The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRalph Trulock's Christmas RosesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Ralph Trulock's Christmas RosesAuthor: Annette LysterRelease date: September 21, 2023 [eBook #71699]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1921*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RALPH TRULOCK'S CHRISTMAS ROSES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Ralph Trulock's Christmas RosesAuthor: Annette LysterRelease date: September 21, 2023 [eBook #71699]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1921
Title: Ralph Trulock's Christmas Roses
Author: Annette Lyster
Author: Annette Lyster
Release date: September 21, 2023 [eBook #71699]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1921
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RALPH TRULOCK'S CHRISTMAS ROSES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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CHAPTER
I. LADY MABEL'S REST
II. RALPH TRULOCK'S STORY
III. MAY CLOUDESLEY SPEAKS HER MIND
IV. A SMALL SEAMSTRESS
V. RALPH'S DINNER PARTY
VI. HOW THE CHRISTMAS ROSES BEGAN TO TAKE ROOT
VII. RALPH'S NURSE
VIII. MRS. CRICKLADE
IX. RALPH'S LETTER
X. RALPH'S CHRISTMAS ROSES BLOOM AT LAST
XI. MONSIEUR OLIVER
IN one of the midland counties of England, there is a village of considerable size; of such size indeed that the inhabitants sometimes call it a town; but it must be confessed that, in spite of this, it is straggling of aspect. I think myself that it is a mistake to call it a town, because as a village it is a large place, whereas, considered as a town, it is disappointing; but no doubt this is a matter of opinion. The name of the place is Fairford, and it is divided by a shallow stream into two parts, High and Low Fairford. It took its name from the existence of a ford, which but is not much used, as there has long been an excellent stone bridge over the river. None but the Low Fairford boys, on their way to school in High Fairford, ever use the ford now, but they seem to prefer it to this day.
High Fairford contains not only the school but the post-office, the market-place, shops, and several houses of respectable size and appearance, which all cluster round the church and parsonage. Then Low Fairford, to which you go by a street so steep that it is like the roof of a house, and across the little bridge at the foot of the hill,—is merely a straggling street of cottages, which stand farther and farther apart until they are lost altogether, and you reach the border of a great piece of wood, the remains of a very celebrated forest in which Robin Hood once carried on business in the very "taking" fashion peculiar to that class of hero.
In a large flat space, close to the forest, there are twelve pretty houses all in a row. They stand separate, each in a little garden, and a broad road sweeps all round them, bounded on one side by the low walls of the gardens, on the other by a high wall with two gates, one in front and one at the back. That into the forest is seldom opened, but the one which faces the village is open all day.
These twelve houses were built more than a hundred and fifty years ago, by a lady who owned all the land in those parts, and who was the last of her race and name. Hers had been a grand family, and though active enough in all the troubles of their times, they had contrived to keep their property together. But if the property did not diminish, the family did, and ended at last in one young orphan girl, Mabel Greatrex; whose name will outlive those of all the rest of her house. This young girl, being rich and fair, had no lack of suitors for her hand. But she was a long time before she met with one to her mind; so long that people had begun to say that she would never marry at all. But the right man came at last, and married she was, in the church of High Fairford; and the wedding party was coming gallantly down the hill and over the ford, on horseback, according to the fashion of the day, when the bridegroom's horse slipped on a stone in the water, grew frightened and restive, struggled out of the stream on the Low Fairford side, and scoured away towards the forest. No one was alarmed, for Sir Henry was a gallant rider; but while they watched how he was bringing his horse under control again, they saw him carried under the branch of great tree, which swept him from the saddle and left him dead for his bride to find when she galloped up.
Mabel never married again, though she was still young. And when she had somewhat recovered the first shock of her grief, she caused these houses to be built on the spot which had been so fatal to her—and she called the place "Lady Mabel's Rest." It was built, said the legend over the gate, "To the glory of God and the good of His poor." There were six men and six women, with a warden to see after them, who had comfortable rooms over the principal gate; and Lady Mabel framed the rules herself, and secured to them many privileges before she passed away, leaving her great possessions to distant kindred who did not bear her name, but leaving (as she said in her will) "to her native place something by which to remember kindly the last of her race."
So wisely and so well had Lady Mabel done her work, that the machinery she set going is going on well to this day. The rector of the parish for the time being manages the affairs of the charity, and is well paid for so doing. The only conditions for election are, respectability, poverty, and being a native of Fairford; the most deserving person of those whose names are sent in is to have the preference. As a general rule the selection is wisely made, but an occasional mistake occurs once in a way, of course.
Two vacancies had just been filled up when my story opens: a man and a woman having been chosen to fill them. It happened that the two vacant houses stood together at the end of the row. The rector, who had been abroad with his delicate wife, had come home to arrange about the selection, and had then returned to the South of France, leaving his curate and his curate's wife to make acquaintance with the new-comers.
The curate was a young man, and this was the first time that he had been left in sole charge, so he was naturally anxious to do his best, and his sweet little bride was anxious to make every one as happy as she was herself. So, on Christmas Eve, this young couple betook themselves to Lady Mabel's Rest, to visit the ten families they already knew, and to see the two new inmates for the first time.
Mrs. Cloudesley had provided herself with a quantity of Christmas roses from the rectory garden, which she had made up into twelve nosegays, one for each family. "Let them be ever so proud," said she, "a few flowers cannot offend them."
Ten of the nosegays were disposed of when the pair knocked at the door of the last house but one, and awaited with some interest the appearance of Mrs. Short, of whom they knew nothing but the name, and the fact that she was a widow.
The door was opened after a short pause by a round little woman, with a round face, a round nose, a round mouth, and a pair of—no, her eyes were not round, because they were almost invisible, lost in the plumpness of her face. But she opened them as wide as she could when she saw her visitors; and then they completed the series of O's which composed her features. She wore a cherry-coloured merino dress, warm, and a snowy apron and cap: the latter with a cherry-coloured rosette on the top, the last round thing about her. She smiled and curtsied, and looked very picturesque, thought Mrs. Cloudesley.
"You are Mrs. Short, I think?" said that young lady, after waiting in vain for her husband to speak. He said afterwards that he thought she could manage it better than he could; and I daresay he was right.
"Yes, miss, I am; and will you walk in, miss? For it's bitter cold, surely; and though I haven't got my furniture settled quite to my mind yet, perhaps you and the young gentleman will excuse that."
"Oh, yes; we know you only came two days ago. This is Mr. Cloudesley, you know, and I am Mrs. Cloudesley; and we promised Mrs. Barton to call and see you as soon as we could."
The round woman burst into a fat, smothery laugh, as she answered,—
"A married lady, and me calling of you miss; but re'lly you do look so young, you must excuse it. Walk in, ma'am, and you, sir, if you'll be so good."
