CHAPTER V.
"THIS IS THE DOG THAT WORRIED THE CAT."
FOR some time Ratcliffe continued very ill; the bleeding from the lungs recurred at intervals, and he was extremely weak. Nor was this his wife's only or greatest source of anxiety. Though unable to do any work, he seemed to have money, which he gave her, a gold piece at a time, when she needed it for household expenses. Once when she ventured to ask how he had become possessed of it, he turned upon her almost fiercely, telling her to hold her tongue and not bother him; but she was very unhappy, for generally Ratcliffe was sullen and silent, sitting in his chair often for hours without speaking, and taking no notice even of his little girl, of whom he had always been devotedly fond. Nancy could see that a heavy burden was resting upon his heart, but she was not permitted to share it, and this was constant pain to her.
Things were in the condition we have described, when one evening a knock came at the door, and Nan, on going to open it, found there a dame with a portly figure and a round, good-humoured face; while a throat cleared itself noisily, and a big hearty voice said—
"Tell me, young woman, does a Mr. Ratcliffe Drinkrow live here, or near here?"
"Yes; do you want him, ma'am?" said Nancy, gently. "He's not at all well, but I'll tell him who's come, if you'll just give me your name; I dare say he will see you."
"I 'think' he will," replied the old woman, "if you'll have the goodness to tell him that it's Mrs. Curr. He and I was allers good friends."
Nan went to her husband, but returned in a moment, and asked the visitor to come in. Mrs. Curr did so, but when she saw Ratcliffe's pale face and drooping form, she came towards him with both hands outstretched and tears of pity in her kind eyes. He as eagerly rose to meet her, saying—
"Oh, Mrs. Curr, to think you have found me out, and come to see me! You were always my friend, weren't you? And you haven't gone and cast me off like the others, have you?"
"Bless your dear face, no, Master Ratcliffe. How's a body to cast-off a boy which many and many a time I've given you bread and treacle when you was a hungry, growing lad, and your father couldn't abide your eating so much? Ah, my poor lad, that bread and treacle has stuck to me—leastwise the remembrance of it has—and it ain't Jemima Curr as can stop lovin' when she once begins. But la! Master Ratcliffe, it were a tidy job to find you out; nor I don't think I ever should, not if I'd wandered from Dan to Beersheba—as the sayin' is—hadn't it have been for my old friends the greengrocers over the way. They told me you was here, and what was more surprisin', that you'd took upon yourself the state of matrimony; though, for the matter of that, any money 's better than that as your father and brother thinks so much of at home. And besides this, you won't mind my sayin' that I consider your wife a werry promisin' young woman, and speaks that gentle and sweet, as she might be a lady borned and brought up."
A faint smile rested for a moment on the young man's face, but it passed away, not, however, before it was broadly reciprocated on Mrs. Curr's own honest, full-blown countenance. There was a moment's silence, then the old housekeeper began again—
"You're not livin' now, sir, in the 'house that Jack built,' and maybe you haven't heard of the robbery that's been and took place. You'll hardly believe it, sir, but your father's strong-room was broke into, and a bag of gold carried off, and not one of the thieves caught, which three there was. Not but what one of them was as near nabbed as might be, escaping, as you may say, with the skin of his teeth; for Master Tom were after him, and—Bless my soul, Master Ratcliffe, what's the matter? Look here, Mrs. Ratcliffe! Here's your husband took bad; he's a-goin' to faint or somethink like it. Why, what a hinvalid he's become since he left the parential roof!"
Poor Ratcliffe! Apparently the excitement of seeing his old friend had been to much for him. Pale as death, he leant back in his chair, and did not recover for some time. When at last he did so, he turned to Mrs. Curr and said—
"I've been but a poor creature the last few days, but I shall be all right soon, no doubt. And Mrs. Curr, I rely on you not to tell my father and brother where I am, or that you have been to see me. Perhaps you know I was turned out by father, and since then, when I went to ask Tom to plead my cause with the old man, he said he wouldn't. So now they're my father and brother no longer, and I—I—" Here a cough interrupted poor Ratcliffe, and he stopped abruptly.
Mrs. Curr leaned forward eagerly.
