Chapter IX: Ralph's Letter

BY the time the cab reached Lady Mabel's Rest, Ruth Garland had quite regained both her senses and her self-command. She was even ready to lift Ollie out of the cab, but this Mr. Cloudesley would not allow her to do.

"Why, Ruth," he said, "the boy is nearly as big as yourself; but you're an ambitious little party, and think you can do everything. I'll whisk him into the house before he can say Jack Robinson."

"But why should I say Jack Robinson?" inquired Ollie, laughing.

"Little boy," said Mr. Cloudesley, setting him gently on his feet in the hall, "your education has been dreadfully neglected! You are seven years old, and you never heard of Jack Robinson!"

"No, sir; is he in English history, or in Roman? No, he can't be in Roman history; I suppose I have not come to him yet."

"Let me know what you think of him when you do," said Mr. Cloudesley. "Now I must take the old cab back to the hospital; so good-bye, all of you. Mr. Trulock, don't let Ruth sit up late to-night. Indeed, I am not sure that I would not send her to bed, as well as Master Curlypate here."

Ollie was soon disposed of, Ruth contriving a comfortable bed for him by the help of sundry pillows and a big chair cushion. Then the question arose, where was a bed for poor Ruth herself?

However, Ralph bethought himself of kind Miss Jones, and never remembered, in his anxiety to make Ruth comfortable, that he was actually asking a favour of his neighbour! Miss Jones was delighted to be appealed to, and lent everything that was wanted. She begged Ralph to allow her to provide a nice meal for the two children that afternoon, that he might have nothing to do but to take care of Ruth. Ollie was soon fast asleep, and then it was that Ruth told her story. Ralph was rather unwilling to let her speak of it at all, but she declared she should feel better when she had told him.

"Poor Mrs. Cricklade!" she said; "you don't know what a kind-hearted woman she was. When we first came to Fairford, she took so much trouble about us, and let us live there rent-free. But when she found that you were helping us, she began to drink again; she had never quite left it off, but she only drank on Sunday, or quite late at night for some time; now she began to drink much more. She made me pay rent, and yet more than once she gave me back the shilling, and said, 'It's not me, Ruthie, it's the devil that has possession of me that makes me take your hard-earned shilling.' That was after she found out that you didn't pay the rent for me."

"But I never knew that you paid rent, Ruth."

"No," she said, colouring. "You did too much for us already. But though she gave me back the shilling, she generally came for it again at night, and was so noisy and angry that she frightened me very much. Then Ollie got ill, you know; and I pawned poor father's clothes to keep us until I could get work again."

"But, Ruth, you had money laid by, dear," interrupted Ralph anxiously.

Ruth grew crimson, and tried to answer carelessly. "Very little of it was left: the rent came out of it, and—other things."

"That wine for me," groaned Ralph, "and I never paid you. Oh, Ruth, you ought to have told me."

"How could I, sir? you had been ill, you are nearly as poor as I am, and you had given us so much help. I knew you had not the money, and that you would pay me when you had it."

"I had plenty, dear child. Oh, I have been a fool! Never mind, Ruth, finish your story now, and I can explain some other time."

"Well, you know the man could only give me a very little for father's clothes, because of the risk of infection. I got five shillings the first day; then I got three for other things. But after that, Ollie was so poorly that I did not like to leave him, and I asked Mrs. Cricklade to go for me; and, poor thing, she never would have done this if she had been quite herself, but she came home quite tipsy, and told me she had lost all the money except one shilling. And I had no coal left! I was so vexed that I said, Oh, Mrs. Cricklade, you will not keep it from me! Do give me my money, please.' But she was terribly angry, and she struck me and drove me upstairs before her. I had to bolt our door to keep her out; and she stood on the landing-place for ever so long, calling to me that I had accused her of stealing. And after all, perhaps I was mistaken, and she had really lost it. That was yesterday."

