and gazing up at the speaker. "Oh, Mr. Trulock! Never go back to Mrs. Cricklade again! That would be so lovely!"
Ollie did not know, even yet, that Mrs. Cricklade was dead. He had not been told at the time because he was still weak, and Ruth had shrunk from the subject afterwards.
"Mr. Trulock," said Ruth, "you are good—too good. You would only have to pinch yourself for us: it could not be. Ollie, don't say any more, dear."
"Listen to me, Ruth," said Ralph earnestly. "You think I am very poor, and I don't wonder at that, because I have given you good reason to think so. But I am not really poor. I have as much to live on as any one else in the Rest: as much as Mrs. Short, or Mrs. Archer, and you know she has six children."
Ollie gave a quick look round the room, mentally contrasting it with Miss Jones's and Mrs. Short's parlour; but Ruth shook her head and answered,—
"You told me once, you know, that there was a claim upon your money. I remember it, because it was what father used to say when people told him he ought to send me to a better school."
"Yes, I told you so, and I thought so at the time. But I was wrong, Ruth. I was too proud to accept a kindness, but I have made up my mind to accept it, and to spend my money in making us all happy and comfortable. You shall keep house for me, my dear, and I can teach you in the evenings,—I'm a fair scholar in a plain way. And Ollie shall go to a good school, and get a good education."
"Oh! Oh, Mr. Trulock! if I were only sure that you would not be making yourself poor for us."
"I shall be richer, Ruthie, than I ever thought to be, for I shall have a daughter and a—"
He stopped short. He could not say the word "son." Poor lost Fred!
"You mean me," said Ollie. "But, Mr. Trulock, we ought to be called your grandchildren," he added after a little reflection. "We're too little to be your children, don't you think? Ruthie, what makes you cry? I think it is too good to be true. You know how cold it is at Mrs. Cricklade's, and she is very often cross too! She hit you often, I know she did. Oh, Ruthie, do say you will stay here. It can't be wrong—is it, Mr. Trulock?"
"It would be wrong and unkind to leave me," replied Ralph quickly.
"Oh, I am only too glad to stay—you know that," Ruth cried, springing up and running to his side. "I only feared—"
"Have no fears, my dear child. We shall be very comfortable, and I hope very happy too. I thank God for my two dear children."
So the question was settled, and the little Garlands stayed with Ralph. Ollie had a holiday, as we know, but he was not allowed to be idle, for Ruth found employment for him. She set to work, with a charwoman to assist, to clean the house from top to bottom, and Ollie was as busy as any one. What a polishing and brightening that house got, to be sure! Ralph bought a little additional furniture too; and altogether his abode quite lost the poverty-stricken air which had so distressed May Cloudesley.
Christmas Eve came round again, and Mr. and Mrs. Cloudesley betook themselves to Lady Mabel's Rest, to pay a short visit to each house. May had persuaded her mother to send her a great hamper of apples, nuts, pears, gingerbread, and jam tarts, that she might have little presents for the children, for she knew them all now, and loved nothing better than giving them pleasure. She had some small gift for every one, mostly made by her own hands, and that intended for Mrs. Short was a pretty woollen mat to ornament her table. Mrs. Short liked the mat better than the flowers of last year, but she was intensely curious to know what Mrs. Cloudesley was taking next door, to Mr. Trulock and the Garlands, and May was quite determined that she should not find out. Mrs. Short had a long list of grievances to mourn over, and was not nearly so alert and lively as she had been on that day last year. A whole year of eating more than enough for two had told upon her.
"Mr. Trulock never was much of a neighbour," she said, "as you know, Mrs. Cloudesley; but when he was tramping the country from morning till night, and never had a bit or sup in his house that a proper-minded person would care to eat, it did not matter so much. But now, ma'am, things is very different, and they set down to as good meals in a plainish way as any one could desire, and Ruth is learning cooking from Miss Jones, and she's learned her to make coffee, and cakes, and things tossed up in the frying-pan—and I must say the smell is most tempting—and it's all one gets of them. And if I want anything off the common, I may just turn to and cook it, which gets to tire one, somehow; but never once, ma'am, has they said, 'Mrs. Short, will you step in to tea?' and I that nussed Trulock when every one else forsook him!"
"You should have a servant, Mrs. Short," said May, for want of something to say. "She would be company for you."
