Ralph longed to see the child again, he could not help thinking of her. He determined to offer to make further and more efficient inquiries than had as yet been made about the relatives the poor father had evidently expected to find at Fairford. In other ways, too, he thought he could be of use; and the fancy he had taken to the girl made it easier for him to determine to keep his half-formed resolution by helping her.
With these thoughts, he went up the hill to church on the following Sunday, and on his way home called at the little shop. It was closed, of course; but when he had knocked three or four times the old woman opened the door, and to his horror she was drunk. He asked for the children, and she mumbled out that they had gone to the Forest, and in reply to further questions she would only mutter "to the Forest, to the Forest," with an idiotic laugh. Ralph walked on, passed the gate of Lady Mabel's Rest, and went along the Forest Road. He would go a little way, he thought, and perhaps might meet the children.
IT was a lovely day, and the road through the remains of the great forest had never looked more beautiful. Some hawthorn blossoms still lingered in the hedges, and under the trees the ground was blue with wild hyacinths. Here and there a delicate tuft of stellaria, or a carpet-like patch of the pale blue speedwell, varied the colouring, and wild roses of wonderful size and beauty, some of quite a deep crimson, waved in the soft warm breeze. Over all this, the green light coming through the trees shed its own peculiar beauty.
Ralph was not insensible to the loveliness of the scene, though he could not have talked about it. He walked on and on, looking up every glade that opened upon him; but not seeing the children, was just about to turn back when a merry shout of laughter met his ear. The ground rose suddenly on the left side of the road, and it was from that side the sound came. Ralph easily crossed the low wall, climbed the steep bank, and looked round.
A little way back from the road a tree had been felled, or had fallen, and it was now nearly buried in ferns and bluebells. On the trunk of this tree, face to face, with their feet tucked up under them, sat the two children; a small basket lay between them, and each of them had a large piece of bread in one hand. Ollie had a bunch of watercress in the other, and the girl a cup without any handle. She was in the act of making a beautiful bow to Ollie, and Ralph heard the words,—
"So I conclude by wishing you many happy returns of the day, Mr. Oliver Garland; and I drink your health, sir, once more."
Ollie laughed—such gleeful music as his laugh was!
"Thank you, Mam'selle Garland; you are very polite. That was a beautiful speech, Ruthie. I can't make speeches—not in English at least, and you will not let me talk French."
"No; for you must learn to speak English always. It vexes people to talk to them so that they don't understand."
"Mrs. Cricklade was vexed, certainly," replied Ollie. "Ruthie, if you had plenty of money, what present would you give me to-day?"
"A pair of shoes," was the prompt reply.
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"No, no, you stupid Ruthie," the boy cried, with another laugh. "If you had plenty of money, you would have bought me new shoes when that great hole came," peeping at his foot as he spoke. "Something for pleasure, Ruthie."
"Should you like a book—with coloured pictures, of course?"
"Yes; but I would rather have a knife with two blades in it."
"Very well," said Ruth, "I would give you a knife with two blades in it; and you, Ollie, would cut yourself badly before night; so it is as well for your sake that I have not plenty of money."
How long Ralph would have stood watching them—he had never noticed children much before, not even his own son—I do not know; but at this moment Ollie caught sight of him.
"Ruthie, here is a man," said he.
"Oh! It is the gentleman who sent me the money," cried Ruth, springing up, and running to Ralph's side with glowing cheeks and brilliant eyes.
"I never saw you again, sir, to thank you. It was very kind of you; I felt so rich!"
"Not rich enough," said Ralph, with a grave smile, "to buy a knife with two blades."
"No," she answered, smiling; "and this is poor Ollie's birthday. He is seven years old to-day, and he begged me to come out here instead of going to church. I don't think," she added, in a low tone, "that Ollie cares much about going to church yet. So we put our dinner in a basket, and we found watercress; and it has been so pleasant."
"I came this way to look for you," said Ralph. "I went to your lodgings, and saw Mrs. Cricklade," he added, looking at Ruth.
"Yes," she said, answering the look frankly. "Oh, but it is a pity! She is always so on Sunday. And yet she is such a kind woman, sir."
"I want to talk to you," Ralph said, slowly. He was pondering a grave question. The children's dinner had consisted, he perceived, of bread and watercress. Now he had at home a certain meat-pie, which was his usual Sunday dinner, because he could buy it on Saturday, ready baked, and just warm it up in his little oven on Sunday. Generally, he left enough for his Monday's dinner too, and he never had meat on any other day. Still, he felt inclined to bring the children home, and to give them a good dinner and a cup of tea.
"I will!" thought he. "The poor little creatures." Then he said aloud, "Will you come home with me, both of you? Come and dine with me."
"Thank you, sir, but we have had our dinner," said Ruth.
"Ruthie, I could eat another dinner quite well," said Ollie from his perch on the tree.
"Then come along," said Ralph.
Ruth looked embarrassed for a moment, but he added, "Do come, it is not very far," and I suppose his kind intentions were plainer from his manner than from his words for she smiled, ran back to the tree and packed up the remains of the feast (the cress and the cup, for the bread was all gone), took a huge bunch of flowers from behind a bush, and professed herself ready to set out.
"Where do you live, sir?" inquired Ollie, perching his hat on the top of such a mass of black curls that the hat seemed quite unnecessary. "Ruthie, give me the basket, it is not too heavy for me now, you know."
"I live in Lady Mabel's Rest," said Mr. Trulock.
"Sir," said Ruth, "is there any one there named Garland?"
"No, child. Not one."
"So the man at the gate said when I asked him; but he seemed so cross that I almost thought he might have said it to get rid of us."
"Mrs. Cricklade told me that you expected to find some relatives in Fairford."
"Yes; one at all events—our grandfather. But I can find no one of the name at all. There don't seem to be any Garlands in Fairford."
"What has been done to discover them?" asked Ralph.
"Mrs. Cricklade got the clerk to look in some books that are kept in the church, and they said if any Garlands had been married, or baptized, or buried in Fairford, it would be written in those books."
"And a very stupid book that must be," interrupted Ollie, gravely.
"And Mrs. Cricklade spoke to Mr. Needham, the lawyer, and to one or two old people, and to the police; and she says when the rector comes home she will speak to him too."
"Well, we'll ask leave to look over the list of the people who have lived in Lady Mabel's Rest for the last twenty years; and then when we have had our dinner, we will have a talk and see what more may be done."
By this time they had reached the open road, and in a few minutes more they arrived at the gate of the Rest. Ollie asked rather nervously if the man at the gate would surely let them out again; but Ruth was delighted with the orderly look, the gardens and neat houses.
Mrs. Short was sunning herself at her open window, having just eaten her dinner, and very like a large tortoiseshell cat she looked, as she sat blinking in her easy chair, half asleep. But she was wide awake in a moment when she saw Ralph and his two companions; in fact, having perceived that Ralph did not return home as usual after church, she had stationed herself in the window to watch for him, and to discover, if possible, why he had so far departed from his usual custom.