"Did I hear you say, sir," questioned she, "that you'd been to Master Tom since your father behaved that cruel to you? And did he send you off without trying to make matters smooth? Ain't that a shame, now? A shame it is indeed!"
The old woman's affectionate sympathy brought tears to Ratcliffe's eyes, and he could not trust himself to reply, except by a hearty shake of the hand as she bade him good night. A moment more and she was trundling down the street at her best pace, and in due time she reached home just at the hour when she had to dish up the meagre meal called supper by the miser and his son.
After supper Tom was about to go to the taproom, when the housekeeper said, "May I have a word with you please, Mr. Thomas?"
"Yes, if there are no customers," replied Tom, who was in rather a surly mood, and resented the idea of a conversation with Mrs. Curr, whom he had always detested for her invariable kindness to Ratcliffe.
The housekeeper peeped through the glass door; there happened to be no one at the bar just then.
"If you please, sir," said she, "bein' an old servant, would you hev any objectings to tell me about your brother, Mr. Ratcliffe? I've been waitin' and hopin' to see if anythink would turn up to make peace between him and master, and nothink hasn't been and turned up yet; which the neighbours is all askin' what's got him, and why; and please, sir, what am I to tell them?"
"Tell them to go and mind their own business," returned Tom, savagely.
"It may be, sir, as you might hey seen him since he left home, and if so could you—"
But Tom interrupted her with more heat and vehemence than she had ever seen him display. "What's the matter with you to-night?" he exclaimed, rudely. "What have I to do with Ratcliffe? No, I've not set eyes on him since the day he took himself off; how should I when I haven't an idea where he lives? Of course I haven't seen him. What a question!"
This direct lie was too much for poor Mrs. Curr. She almost screamed with excitement; then she blurted out,—
"Mr. Thomas, there's nothink easier than to tell a lie, but it's another thing quite to make folks believe it. Now I happen to know that Master Ratcliffe came to you one night, to ask you to try and make things right with the master, and you wouldn't; and this were the last time you see him."
"And pray how did you hear this wonderful bit of news?" sneered Tom, white with rage. "You've been playing the spy, Mrs. Curr, if I'm not very much mistaken, and, mark my words, you'll suffer for this!"
"Don't you be a-threatenin' me!" said Mrs. Curr, now well on the defensive, and bristling like a porcupine. "But there, you can't do me no harm, except to get me sent off, and I shouldn't cry if I was, which the life here ain't of the pleasantest, more partic'lar since Master Ratcliffe went. And now perwisions is a-gettin' dearer, and I don't hey no more money to pay for 'em, I can hardly make both ends meet. Talk of Mother Hubbard! Why, 'my' cupboard is allers bare, for I never hev a bone as I could ask a respectable dog to haccept of, bein' as how the goodness is inwariable boiled out."
"Is this all you've got to say to me, Mrs. Curr?" asked Tom, coldly. "Because, if so, I can go and attend to my duties."
Mrs. Curr did not reply. She only looked at him, and almost through him, with her indignant eyes, and cleared her throat at him in her most aggressive manner.
This was too much for Tom, and he walked away, muttering to himself, "I'll serve her out for this—I'll lose her the place—worrying old hag that she is. I know what I'll say to my father, and he will turn her away at once. I'll serve her out yet."
CHAPTER VI.
"THIS IS THE COW WITH THE CRUMPLED HORN."
"I'VE got my warning, and I'm to leave this day month," said Mrs. Curr one evening to her old friend, a tradesman's widow, Mrs. Moo by name, with whom she was taking a quiet cup of tea; "and to tell you the truth, my dear, it's some time as I've been expectin' of it, and so it comes quite nat'rel like, but—"
Here Mrs. Curr stopped even in the clearing of her throat, and stared at Mrs. Moo, whose face had suddenly undergone a most wonderful and comical change.
"Oh, my good soul," said Mrs. Moo, "no one ought to know this better than I; I've heard all about it."
"And, pray, how did you hear?" asked Mrs. Curr. "There's no one knows it yet, for I only heard it myself this morning."
"Well, Jemima, I knew it before," replied Mrs. Moo, laughing, and rather red in the face. "The truth is, I'm a-goin' to marry John Drinkrow, and he waited for my answer before giving you warning."