She opened the door of her little parlour as she spoke, and in they all walked. Mr. Cloudesley felt a little surprised at the furniture; for though many of the old inmates of the Rest were well off in that respect, it was not usual for a new-comer to possess such comforts as he saw here. A carpet covered the floor, a handsomely gilt clock stood on the chimneypiece, reflected in a mirror of some size; warm curtains hung over the window, a bright fender, thick rug,—everything, in fact, of the best; and also, it must be confessed, of the most hideous, so gaudy was the colour of each article, where colour was possible. A large, luxurious easy chair stood close to the fire, which burned brightly, and a small round table was drawn up beside it. The other chairs were of the common shape, and were covered with Berlin wool flowers which made Mrs. Cloudesley feel quite uncomfortable, they were so brilliant. Into the easy chair the fat lady sank, having first drawn forward two of the less comfortable ones for her guests.
Mrs. Cloudesley looked about for something to talk about; not a book was to be seen, not even a newspaper.
"You are making your sitting-room very comfortable," said she, looking round again.
"Ah, yes, indeed, ma'am; the furniture is very 'andsome, thanks be to 'evin. Yet it do make me sad-like to look at it—but there! That's me all over! As my poor Matthew, that's dead and buried, poor fellow, used to say of me. I'm too good-natured for my own 'appiness."
Mrs. Cloudesley, failing to see the connection between the furniture and the good-nature, looked inquiringly at the speaker.
"You know, miss,—leastways, ma'am, only it's ridiculous,—I'm a Fairford woman, of course, or I couldn't be here; but I married a Londoner, and never saw Fairford for thirty year! My 'usbin were a baker, and my son,—the only child I have, I may fairly say; for as to my daughter Jane, poor thing she's lost to me, and may be dead or may be alive, I know no more than if I was dead myself,—he's a baker, too, and has a very good shop—and of course I've lived with him and kep' his places beautiful. But there, young men is fools,—he goes and marries! And I haven't a word to say against her, a civil little body, and decent in her ways, but selfish, very selfish, poor Seliner is, and ever will be; a boy the first year, and a girl the next, and then a girl again, and then a boy again, and so on, and this year twins! No, miss,—ma'am, I mean,—the twins done it; the 'ouse is small, and when one twin ain't crying the other is, and I'm not so young as once I were, and I said I'd like a little rest and time to mind on my latter end—" (with a glance at the curate, who was listening gravely), "before my time came to die. My good Matthew left me but little money, and that little is gone now; and, of course, he never thought I should have to leave my 'ome in my old age; but the furniture was mine, some he left me by will, and some I bought myself since he was took, and that's what I meant just now, miss—ma'am—I'm feared they'll miss it, though I left them everything I could do without—I'm that good-natured."
She smiled her fat smile, and closed her little twinkling eyes, as if the contemplation of her good-nature was too much for her. But if she had stated that her gorgeous purchases had been made with her son's money; that her right had only extended to taking furniture for two rooms; and had also described what she had left for the use of her son's family, adding that "Seliner" had said, "Let her take it all, if she will only go," perhaps the Cloudesleys might have opened their eyes with quite a different feeling. As it was, Mrs. Cloudesley felt a little puzzled.
"Do you care for reading?" she said, presently. "For we can lend you books, if you wish."
"Indeed, I'm no great reader, ma'am. I like to have a bit of work on 'and as will be a credit to me—them flower pieces are all my own, cross-stitch every bit of 'em; but I think I shall have no time for it now. By the time I get my places as nice as I like to have 'em, and my little meal cooked and ate, there'll be little time for idling."
"Well, but reading is not idling," said Gilbert Cloudesley.
"Ain't it, sir? Well, I don't know. A-settin' with a book in my 'and, doing nothing, I should be asleep in five minutes, sir, that's certing; even, as I said, if I had time."
"But you'll keep a girl, won't you?" asked the lady. "Miss Jones—your neighbour, you know,—she regularly trains girls for service, and so well that they always get good places when they leave her."
"Well, but you see, miss, I'm very pertic'ler, and gels is so careless and dirty, and breaks and eats so much; and I never could bear to be scolding; that's me all over, as my poor Matthew used to say. I'd rather do the work than be scolding for ever, as Miss Jones do. Besides, I like to do summut myself; I'm none of your idle ones, nor do I set up to be a fine lady."
"Miss Jones," said the curate, "says she would rather do the work herself, too; but, you see, it is a way in which she can be of use, and so she goes on with it."
"Of course, sir; and I'll think of it," said Mrs. Short smoothly. "Won't you read a little to me, sir, before you go?" she added, folding her fat hands and smiling encouragingly at him.
"Not to-day," he said, quietly; "it is late, and we must leave you now."
"And I have brought you these flowers, Mrs. Short—Christmas roses, you see. I am so fond of them. They come to tell us that we are never forgotten at any time of the year, and that summer will come again."
"Thank you, ma'am, I'm much obliged," Mrs. Short replied, taking the flowers and laying them on the table without a glance at their fair, fragile faces.
"I have a bunch for your neighbour, too, you see," Mrs. Cloudesley went on, seeing that she eyed the basket curiously.
Mrs. Short laughed. "For Ralph Trulock!" said she. "Flowers and he won't go well together. Poor Trulock! Such a cross-grained body! Are you going, ma'am? Well, I hope you'll come again some day. I'm greatly obliged for the visit,—and the posy," she added, after a moment's pause.
She opened the door for them, bidding them good-bye again with great cordiality. A poor lad had ventured into her little front garden, and seemed inclined to address them, but Mrs. Short retreated hastily, crying,—
"Oh, what a miserable-looking creetur! I must run in, ma'am, or the sight of him will spoil my appetite for my tea, I'm that good-natured."
The Cloudesleys looked at each other, the lady puzzled, the gentleman amused.
"A kind-hearted woman, May?"
"Yes, Gilbert," in a doubtful voice. "I dare say she is. Do give that boy sixpence, dear."
"No, Mrs. Cloudesley; that is an extravagant notion, quite unfit for a curate's wife. Besides, I will not encourage begging; but we'll see who he is. Very likely he wants work rather than charity."
A few words with the boy, and then they went on to the next house, and knocked at the door of Mr. Trulock's home. It was opened after a little while by a tall, stooping man with grey hair and a thin, grave face,—more than grave, indeed, for it was both stern and sad. He was decently dressed, but not warmly; and he looked cold, and not particularly glad to see them, little Mrs. Cloudesley thought, as she held on tight to her husband's arm, and gave it a little pinch, as much as to say, "You must speak this time."
"Mr. Trulock?" said the curate.
"That is my name, sir," said the tall man, in a sad, toneless voice, as if speaking were a trouble to him.