"Gels eat so much," said Mrs. Short pensively. "I've a good appetite, ma'am: I re'lly don't see how I could afford a gel. When I say a good appetite, I don't mean a appetite as can eat anything, but if I gets what I like I can pick a good little bit; but anything in the way, say of a sweetbread, now, or mutton kidneys, or a Yorkshire 'Am, or a veal pie or the like,—which I re'lly require such food, ma'am,—they cost a deal, and no common gel can be expected to cook 'em. I can't afford a gel, and that's the truth."
"Oh, Mrs. Short, you are no worse off than your neighbours, you know."
"Well, I don't know how they manage," said Mrs. Short thoughtfully.
"I think," said silent Mr. Cloudesley suddenly, "that by thinking a little of other people, and not spending every penny they have upon themselves alone, they seem to get more comfort out of this life even, to say nothing of a life beyond this. Come, May, it is getting late."
Mrs. Short was offended, and showed them to the door in silence. Her "Good-afternoon, ma'am," was the stiffest thing imaginable.
"That poor woman! She always depresses me, Gilbert. Why did you not say more to her? It is so very sad."
"There was no use in saying more, my dear. One can't say more than one sharp thing, and anything less sharp would not get through the poor thing's coating of fat. Now, perhaps that small harpoon may stick."
The door of Ralph's house was opened by Ollie whose cheeks were crimson with excitement.
"Please come into the parlour, ma'am, and I'll tell them. We're all in the kitchen mixing the pudding."
"Ah, Ollie! Let me go into the kitchen and see the fun," said May. "Ruth won't mind."
"Indeed she won't mind," said Ollie. "Come along. Will you come, sir? You've no idea, ma'am, how many things have to go in a pudding, a real English plum-pudding. We never saw one in France. Ruth wrote the list and went to the shops, but when she came home, she had forgotten both the suet and the nutmeg, and I had to run for them. Ruthie, here's Mrs. Cloudesley, she wants to see the fun,—I suppose she means the pudding; and Mr. Cloudesley came too."
May stood to look at the scene before her, with all the pleasure and sympathy she so truly felt, looking out of her sweet eyes. Standing before the fire with a cookery book in his hand, was Ralph Trulock; at the table, mixing the various ingredients in a basin, was Ruth, her hand in no state to be shaken. Her face was very grave. It was a great undertaking. Ralph, on the contrary, looked amused and happy. What a contrast to the man May had seen for the first time that day last year!
May helped to finish the mixing, and then to tie the pudding in a cloth; and it was well she was there, as otherwise the due flouring of the cloth would have been forgotten, and Ruth's pudding would not have presented the handsome appearance it did present the next day. May had brought Ollie some apples and Ruth a little book; but for Ralph she produced a bunch of Christmas Roses, saying:
"I hardly think you want these now, Mr. Trulock?"
"Truly, madam, they grow by my own fireside now; and for great part my thanks are due to you. You first told me how to grow them."
"I expect that's a parable," said Ollie, gravely. "Isn't it, Mr. Trulock?"
"It is, Ollie."
"And we are the flowers?" said the boy with a nod of his curly head.
"You! You are a weed, Master Ollie!" cried May laughing; "And an ill weed too. Don't you know the old saying that 'Ill weeds grow apace'?"
Mr. Cloudesley's sharp harpoon stuck fast, but the effect was not exactly what he wished!
A day or two after Christmas, Ruth was running home from Miss Jones's house, where she had been having a lesson in clear starching from that notable lady, when she was surprised to hear Mrs. Short calling to her, in very dulcet and amiable tones.
"Where are you, ma'am?" inquired Ruth, after looking round in vain.
"In my own kitching, Ruth, and the 'all door is open. You just step here, I want a word with you."
"Oh dear!" thought Ruth, "And I can't venture to talk French to her, like that saucy Ollie. What can she want?"
She found Mrs. Short sitting in a well-padded beehive chair before the kitchen range. A basket at her feet contained various brushes, saucers, and bits of rag, and her face beamed with complacency and self-satisfaction.
"Good-day, Ruth Golong," said she. "I've been thinking how kind Miss Jones is, teaching you so much and having you there so constant; and I feel I ought to help both you and her a bit."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ruth doubtfully.