"Bless us all! Two young beggars, as I'm a living woman! And he carrying a posy as big as a broom! Why, neighbour! Mr. Trulock,—I say, don't be in such a hurry; where ever did you pick up them two little beggars?"
"We are not beggars," cried Ollie, indignantly. "We didn't ask for anything."
"These are friends of mine who are going to dine with me," said Ralph, while Ruth quieted Ollie.
"Friends!" squeaked Mrs. Short. "I didn't know you had any friends here—not such young ones as that, at least. Who are they? What's their name?"
Ralph had by this time got the key into the lock of his door, and opening it for the children to pass in, he said:
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Short, but I'm in haste, and a little hard of hearing, as you know;" and in he went, shutting the door behind him.
"Nasty, crusty creetur' he ever was and ever will be! Says he's in haste, no—but likes to keep a body wondering. But I'll know who he's got with him before I'm very much older."
She rolled herself off her arm-chair, and waddled to the hall door; down her own garden and up that belonging to Ralph in less time than one could reasonably have expected her to take. Her knock was heard by the trio in Ralph's kitchen. Ralph went to the window—then strode to the door.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock, it's not often you have company," began Mrs. Short, in her oiliest voice, "and so I says to myself, 'So short of china and sich as he is, very like he hasn't a plate a piece for 'em,' so I came to offer a loan (I know you'll be careful) of anything you may require. Now ain't I a good-natured neighbour?"
"Thank you, but I have all I want," said Ralph. "Good morning, ma'am," and again the door closed.
Mrs. Short retired, fuming.
When Ralph returned to his kitchen, Ruth and Ollie had taken off their hats and were standing before the little oven, from which there came forth a most appetising smell. Ralph began to look about for plates, etc., but before he could bring them to the table, Ruth came up to him and said with a smile:
"May I set the table, sir?"
"Do, child. I am tired, and shall be glad to sit down."
He watched the child from his corner. Ollie, after a moment's hesitation, came and climbed upon his knee. Poor Ralph felt a strange thrill at his heart. Poor Fred! Poor lost Fred! How often, when he was a handsome little fellow with fair curls, had he climbed up just as Ollie did, and laid his head where Ollie laid his now! If the boy had had fair hair, Ralph would have broken down.
Ruth looked about presently and said,—
"Where do you keep your table-cloths, sir?"
"I have none, Ruth."
"And a very good plan too," said Ollie; "then if one spills things it does not so much matter;" and Ollie nodded his head gravely, like one who has made up his mind.
Ruth said nothing, though her prejudices were decidedly in favour of table-cloths; but she looked at the table, which was stained and soiled. She got a cloth and some water in a quiet, business-like way, washed the table, dried it, laid the knives and forks in order, and then carefully heated the plates with hot water. Ralph felt a curious pleasure in watching her, she moved so quietly and was so handy-like Annie. Then she said, "May I take the dinner out of the oven, sir?"
"You'll burn yourself, I'm afraid," said Ralph.
The girl laughed—a little comfortable chuckle of amusement—at such a foolish notion. She opened the oven and peeped in, and in half a second the pie was safe on the table.
"I knew it was a pie!" said Ollie, triumphantly.
Ralph brought out bread, and filled a jug with water; they all sat down, and very soon the pie-dish only remained to witness that there had been a pie!
"Now, Ruth," said Ralph Trulock, when dinner was quite over, "I want to have a little talk with you. I want you to tell me all about yourself and your father, for perhaps I may be able to help you to find out your people; but to do that I must know all about you. We must lose no time; for when winter comes what are you to do?"
"Winter's such a long, long way off," said Ollie. "What is the good of thinking of it yet? Don't fret, Ruthie!" and he stroked her cheek with his little brown hand.
"No, Ollie, I won't fret; but Mr. Trulock will help us, perhaps, to find our grandfather. May Ollie go and play in the garden, sir? he'll like that better than sitting quiet."
Ralph assented, and the boy went off quite happy. He had seen a lot of daisies in the ill-kept grass, and was soon at work making a daisy chain.
"If we talk about father, Ollie would cry," Ruth said. "He is so little, that if I don't talk, he forgets; and so I pretend to forget too. But I cannot help thinking very often how sorry father would be that we should be so poor, and that Ollie should not go to school any more. I have talked to Mrs. Cricklade, but though she is kind, she does not help me—she does not always understand. But I am sure, sir, that you will know what to do; and I am very, very grateful to you," she added, earnestly. She had such a pretty voice, low and gentle; Ralph felt more drawn to her every moment.
"Your father brought you to Southampton, Mrs. Cricklade told me," he said. "But, Ruth, do you tell me the whole story—all you know about yourself."
"We came from Canada first. I think I was born there, and I know my mother died there, though I don't remember it. I only remember father, even when I was quite young,—younger than Ollie is now. Father did everything for me; we were very poor, I think."
"That was in Canada?" asked Ralph.
"Yes, in Montreal. Father was in an office, but he was very badly paid, because he was a bad accountant. Then he got a letter. I remember that day well, because he was so pleased. He told me that when he was coming to Canada, the ship was wrecked, and many of the passengers lost. He could swim well, and when he had got my mother on shore, he went back and saved others—among them a young Frenchman, who must have been drowned but for him, because he couldn't swim at all. This young gentleman was very grateful, and he promised that when he became his father's partner, he would do something for father if he wanted help. So he wrote for him to go to Bordeaux."
"And you went? Was Ollie born then?"
"Oh no!" Ruth said, opening her eyes wide. "Why, this was years and years ago! Father was caretaker of the great stores; we lived in rooms in the stores. And he married Ollie's mother, and I loved her very much. But she only lived a little while, she died when Ollie was a baby. She told me she gave Ollie to me, and that I must take care of him."
"Had she any relatives in Bordeaux?"
"She was an orphan; I don't think she had any relatives at all."
"Then you were father's little housekeeper?" said Ralph.
"Yes, but we had a servant. Ah, we were very happy; only father never was merry, you know. He said—"
"Well, child, go on."
"But you didn't know him, so you may think he had done something wrong. Nov, father couldn't have done anything really wrong. But he used to tell me that he deserved all his sorrows, and that the reason we were so poor was that he was saving money to pay some one; and 'then,' he said, 'I may be forgiven.'"
"Did he ever mention the name of his creditor?"
"No, never, sir. Well, one day father came home looking quite unhappy and excited. He said to me, 'Pack up all your clothes, and Ollie's and mine, in the big American trunk; for we must go to England, and perhaps we may never come back here again.' I asked why; but he said I would not understand, but that he had heard something which made him want to go to his father. I remember he said, 'I will wait no longer; surely he will forgive me now.' And he wrote cards to put on the trunk, and we came to Southampton in a ship belonging to the firm."
"And the address he wrote was to Southampton?"
"No, no, to Fairford, —shire."
"And at Southampton, he was taken ill, Mrs. Cricklade told me."