"I am Mr. Cloudesley, the curate of this parish; and this is my wife. We came to pay you a visit this Christmas Eve, that we may not be quite strangers when we meet to-morrow."
"Thank you, sir, and you, madam. If you will walk in,—but I have no place fit to bring a lady to."
Mr. Cloudesley was so struck with the unwilling air of this invitation, that he was about to say "some other day," and leave the place, when his wife surprised him by walking in. Something in the forlorn man touched little May's warm heart, and leaving her husband's side she entered the house quickly, saying:
"It is too cold to stand talking at the door."
The little parlour was in size and shape exactly the same as the one they had just left. But here there was no carpet, no curtain, no easy chair, and—worst of all—no fire. Four cane chairs and a small table formed the furniture.
"I was sitting in the kitchen, madam," said Mr. Trulock, looking at the bonnie, pleasant face of his little visitor, "and there is a fire there, though not a good one."
May followed him to the kitchen, which certainly was less cold than the parlour, and contained rather more furniture, though of the plainest and cheapest kind. A windsor chair, with arms, but no cushions, was drawn up close to the struggling fire, and in this Mr. Trulock placed the lady, and then slowly brought forward a seat for Mr. Cloudesley, and another for himself.
"You will want a nice tidy girl to keep you comfortable," said May. "Miss Jones will find you one—she knows all the nice girls in the place."
"Thank you, madam, but I want no girl. It is my wish to do without one, if I can at all."
"You have some relative who will live with you, then? No! Surely you will not live quite alone."
"Madam, I must be alone," he said sadly. "A servant would make no difference."
Then he seemed to repent having said so much, and May could get no more out of him. He was civil enough, but only answered, "Yes, madam," or, "No, madam," except that he admitted that he was fond of reading, and they promised to lend him books.
Then May took out the last of her twelve nosegays.
"Do you care for flowers, Mr. Trulock?"
"No, madam." Then he saw that she had brought him some, and added, with a mournful smile, "You mean these for me? Thank you, madam, 'twas a kind thought. I will get a glass to put them in. What are they? 'Tis a strange time of the year for flowers."
"They are Christmas roses, Mr. Trulock."
"It seems unnatural for flowers to blossom now," the old man said, as he placed them in water. "Summer and youth and flowers—winter and old age and no flowers at all; that's how things go, madam."
May had risen to say good-bye, she put her small hand into his, and looking up with tears in her eyes, for his voice was very sad, she said,—
"Yet there are Christmas roses, you see."
"For such as you," he answered.
"For you," she said earnestly. "Only have faith and patience, and open your heart to the sunshine God sends, and the sweet flowers of charity—I like the word, even though love may be more correct—will blossom round your path."
When they were gone, Trulock sat gazing at the fair, pure blossoms, but he murmured, "Not for me! Not for me!"
Mrs. Short forgot to put her flowers in water, and threw them out the next morning, muttering contemptuously,—
"Rubbishy things! If it had even been a bit of holly, now, to stick in my pudding!"
BONNIE May Cloudesley caught cold on that Christmas Day, and was so ill that as soon as she was fit to travel, her husband took her home to her mother to be nursed for a while. Very dreary and uncomfortable the poor fellow was during her absence; and when she came home, quite recovered, he informed her that she must never be ill again, as he could not possibly get on without her.
"Nonsense, Gilbert! Why, we have not been married a year—and how did you get on all the thirty-four years before you even knew me?"
"I don't know, May. But it just shows how short a time it takes to spoil a man; for I was really rather a jolly kind of bachelor."
But at the notion of her shy, silent, grave Gilbert ever having been a jolly bachelor, May laughed in the most unkind and disrespectful way.
"You may laugh," said Gilbert; and May seemed to agree with him, for she did laugh very heartily. Then she said,—
"How are all the poor people, Gilbert. How is the boy we met at Lady Mabel's Rest? And oh! How are the two new people there going on?"
"I have seen Mrs. Short several times, and she always tells me what a good kind of woman she is. I've nothing to say against it—she ought to know, of course. Mr. Trulock I have only seen in church; he is always out when I call."
"I must go there to-morrow. When does Mr. Barton come home?"
"Not until June, I think," replied Mr. Cloudesley.
May kept her word, and the next day, putting on her warmest wraps, for it was bitter February weather, she trotted down the hill, over the bridge, and away to Lady Mabel's Rest. She paid one or two visits—one to Miss Jones. Miss Jones was that unnatural thing, a very disagreeable Christian. She had a heart of gold, loved her Master and served Him for love's sake, but she had a queer temper and a natural love of fault-finding. If she had not been a good woman, she would have been a most censorious one; as it was, she never permitted herself to speak ill of the absent, but she "took it out" in scolding. She was greatly pleased to see Mrs. Cloudesley, and had a hundred questions to ask about Polly Burr, a girl whom she had trained, and who was now Mrs. Cloudesley's cook.
"Polly is a really good girl," said May, "and an excellent servant. You really have a gift for training servants, Miss Jones."
Miss Jones's dark, solemn face softened into a pleased smile.
"A poor gift, ma'am," said she.
"Not poor at all," replied May. "How many Fairford girls have you trained for service, now?"
"Seventeen altogether, ma'am. Three are married, two died, three emigrated, and the rest are doing well in their place—all but one. One, poor thing—well, well, we don't know the end yet."
"No, indeed," said May; "and we can pray, you know. That's always a comfort, isn't it? Have you made acquaintance with your new neighbours yet?"
"I knew them both long ago, ma'am."
"I was in hopes that Mrs. Short would follow your good example, and take a girl to train."
"Martha Short will never take that much—No, ma'am, she has no girl."
"Do you find her a pleasant neighbour?"
"We don't see much of each other, ma'am."
"You knew Mr. Trulock also, didn't you say?"
"Yes, ma'am, and his wife—she was a schoolfellow of mine. A decent man, Ralph always was, and at one time a very rich one; but there was something about the son—I never heard the rights of it. It killed poor Annie, I believe; and Ralph looks heartbroken himself. I see very little of him—he is out all day. There never was such a man for going about the country."
Mrs. Cloudesley's next visit was to Mr. Trulock, or rather to his door, for her knock brought no one to let her in. Mrs. Short's door opened, and that dumpy dame put out her round head and called out:
"You need not knock again, ma'am, for Mr. Trulock is out; and out he always is, I may truly say. I couldn't abear to see you knocking, standing there in the bitter wind, you that has lately had a cold too; I'm that good-natered. 'Do as you'd be done by,' is my motter, and I wouldn't fancy standing out in the cold;—you're welcome back, Mrs. Cloudesley,—and won't you walk in?"
