Chapter XI: Monsieur Oliver

A YEAR passed very quietly and happily in Ralph Trulock's house. Ollie was going to school now, and Ruth was a busy and a happy little woman, and had grown much stronger and less nervous than she had been when she first came to Lady Mabel's Rest. Ralph gave her lessons every evening, when the day's work was over, and was making a good scholar of her in a plain, old-fashioned way. Mrs. Cloudesley taught her various kinds of fancy-work, and Miss Jones made her a first-rate cook and a capital housekeeper in every way. So Ruth bade fair to be an accomplished woman, according to my notions. If a woman can do with her own hands, and do well, everything that is needed for the comfort of her household; can read and enjoy books on a variety of subjects in two languages; can keep accounts well, and write a good hand, and has, moreover, an employment for her leisure hours which she likes and excels in,—I call her an accomplished woman, though she may never have learned to torture my ears with "a tune" on the piano, or to paint roses which look like miniature red cabbages. If a woman in Ruth's rank of life is a genius, let her learn music or drawing by all means. But oh, fathers and mothers of Great Britain and Ireland, do give up the idea that "a little music" and "just half a dozen lessons in flower-painting" are necessary for all your daughters.

Well, one lovely day in April, Ralph was alone in the garden in front of his house. Ruth had gone to meet Ollie on his way home from school. Ralph was sitting on a chair close to his door, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the scent of a little patch of violets which were just coming into bloom. Ruth and Ollie had contrived to make the front garden quite pretty, and to grow some common vegetables in the one at the back of the house. Looking up, because he heard the little gate squeak, as it always did when opened, Ralph beheld a gentleman in deep mourning coming up the walk. A slight, well-made young man, with a moustache and small imperial—not an Englishman, evidently, Ralph concluded.

"Excuse me, sir," said the stranger, "is your name Ralph Trulock?"

"It is, sir," said Ralph, standing up.

"I shall be glad to have a little private conversation with you. Shall we be interrupted or overheard here?" With a glance of his quick black eyes towards Mrs. Short's window, where truly the worthy creature was flattening her nose against the glass with great ardour.

"We can go to the parlour," said Ralph, inwardly wondering who the man might be.

They went in accordingly, and sat down.

"Mr. Trulock, my name is Mordan,—Oliver Mordan, of Bordeaux."

"Indeed!" cried Ralph with a start. "Then I suppose I know why you are here, sir. I wrote to Mr. Mordan about a year ago,—but not, I should think, to you."

"You wrote! You know why I am here!" exclaimed Mr. Mordan, flourishing his hands about rather more than Ralph thought becoming. "Doubtless it was to my dear father that you wrote; but I never heard of it, nor did I find your letter among his papers. My father, Mr. Trulock, died some months ago."

Ralph tried to look sorry, but he was so full of anxiety to know why Mr. Mordan was here, that he did not succeed particularly well.

"Will you tell me why you wrote to my father, sir? I was in the East, travelling for my proper distraction—for my own amusement, I would say. I returned in haste, to find my father dying. Business has occupied every moment since his death. I could not fulfil the request of my poor friend until now, nor seek for his children, concerning whose fate I am extremely anxious."

"Anxious about the children, sir! Then it was not to see them that you came here?"

"No; but do you tell me in seriousness that they are here? Ah, what a relief! It is only lately that the circumstances of my poor friend's death became known to me. I was far away—no letters reached me for a very long time. The packet containing his last letter missed me, and was sent to me by a friend from Damascus, quite recently. I returned, summoned because my father was ill; I never heard his voice again, though he lived for many weeks; he was speechless. Then, as no doubt you are aware, there was a change of Government in France; this naturally occasioned difficulties in business, and seriously injured our house, so recently deprived of its experienced chief. I have been obliged to devote every moment, every energy, to the work of saving our house. Then came these letters—my friend's last among them. Then I make inquiries more particular—begin to fear his children may be in want—follow him to England, partly to see you, sir, still more to find the helpless little ones. But I presume their father gave them directions how to act. I had feared that his death was too sudden to admit of that."

"So it was," replied Ralph. "He only said they were to go to Fairford, to their grandfather."

"But that was enough," said Mr. Mordan, smiling.

"They came on, poor children," pursued Ralph, wondering what on earth the man meant by that, "and began to inquire for their grandfather."

"And they found you?" said Mr. Mordan, still mysteriously pleased about something.

"Well, I don't know about finding," said Ralph, slowly, with a puzzled look. "I made acquaintance with Ruth Garland accidentally, and was led on by little and little to take an interest in her. They live with me now, and I hope, sir, that you won't take them from me, for it would break my heart to part with them now; though I know I have no claim to keep them, if they wish to go, and you can do better for them than I can—as I make no doubt you could, sir."

Mr. Mordan was the one to look puzzled now. After a little thought, he said:

"We are at cross-purposes, Mr. Trulock. You call the children Garland; do you know them only by that name?"

"Why, of course, only by that name," replied Ralph.

"And they came here, acting on the few words from their father of which you have spoken; and they failed to find their grandfather?"

"Failed entirely," said Ralph. "Never was a Garland in Fairford."

"And you took them to your home, and now love them as if they were your own?" went on Oliver Mordan, earnestly.

"Just so, sir," said Ralph.