This was news indeed; and Mrs. Curr, with wide-open mouth and eyes, sat for several seconds unable to recover from the shock of this startling intelligence. At last she mastered her surprise sufficiently to blurt out—
"I say, Sairey Ann, you ain't a-goin' into it blindfolded, are you? You're aware as how he's a miser, which Mr. Tom ain't no better; and though young in years, he's the more spitefuller of the two."
"Yes, I know all about it," said Mrs. Moo, recovering her gravity; "but you see, Jemima, I'm very lonely since my old man died, and that's ten years come next Christmas. And then my son is always away at sea, poor lad! And as for John Drinkrow, and his son Tom too, I ain't afraid of them. I never yet saw the man as could come it over me."
"Well," remarked Mrs. Curr, "I've kep' house for them, and Master Ratcliffe that's gone, for many a long year, and I never found as I could make the old man or his eldest son turn one step from anythink as they'd a mind to do; and for skrimpiness, there ain't a family anywhere as can do on what they do; though I say it myself as cooks their wittles, and can't get much of 'em for myself arterwards. Now don't you laugh, Sairey Ann, for it's the truth, as I'm a livin' woman."
"My dear, I know it's the truth," replied Mrs. Moo; "but you won't frighten me. You must remember that you've been a servant at 'the house that Jack built,' while I shall be mistress. I mean to have my own way, and you'll see I shall." And Mrs. Moo took out her pocket-handkerchief and blew her big and rather crooked nose, with a defiant trumpet sound which spoke volumes.
"You see," continued she presently, "it's Tom that's set his father against you, Jemima; I suppose you angered him in some way, and he's as spiteful as a cat; and his father thought, I suppose, that it would be a savin' to have a housekeeper what he'd not have to pay wages to, and so he come to me. Well, we shall see. I remember John Drinkrow as he was years ago, when my old man and him was friends; he wasn't near so bad then, and I don't dislike him now, nor I don't doubt but what I'll be able to manage him, and the house too."
It was not possible that evening to carry the news to Ratcliffe and his wife, but as soon as she was able to go out again for an hour or two, Mrs. Curr set off to pay them a visit. She found Ratcliffe in bed, visibly weaker than he had been before, and terribly depressed. Nancy told her that once or twice he had rallied for a time, and seemed better, but that he changed again for the worse, and never made any real progress.
There was no sign of poverty, however, in the house, and Mrs. Curr, who had brought in her pocket some of her hardly-earned savings to meet any want that might present itself, did not find it necessary to offer help.
After telling the news of her own coming change of circumstances, and of John Drinkrow's proposed marriage, she said, clearing her throat vigorously, "And now, Master and Mrs. Ratcliffe, I am about, as you might say, to be turned out of house and home, and I should like, with your permission, to make a proposition. Will you let your spare room to me, and allow me to lodge here? I've got my savin's, and I'll pay you punctual, and then I can take my turn at anythink there is to do, and I'll try never to get in the way, and—"
"You dear old soul, of course you shall come, and we'll only be too glad," said Ratcliffe, his weary face lighting up as the housekeeper came forward and took his hand.
"And 'I' shall be very glad, too," said Nancy; "only I'm afraid we shan't be very pleasant people to live with, my husband being so ill, and our poor little Maida often fretful, through not being looked after as she ought to be; and I know I'm not the best manager in the world either."
"'Taint jest yet as I shall be wantin' to come," said Mrs. Curr; "my month ain't up for a fortnight yet, and by that time you'll be all right again, I hope."
After a little more conversation, Mrs. Curr took her leave, and Ratcliffe and his wife were left alone. The gloom had settled down again upon the young man's face, and this and its deadly pallor struck terror to the heart of his poor wife.
Each day that had gone by since that night that he had come home ill, had convinced her more and more fully that he had fallen into some great temptation, and received some terrible moral, as well as physical, shock. As she had sat by his side, listening to his laboured breathing, or ministering to his many wants, her heart had gone up in agonised supplication to God—anguished cries for help and light; for it was as if a black cloud rested upon her life, and she could see no sunshine beyond it. Once or twice she took up her Bible and offered to read aloud a few verses, but Ratcliffe stopped her with a sullen "None of that, Nancy," and she was obliged to close the sacred volume and put it out of sight.