"I was coming to see you," replied May, going round to the door, and following the waddling steps of Mrs. Short into the parlour. If that room had surprised her on her first visit, it fairly astounded her now! The handsome chiffonier with glass doors, the wax flowers under a bell shade, the pictures in their massive gilt frames! These last were three in number, and one of them represented Mrs. Short—a shade less round than Mrs. Short was now, but still an undeniable likeness,—looking sentimental with all her might at a miniature which she held out straight before her—so straight, in fact, that only half the miniature could be got into the picture at all. The second picture represented the late Mr. Short, a thin little man with a deprecating smile upon his face, carrying in his hand a bunch of flowers, of which he seemed mortally afraid. The third was that of the youthful son of this worthy couple, a fat, staring boy with crimson cheeks, hard and shiny as two rosy apples. He was depicted drawing by a string a toy horse—black with red spots. The horse was very well done: it was quite as wooden and as little like a real horse as the original had been.
"You're looking at my picter, ma'am! Ah, I'm greatly altered since that was done. It was a minnychure of my poor diseased—" (probably meant for deceased) "father that I 'ad in my 'and, ma'am, and I requested of the artiss to put in my poor father's face, but would you believe it, he refused! He said I wanted to get two 'eads out of him for the price of one! Some folks is wonderful ill-natered. That's my poor Matthew, as is dead and buried, poor man! Very like him it is, but you never saw him. And that's my son Matt; and I hope he'll do well and be 'appy, though he's not been quite the son he might have been to his widowed mother, as did for him for years, and kept his places like a 'pictur.' But there! I'll never mention it to mortal, nor remember it against him—I'm too good-natured for that!"
"How is Mr. Trulock getting on?" said May, longing to interrupt the flow of words. "Has he got a servant yet?"
"No, ma'am, nor won't! I've been at him about it dozens of times, for it spoils my disjection to see him look the way he does—half-starved—half-clothed, too, I may say; for though decent, yet very threadbare and scant, ma'am, as your own heyes may tell you. But there! I might as well talk to a stone, the best I get is, 'You've no gel yourself'; and it's vain to tell him that I'm a woman and he's a man, and so the cases is very differential. And what is he starving himself for, now? As I says to him, while there was a chance of righting the business and keeping his connection together, it was all very well to be miserly; but now that he's broke, and had to retire to this place, which others that expected it as little, though never keeping a carriage nor having a viller at 'Ackney, mightn't he as well make use of the comforts provided for him, and not go on pinch, pinch, and look at a friendly neighbour as if he'd like to bid her to mind her own business? But there! A hard man Ralph Trulock ever was—hard to his son, and hard to all, and hard he'll be, to his dying day."
"He does not look like a hard man, exactly," said May Cloudesley.
"Ah, but if you knew his story, ma'am, which I can tell it to you, for I know it well. I've known him all my life."
May by no means wished to listen to gossip of this kind; but she found she must listen to Mrs. Short, or abruptly say good-bye, and this she did not like to do. She was not one of those who have one manner for the rich and another for the poor; so it was as impossible for her to interrupt Mrs. Short rudely, as if she had been my Lady Short, and the vulgar little crowded parlour a spacious reception room; so she heard her perforce.
"Ralph and me were married in the same year, and his shop—it was a shop then, afterwards an establishment, if you please—was in our street. My Matthew was a baker,—I ain't ashamed of it,—Ralph Trulock was a master tailor, what they call a milingtery tailor, uniforms and the like, and officers always going in and out, going to India and sich. He got on wonderful—often I said to my poor Matthew that's dead and buried, that pride will have fall, and a 'aughty sperrit goes before bankruptcy, which is as true a word as any other Solomon ever said. And yet it lasted a long time, too. Mrs. Trulock had her carriage, and Fred his pony, and afterwards his horse, and they lived in a viller like the gentry, and Ralph looked down on Matthew and me, as if we were no more than a couple of our own penny rolls. The boy grew up—and a fine young man to look at—but got into fine company through knowing the officers that came to the shop, and it was he could spend faster than Ralph could save. And his father was terrible hard on him—Ah! A hard man Trulock was, even then, and—"
Here the welcome sound of a knock at the door reached May's ears. She sprang from her chair, saying, "That is Mr. Cloudesley; he promised to come for me."
"I'll let him in, ma'am—what, you must go? Well, I must finish my story. Fred spent everything, and then ran away because the father was so hard on him, and left Trulock in debt awful—he's never got before the world since, and had to pay half a crown in the pound, and the wife died—"
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Short, but Mr. Cloudesley must find it very cold."
"Yes, ma'am, I must let the dear gentleman in. And Ralph, ma'am—I have my own suspicions about the way things went at the last; but that's neither here nor there, and certain it is his behaviour killed his wife; and when Fred ventured back, he cursed him frightful, and has always sent back his letters, just tore up, and—"
"I really must not keep Mr. Cloudesley waiting any longer; that is the third time he has knocked," cried May in desperation; and going quickly to the door, she opened it herself.
Mrs. Short followed her as fast as she could, and began at once:
"Well, sir, you must not think me unmannerly for letting your good lady open the door for you, for we were so interested in what we were saying, that we quite forgot that you had knocked, and then when you knocked again she ran like a hare, and I hadn't a chance with her. Must you go at once, sir? Well, ma'am, call again soon, and I'll tell you plenty more about him; but you may take my word for it, he brought that boy up very badly, and then turned on him, broke his wife's heart, and owes a mint o' money, leastways did, but went through the courts, you know, and got himself whitewashed; and what he's starving himself for now I don't know, and I'd give my ears to find out, though not curious by nater."
"Good evening, Mrs. Short," said May gravely, as she took her husband's arm and turned away.
"Oh, Gilbert, I do not like Mrs. Short; and if what she has been telling me is true, we shall not like Mr. Trulock either."
"What has she told you? You look half dead, May."
"Nothing tries me like having to listen to talk like that; but she told me—" and May repeated the substance of Mrs. Short's story.
"Well, I know nothing of the man myself, but this is certain," said Mr. Cloudesley in reply. "Mrs. Short may abandon her suspicion that he behaved dishonourably in any way; for if he had, he would not have been admitted here. I fancy he is very unhappy, poor old fellow; you must make friends with him, May."
"But, Gilbert, if he really turned his son out of doors and cursed him?"
"If that is true, he must be a miserable man, May."
"You are right. Yes, Gilbert, I'll go and see him again."
May Cloudesley went several times to visit Mr. Trulock before she found him at home; and her ineffectual knock at his door never failed to bring Mrs. Short to hers, urging her to come in and "have a chat." Sometimes May escaped, but more often she was obliged to go in and listen unwillingly to much gossip, principally about poor old Ralph, but many of the other neighbours were also discussed. Still Ralph was plainly a mystery to her, and (of course in the most good-natured spirit) Mrs. Short talked incessantly about him. At last Mrs. Cloudesley determined to go quite early some day, and try if she could catch Trulock; before he was off on his wanderings. It was not quite ten o'clock when she raised her hand to knock at his door, and before she had reached the knocker the door opened, and Ralph, in a worn great-coat and shabby muffler, stood before her. He looked even more depressed than when she had seen him last.