"Yes, indeed, Ruth; which I am a very notable woman, my dear, and can teach you even better than Miss Jones can, though the gentry do think such a heap of her. My Matthew, that's dead and gone, poor fellow, used to say that for cleanly ways and housekeeping generally, there was not a woman to equal his wife in England; and if not in England, where? For it's not to be thought that amongst poor benighted furriners and sich,—black, some of 'em, I'm told, and copper-coloured others,—would be as nice in them respects as a English woman. So I've made up my mind as it's selfish in me to keep all that knowledge locked up in my own buzzom, and take it, as one may say, out of the world with me when the time comes as I must leave all my little comforts and go to a better place, and therefore I'm going to teach you, Ruth Golong. And as it's best to begin at the beginning, we'll begin by learning to black up the kitching range. I've everything ready; so now, my dear, you begin. Here's a rag, rub the rust off first with ile—this bottle's the ile."
"But, ma'am," said Ruth, "I have learned to do all this, and my dinner is in the oven, and no one is there to look to it; for Mr. Trulock and Ollie are gone for a walk."
"Well, you know, Ruth, there's the comfort of a oven, your dinner is a-cooking all the same and will never miss you. Here, child, take the rag."
Ruth, unwillingly enough, took the proffered rag and removed the rust as directed. She was rather vexed, but being shy could think of no way of escape.
"Now here's the blacklead, child, and this is the brush. Rub it on well, dear—oh, that won't do at all—rub hard—harder—quick now, up and down the bar. That's more like it. Good, my dear!"
In this manner did the good creature keep her pupil to the task until the grate was polished to her liking, and Ruth in a glow with heat and vexation.
"Now," said she, "that's not bad, my dear, for a beginning. A few more lessons, and you'll black a grate with any one living, you will indeed. Now there's a great art in lighting of a oven. Some folks will take an hour or more to do it. Very disconvenient these here little ovens are, as have a fire all to themselves. You take a shovel full of lighted coal, my dear," etc., etc.
Again poor Ruth found herself unable to escape, the fire was lighted under Mrs. Short's directions.
"That's enough for one day, my dear," said the old woman. "I'll call you in again whenever I can make time to give you another lesson. Good-day, Ruth Golong; you're a handy gel, and will do us credit yet."
Ruth escaped as fast as she could, and ran home, half angry, but more than half amused. Mrs. Short rose from her chair and got her neatly made veal pie from her cupboard.
"Sich a comfort," she murmured, "to get the grate done. Mrs. Cloudesley's sure to hear of it. It will be nearly as good as having a gel, and it's no more than good-natured to teach that poor orphian to get a living, as that crusty old feller may turn her out to do for herself any day."
Mrs. Cloudesley did hear of it, and so did Mr. Cloudesley; and what a laugh May had at her husband about his "harpoon!"
For some time after this Ruth's life was rendered a burden to her by the exactions of her "good-natered" neighbour; but at last she was obliged to rebel, and told Mrs. Short that she had not time to do the work of two houses. Mrs. Short characterized this as an act of the basest ingratitude, and was never tired of telling any one who would listen, how she tried to befriend that set-up-thing, Ruth Golong, and how the gel turned upon her with langwich which was too violent to be repeated!
In consequence of Ruth's vile ingratitude, it became plain to Mrs. Short that she must do one of three things, none of which she entirely liked. She might return to doing the work herself, which her rapidly increasing size rendered both difficult and distasteful to her. Or she might leave the work undone—cease to keep her place so beautifully clean, and attend merely to her cooking; to do her justice, this idea only suggested itself to be rejected. Or again, she might get a "gel." This she would do, she decided, after much deliberation.
The next point was, to get a "gel" for as little wages as possible—for none, if it could be managed. She therefore wrote to her son, offering in the handsomest manner to take "his Mary Kate" off his hands, educating her to be a notable woman like herself, and leaving to her such sums as she should have saved before her death. But Mat Short was very fond of his children, and they were not fond of their grandmother! Moreover Mat did not believe in the savings, for as he said to his wife, "Mother'd eat five hundred a year if she had it!" This obliging offer was declined. Mary Kate howled from the moment she heard her grandmother's letter read until the reply was safely posted. Then, and not till then, did Mrs. Short bethink herself of her long-lost daughter.