"Yes, and you had no fire, and it was a bitter night."

"I had no fire and no food, for I was afraid to go down again. But Ollie was beginning to get well, you know; and this morning he said he was hungry. I knew he ought to get food, so I ventured down. I had no water left besides, and I thought she would be in bed, because it was very early, quite dark still. I found the place all shut-up, and though I looked about I could see no food of any kind (I knew she would not mind if I borrowed from her for Ollie); so I went up again and coaxed Ollie to wait until it was light. I thought that if I found the poor thing was not yet quite recovered, I should not be so much afraid if it were light and people were moving about, because I could call from the window."

"I think we both fell asleep, and when we awoke it was quite light, and I ventured down again. I went to her door and knocked again and again, but there was no answer. Then I went in, and she was asleep, I thought. I spoke to her, shouted to her, but she never stirred; so I was frightened, and was going away, when it struck me that she was very, very still. I went back and took her hand. Oh, Mr. Trulock, it was so cold! I ran upstairs to Ollie then; I was so frightened I did not know what I was doing. And the next thing I knew was that you were giving me water. How did you come there?"

"I should have come to see you before, my dear, only I had another sharpish turn,—not so bad as the first, but I was afraid to be out, and I little knew how things were with you. When I did get so far, I found the place all shut-up. We had to get help to open it; and it was well that I was able to go that morning, for—there's a knock. No, dear, don't you stir. It is Miss Jones, I'm sure, and I'll let her in."

Ralph was so sure that the person who knocked was Miss Jones, that he opened his door wide, standing aside to let her pass in with the expected tray; and the visitor did pass in, but there was no tray, and, to his horror, it was Mrs. Short! Taking advantage of his mistake, she waddled up the little hall as fast as her rapidly increasing size would permit, and was actually in the little parlour before Ralph had recovered his senses. He rushed after her, and found her embracing Ruth with every appearance of affection.

"You poor, unfortunate, ill-used child!" she panted out. "To think that to-day, of all the days in the year, I should have gone to Derby to buy a warm shawl; for as to choice of colours, there's no such thing at Price's, but dum-ducketty-mud colour and greys, that looks like poorhouse folk. My 'art bleeds for you, Ruth Golong. I'm that good-natured, I never could bear malice. I know you behaved rude-like when you turned me out, as one may say, when Mr. Trulock was so bad. But truly he was over the worst of it by that time, and so it did him no harm getting a unexperienced nuss instead of me. But there, I forgive and forget, Ruth, my dear. I'm full of sympathy with you. And now tell me all about it. I'm told the wicked old creetur beat you and half killed Ollie, and then killed herself a-purpose; is that true, child? Is it true, Ruth Golong? Can't you speak, child?"

"Ruth," said Ralph, "I think this noise may waken Ollie; you'd better go and have a look at him."

"Mrs. Short," continued Ralph, "there will be an inquest to-morrow, and Ruth will be the principal witness. So she must not be talked to about the matter now. And Ollie has the measles, ma'am; did you ever have them?"

"Oh yes, when I was a little gel."

"I've known several people have them a second time," remarked Ralph thoughtfully; "and they go hard with people of a full habit, and not so young as they have been."

Mrs. Short grew red with fear and anger mixed. "Good evening," said she, "and I only hope you won't take 'em yourself, Mr. Trulock; for full habit or no full habit, you're little or no better than a walking skelington, and can't have it in you to throw out a rash handsome."

With this cutting remark she tossed her head and left the house, Ralph laughing to himself as she disappeared. Before he could call Ruth down again, Miss Jones and her tray made their appearance, and Ruth was kissed and fed and put to bed, with the utmost tenderness, to a running accompaniment of scolding that was wonderful to listen to.