"Good morning, Mr. Trulock. I am a very early visitor, but later in the day you are never at home, and I wanted so much to see you."
"You are very good, madam. I don't know why any one should trouble themselves about such as I am now. Will you walk in, madam?—though I fear you will find it cold."
"Oh, I am very well wrapped up; I don't mind the cold."
"I sit in the kitchen, madam, in order to keep but one fire," said Ralph, leading the way to that very melancholy apartment, where he placed her in a chair near the grate; she perceived that the fire was raked out, and the dismal chill of the room was most depressing.
May looked round, and then up into the face of the old man, and wondered if she could venture to beg him to allow himself the comforts he so sadly needed. He was watching her with a strange, sad smile.
"I know what you are thinking, madam," he said. "My neighbour, Mrs. Short, has been telling me that she informed you that I am starving myself to death; and I have no doubt she told you more than that. She would not spare me. I was a fool to come here—but truly I had little choice. She has given me a bad name with every one."
May could not deny this, so she said:
"I wish you would make yourself a little more comfortable, Mr. Trulock. I cannot bear to think of the life you seem to lead. This place, you know, was meant to make those who live here comfortable."
"I am as comfortable as I—wish to be," Ralph replied.
"But—please forgive me for speaking plainly—you know this place—the money here—was meant to be used to make you comfortable; don't you think you ought to use it as it was intended?"
"Comfort, Mrs. Cloudesley, is a matter of feeling; if I do what I wish to do, I am more comfortable than I should be if I were doing what I don't wish."
He sat down as he spoke, for hitherto he had been standing, and said: "Madam, you are very kind to me, and I should not wish you to think worse of me than I deserve. I don't know what you may have heard from Mrs. Short, nor even what you may conclude from my own words and conduct. May I briefly tell you the truth concerning myself, madam, and then at least I shall know that you are not misled about me."
"Indeed, I will listen with great interest," said May. "I fear you have had many trials."
"I have, indeed; but people say I brought them on myself."
"That, even if true, does not lighten them."
"No," he replied, with his slow, grave smile; "that is true; but it hinders sympathy, I find. You know, perhaps, that I began life as an apprentice in a great military outfitting shop in London? I was hard-working and careful, and got on well. I set up for myself when I married, as my wife had a little money, and I had saved. I prospered greatly. My business grew and grew; I was soon a rich man. I had the best wife, madam, that ever man was blessed with, and a fine boy—only the one child. I said I would make a gentleman of him. I gave him every advantage—I never said No to him—I—"
His voice trembled, and he was silent for a minute.
"Madam, I find that I cannot speak much of him, even now. I do not believe he ever knew what he was to me. I ruined him by over-indulgence—letting him have too much money; and then, when I began to fear he was going astray, I pulled him up too short. Then—I see it now—I went as much too far the other way—would give him no money, and wanted to part him from all his acquaintance, because I thought they helped to make him idle. He was idle—that I know—but he was good and affectionate until—Well, he rebelled; got into debt; borrowed money right and left. My business went down, for I was forced to make my customers pay up their bills, and that makes discomfort. People naturally go where they get credit. All went wrong with me; and my poor Annie took the boy's misdoing so much to heart that she lost her health."
"Poor thing—oh, poor mother!" whispered May.
"The boy went from bad to worse. At last—I never told this to mortal before except my poor Annie, and she guessed it. I had a large sum of money coming to me, and I depended on it, as I had a great payment to make. He knew it; he went the day before I was to receive it, and got it, saying I had a sudden need for it, and had sent him. And then he disappeared. I concealed his—theft—from every one except my wife—she guessed it, and it finished what his wild doings had begun. She never held her head up again, madam. She pined away, longing for her boy, that she might try to bring him to a sense of his faults; but he never came. I put advertisements in the paper, begging him to come home, and that all should be forgiven; but he never saw them. He was abroad, I believe. At last—she died; and the night before her funeral, Fred, knowing nothing of this, came home. He came in on me suddenly, and I had no heart to speak. He said he had seen the advertisement at last, and had come home to confess that he was married,—and he told me who the girl was. A good girl, I believe; but she belonged to bad people—low, dishonest folk, in a small way of trade—and my heart rose up against the thought of her bearing my Annie's name, and she lying in her coffin. I got up—" Ralph straightened himself and spoke louder, "I opened the door; I said, 'Your mother lies dead upstairs, murdered by you. You have brought her to the grave, and me to ruin. Go to the wife you have chosen—never let me see your face again.'"
"Oh, Mr. Trulock! Surely he did not take you at your word? Surely he saw that you were speaking wildly?"
"He had his faults, madam, but want of affection was never one of them. He tried again and again—he both wrote and came to the house; but I would neither see him nor read his letters. I was mad, I think; mad with sorrow and anger. At last he got a friend to trick me into reading one letter, the last he ever wrote to me. He said he saw that I could not forgive him, although he hoped I would believe that he had not meant to leave his mother to die without seeing him; that he was going to emigrate, and that he would repay the money he had taken from me as soon as he could. I have never heard of him since—not a word."
"He will come yet," said May; but Trulock shook his head.
"I think he must be dead," he said in a low voice. "Then I began to try to pay my creditors, and retrieve my business. I struggled on alone, madam, for twelve weary years, during which I never spent an unnecessary penny—only to fail at last. I paid seventeen and sixpence in the pound, and—I must pay the other half-crown before I die. That is what I am saving for, Mrs. Cloudesley. I can allow myself no comforts until that is done."
May was crying, and made no answer.
"God bless you, madam, for those tears!" said Trulock, earnestly. "You're sorry for Annie;—yes, and you would have learned to love her—you would have loved Annie."
"I'm crying for you, not for her," May said, looking up. "I'm so sorry; yours has been a sad, sad life. Annie is at rest."
"Yes," he answered, "Annie is in heaven; she was a saint, if ever there was one."
"Ah!" said May, smiling. "How that takes the sting out of the sorrow! But will you let me tell my husband what you have told me? And I will try to see you soon again, and tell you if he thinks that you are doing right now. Gilbert is so upright—he would know."
"You may tell him, but no one else, madam, if you please. I do not care to defend myself; let people believe Mrs. Short if they like. I care nothing for their opinion."
"Yet you must be very lonely."
"I don't care for company; I feel as if every one was a stranger, and must always be so—and I think I don't wish it otherwise."