Still, dark though these hours of trial seemed, they were, through their very darkness, and loneliness, and anxiety, teaching her to feel for the leading hand of her Heavenly Father, and to look, with ever-growing faith and love, to Him for sympathy and help. And He who sent His only begotten and well-beloved Son to suffer and die for a guilty world, for that Son's sake came near, to strengthen this suffering, struggling woman, whose heart was well-nigh broken with the terrible change that had come over her loved one—loved, oh how tenderly still, in spite of all his faults.
A short time after Mrs. Curr's second visit, Ratcliffe told his wife one day—told her briefly and bluntly—that his money was all gone. "Or at least," he added, "we have only just enough to pay our doctor's account."
To his surprise, however, Nan did not turn pale, or seem much surprised, or at all alarmed. For a long time past the money upon which they had been living had been a painful mystery to her, and, with a woman's penetration, she more than suspected something was wrong. And now, when her husband told her with lowering brow that his stock of gold was at an end, she felt, destitute as they were, as if one weight had been taken from her burdened heart.
"Well, dear," she replied simply, "I must try to get some work to do that will help to keep us; then Mrs. Curr's paying for our front room will be something gained, and I think, as we haven't run into debt, that we may be able to manage till you are about again."
Ratcliffe shook his head despondingly, but said nothing, and the subject was not resumed.
*****
That night there came a low tap at the door, and when Nancy opened it there entered a young man, a year or two older perhaps than her husband, but with a face from which she shrank as from that of some loathsome reptile.
He came in and sat down by Ratcliffe's bed, and looked uneasily round the room, following, with his furtive eyes, first the little girl, who was toddling about and prattling in her pretty childish way, and then fixing his gaze suspiciously upon Nan, who had seated herself at the table, with some fine sewing.
Ratcliffe saw the look, and turning restlessly in his bed, he said—
"Nancy, leave this chap and me to ourselves for a quarter of an hour, and take the child with you."
A deeper shadow stole over the young wife's face as she obeyed, and Maida cried as her mother took her up and bore her away.
As soon as the door was shut, the stranger said—
"Well, Rat., you don't look up to another game yet. That last little excursion 'pears to have done for you. And yet I came to tell you of a rare thing that's afloat, if you could take your part like a man."
Ratcliffe clenched his hands.
"Can't you see what a poor wretch I am?" said he. "I can do nothing but lie here, and curse myself and you and the others. If it hadn't been for that night's work, I should have been a sound man now, instead of lying here coughing my life away."
"But you got your share of what we went in for," urged the stranger, "and that was what you wanted, wasn't it?"
"Hold your tongue," retorted Ratcliffe, "or tell me something I don't know, if you want to talk. What are you going to do, you and the fellows?"
The visitor rose. "No, no," said he, "you ain't a-goin' to join us, so I can't tell you nothin'! No tales allowed out of school, remember. Blabbin's dangerous to any one as isn't in the risk, so I'll wish you good evening." The stranger let himself out, and the air seemed purer for his absence.
"What did that man want, Ratcliffe dear?" asked Nancy, as, having put the child to bed, she began to busy herself with preparations for their simple evening meal. She waited for an answer, but none came, and with a heavy sigh she busied herself with her household duties, feeling that her husband must have terrible reasons for his sullen silence—a silence which he had now maintained upon several subjects for weeks past.
The time of Mrs. Curr's service at "the house that Jack built" had come to an end, and she packed up her things, received her wages, and took her leave, going straight to the house of Ratcliffe and his wife.
"Here I am, you see," said she, in her big, hearty voice, as she walked in.
"Mr. Ratcliffe, I've giv' up service and I'm a-goin' to rest in my old age; and rest it'll be, if you'll let me take care of you sometimes, and have an eye on that bonny bairn of your'n with her golden head."
"You're very good, dear Mrs. Curr," said Ratcliffe, gratefully.