"Yes; but the doctor said he must have been ill a long time. He seemed to me just the same until in the night (the ship had sailed for Bordeaux again, and he had been on board getting some things we had forgotten) I found him standing beside my bed. 'Get up, Ruthie,' he said, 'but don't wake the boy;' and he stooped and kissed Ollie. 'I don't feel well,' he said, and went back to his room. I got up quickly and ran to him. He was lying on the bed, his face was grey-looking and not as usual. I rang the bell, and they sent for a doctor and gave him brandy. It was all of no use. He was in such pain—pain in his heart, he said, that he could hardly breathe, and very soon we found that he could not speak. He tried so hard, and tried to write too."
"I have the paper still, but there are no plain words on it. He said, 'Fairford'; and I said; 'I am to go there with Ollie,' and he seemed content. Then he said, 'My father!' and I said I would go to him. But he began about something else; he said, 'You lock,' and I thought he meant lock the box, because he had a small box with some money in it; so I locked it, but I'm afraid that was not what he wanted done, for though the doctor was begging him to be quiet, he sat up suddenly and tried again to speak—and then—then he was dead."
Quiet tears ran down her cheeks, and the old man, all unused as he was to such offices, took her little hand in his and dried her eyes with his handkerchief.
"I must not cry," Ruth sobbed out, "or it will fret Ollie. They gave me all the money that was left after paying every one, and a servant from the hotel came part of the way with us. But I could not find my grandfather; and what I shall do I don't know."
"The first thing to do, Ruth, is to write to the firm in Bordeaux. They may be able to explain, perhaps, or there may be letters for your father lying there at this moment."
"I don't know; Monsieur Oliver is away, and old Monsieur Mordan never liked father, though he had saved his only son. He would not give him a holiday. Father had to give up his place. Another man came the day before we left."
"Still, no doubt he will tell us if he knows anything that can help us. And we will put an advertisement in the newspaper, to find your grandfather. We can write that now."
He got paper and pencil, and began to write:
"'The children of—' What was your father's Christian name, Ruth?"
"Frederick, sir."
"'The children of Frederick Garland, late of Bordeaux, who died suddenly at Southampton on the —. What day of the month, Ruth?"
"The thirty-first."
"The thirty-first of March last, are at Fairford, —shire, and are anxious to communicate with their grandfather. Do you know his Christian name?"
"No, sir, I never heard it."
"'Mr. Garland,' then, 'whom they expected to find in Fairford. Apply to Mr. Ralph Trulock, Lady Mabel's Rest, Fairford.' There, I'll pay for this, Ruth, so you need not think about it."
"Pay for it! Do you pay for things being put in the paper? I never knew that. Thank you, sir. And will you write for me to Monsieur Mordan?"
"I will; give me his address now."
"'Oliver Mordan, Esq.,' you must not say Monsieur, mind, for he is an Englishman by birth, and hates to be mistaken for a Frenchman. I have heard father say that he fancied one reason of Monsieur Mordan's dislike to him was that when he first came to Bordeaux, he thought Monsieur was a Frenchman. Monsieur Oliver did not mind—his mother was a Frenchwoman."
Mr. Trulock wrote the address, which Ruth had to spell for him, and then he said,—
"Now we will have tea."
"Won't you let me get it ready, while you sit quiet and rest? And may I wash the dinner things?"
Ralph had no objection, for it must be confessed that these constant washings and arrangings were a great burden to him. It was very pleasant to sit there and watch the neat-handed little maid as she polished and rubbed, and set everything straight and tidy.
"Now I will call Ollie, for if we don't mind, we shall be late for evening church," said Ruth. She ran to the door, and came back looking a little alarmed.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock, Ollie is not there. Nor is he anywhere inside the wall, for I looked well all about."
Ralph came to the door, looked out, meditated, and men remarked,—
"Don't be frightened, Ruth; I suspect I know where he is. I ought to have remembered she was sure to pounce upon him."
He walked off, with anxious Ruth beside him, and knocked at Mrs. Short's door. On the steps lay a broken daisy chain.
OLLIE GARLAND had been very happy making his daisy chain sitting on the ragged grass plot which formed the so-called garden in front of Ralph's house. He was too innocent, and so was Ruth, to be aware of the danger he incurred by playing in the streets with the little urchins of his own age, whom he met there; it was not exactly the school one would have chosen for a child hitherto kept rather too much apart. But he had taken no harm as yet. As water runs off the feathers of a water-bird, so evil failed to penetrate the soft armour of the boy's innocence. Still, he was happier in the Forest with Ruth, or even here, alone among the daisies. Presently his chain was so long that he determined to lay it along the gravel path, in order that its full magnificence might be seen by Ruth as she came out. But while thus occupied, he heard a voice calling:
"Boy! Little boy! You there—come here, I want to speak to you."
Ollie looked up; there was the fat old woman who had called him and his sister beggars; and it was to him she spoke, he perceived.
"Come here," she cried again, beckoning with her hand. "Come here, child. Bless the boy! I shan't eat you; I only want to speak to you."
Ollie took up his daisy chain and scrambled over the low stone wall which divided the gardens. Rather slowly and reluctantly, he went up the white steps and stood before Mrs. Short, whom he regarded with considerable disfavour, expressed in his large dark eyes.
"Here's a piece of luck!" murmured Mrs. Short. "Now I shall find out everything, in spite of old Crusty. Come in, child; don't bring that trumpery in to spoil my carpet, though."
She snatched the daisy chain from the child's unwilling hand, breaking it, of course, for daisy chains are not made to bear rough handling; throwing it down on the steps, she bore her captive off triumphantly, pushing him along before her. She took him to her parlour, and lifting him suddenly in her short, stout arms, plumped him down rather roughly on one of the least ornamental of her chairs.
Now, Ollie was a very quick child, and sensitive too, as quick children generally are; her muttered words about finding out everything had by no means escaped him, and had enlightened him as to the reason of his capture, of which he disapproved in every way, entirely disliking Mrs. Short's manners. So he quickly determined that whatever questions this dumpy dame asked him, he would answer in French, which came as natural to him as English, if not more so; but which he surmised would be quite the reverse of natural to Mrs. Short: at least, Mrs. Cricklade had failed to understand it.
"Well, child," said Mrs. Short, seating herself snugly in her padded chair, panting a little after her exertions, "Tell me now, what is your name?"
"Oliver Garland," replied Ollie, making the name sound very unlike an English one.
"Laws, now! Olivia Golong—what a name! And a boy to be Olivia, too! Bless us! You're a furrineer, then, I do suppose?"
Ollie rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
"And where do you come from, Olivia?" inquired Mrs. Short.
Ollie assured her in French, that he came from the moon.
Mrs. Short desired him to speak English, "Which I know you can speak it," said she.
"I can," replied Ollie.
"Then tell me where you come from," cried the tantalized lady.
Ollie relapsed into French, and this time stated that he came from the Red Sea.
"Look here," said Mrs. Short, impressively. "You tell me what I want to know, and I'll give you a piece of cake. See if I don't now. I'll show it to you."
She repaired to a corner cupboard, and produced a rich cake, off which, with a deep sigh, she cut a very thin slice, and laid it on the table before the child.
"Now, Olivia," said she, "tell me."