Now, though she always spoke of Jane as lost, Jane might more properly be said to be merely mislaid. Mrs. Short did not know where she was, simply because she had never inquired! Jane had offended her mother while very young, by going out as a servant, owing to what Mrs. Short called "competition of temper" at home. Then she had married, and Mrs. Short, then a widow, had cast her off: people were unkind enough to say that she feared lest Jane might expect a little help occasionally. Now, however, the case was different, and Mrs. Short caused a little quiet inquiry to be made about Jane, and discovered that she was a widow, with one son, who was at sea. Mrs. Short piously declared that it was "quite a Prominence," and forthwith wrote to Jane whose name, by way of a joke, was Mrs. Long,—to invite her to be a comfort to her mother's declining years.
Mrs. Long, who was again in service, thought she might as well try, in spite of the "competition" I have mentioned; or perhaps she knew that her temper had improved since the last competition, and wished to try again. At all events, she came, and great was Ollie's amusement at the queer contrast presented by Mrs. Long and Mrs. Short when he first saw them, on their way to church together, on the first Sunday after Mrs. Long's arrival. Mrs. Short, broader than she was long, waddling up the hill in her handsome tartan shawl, the tartan of some clan which was addicted to colour, and did not mind being seen a good way off. Mrs. Long, a very tall, thin woman, with an expression of meek obstinacy in her face, stalking beside her mother in a shabby, rusty black cloak, and a bonnet which looked as if she had accidentally sat down upon it.
But before long (I don't mean that for a pun) Mrs. Short found that she had made a great mistake, and, what was worse, one that could not be un-made. Jane's temper had quite the best of the competition now! She did not scold or storm, she seldom even answered again; but she smiled sourly when her affectionate mother tried to feed her upon bacon and cabbage, while she herself dined upon various costly delicacies. After a brief struggle, Jane had her own way, and her full share of such good things as were going. But these were not as plenty as of old.
Mrs. Long remarked that it was her mother's plain duty to save a certain sum weekly, to form a little fortune for her when she should be again left homeless by the old woman's death. She not only pointed out this duty, but she saw that it was done. She made the old woman fairly comfortable, however, and nursed her carefully when she required it; but she ruled her completely, and altogether things were not to Mrs. Short's mind, and she sometimes mournfully wished that she had "got a gel."
"But there," she said, "that's me all over; I couldn't get Jane out of my head, thinking she might be actially in want, and I in comfort; I'm too good-natured, that's the truth, and Jane don't take after me!"
"That's the Long and the Short of it!" As saucy Ollie Garland remarked when he heard this lament.
A YEAR passed very quietly and happily in Ralph Trulock's house. Ollie was going to school now, and Ruth was a busy and a happy little woman, and had grown much stronger and less nervous than she had been when she first came to Lady Mabel's Rest. Ralph gave her lessons every evening, when the day's work was over, and was making a good scholar of her in a plain, old-fashioned way. Mrs. Cloudesley taught her various kinds of fancy-work, and Miss Jones made her a first-rate cook and a capital housekeeper in every way. So Ruth bade fair to be an accomplished woman, according to my notions. If a woman can do with her own hands, and do well, everything that is needed for the comfort of her household; can read and enjoy books on a variety of subjects in two languages; can keep accounts well, and write a good hand, and has, moreover, an employment for her leisure hours which she likes and excels in,—I call her an accomplished woman, though she may never have learned to torture my ears with "a tune" on the piano, or to paint roses which look like miniature red cabbages. If a woman in Ruth's rank of life is a genius, let her learn music or drawing by all means. But oh, fathers and mothers of Great Britain and Ireland, do give up the idea that "a little music" and "just half a dozen lessons in flower-painting" are necessary for all your daughters.
Well, one lovely day in April, Ralph was alone in the garden in front of his house. Ruth had gone to meet Ollie on his way home from school. Ralph was sitting on a chair close to his door, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the scent of a little patch of violets which were just coming into bloom. Ruth and Ollie had contrived to make the front garden quite pretty, and to grow some common vegetables in the one at the back of the house. Looking up, because he heard the little gate squeak, as it always did when opened, Ralph beheld a gentleman in deep mourning coming up the walk. A slight, well-made young man, with a moustache and small imperial—not an Englishman, evidently, Ralph concluded.
"Excuse me, sir," said the stranger, "is your name Ralph Trulock?"
"It is, sir," said Ralph, standing up.
"I shall be glad to have a little private conversation with you. Shall we be interrupted or overheard here?" With a glance of his quick black eyes towards Mrs. Short's window, where truly the worthy creature was flattening her nose against the glass with great ardour.