"Mr. Trulock, that is not the way to grow Christmas roses."
"But I told you none would grow for me, madam."
"They won't grow except in their own soil. Good-bye,—when shall I have a chance of seeing you again?"
"I cannot have you troubled to come out so early on my account," Ralph answered. "If you will leave word at the gate, appointing your own time, I will be here. You have been very kind, madam, and I feel it deeply; but do not mistake me, I do not promise to be ruled by what you and Mr. Cloudesley may advise."
"Yet we may talk it over with you. Good-bye then, Mr. Trulock. I will leave a message for you."
As May hurried away, she heard Mrs. Short calling her. She stopped, and that worthy dame actually followed her, cold as it was.
"You've sat a long time with Trulock," said she. "I hope, ma'am, that he was civil?"
"Civil!" said May, laughing. "Oh dear, yes, Mrs. Short. I like Mr. Trulock very much indeed. Good morning, for I have sat so long with him that I must hurry home now."
Mrs. Short retired to her house, much disgusted.
"After all I've told her, not to tell me one word of what passed between 'em! I could see that she cried,—but the winders is so small! It's very ill-natured of her; and if I did right I'd never tell her another thing!"
SEVERAL engagements prevented Mrs. Cloudesley going to Lady Mabel's Rest as soon as she had intended, but at last she succeeded in keeping an hour or two clear for her visit, so she sent a message to Mr. Trulock very early, to say that she would be with him at one o'clock, if convenient to him. She was such a punctual little body, that she ran past Mrs. Short's windows just as that lady's gorgeous clock struck one, and for a wonder she got by unperceived, for it was Mrs. Short's dinner hour, and she had no eyes for the passers-by. Mr. Trulock took her at once into the kitchen, where he had a good fire burning, and for the first time May saw what a snug room that kitchen could be.
"Well, Mr. Trulock, did you think I had forgotten you? You don't know how busy we have been."
"I had no fear that you would forget me," Trulock answered, quietly.
"Mr. Cloudesley would have come with me—for he is so much interested in what you told me; but he fancied that as you had spoken to me before, you might like to talk to me this time also."
"Well, I think Mr. Cloudesley is right," said Trulock with a smile. "I don't know that I could talk to any one else as I did that day to you. I wondered at myself when you were gone, for I had not meant to trouble you with so long a story."
"But you did not trouble me, except that I was sorry for you. Well, it seems that my husband saw a letter, written by a Mr. Arnott, and signed by all your other creditors, which was sent to Mr. Barton when you were named for this place; in which they say that your conduct had been so honourable as to command their admiration; that they had had dealings with you for many years, and felt that in spite of your failure they had lost nothing by the connection."
"I saw the letter," said Trulock, shortly.
"And they said that they were all most anxious to secure your election; that they could quite afford to lose the very trifling sums you had not paid, and that they had written to you to that effect."
"So they did. But, young lady, I could not rest in my grave knowing that I owed any one a penny."
"Your creditors were all rich men, I think?"
"All of them. Except in the way of business I never owed a penny, and I dealt only with the best houses."
"Suppose you had not been elected to the Rest, I think they meant to have made a subscription for you, Mr. Trulock."
"Madam!" said the old man almost fiercely, "I would have gone to the poorhouse before I accepted their charity!"
"Ah, Mr. Trulock! That is what Gilbert bid me say to you!"
"What?" cried Ralph, with a start. "That I ought to have done that—gone to the poorhouse?"
"No, no,—but that you must look well to it that in this matter you are not governed by pride rather than by any better feeling."
"I have always been a proud man," Ralph answered, drawing himself up. "Mrs. Cloudesley, in living on the barest necessaries of life—and that I do, for bread and water are my usual food, and I roam the country to keep myself warm, to save firing,—I am doing the only thing that can reconcile me to life. People talk of me now as a beaten man, glad to hide my head in an almshouse, because ill-health, sorrow, and age made it impossible for me to begin life again. But before I die, I will prove to these proud, successful men, that I was not so utterly beaten; that, in spite of age, and failing health, and sorrow to boot, I fought the battle and kept my honourable name. When I have paid the money, I may be able to feel grateful to Arnott and the rest for what they said and did—as it is, I can only just keep from hating them."
May looked at him with a deep sorrow in her sweet eyes.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock," she said, "do forgive me if I speak my mind—and Gilbert's, for he thinks as I do about it. Is that a Christian spirit? Your creditors wished to forgive you this debt, they felt kindly towards you, and were glad that you should not be left in poverty. You are in an asylum planned to make those who have been unfortunate forget their difficulties and pass a peaceful life, with every comfort, even to the power of doing something for others. But you refuse to accept anything, either from your old friends or from poor dead Lady Mabel; you shut-up your heart, and will admit no happiness, no kind feeling,—but just fight on, doggedly, to do what no one wants you to do—to pay back money which no one needs (for the sums are too small to make any difference to prosperous men), and all because you are too proud to accept a kindness from any one, living or dead."
"The money may make no difference to them," said Ralph; "but it makes all the difference in the world to me."
"But only because you are proud. Why should you not allow men who think well of you to show you a kindness? Why not submit to the failure of your business, and try to find peace here, where there are so many who would be friendly if you would allow them? And Lady Mabel didn't mean her bequest to be used except for the benefit of those to whom she left it."
"I asked Mr. Barton if there was any rule obliging me to spend the money, and he said certainly I might do as I liked," Ralph replied. "Madam, I warned you that I could not promise to be guided by you. You were kind to me, and I thought I should like you to know the plain truth from my own lips; and then you listened so kindly that I was led on to say more than I intended. But I could not change my nature at this time of day, madam. A proud man and a hard man I have always been; giving nothing for nothing, accepting no favours. I've lived so, and I could live no other way. What good would the money do me? I don't want to sink into a mere eating machine, like Mrs. Short. I don't care to seek the company of my neighbours. All I ask is, to be left in peace to go my own way."
"Yet it does not make you happy."
"Happy! How could I be happy? I have lost all I ever loved,—I loved but two, and they are gone. I don't look for happiness, madam,—not in this world."
"Nor in the next," said May Cloudesley, in her soft, sorrowful voice; "for you are not going the way that leads to it."
"Mrs. Cloudesley!" cried Ralph, half startled, half angry. "I am a Christian, madam, I believe. I have never doubted the religion I learned from my mother, the religion that my Annie loved so well."
"You have never doubted it," said May; "but you have never lived it. 'Love is the fulfilling of the law,'—'If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of His.' I have only your own word to go upon, but you say yourself that you have been a proud man and a hard man, keeping far from you all the charities of life. Oh, don't fancy for a moment that your belief is Faith. Faith means Obedience,—Obedience is Love in action. I am not able to make my meaning plain, but my husband will if you will talk to him. Dear Mr. Trulock, do think over what you have told me, and then compare your own life with that of our one perfect Example, who lived on charity, and spent His life in doing good, without return. I have angered you, but indeed I did not mean to do so."