"I am not hungry, thank you, madame," said Ollie.
"But this is cake!" screamed Mrs. Short. "Lovely rich pound cake, made with my own 'ands. It's delicious—that's what it is."
"Then eat it up, madame," answered Ollie, mildly.
Mrs. Short could have danced with rage, only that her figure was not suited to such violent exercise.
"You unmannerly cub!" said she. "Answer my questions in good English, or I shall box your ears soundly."
"I shall not speak any more English at all," said Ollie, gravely. "But if you touch me, I shall roar, and Ruth will hear me."
And to this determination, he adhered. Mrs. Short tried bribes and persuasions in vain, and she was afraid to strike him. Ollie sat quietly on his perch, pouring forth replies to everything she said, but all in what she called his nasty furrin' tongue; and not one word of common sense could she get out of him, as she afterwards remarked. At last the knock at the door, of which I have already spoken, concluded this vexatious interview.
"That's Ruthie!" cried Ollie, dropping off his chair and making for the door; but, remembering himself, he turned and made a polite bow to Mrs. Short, saying:
"Mille pardons, madame—adieu!" And then Mrs. Short, watching in dumb dismay from her window, saw the party return to Ralph's house.
"Did Mrs. Short ask you many questions?" asked Ralph.
"A great many; she never stopped, sir!"
"And did you answer? But of course you couldn't help it. What a plague," thought he, "the old woman will be, if she has got the whole story from the boy."
"Yes, I answered her," replied Ollie with a grave smile. "Only—I spoke in French; and she did not like it, sir."
Ralph actually laughed, for the first time for many years, so that the sound almost startled him.
They went to church together, and I cannot say that Ollie's behaviour there was edifying, though he was quiet enough; for he fell fast asleep, and lay with his head in Ruth's lap, looking like a beautiful picture. Mrs. Short would hardly have recognised her saucy tormentor in this lovely sleeping cherub. Ralph's heart grew softer with every glance; he could not fix his mind on the sermon at all; but I think the two children were the text to an unspoken sermon, preached to Ralph alone.
Ruth and Ollie went home after church, thanking him so heartily for their pleasant day, "and all the trouble you are going to take for us," Ruth added, that poor crusty old Ralph felt wonderfully happy.
Next day, after a good deal of thought, he wrote his letter to Mr. Mordan, and then left home, but not, as usual, to wander aimlessly about the country. He went up the hill, and betook himself to the curate's house. Somewhat to his surprise, he got away without being pounced upon by Mrs. Short; but in truth, that good lady felt a little shy of him, not knowing what he might say about Ollie's enforced visit the day before.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Cloudesley were at home, and Ralph was at once taken to their pretty little sitting-room. May sprang up gladly,—
"Have you come to see me at last, Mr. Trulock, to make up for your being always out when I go to see you?" she said; and as she spoke she found a comfortable chair for him.
"You are very kind, madam," he said, in his formal way, "and I am very glad to see you look so well. But I only ventured to call on a little matter of business—or not business exactly, but to ask Mr. Cloudesley something."
"What is it, Trulock?" said Mr. Cloudesley, pushing aside his writing-desk. "Anything that I can do for you?"
"Not for me, sir, but for a little boy—his name is Garland, and I want to know if he can go to the Greatrex school for a time. I know it is intended for the children of Fairford people only, and, as far as I can make out, this child does not belong to Fairford; but it is a pity that he should be running idle about the streets."
"Garland! I don't know the name," said Mr. Cloudesley.
"No, sir; it is not a Fairford name. These children—for the girl is no more than a child herself, Heaven help her!—came over from France with their father, who said he was coming to Fairford to see his father. The poor young man died at Southampton, and from the girl's story I should conclude that he had given up his situation, and undertaken the journey, having reason to believe that his life was near an end. He did not tell the child this,—it is only my own idea. With his last breath, he urged her to come on here to her grandfather, and she obeyed, of course; but no one of the name was ever known here."
"Have they been here long?"
"Since the early part of April, sir. They lodge at Mrs. Cricklade's; she keeps a baker's shop half-way down the hill."
"Ah! That accounts for my not hearing of them. Mrs. Cricklade contrives to keep out of my way, or to be wonderfully busy when I call."
"I met the girl in Price's shop, sir: she works for them, and what she earns is nearly all they have to depend on. I have undertaken to write to Bordeaux, and to advertise for the grandfather, but meantime it seems a pity that little Oliver should be running about the streets."
"Nor is Mrs. Cricklade's the best place for them," remarked May.
"No; but until we get an answer from Bordeaux, I thought they might as well stay there, as the old woman is very kind to them."
"Well, perhaps you are right," replied May, and was going on to say that she would call and see the children, when to her surprise her husband gave her a look which she knew meant "don't." And if this surprised her, how much more was she amazed to hear Gilbert making some difficulty about admitting the boy to the Greatrex school.
"I fear he hardly belongs to the class for which the school is intended," he remarked. "Most likely, when you have found the relatives, they will be indignant that he should have been sent to a school of this kind. Perhaps we may as well wait a bit, at least."
"Well, sir, I hardly like it for him. He is a fine little fellow, and very innocent. His sister cannot spare time to see after him."
"Still, considering that the grandfather may turn up any day, I hardly like to take the responsibility."
"I will take it upon myself, sir. I have been advising the girl, and I will advise her to send him."
"Oh, very well, then. There is a penny a week to pay, I suppose she can manage that? And threepence a week extra secures to the children a meal in the middle of the day—a good dinner, too, for it is partly provided by Lady Mabel's bequest. That's fourpence a week; you will tell the girl, and the child can begin to-morrow. I will see Mr. Manders about it in the evening."
"Fourpence a week," said Ralph with a sigh. "I will remember, sir."
Then he said good-bye, and departed.
"Gilbert, why did you stop me just now? And why did you not admit this poor child free? You can, can you not?"
"I can; but don't you see how interested old Trulock is in them? Is it not the very thing we could have wished for the poor old fellow—something to draw him out of his shell? And would you interfere with him? You'll find that this fourpence a week will be paid by Ralph himself, and that by degrees he'll give more care and thought to these children than if we took them up. Then he would feel that they were all right; but if we leave them to him, he won't neglect them. Why, he looked quite softened when he spoke of them."
"I should never have thought of all that!" cried May admiringly. "It is not for nothing that you come from the North, sir. You are a long-headed personage. Poor old Ralph! I do like him, Gilbert."
Ralph went to see Ruth, and found her hard at work, and Ollie sitting beside her, looking, with his soft bright eyes and restless movements, not unlike a newly-caught bird in a cage. Ruth explained his presence by telling her friend that some of the boys had had a fight, and had hurt one another, and Ollie had run home quite horrified. This smoothed the way for the mention of the school, at the idea of which, particularly when the "good dinner" was mentioned, Ruth's sweet brown eyes glistened with joy. Ollie was glad, too, for he liked learning, though he was nervous at the notion of going among strangers alone.
"But you must go alone, for I could not spare time to go with you, Ollie. And besides, I don't know them any more than you do," said Ruth.