The inquest took place next day. Ralph took Ruth to the house, and Miss Jones sat with Ollie during their absence. Ruth's evidence was given with such modest self-possession, and was so clear and plain, that it did not matter that no one else could give any evidence at all, except to the fact that the woman was dead. The verdict was "Died of alcoholic poisoning;" and then the inquest was over, and nothing remained but for the parish authorities to bury the poor remains of one who had once been a kind-hearted, honest, hard-working woman. Ruth had spoken so gratefully of her kindness, that the memory of a time when Mrs. Cricklade was a pleasant neighbour was revived among the listeners, and one woman said, as they all watched the funeral going up the hill next morning,—

"Poor soul! She was a good creetur, for sure,—a kind body; no fault but the drink."

"Ah, Mrs. Jeffars," said Miss Jones, who had been collecting Ruth's few possessions, and was now at the door, "there's the misfortune. That one fault swallows up all the good qualities one may happen to have. She was a kind woman, as you say, and yet she took rent from that poor child, and struck and abused her more than once. And she was an honest woman too, and yet you see she took the child's money that she was trusted with, to get drink. Whatever a person may have been, never reckon on them, once they take to drinking; for the one thing that's certain about a drunkard is, that he'll do anything to get the means of drinking."

Miss Jones walked off down the hill, followed by a man carrying Ruth's big trunk.

Mrs. Jeffars looked thoughtfully after her.

"She couldn't have known that I take it sometimes," she thought; "but I'll never touch it again. I might go on and on, by degrees, until I ended like that, and disgraced my Paul that's at sea. I'll go this very evening, God helping me, and take the pledge—and I'll take the bottle, and leave it with Mrs. Francis for the use of the hospital."

And she kept her word, and kept the pledge too; so Miss Jones had said a word in season for once, at all events.

Ruth was far from well for some days, and Ralph felt very miserable. The girl had been so badly fed, and so thoroughly chilled, that the shock found her weak and nervous, and therefore had more effect upon her than it would have had some weeks before. She could not sleep, and every noise made her start violently, and turn quite sick and faint. The doctor said, however, that there was nothing seriously wrong, and that with care and quiet she would soon be quite herself again. And after about a fortnight she was much better; and as to Ollie, he was as well as ever again.

"Mr. Trulock," said Ruth, "don't you think I may go to Price's for work again now? Ollie is quite well, and I think he may begin to go to school. And—I wonder where I could find a lodging?" she asked slowly.

"Ollie had better not go back to school until after the Christmas holidays, I think," said Ralph; "and as to the other matters, I will talk to you to-morrow, Ruth."

And taking his hat, Ralph opened the hall door and was passing out, when Ruth ran after him.

"Won't you put on your great-coat, sir, and your comforter? You don't take a bit of care of yourself, Mr. Trulock!"

"I have a good caretaker in you," said he, coming back to her.

Ruth helped him to put on the coat, mounting on a chair for that purpose, and wrapped the comforter round his neck, tucking in the ends snugly.

"Now you may go," said she; "but don't stay out very late, please."

"Bless the child's sweet face!" muttered Ralph. "She certainly grows more like my Annie every day, or else I fancy it as I grow fonder of her. Well, the time has come for me to decide. I can't let things drift any longer, for she won't, the little creature. I must do either one thing or the other, and I'll make up my mind before I eat another meal. I'll go into the Forest—it will be quiet there—and think."

He walked along the forest road until he reached the place where he had found the children on that bright sunny Sunday when he first brought them to his home. This was a still, grey day, very unlike that other, but it was not very cold, here among the trees. Ralph clambered up the bank, found the fallen tree, and seated himself upon it. There he remained deep in thought for some time: then he rose and paced to and fro, then sat down again. At last, he covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud, "I can't! I can't do it!" But even as he said the words he knew and felt that he could do it.