Somehow the old woman's genial disposition and genuine affection seemed to do more towards removing the cloud from his brow than anything else, and now he added, more cheerfully than he had spoken for long enough—
"It'll be a great pleasure for both Nan and me to have you here, and we bid you heartily welcome."
So Mrs. Curr took off her bonnet and put on her cap, unpacked her big box and her extended carpet-bag, and arranged to her satisfaction the pieces of furniture she had managed to purchase; and thus established herself in her new home.
And the very next day John Drinkrow brought his new wife home to "the house that Jack built," and in his old age recommenced married life.
CHAPTER VII.
"THIS IS THE MAIDEN ALL FORLORN."
IN spite of the devoted care of his wife and the added attention of Mrs. Curr, Ratcliffe's health grew steadily worse. Yet it was not for want of anything that he had been accustomed to have, for whatever self-denial Nancy felt it right to practise herself, her husband was not allowed to forego anything which had in the past been considered necessary. Early and late the busy little woman toiled. Always clever with her fingers, she had succeeded in obtaining some fancy work to do regularly, and whenever she was not actively employed in household matters, or in actual waiting upon Ratcliffe, her nimble hands would be earning money for the daily expenses.
As for Mrs. Curr, no one could well have been more kind and unselfish. She insisted upon paying a high rent for her room, on the plea that it had "a lively lookout," and was bigger than most of the bedrooms in such houses. Nor did her kindness end here. In a wonderfully delicate manner she would often contrive to provide some little delicacy for the invalid, or cheer him by the gift of a few cut flowers or a fragrant plant; until at last both he and Nancy used to hail with delight the sight of her round face, and even fairly to enjoy the ominous clearing of the throat, which always heralded her approach to their rooms from the upper regions.
But changes were at hand.
One morning the doctor looked more grave than usual as he examined Ratcliffe's lungs. Again and again he applied the stethoscope. At last he said, "My good fellow, it's no use trying to deceive you, your chest is in a very bad state, and a change of air is positively necessary. I should recommend Devonshire if you can get as far, for I think that the air of some parts of that county is specially suited to your case."
Ratcliffe said nothing in reply, but a flush dyed his cheeks, which the medical man did not fail to see, and very wisely he changed the subject and chatted on about other things. Presently Nancy, who had been out of the room with little Maida, came back with a neat packet which she had prepared to give the doctor; it contained the payment in full of the account sent in for his late visits. She kept it in her hand until he rose to go, then, following him to the door, she said, "Please, sir, will you allow me to pay your account now? I think you will find this right. Thank you very much for being so patient with us and so attentive to my husband."
The doctor put back the hand and the parcel together. "No, Mrs. Drinkrow," said he, "I could not think of taking fees from you until your husband has shown more benefit from my treatment. I think that sea air and change of scene are the doctors for him now. Keep this to pay for them. No, not a word of thanks, if you please. Good morning," and the kind-hearted doctor raised his hat as respectfully as though he were saluting one of the high-born or wealthy of the land, and went his way with the music of Nan's trembling words, "God in heaven reward you, sir!" ringing in his ears.
And so it was arranged that with this money Ratcliffe and Nancy should go down to Devon. Father Francis, Nancy's priest-uncle, lived there, and she thought that if he knew the circumstances of the case, he would perhaps allow them, to lodge in his house, which was a comfortable cottage close to the sea, in the outskirts of one of the towns.
Nan accordingly wrote a letter to her uncle—wrote earnestly and humbly—asking this as a favour, and appealing to his love for her in former years, when, being left an orphan, she had lived under his protection. Almost by return of post an answer came granting Nan's petition, and expressing great sympathy for her in her misfortunes.
It was arranged meanwhile for Maida to remain with Mrs. Curr, who was to move into a smaller and cheaper lodging, and there to await the return of Nancy and Ratcliffe.
Our story would grow too long and prosy were we to go into all the details of preparation, or even of the journey. We will only say that the invalid and his wife got safely to their destination, and that Mrs. Curr, after looking in vain in the immediate neighbourhood for a suitable room for herself and the little forlorn maiden under her care, was at last so fortunate as to secure the lodging lately vacated by her friend, the former Mrs. Moo, now Mrs. Drinkrow, of "the house that Jack built."