"I will come for you and go with you the first day, Ollie," said Ralph, not without a feeling of surprise at himself.
"Mr. Trulock, I do think you are the kindest person in the world!" cried Ruth earnestly.
"You won't find many to agree with you there," replied Ralph drily.
"That fat woman called you Old Crusty," remarked Ollie.
"You should not have said that Ollie," Ruth said reprovingly. "She did not mean Mr. Trulock to hear it. Well, sir, I hope our grandfather may turn out to be just like you," she added, turning to Ralph.
Mr. and Mrs. Cloudesley were at breakfast the next morning, when past the window went Ralph Trulock, and by his side, holding by his hand, and chattering gaily, with dark eyes raised fearlessly to the stern old face, was the loveliest boy, May declared, that she had ever seen.
"See how well the spell works," said Gilbert.
"I knew Trulock had a kind heart," she replied, "if I could only get at it. He speaks of his wife so tenderly."
"These children are finding their way to it, I suspect," answered Mr. Cloudesley. "Now, May, let them quite alone. Trulock will be the better for being left to manage everything for himself."
"Oh, yes," said May; "but I suppose I may look at that boy when I go to the school for the singing!"
In a few days, Ralph received the following answer from Mr. Mordan:
"DEAR SIR,—""I know nothing more of the late Frederick Garland than the facts with which, from your letter, I suppose you to be already acquainted. Thirteen or fourteen years ago, he saved my son's life, the ship in which they had taken passages for Canada being wrecked off the coast of Ireland. My son did not go to Canada at all, and therefore saw nothing of Garland until I became the senior, and he the junior partner of our firm, and then he begged of me to find a situation for this young man, as he had ascertained that he had not got on well in America. Garland came to Bordeaux at once; but as he was no accountant, though evidently an educated man, I could give him nothing better than a place as what you call a storekeeper, which he filled for eight years, giving every satisfaction as to honesty and general good character. I know nothing more of him, and my son, who is at present absent, travelling in the East, does not, to the best of my belief, know anything that could assist you in your search for his relatives. The girl he married here was an orphan, and had no relatives living. Garland stated to me that he hoped to remain in England with his father; but he said no more than this. He left no debts here, nor is there anything due to him; but I always fancied he was saving money, as, though in receipt of a good salary, he lived in a very economical way. He must have had some drain upon his income of which I am ignorant.""I remain,""Your obedient servant,""OLIVER MORDAN, Senior."
And the advertisement in the Times was put in again and again, till it had cost quite a little fortune, and yet it never was answered. Ruth and Ollie seemed to be abandoned by all the world, except poor "crusty" Ralph Trulock, who at first grudged every sixpence they cost him. But Ruth had crept into his heart, and Ollie was such a bright, innocent, creature—the more he saw of them, the more he loved them. And they loved him, which was not wonderful, as every little pleasure they enjoyed that summer came from him. The Sunday dinner party became quite an institution: first came church, then dinner, then a long walk in the Forest.
Ruth worked hard all the week, but as Ollie got his dinner at school, and many a little present came from Ralph, she got on very well. Her black calico wore out, and she did not replace it, but wore a coloured dress; quietly remarking that "Father would not mind, because he knew she loved him as well as ever." Ralph said something about her father "not knowing," but Ruth, after a little distressed thought, smiled and answered,—
"Would not the angels tell him? You know they come and go still, though we cannot see them; and he would be sure to ask questions about Ollie and me. They will have told him that although we could not find our grandfather, God has given us a good friend."
The rector came home presently, and then Mr. Cloudesley had a holiday, and went away for awhile. Mr. Barton had a great deal to do, and was not a great visitor; and seeing Ralph in church every Sunday, he was quite satisfied about him.
SO passed the summer months, and autumn, too, glided by swiftly. Yet, in spite of all her hard work and all her care, Ruth had been obliged to spend part of the money she had hoped to keep for winter use. Ollie wanted shoes, and then she herself required a new pair; and though she put off getting them as long as she could, she had to get them at last. Mrs. Cricklade, too, who had at first refused to take rent from her, now, seeing that Ralph Trulock had "taken them up," as she put it, made her pay a shilling a week for her attic—though the old woman seemed half ashamed of herself, too, for taking it. She advised Ruth to tell Mr. Trulock, knowing that he could pay it. But Ruth never told him; she thought it would be like asking for further help; and from his way of living she believed him to be very poor, and therefore felt the more grateful to him for the help he already gave her, particularly that fourpence a week for Ollie. For of course Ollie soon discovered the truth about this payment, and at once told Ruth.
So the few pounds she had had in store had begun to melt away; and Ruth, to Ralph's dismay, began to look pale and thin. When really cold weather came, he found that the girl never lighted her tiny fire until Ollie was coming home from school; and though she was well and warmly dressed, she seemed to suffer terribly from the cold.
Poor Ralph! he already spent upon these children more than the portion of his savings which he had supposed would satisfy his conscience; and yet his conscience was not satisfied, and his very heart ached for Ruth. He thought of applying to the Cloudesleys for help for the children; but Mr. Cloudesley had made it very plain that he considered the little Garlands as being under Ralph's special care; besides, the Cloudesleys were not rich, and he was ashamed to go to them after what had passed between himself and May. The rector had been obliged to go abroad again for the winter; there was no one to help the children but Ralph himself.
Often, when Ruth tidied up his place on Sunday afternoon, while Ollie chattered away to him, he thought how pleasant it would be to bring them home to live with him. He had a right to have some one to keep house for him, and could easily get leave to keep, Ollie; for, as I have said, the rules at Lady Mabel's Rest were very few, and were framed for the express purpose of making the inmates comfortable. But if he did this, he must give up his idea of saving; and that meant that he must lie under an obligation to Arnott and the rest for ever. Nay, that he must feel grateful to them; for a feeling of fair dealing made him certain that if he accepted the kindness, it would be his duty to be grateful. Grateful! Thankful to Arnott and the rest for their charity! And all that he might support a couple of children who had no claim upon him. No; he could not and he would not, and that was the end of the matter. But the matter would not be ended! Ralph could get no peace of mind, and he sometimes almost hated sweet May Cloudesley for having said the words which had caused him all this worry.
It was an early winter, and snow fell in October, which is not common even in Fairford—though Fairford is a cold place. Ralph, stinting himself more than ever in his vain attempt to walk two ways at once, found himself one morning unable to rise from his bed. A sudden, severe attack of rheumatism, such as he had suffered from once before, had seized him, and there he lay, groaning and helpless. When the milk-boy clattered his can against the hall door, Ralph succeeded in making him hear his shouts; and desired him to tell the warden that he was ill, and could not stir. But the boy, a lazy, stupid fellow, contented himself with telling Mrs. Short, to whose house he went next. And Mrs. Short, delighted at the opportunity of prying into Ralph's affairs, not only did not tell any one else, but having eaten an excellent breakfast, went to pay a visit to her sick neighbour.