"We can go to the parlour," said Ralph, inwardly wondering who the man might be.
They went in accordingly, and sat down.
"Mr. Trulock, my name is Mordan,—Oliver Mordan, of Bordeaux."
"Indeed!" cried Ralph with a start. "Then I suppose I know why you are here, sir. I wrote to Mr. Mordan about a year ago,—but not, I should think, to you."
"You wrote! You know why I am here!" exclaimed Mr. Mordan, flourishing his hands about rather more than Ralph thought becoming. "Doubtless it was to my dear father that you wrote; but I never heard of it, nor did I find your letter among his papers. My father, Mr. Trulock, died some months ago."
Ralph tried to look sorry, but he was so full of anxiety to know why Mr. Mordan was here, that he did not succeed particularly well.
"Will you tell me why you wrote to my father, sir? I was in the East, travelling for my proper distraction—for my own amusement, I would say. I returned in haste, to find my father dying. Business has occupied every moment since his death. I could not fulfil the request of my poor friend until now, nor seek for his children, concerning whose fate I am extremely anxious."
"Anxious about the children, sir! Then it was not to see them that you came here?"
"No; but do you tell me in seriousness that they are here? Ah, what a relief! It is only lately that the circumstances of my poor friend's death became known to me. I was far away—no letters reached me for a very long time. The packet containing his last letter missed me, and was sent to me by a friend from Damascus, quite recently. I returned, summoned because my father was ill; I never heard his voice again, though he lived for many weeks; he was speechless. Then, as no doubt you are aware, there was a change of Government in France; this naturally occasioned difficulties in business, and seriously injured our house, so recently deprived of its experienced chief. I have been obliged to devote every moment, every energy, to the work of saving our house. Then came these letters—my friend's last among them. Then I make inquiries more particular—begin to fear his children may be in want—follow him to England, partly to see you, sir, still more to find the helpless little ones. But I presume their father gave them directions how to act. I had feared that his death was too sudden to admit of that."
"So it was," replied Ralph. "He only said they were to go to Fairford, to their grandfather."
"But that was enough," said Mr. Mordan, smiling.
"They came on, poor children," pursued Ralph, wondering what on earth the man meant by that, "and began to inquire for their grandfather."
"And they found you?" said Mr. Mordan, still mysteriously pleased about something.
"Well, I don't know about finding," said Ralph, slowly, with a puzzled look. "I made acquaintance with Ruth Garland accidentally, and was led on by little and little to take an interest in her. They live with me now, and I hope, sir, that you won't take them from me, for it would break my heart to part with them now; though I know I have no claim to keep them, if they wish to go, and you can do better for them than I can—as I make no doubt you could, sir."
Mr. Mordan was the one to look puzzled now. After a little thought, he said:
"We are at cross-purposes, Mr. Trulock. You call the children Garland; do you know them only by that name?"
"Why, of course, only by that name," replied Ralph.
"And they came here, acting on the few words from their father of which you have spoken; and they failed to find their grandfather?"
"Failed entirely," said Ralph. "Never was a Garland in Fairford."
"And you took them to your home, and now love them as if they were your own?" went on Oliver Mordan, earnestly.
"Just so, sir," said Ralph.
"Mr. Trulock, the ways of God are very wonderful, as my dear mother used to say. Let me think a little. I must not be too sudden. I must ask you a question which may agitate you. Tell me, sir, had you not once a son?"
"Yes, one son."
"Named Frederick," said Mr. Mordan, "the same name as my poor friend."
Ralph turned white—then tried to rise from his chair, gasping out,—
"Frederick—oh, it cannot be—yet I always thought Ruth like my Annie; oh, sir, tell me quickly, are these his children? Tell me!"
Mr. Mordan sprang up and opened the window; then seizing a newspaper which lay on the table, he fanned the old man vigorously until he had recovered himself a little. Then he said,—
"You were too quick for me. But you have guessed rightly. No one knew his real name, not even myself. He told me his story when he came to Bordeaux, but not his name. He told me he had wronged his father, that he feared he had ruined his business; that the only reparation he could make would be to provide for the old age of this father whom he had so injured, and he asked me to help him. To save money, he denied himself and his family every luxury. I managed his affairs, for he had no head for business; all his money was in my hands. My father knew nothing of it, he never much liked my friend—I know not why. I owed my life to him, but without that I should have loved him. This letter of which I speak—his last—told me his real name, and told me also that his father, after a long and gallant struggle with misfortune, had been obliged to give up his business—had been forced to accept an asylum here."