And poor May, overcome both by a feeling of pity and by a sense of inability to make her meaning clear, burst into tears.
Trulock looked very much disturbed. He rose quickly and brought some water, and watched anxiously until she was quite composed. Then he said:
"I should prefer not to speak to Mr. Cloudesley, madam; but I will think of what you have said. I am not vexed that you should speak plainly; I like plain speaking. I don't see that you are right, though; and if I did, I doubt that I could change now."
"Shall I tell you how to begin?" said May.
He shook his head; but she went on: "Help some one, be kind to some one who needs kindness; use some of your money to relieve those who need relief; say kind words to some one in sorrow. That's the soil in which you must grow your Christmas roses," she concluded with a smile.
Trulock looked argumentative.
"Madam," said he; "you will say I am no judge, but I have heard so many sermons against that kind of thing. It seems to me that you imply that I can be saved by works."
"There is no question here of being saved," said May, quickly. "You must be saved by the Lord Jesus Christ, or not at all. But you say you have faith, and I say with St. James—'Show me thy faith by thy works'; for I think that a faith which leaves us just what nature made us, must be a dead faith, don't you? We all have our besetting sin to conquer, and it seems to me that pride is yours; but if you had love in your heart it would turn out pride. And I think that though we cannot make ourselves feel love all at once, yet we can do kind things, and then our hearts will grow soft and warm. And I am sure that if you were doing kind things for others, you would not dislike so much to accept kindness from others; at least, I think so. But I am very young and ignorant, and, I'm afraid, very presumptuous too, to talk to you like this. You'll forgive me, though, won't you, Mr. Trulock?"
She looked up so sweetly, that he found himself assuring her that he had nothing to forgive, which a moment before had not been his opinion at all.
May went home and told her husband all that had passed.
"Well," said he, "you told him some plain truths, May; but you were quite right. Now we must let him alone a bit. I fancy he will not stand too much good advice; we'll wait and see how things go."
In May's opinion, things did not go well. Mr. Trulock changed none of his habits, and was always out when she called. Mrs. Short assured her that he was living like a slave or a wild Indian, just bread and water on week days, and a morsel of meat on Sundays only, and a cup of tea once in a way—not regular at all. Miss Jones said she had invited him to dine with her, and that he had refused, not very courteously. And May had no choice but to follow her husband's advice and "let him alone," for the simple but sufficient reason that she could by no means get at him.
RALPH TRULOCK had never been a very happy man. Even when his worldly affairs prospered, and his wife, whom he tenderly loved, and who deserved his love, was with him; even before his son's behaviour gave him cause for anxiety,—he had not been a happy man. He had had all that the world could give him, and if you had asked him what more he wanted, he would probably have said, "Nothing;" and yet he did want something, and want it so badly that his heart was never at rest for the lack of it.
The truth is, he was trying to satisfy an immortal spirit with mortal things, and no one ever yet succeeded in doing that, excepting those who are too dull to look beyond mere eating and drinking, warmth and comfort. Of this class, Mrs. Short was a tolerable specimen; but Ralph cared little for these things. His idol was of a higher order: it was his own opinion of himself. He did not greatly care for other people's admiration, but he must satisfy himself. His notion was, that a man should be perfectly just, utterly truthful and upright, fulfil all his engagements honourably, and never ask or accept a favour. He did not add, consciously, "and never give any one anything except what they earn," but he acted on that principle, though he never interfered with his wife's charities. He believed that if he lived thus, perfectly righteous in all his dealings, he should certainly go to heaven, even if he never felt any of those warmer religious feelings of which his wife sometimes spoke. She had quite a different kind of religion; but that was all right: she was a woman, and humility and dependence become a woman, but men should be made of sterner stuff.
Mrs. Trulock was a timid, gentle creature, far too humble even to think that Ralph could need to be taught anything. She taught her boy carefully, and when he went astray her loving heart broke, and she died, expressing with her last breath a belief that "Fred would remember what she had taught him, yet." I don't suppose she had ever heard the story of the mother of St. Augustine, but she might have said with her, "He must be saved, for he is the child of many tears and many prayers."
But if Ralph Trulock had never been a thoroughly happy man, he was certainly a very miserable man now. He had never been idle in his life; and here he was with nothing to do but to see on how little he could keep body and soul together, that he might rid himself of the hated obligation he now lay under, to men whose equal he had once been. May Cloudesley's sweet face and sympathetic manner had thrown him off his guard, and he had spoken to her more freely than he had ever spoken before, even to himself, for he hardly knew that he had it in him to feel and speak thus until he found himself doing it. And then that little traitor, May, having stolen softly within his guard of proud silence, had used her opportunity to stick a little dagger into his very heart!
Twenty times a day he told himself that she was only a silly young woman, and that he knew better than she did; twenty times a day he resolved to think no more of her words. But they kept coming back to him, and would not be forgotten. He had always read a small portion of the Bible on Sundays, and he found himself now, sorely against his will, remembering that the spirit of the words he read agreed with what May had said, more than with his own opinions. He could not keep his mind from trying to make out a case for himself, and he could not help knowing that he failed; that no text bore him out in his opinions. Still he was haunted by one text which he could not remember exactly, but in which the words, "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly?" certainly occurred; and he imagined that if he could only find that verse, he could return to his old way of thinking comfortably, and forget May's little dagger.
After much searching, he found the text at last; but it did not turn out a comfort to him. "He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly—" oh that it had stopped there! But it went on—"and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?" So not even this solitary text, on which he had built so much, would bear the meaning he wished to find in it. Nay, might not May have used it against him?
"To love mercy!" How could he set about that? He need not relax his stern self-denial much,—not at all, in fact; but he might give a small portion of what he saved, and it would only delay his hoped-for payment a little.
Though Ralph looked so old, he was only sixty-five, so he hoped he had time enough before him to permit of a little delay. And his conscience would not let him go on without making some effort to walk by the new light which May had let in upon him. He began to look about for some one whom he might help, and one seldom looks long for that!
One afternoon in June—it was June now, for it took him a long time to arrive at this point in his mental struggle—he went into Fairford to buy himself some new shirts; his old ones had gone beyond even his not unskilful repairs. There was a good shop in High Fairford. Price's, and to that shop he betook himself. The young man at the shirt counter told him that he had not a shirt of the particular size he asked for in the house, but that there were a number actually in hand, and if he would sit down and wait a few minutes, one of the workwomen had promised him four that very day, "and she is always punctual," concluded the young man.