Ralph's door was open, thanks to the milk-boy, and the keen frosty wind rushing into the house made it very cold indeed. Mrs. Short shivered, and almost thought she would turn back and send word to the warden; but curiosity—no, no, not curiosity, for she murmured to herself, "I'm that good-natured, I must see the poor feller—" prevailed, and shutting the door, she went upstairs. Ralph had heard the sounds of her approach, and was very glad to have his door shut, for the cold was excessive. But when at the door of his bare little room appeared the squat form and round face of his inquisitive neighbour, the old man positively groaned. For her part, Mrs. Short no sooner saw how ill he looked, than she squeaked dismally, and exclaimed:
"For my sake, Mr. Trulock, don't tell me you've got anything infectagious! Seeing your door wide open, and no signs of you about, I made bold to come and see if you was poorly; for as my poor Matthew, that's dead and buried, poor man, used to say, I'm that good-natured that I always want to know what's the matter with my neighbours, and what I can do for 'em. But there, good-nater is one thing, and infectagious diseases is another, and is my dread all my days. Can't you even speak? Oh la! I doubt he's dying. Oh, Mr. Trulock, are you actially a-past speaking?"
"No!" thundered Ralph. "If you will give me time, Mrs. Short, I will speak, never you fear."
"And is it infectagious?" inquired Mrs. Short, earnestly. "Infectagious" was the word she used; and without ever having followed "Alice" through the looking-glass, she had made this portmanteau word for herself, by mingling together infectious and contagious.
Had Ralph been wary, he would have abstained from replying, and her fears might have got the better of her "good-nater;" but he was in such pain, and was besides so annoyed at her presence, that he incautiously replied:
"No! I never heard that rheumatism was catching, ma'am."
"Rheumatism! Now what a mercy, neighbour that it is no worse; and that it was Martha Short, and no other woman, that came to you! For my poor Matthew was that martyr to rheumatism, that I've heard him say more than once, that between his bones and my clack, he wished he was dead; which dead he is now, poor dear man, and so I hope he's satisfied. As to his saying that about my clack, it was only because he was ill, you know; for when in 'ealth, my Matthew loved to hear me speak, and I often wished for his sake that I was more inclined that way than I ever was. For I'm a silent woman, and that's the truth," she concluded, with a sound between a titter and a sigh, expressive of modesty and merit combined. "And you've had no breakfast, I'll be bound," she added.
"I don't want any," growled Ralph. "If you'll kindly let the warden know that I am ill, and should be glad to see the doctor, that's all I shall trouble you to do for me."
"Trouble! Did any one ever know Martha Short to name trouble when a neighbour wanted her in his house? And what could Mr. Hingston do for you; or the doctor either, honest man? Doctors ain't no use for rheumatism, not a bit. Warmth and a good nuss—and you shall see what a nuss my Matthew lost in me when he died!"
Ill as he was, Ralph was tickled by this very extraordinary notion, and gave utterance to a short, cross-sounding laugh. Mrs. Short beamed upon him.
"Why, there now! that's right, you're in better sperrits a'ready. Now I'll go down and bring up some coal, and I'll light you a fire; and then I'll boil a kettle and make you a stiff glass of punch, and you'll get a good heat and be all right again before, night."
Ralph looked serious enough now.
"Mrs. Short," said he, "I will not have a fire, thank you; and there are no spirits in the house."
Mrs. Short had a store of spirits in her own house, and yet, strange to say, her good-nature did not prompt her to offer him any.
"A cup of tea, then," said she, "that's next best;" and she bustled downstairs before he could speak. What Ralph endured, lying there helpless, and listening to that woman fussing about downstairs, ransacking cupboards and tumbling out the contents of drawers—no one will ever know. She brought up coal, in spite of him, and lighted a blazing fire. Then she made some tea, and insisted upon his drinking it too; nay, when she found that he could not hold the cup to his lips, she actually fed him with it. It got very cold in the process, and was besides so strong that it made him feverish. Then she piled more coal on the fire, and went home to see after her dinner. She had never been silent all this time for five seconds together, so her departure was a great relief.
It was on the third day of Ralph's illness that Ruth Garland, getting alarmed about him, because it was so long since he had been to see her, actually laid aside her work, put on her warm jacket, and ran down the hill to Lady Mabel's Rest, to see after her kind friend. She met Mr. Hingston, the warden, in the gate. Hingston knew her, having often seen her with Ralph, and stopped to speak to her.
"Well, Miss Garland, I suppose you have come to inquire for Mr. Trulock. He'll be all right again soon—Mrs. Short told me so last night."
"Oh, sir, has he been ill, then?"
"He has been very poorly, but Mrs. Short has been taking good care of him, and he refused to see me or have the doctor."
"I wish I had known," said Ruth.
"Well, knowing how fond the old man is of you and your little brother, I wanted to let you know, but he sent me word not to do so, as he would rather not have you coming to him. He said he wanted no one but Mrs. Short."
Ruth looked at him with a startled air.
"No one but Mrs. Short! Oh, Mr. Hingston, did you hear him say that?"
"No; I tell you, he won't see me. He is a very old fellow, you know."
Ruth was young, and out-spoken, as young people are apt to be.
"I don't believe he did say it," said she, "and I will see him;" and she marched on towards his house.
Mrs. Short, who was on the watch, darted out upon her. Now I must explain that Mrs. Short, for reasons which will soon become evident, was rather weary of her self-imposed task, and therefore not sorry to see Ruth, though for appearance sake she pounced upon her, screaming—
"Stop, Ruth Golong!" For thus, and in no other fashion, did she pronounce the name, declaring that she had it from Olivia before he learned to say it in English. "You can't go to see Mr. Trulock; he's ill in bed."
"I must see him, ma'am," said Ruth, firmly.
"Well, if he's angry, don't blame me, that's all. You'll find he has a fancy in his head about you; I don't know where he got it from. I never mentioned your name but once, to ask should I send for you; but you mustn't mind that, sick folk has fancies. My Matthew, that's dead, was full of 'em. Well, go if you will go. He's the miserablest old; there's not a peck of coal nor a grain of tea nor anything whatever left in the house, and he won't give me a penny to get things for him."
Ruth went on without replying; she opened the door and went in, turning the key in the lock to keep Mrs. Short out. Her light step on the stairs was heard by the poor old man, and it was with a look of hopeful expectation that his stern old face was turned towards the door.
"What, Ruth!" he said: "you have come at last."
"Mr. Trulock! Oh, I would have been here before—I did not know that you were ill. I am sure that woman told you that she had sent for me; didn't she now?"
"She did; and that you would not come because you were very busy and knew nothing of nursing; but I did not believe her, Ruth."
"Nor did I believe that you refused to see me, and the warden and the doctor, but wished to have Mrs. Short and no one else! Oh, Mr. Trulock, she's a dreadful woman."
"How did you get leave to come in, Ruth? I heard her voice outside."
"I did not ask leave. She said there was nothing left in the house; and that you would not give her money to buy things for you. I suppose you have no money just now; but never mind, I have some, you know."
"I succeeded then!" cried Ralph in triumph. "When I found that she would come, and would not let any one else come, I made up my mind to starve her out, and I have!"