"'I know my father,' he wrote; 'this will break his heart. I dared not interfere while I still hoped he would succeed; but now I will go to him, with the children. Surely he will forgive me, and let me pay what he has not been able to pay, and make his old age comfortable, even though I cannot restore to him what he has lost by my misdoing.'"
"Oh, my boy, my dear Fred! So your mother was right; the good she taught you was not forgotten!"
"He was a good man, Mr. Trulock. A repentant, humble-minded man. My mother liked him well, and she was angel."
"He must have been good, from the way he taught his children. And my little Ruth! How the look of Annie puzzled me, and I even tried to persuade myself it was fancy."
Mr. Mordan rose.
"I will leave you now," he said, "for I see you are unable just now to attend to business. But, if you will permit, I will come in the evening. You will wish to tell the children,—yes, I will come at six this evening."
"You are very kind, sir; I feel it more than I can say. I shall be better able to thank you then. Truly at this moment I am not good for much."
Fancy Ruth's amazement to meet "Monsieur Oliver" in the gateway of Lady Mabel's Rest. Ollie had quite forgotten him, but Ruth knew him at once. He kissed them both, and told them that he had been very unhappy about them, and had come to Fairford to seek them. Then he bid them run home, as Mr. Trulock had something truly surprising to tell them. So they rushed home, in no small excitement, to find Ralph crying like a child.
"Oh, what is it?" said Ruth. "He said—Monsieur Oliver did—that you had something to tell us; but it must be something bad. He wants to take us away, but we won't go. We cannot leave you now; can we, Ollie?"
"It is nothing bad," said Ollie; "I can see that. Wait a little, Ruthie, and he will tell us."
"Ruth, Ollie! My dear, dear children! No one can take you from me now. Wonderful are the guidings of the Almighty! He led you to your rightful home, He prepared my hard heart to welcome you. Children, your father was my son, my only son, Frederick. Ruth, you have a good right to be like my dear Annie. Oh, if she had but seen this day!"
I need not describe the children's excitement and delight. For a long time they could talk of nothing else.
"Do you remember that we wished our grandfather might be just like you?" said Ollie, kissing Ralph affectionately. "Well, Ruth, what have you discovered now? You look so surprised."
"Because, Ollie, do you remember how dear father tried to say something, and I thought it was 'You lock,' and locked his box. It was 'Trulock,' I am sure it was; don't you think so, Mr. Trulock?"
"I am sure you are right, dear. My poor Fred! But you must learn to call me grandfather, now, Ruthie."
"That won't be hard," said Ruth fondly.
When Mr. Mordan returned to the Rest at six o'clock, he found Mr. Trulock quite himself again, and Ruth and Ollie ready to welcome him with delight, and to give him a cup of tea, which he greatly enjoyed; also Ruth's tea-cake, for the cookery at the Fairford inn did not much please him. He showed them the letter written just before his journey to England by Frederick Trulock, and a copy of the poor fellow's will, a brief document, leaving all he had to his father, and his two children to his father's care. The sum thus made over was not a very large one, not a fortune, by any means, but it was enough to make the future of the children no matter of anxiety to their grandfather.
Ralph's first step was to write to Mr. Arnott, offering to pay the two-and-sixpence in the pound, which had once made him so miserable. His creditors, one and all, begged him not to do so, and Ralph thanked them, and accepted their kindness frankly, for the children's sake.
Ralph made no change in his life for some months for he was anxious to act prudently for the interests of his charge. Then, as Ollie declared that of all things he wished to be a bookseller, he purchased the shop and good-will of a person in that line of business in the chief town of the county in which Fairford stood. And so, of course, he gave up his house in Lady Mabel's Rest.
Ruth was quite sorry to leave it, and to part with her kind friend, Miss Jones. From her other friend, Mrs. Cloudesley, she would not be parted, as Mr. Cloudesley had accepted a living in the very town to which the Trulocks were going. Ralph manages the business so well that they are very comfortable and prosperous, and the old man's life is a very happy one.
"My Christmas Roses," he says sometimes to May Cloudesley, "they make my old age the brightest time I have known!"