Not caring to return next day, Ralph took a seat and waited. Presently a girl—a child rather, though there was a staid, responsible air about her that was wondrous womanly—came quickly up the shop, and laying a parcel on the counter, said to the young shopman,—
"Please, sir, I have brought home the four shirts."
"I told you she was punctual, Mr. Trulock!" said the shopman.
"Why, you don't mean to say that this child is one of your workers!" said Ralph.
"And a very handy worker too! No need to look over these shirts—there's never any scamped stitches in Miss Garland's work," added the young man pleasantly, as he opened the parcel and took out the four shirts. They were wonderfully well-made—you must remember that Ralph's trade had made him a good judge of needlework—every part was as well done as the girl could do it, the button-holes were well worked, and the buttons conscientiously sewed on. It was all so clean, too. Ralph conceived a good opinion of the girl at once. He bought the shirts, and paid for them: he saw the girl cast a quick glance upon the sixteen shillings he laid down, and give her head a little shake. She was paid for her work at once—three shillings. Ralph lingered near the door: something in the girl's face pleased and yet puzzled him, and he wanted to see more of her. She came out in a moment, but was passing him without notice, when he said to her,—
"Do you get only ninepence a piece for making these shirts?"
"That is all," she answered with a sigh; "but, sir, it is better than nothing."
"How long does it take you to make one?" he asked.
"One whole day and most of another. Now I have got petticoats to make—with braid on them; like doing that, I get on quicker."
"Your mother should not let you sew so much," said Ralph. "It is bad for a growing girl."
"I have no mother, sir, and neither has poor Ollie."
"Neither has who?"
"Ollie—Oliver, my little brother, sir."
Ralph thought she said the name oddly.
"Oliver?" he repeated. "Is that what you said?"
"That is the same name, but Ollie's mother was French, and we have lived in France, where they say it as I do."
"You and Ollie lived in France?" Mr. Trulock said. He felt strangely interested in the child. She was a rather pretty little girl, with a pale round face and very soft dark eyes: she wore her short dark hair tucked away behind her little ears, and she was dressed in a plain and scanty black cotton frock, her straw hat being trimmed with a morsel of fresh black crape. Something in her look, her voice, and above all her smile, interested him: they reminded him of some one, he could not think of whom—the slight foreign accent puzzled him, perhaps.
She answered his question after a momentary hesitation,—
"Yes; me and Ollie and our father."
Two great tears slowly welled up and then ran down her cheeks: she put up her small right hand to rub them away, and he saw how the forefinger was seamed with needle marks.
"And now there are only me and Ollie," she added quietly.
"You are here with friends I suppose?"
"No, sir; we have no friends here. Father was on his way here when his illness came on—he bid me come here. I expected to find his people here, but no one even knows the name. I suppose they lived here long ago, and are all gone away now."
"Do you mean to tell me, child," said old Ralph half angrily, "that you and this boy are alone in the world?"
"Indeed we are—quite, quite alone," the girl answered, with that quiet sadness which was so like some one, if he could only remember who it was.
"But you have money?" he said, turning to look at her.
"Oh yes, I have a little money. When my father died; he had some money,—I do not know exactly how much—they took some to pay the doctor, and the bill at the hotel, and—for his funeral. Oh, I don't want to speak about it, sir!" and again the big tears rolled down, and the poor little hard-working hand went up to her face. But after a moment she went on again: "I am keeping all I have left very carefully. I work as hard as I can, and so does Ollie, though he can only run with messages, of course. I want to keep the little I have until winter."
"How long have you been here?" asked Ralph.
"I forget exactly. Oh, there's Ollie!"
A beautiful boy of about seven years sprang up from his game of marbles,—he was playing with a lot of young urchins on the pavement. They were about half-way down the steep hill now, and Ollie had not seen his sister until she called out his name; how his black eyes danced when he saw her! And with what glee he held up a fourpenny piece, crying,—
"See what I have here! A monsieur gave me this for picking up his whip!"
"Why, you've been very fortunate to-day, Ollie—twopence in the morning for carrying a parcel, and now this; how much is it—fourpence? Well done, Ollie!"
"Take it, Ruthie; I may lose it," the boy said gravely, and then returned to his marbles.
"We live here, sir," said Ruth, stopping at the door of a small bakery. "Good-bye, and I hope you will like your shirts."
Mr. Trulock shook hands with her—a mode of saying good-bye which seemed to puzzle her not a little. He lingered until she had passed through the shop. She paused and bought a fourpenny loaf, and he heard her ask for:
"A stale one, if you please, ma'am;" then she vanished through a door behind the counter, and Ralph entered the shop.
"Plain or fancy, sir?" said the old woman who stood behind the counter.
"I don't want any bread, thank you," Ralph answered; "I want to ask a question about the child who has just passed through your shop."
"Do you know anything about her, sir?" asked the woman eagerly.
"Why, I wanted to know if you do?" replied Ralph.
"Not much, sir; she and the boy, Ollie she calls him, came here more than a month ago. I had been to Derby on business, and they came in the same train, and came on by the omnibus from the Forest station, and Ruth began to talk to me. She asked me if I knew people of the name of Garland in Fairford; and I said there never was a Garland in the place since I could remember, and that is sixty years and more. It isn't a Fairford name at all, as I told her. She looked so frightened and downcast, that I began to ask questions; then she told me that her father, who had brought the two children from France to Southampton, had died there, sudden-like; and that he had told her his father lived in Fairford, and she was to come here to him; he'd been coming here himself, poor man. I took the children in for the night, and made inquiry next day; but it was as I thought, no Garland was ever known here."
"It would be some other Fairford, perhaps—there are places of the same name in other counties," suggested Ralph, much interested.
"No, sir; Fairford, —shire was written on the box the children brought with them, in the poor man's own writing."
"But have they no means of living, ma'am, except by what they can earn?"
"None; there's a box with good, comfortable clothes for both of them, and the same belonging to the poor father; and Ruth has a little money laid by, but only a few pounds. And that's all. I advised Ruth to save it up and work hard, and she's a wise little creature, used to manage things and to be busy. She pays me nothing for the little room they sleep in, and I am glad to help them so far; but I'm too poor to do more. My business is not what it used to be, nor what it ought to be," she added with a sigh, and a look round the dingy little shop, into which indeed no one had come since Ralph's own arrival. "I got her work from Price's; she's a handy worker."
"Will you give the child this, ma'am, and tell her it is from the old man to whom she was talking?" said Ralph, giving her half a crown.
"Indeed I will, sir, gladly, and very kind it is of you sir. Good evening."
Ralph walked home. The child's face haunted him. That likeness was so perplexing. Annie had fair straight hair and grey eyes; this girl had brown eyes and dark curly hair, yet her smile was like Annie's, and her quiet voice was like Annie's too, in spite of the accent.