"But you look as if you have starved yourself, too," answered Ruth, looking anxiously at him.
"Now you will let me manage for you, won't you? Please do. I will go out and get some things; and may I bring Ollie here when he comes home from school, that he may not be lonely?"
"Certainly; and, Ruth, give me that box, and I will give you money to buy what we want."
Ruth opened the box with a key which he gave her, and in it she saw a sovereign and a few shillings. "Is this all you have?" she asked.
"All I have in the house," he answered, and did not perceive that she understood him to mean that he had no more until his next payment came in. He gave it all to her and said,—
"Make it go as far as you can, my child."
Ruth ran home (Mrs. Short kept out of sight), and left a message for Ollie; then, with her needlework in a basket, she went out again and made several purchases for Ralph. Followed by a man with a cart, in which a bag of coal and her little parcels made a rather poor show, she returned to the Rest. She stopped at the gate to tell the warden that there had been some mistake, and that she hoped the doctor would come to see Mr. Trulock; and then she set to work in earnest. But how different were her neat-handed, quiet proceedings, to Mrs. Short's incessant fuss and chatter! Ralph fell asleep and dreamed that his Annie had come back to him.
RALPH TRULOCK'S illness proved a very tedious one, but he never was in any actual danger, and he was right well cared for after little Ruth came to him. Every morning, as soon as Ollie had left home for school, Ruth took her work and ran down the hill to the Rest, and Ollie there after school hours. They went back to Cricklade's every night, leaving Ralph made thoroughly comfortable, with a tiny fire to keep him company until he fell asleep. Since Annie died Ralph had never been so happy, and he dreamed every night either that she was still alive or that Ruth was Annie grown young again; and every day he became more convinced that Ruth really was like Annie, which he thought very curious, as he did not think there could be any relationship to account for it.
Once or twice, while he was still very ill, Ralph asked the child if his money were not all gone; but until the day came round when the pensions of the inmates of the Rest were paid, Ruth always said that she had enough. If he had not been ill, and rather dull and sleepy, he would have known that no money ever yet held out as this did, but he was too stupid just then to reason. When the pensioners were paid, the warden brought Ralph's to the house and paid him a visit, giving the money into his own hand, as he was bound to do. And thus Ruth knew nothing of the amount he received; but she took money from him next day for his own use.
At last, he was really better, quite well, the doctor said, and only needing to get up his strength again. The doctor desired him to take a glass of "good sound wine" every day, for that he really required it. Ruth was present when this was said, and the next day when she was going out to the shops, she said,—
"What wine shall I ask for, Mr. Trulock?"
"None, child; none. I can't afford it," said Ralph, his face getting back something of the old uneasy expression which had of late been passing away.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock! Could you not get even one bottle? Now it is because you have helped us that you cannot afford it, and that makes me so unhappy."
"No, Ruth; not for that reason, my dear. I—I have a claim upon my income,—I am not free to spend it as I choose."
"Why, that's what father used to say!" cried Ruth wonderingly. "But, Mr. Trulock, let me go to the doctor, or to Mr. Cloudesley; either of them would help you."
"I cannot, Ruthie. I could not take charity, I am a proud man—I fear too proud. Even now I would rather die than accept charity."
Ruth considered for a moment in her grave, childlike wisdom; and then with her usual directness, she said,—
"I think we ought to take help, though, when we really want it. You know the rich are told to help the poor, and so I suppose the poor ought to take the help when they are willing to give it."
"There are plenty to take it," said Ralph.
"I took your help," she answered simply; "but I know you didn't mean it in that way. You mean that idle, extravagant poor people will get money, and not work for themselves; but then it seems a pity that the good poor people should not get some of it; don't you think so? Particularly when they want it as badly as you do."
"I cannot do it, dear. I cannot explain why, but ought not to want help; and I will not take it."
Ruth said no more, but tied on her hat and trotted off with her basket on her arm. Once out of the house, she paused thoughtfully.
"I don't know what wine to get," she murmured, "nor what the price ought to be, nor even where to get it. I must ask some one. Not Mrs. Short—and Mrs. Cloudesley would offer to send him some. But I can go to Miss Jones; she won't scold me, I hope, as she scolds poor Maria Freak."
Maria Freak was Miss Jones's last new girl, and a few days ago she had complained sorely to Ruth of her mistress's continual fault-finding. While waiting at the door, Ruth heard voices, and could distinguish Miss Jones's own monotonous thin tones, going on, and on, and on, in a very exasperating style.
"If you allow yourself to acquire such slovenly ways, Maria—or to continue them, I should say, for you don't need to acquire them, having them by nature—you'll never make a parlour-maid, so don't think it. You'd better turn your mind to being a kitchen or scullery-maid, and to stay so all your life, and—"
"There's a knock at the door, miss," said Maria.
"Why don't you go to it, then? Don't I tell you often never to keep any one waiting?"
"How could I go, and you jawing of me?" inquired Maria sulkily.
"Say ma'am, not miss, Maria,—and speaking, not jawing. You're the most hopeless girl I ever trained yet. Go to the door, child."
"Is that you, Ruth Garland?" cried Maria. "And did you hear her? Did you ever hear the like?"
"Does she always go on so?" said Ruth.
Maria grinned. "Oh no—only when I do something she don't like. I used to think I must run away home; but, bless you, she's real kind except with her tongue. Was it to see me you came?"
"No; but because I want Miss Jones to help me. I want to know something."
"She's your woman then, for she knows everything, and she'd go round the gravel road of the Rest barefoot to help you, and scold all the time, so that you'd think she hated you," replied Maria.
"Miss Jones," she called aloud, "Ruth Garland wants to speak to you."
Miss Jones came up the passage, looking particularly grim. Ruth explained her errand; Miss Jones replied by putting on her bonnet and going with her—leaving Maria, as she sadly remarked, to spoil a nice dinner in the cooking.
"But you see, Ruth, the best wine in Fairford is to be had at Hawes's, of the Blue Bear; and that is no place for a girl like you to go to alone."
The wine was purchased—three bottles. Miss Jones made a good bargain with Hawes, and then lectured Ruth well for wearing her hat thrown back too much, which, Miss Jones averred, gave her a bold-faced look. She advised her to cut her curls shorter, or to brush her hair straight and pin it up tight to her head; and then she bought half a pound of sweets for Ollie, because Ruth, passing the shop, said she wished she had a penny to spare, for Ollie was so fond of sweet things. Then they went home—or rather, Miss Jones went home, and Ruth returned to Mr. Trulock.
Presently she appeared at his side with a glass of wine and a biscuit on a little tray.
"Please, Mr. Trulock, wouldn't this be the best time to take your wine? I bought three bottles, and that will last a long time. I used some of the money I had been keeping up; and you know, sir, you have spent more than that on us, and it would not be right that you should want this wine while we have money lying by. So you must not be angry, please."
Ralph's face was worth looking at. Angry he was not; but he was both touched and troubled.
"Ruthie," he said, "you should not have done this."