"Mr. Trulock, the ways of God are very wonderful, as my dear mother used to say. Let me think a little. I must not be too sudden. I must ask you a question which may agitate you. Tell me, sir, had you not once a son?"

"Yes, one son."

"Named Frederick," said Mr. Mordan, "the same name as my poor friend."

Ralph turned white—then tried to rise from his chair, gasping out,—

"Frederick—oh, it cannot be—yet I always thought Ruth like my Annie; oh, sir, tell me quickly, are these his children? Tell me!"

Mr. Mordan sprang up and opened the window; then seizing a newspaper which lay on the table, he fanned the old man vigorously until he had recovered himself a little. Then he said,—

"You were too quick for me. But you have guessed rightly. No one knew his real name, not even myself. He told me his story when he came to Bordeaux, but not his name. He told me he had wronged his father, that he feared he had ruined his business; that the only reparation he could make would be to provide for the old age of this father whom he had so injured, and he asked me to help him. To save money, he denied himself and his family every luxury. I managed his affairs, for he had no head for business; all his money was in my hands. My father knew nothing of it, he never much liked my friend—I know not why. I owed my life to him, but without that I should have loved him. This letter of which I speak—his last—told me his real name, and told me also that his father, after a long and gallant struggle with misfortune, had been obliged to give up his business—had been forced to accept an asylum here."

"'I know my father,' he wrote; 'this will break his heart. I dared not interfere while I still hoped he would succeed; but now I will go to him, with the children. Surely he will forgive me, and let me pay what he has not been able to pay, and make his old age comfortable, even though I cannot restore to him what he has lost by my misdoing.'"

"Oh, my boy, my dear Fred! So your mother was right; the good she taught you was not forgotten!"

"He was a good man, Mr. Trulock. A repentant, humble-minded man. My mother liked him well, and she was angel."

"He must have been good, from the way he taught his children. And my little Ruth! How the look of Annie puzzled me, and I even tried to persuade myself it was fancy."

Mr. Mordan rose.

"I will leave you now," he said, "for I see you are unable just now to attend to business. But, if you will permit, I will come in the evening. You will wish to tell the children,—yes, I will come at six this evening."

"You are very kind, sir; I feel it more than I can say. I shall be better able to thank you then. Truly at this moment I am not good for much."

Fancy Ruth's amazement to meet "Monsieur Oliver" in the gateway of Lady Mabel's Rest. Ollie had quite forgotten him, but Ruth knew him at once. He kissed them both, and told them that he had been very unhappy about them, and had come to Fairford to seek them. Then he bid them run home, as Mr. Trulock had something truly surprising to tell them. So they rushed home, in no small excitement, to find Ralph crying like a child.

"Oh, what is it?" said Ruth. "He said—Monsieur Oliver did—that you had something to tell us; but it must be something bad. He wants to take us away, but we won't go. We cannot leave you now; can we, Ollie?"

"It is nothing bad," said Ollie; "I can see that. Wait a little, Ruthie, and he will tell us."

"Ruth, Ollie! My dear, dear children! No one can take you from me now. Wonderful are the guidings of the Almighty! He led you to your rightful home, He prepared my hard heart to welcome you. Children, your father was my son, my only son, Frederick. Ruth, you have a good right to be like my dear Annie. Oh, if she had but seen this day!"

I need not describe the children's excitement and delight. For a long time they could talk of nothing else.

"Do you remember that we wished our grandfather might be just like you?" said Ollie, kissing Ralph affectionately. "Well, Ruth, what have you discovered now? You look so surprised."

"Because, Ollie, do you remember how dear father tried to say something, and I thought it was 'You lock,' and locked his box. It was 'Trulock,' I am sure it was; don't you think so, Mr. Trulock?"

"I am sure you are right, dear. My poor Fred! But you must learn to call me grandfather, now, Ruthie."

"That won't be hard," said Ruth fondly.

When Mr. Mordan returned to the Rest at six o'clock, he found Mr. Trulock quite himself again, and Ruth and Ollie ready to welcome him with delight, and to give him a cup of tea, which he greatly enjoyed; also Ruth's tea-cake, for the cookery at the Fairford inn did not much please him. He showed them the letter written just before his journey to England by Frederick Trulock, and a copy of the poor fellow's will, a brief document, leaving all he had to his father, and his two children to his father's care. The sum thus made over was not a very large one, not a fortune, by any means, but it was enough to make the future of the children no matter of anxiety to their grandfather.

Ralph's first step was to write to Mr. Arnott, offering to pay the two-and-sixpence in the pound, which had once made him so miserable. His creditors, one and all, begged him not to do so, and Ralph thanked them, and accepted their kindness frankly, for the children's sake.

Ralph made no change in his life for some months for he was anxious to act prudently for the interests of his charge. Then, as Ollie declared that of all things he wished to be a bookseller, he purchased the shop and good-will of a person in that line of business in the chief town of the county in which Fairford stood. And so, of course, he gave up his house in Lady Mabel's Rest.

Ruth was quite sorry to leave it, and to part with her kind friend, Miss Jones. From her other friend, Mrs. Cloudesley, she would not be parted, as Mr. Cloudesley had accepted a living in the very town to which the Trulocks were going. Ralph manages the business so well that they are very comfortable and prosperous, and the old man's life is a very happy one.

"My Christmas Roses," he says sometimes to May Cloudesley, "they make my old age the brightest time I have known!"