Ralph had been reading his Bible to better purpose lately than when he only searched for texts wherewith to confound Mrs. Cloudesley. He had learned many lessons during the last few months. To distrust himself; to fear that he might be mistaken, and May Cloudesley right; to wish earnestly to do what God would have him do, and to ask for help to do it;—all this and more had Ralph Trulock learned, partly from May, partly from Ruth, but still more from his Bible, which had begun to take such new meanings lately. And now he asked for guidance, and felt that he had it—that he knew what he ought to do; now he asked for strength to do it, and even while he said aloud, "I cannot," he felt that he could. And when at last, he walked home, very tired and worn with the conflict, he went up to his own room and, without waiting to take off his great-coat, wrote the following letter:

"Lady Mabel's Rest,"
"Fairford."

"MY DEAR ARNOTT,—"

"I never wrote to thank you, and those who joined you, in writing to Mr. Barton on my behalf; but I hope you will forgive me, and let me explain why I did not write, and thank you all now."

"When I first came here, I had no intention of accepting your kindness except for a time. My health was broken, and I was unfit for work; but I had made up my mind to save every penny I could until I had paid off the small sum still remaining due to all of you with whom I used to have dealings; and then, if my strength would permit, leave this place, and look out for some small situation as clerk or caretaker, which would support me. With these plans before me, I did not write. I felt sore and angry at needing even temporary help, and soothed my pride by continually telling myself that in the end you, and not I, should be the gainer."

"But God in His mercy has led me, by means into which I cannot enter (as it would take up so much of your time) to see that such a state of feeling is not right in His eyes. I am old and feeble now, and you all meant to secure peace and comfort for one whom you had known long, and who had been unfortunate. It was nothing but pride that made me resist this kind feeling, as I acknowledge I once did, and determine not to profit by it. I see this now."

"So I write to thank you, and through you, if you will allow me, my other creditors, for your kind consideration, which I thankfully accept; and the benefits which you have secured to me I hope henceforth to share with others even more helpless than I am myself."

"I remain,"
"Very faithfully yours,"
"RALPH TRULOCK."

Ralph put his letter into a cover and addressed it, but did not close it. Next day he went to the garden and asked if he might keep Ollie,—Ruth he had a right to keep, as his housekeeper, or "gel," as Mrs. Short put it. The warden said he was sure there would be no difficulty about it, and promised to arrange it all, for him. Then Ralph toiled up the hill to High Fairford, and went to see Mrs. Cloudesley.

"Madam," said he, "as long ago as last Christmas you said a few words to me, to which I would scarcely listen at the time, but which I could not forget, though I surely did my best. You spoke to me of my pride, of which up to that time I had been very proud; you spoke to me of love and kindness—things I had hardly thought of for years. You advised me to help some one, and that I should find my heart growing softer—and you were right, madam. I began to search the Bible for something to justify my own opinion, and I could not find what I wanted; but I found a great deal about love and humility. And Ruth Garland, madam, has taught me much. If you will kindly look over this letter, you will see that I am in earnest."

May, with tears in her eyes, took the letter and read it. Then she looked up at him with a smile upon her pleasant face, though the tears were there still.

"Now that is what I like in you so much!" she said heartily. "I always knew that you would do what was right the moment you saw it. You don't know how happy you have made me by telling me all this. In trying to help people, one fails so often—and the worst failure of all is, when they acknowledge that they are in the wrong, but won't make any change. One gets sadly disheartened then. It's quite delightful to know a person who no sooner sees what is right, but he goes and does it."

"You must not think that of me," Ralph said sadly. "I think I saw it some time ago, but I would not acknowledge it: and how nearly I lost my children by that delay!"

"Well, it was not a very long delay," said May kindly. "I like your little Ruth so much. I'm sure you will never repent having befriended her: and as to the boy, he is a darling."

"Yes, madam, a fine boy. I will ask you to tell Mr. Cloudesley that Ollie will not attend the Greatrex School any more. I shall send him to Mr. Hawthorne as a day boy, and, when he is older, get him into the Commercial school in Foxton. I think I could do that."

After a little more conversation, Ralph went home, to have a talk with Ruth.