"Oh, indeed, indeed I ought! What do I not owe to you, sir? If you only knew how lonely and frightened I felt before I had you; and then you are so poor, and yet you helped us!"
"Well, give me the wine, Ruthie; as to the money, I will settle that with you when I am well again."
Ralph got better quickly now; but a fresh misfortune occurred before he was quite well again. Ollie came from school one day, heavy and sick (not to say cross); Ruth took him home to put him to bed, and ran down to the Rest in the morning to say that "Ollie was out in measles."
"So I cannot come any more to you just now, sir; but what a comfort it is that you are so nearly well! May I ask Miss Jones to come in and see you? she would do your shopping for you."
"No, thank you, dear, I am quite able to get out now, and I shall soon be creeping up the hill to see after you and Ollie. Has the doctor seen him yet?"
"No; nor am I going to send for him. I had them myself last year, and father never had a doctor to see me, because he said I was not bad, and neither is Ollie. I must keep him warm and take good care of him."
She lingered for a minute. All her little store was gone, and attending on Ralph had left her but little time for needlework. But she could not bring herself to speak. He was old, and poor, and suffering, and how could she ask him for money? It would have been like asking for the price of the wine back again. So she went home, and, by Mrs. Cricklade's advice, she took some of her father's clothes to a pawn-shop, and asked the man there what he would give her for them. The pawnbroker was very civil, and explained the system to her very clearly; but poor innocent Ruth telling him her reason for wanting money, he made a great favour of giving her a mere trifle for the good clothes, because he said he must keep them separate, coming as they did from an infected house. So with five shillings for her poor father's best suit, Ruth went home, spending the greater part of it on the way; for she must have coal to keep Ollie warm.
Ralph had hoped to see the children the next day, but it snowed, and he was afraid to go so far. Then followed a sharp frost, and he was laid up again for some days; so altogether some time had passed before he succeeded in creeping up the hill as far as Mrs. Cricklade's shop. He went early, and to his horror found the shop closed, and the neighbours told him that they had not seen Mrs. Cricklade that morning.
"She was a sad drinker," the woman next door told him, "and lately she has seldom been quite sober, and her bread is so bad that she has lost all her custom; and often has she said to me that she'd run off in the night before quarter-day came round again, for that she had nothing laid by to pay her rent. And I asked her where she'd go, and she said she didn't know, and didn't care. So yesterday the shop didn't open—that was nothing new, for often it was closed for the best part of the day lately—but I am surprised that she hasn't opened it yet; at least I should be, only I am sure she has run off."
"And the children!" cried Ralph, turning pale. "Ruth and Ollie—where are they?"
"Oh, she said they had a friend somewhere in Fairford that would take them in, and you may be sure that she sent them off yesterday. Only the boy was sick in bed, to be sure."
"I am their only friend here, and they did not come to me. Are you sure Mrs. Cricklade is gone?"
"Indeed, sir, I am not sure of anything about her. She and I were friends once, but of late 'twas borrow, borrow, with her, and I was obliged to keep her at a distance. And then they had the measles, you know; that is, Ollie had, and I didn't want my children to get them. I have not seen Ruth, oh, I don't know when."
Ralph turned away in despair, and to his great delight he saw Mr. and Mrs. Cloudesley coming down the street. May spied him instantly.
"Why, Mr. Trulock, I'm glad to see you so far from home, for I suppose you are quite well again," she began blithely; but perceiving his troubled looks, she said quickly, in quite a different tone:
"What is the matter; see, Gilbert."
"I hope there is nothing really wrong, madam," said poor Ralph, trying to smile. "But I am startled. Ruth has not been with me for a long time (the boy was ill, you know), and this good woman tells me that the shop here was closed all yesterday, and that she thinks Mrs. Cricklade has run away; and—where can the children be?"
Mr. Cloudesley asked several questions, and made himself master of the state of affairs, as far as any one knew them. Then he said:
"You had better go home, May, and we'll have our walk later. You've never had measles, and I don't want you to catch them. And we may have to get into this house."
May turned and went home at once, like the sensible little woman she was, causing no delay by objecting.
"Who is the owner of the house?" Mr. Cloudesley asked the friendly neighbour.
"I don't know, sir; but Mr. Gambit, he collects the rents."
"Gambit, who lives in Rest View Cottage? Then we had better go there at once, Trulock. He may know all about it."
To Mr. Gambit they accordingly went, but he did not know all about it, nor, in fact, did he know anything. But he had plenty to say, for all that.
"A drunken creature she was becoming, sir, and getting worse every time I saw her. I daresay the people are right, and that she has run off. Very likely she has murdered the poor children in her drunken fit, and then just cut her stick."
Mr. Gambit was one of those people who like to anticipate the worst, in order that no one may imagine them taken by surprise; but poor Ralph, not being aware of this peculiarity, was horribly frightened.
Mr. Gambit came with them now, but before they reached the house a messenger came after him, and he was obliged to run home again, some one having called on business. Ralph and Mr. Cloudesley returned to Hill Street, where they found a small crowd collected to stare at the shutters of the little shop.
"We must get in," said Mr. Cloudesley.
"Must you, sir?" said a man among the crowd; "rather you nor me, sir. Once afore she didn't open, and we took fright and busted in, and how she did jaw us, to be sure!"
"That must be borne," said Mr. Cloudesley. "We must see about the children; but we had better knock first."
And knock they did, both loud and long, but no sound was heard in the shut-up house. The party was now reinforced by a policeman, who promptly climbed the next door neighbour's wall, dropped into the yard, and presently opened the shop door.
"Come in, reverend sir, and you, Mr. Trulock," said he; and when they had squeezed through the half-opened door, he shut it fast, to the infinite disgust of the crowd.
"I have seen nobody, sir; there does not seem to be any one in the house. I called up the stairs and got no answer. I hardly expect to find the children here."
"My children!" cried Ralph, and rushed up the little creaking stairs with all the speed of fear; his rheumatism actually frightened away for the time. The others followed him as he went swiftly up to the attics. But he reached the children's room first.
"Ruth!" he gasped, "Ruthie! Answer me, child, for Heaven's sake."
"Oh!" cried a small voice, "is that you, Mr. Trulock? Oh, thank God! I have been praying so hard that it might be you ever since I heard the knocking. Ruthie is here lying over me, and I can't get her to move. Oh, do come and see what's the matter with Ruthie."
On the bed, his pretty face wild with fear, lay Ollie, and over him, face downward, lay Ruth; and when Ralph lifted her, he thought for one dreadful moment that she was dead. But Mr. Cloudesley saw that she breathed, though faintly, and taking her from the old man, he carried her to the window, which he opened wide.
"Water," said he. There was none in the room, but the policeman tramped downstairs to get some. Ruth opened her eyes and saw Ralph Trulock.
"Was it all a dream? Can dreams be so dreadful?" she said in a whisper. "Oh, Mr. Trulock, have I been asleep and dreamed it all?"
She sat up and looked round.
"No," she said, "I'm afraid it's true. Oh, poor thing, poor thing; it is too dreadful!" And with a cry of horror she fainted again.