It was here that, soon after her moving in, she received a visit from the elderly bride, who seemed just as usual, only that her very strong and rather crooked nose had assumed—it appeared to Mrs. Curr—a somewhat more defiant aspect.
Much to Mrs. Curr's delight, "Sairey Ann" was wonderfully taken with little Maida, and the child seemed to return the fancy, and not to have the slightest fear of her new friend and admirer.
"Well, and how do you get on, Sairey Ann?" asked Mrs. Curr, after her friend had fairly rocked little Maida to sleep on her lap.
"Get on?" replied the bride. "Oh, very well; just as I said I should. I saw at first that John was going to try and cut me off short, and I says to him, 'Look here now, John: I've promised to love, honour, and obey you, and so I will, but you've a share of the bargain too, for with all your worldly goods you me endow.' I say, Jemima, you should have seen his face when I out with that! So then he said, 'Well, my dear, what's the least you can do the housekeeping, and your dressing, and all that upon?' And I says, says I, 'The least? Why, John, I'm sorry as you're so badly off; I'd never have married you and added to your expenses if I'd known you was such a poor man, for I've lived comfortable even while I've been a lone widow, and could have gone on so for the rest of my life without incommodin' of you or any one else.'
"So then, Jemima, he were a bit ashamed of hisself; but, bein' pretty tough when he's a mind to, I'm not sure as he'd have given in that time if it hadn't been as Tom came into the room just then, and says he, 'Father, don't you go for to be extravagant in the first days of your married life. Brides is the folks for doing people, as you'll find out; there's no fool so big as an old one.'
"Well, Jemima, whether the fool were meant for me or for his father, I can't tell; but John, he turned round, quite fiery-like, and says he, 'Tom, you wiper! Who wanted your advice? I'll do as I choose in my own house. Here, Sarah Drinkrow, say what you want, and your husband won't ask his son's leave to give it you.'
"So then, without any more fuss, I told him what I thought would be enough to keep the house as it should be kep'; and, says he, 'Why, that's twice as much as Mrs. Curr had.'
"And at that, I laughed, you know, Jemima, remembering our talk. 'Yes,' says I, as soon as I could speak for laughin', 'that's likely; Mrs. Curr is a very good manager; but still from the looks and tempers of both you and Tom, I think you've not been properly fed; and people as isn't fed as they should be, and warmed as they should be, get ill and want the doctor, and the doctor costs more than food and firing, as you'd soon find out.'
"Well, at that, Jemima, John, and Tom too, looked as uncomfortable as may be, and says John, 'Well, Sarah, you ought to know what's right, so I suppose I must give you what you want.' Then, seeing my battle was over, I said no more, and now all goes nice enough, only it's awful dull sometimes, for my friends don't come in to see me as they used to before I married again, and John and his son I never see except at meals. I was askin' about Ratcliffe, the younger son, the other day, wonderin' why I never saw him; but his father said he was gone, and gone for good, and his name wasn't to be mentioned no more. But I thought I'd ask you about him, for I knew you was always a friend of the lad's, and he loved you."
"I'LL DO AS I CHOOSE."
"Oh! That's a sad story," replied Mrs. Curr, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes. "You won't say a word to his father and brother, will you, if I tell it you?" And then, when Mrs. Drinkrow promised silence, the old housekeeper told her Ratcliffe's story, or what she knew of it, including the marriage and the existence of a child.
"Why, this is the child," she concluded, laying her broad hand caressingly on the curly golden head, as the little one lay asleep on Mrs. Drinkrow's lap.
"This is the child!" exclaimed the bride. "Bless me, Jemima, but you are a surprisin' old creature. I made sure as you'd took the little one in for the day to look after, and oblige the mother, and that's why I didn't ask no questions. Sweet little lamb!" And she stooped and kissed the unconscious face. "I'd like to take her home with me; I should never be dull if I had her playing round near me."
"Ay, very likely," responded Mrs. Curr, drily; "but it wouldn't never do for your husband to find out his son's child, partic'lar when he hasn't heard of the marriage."
"No, that's true," said the bride, thoughtfully. "Well, I must come and see her when I can. Why, fancy, Jemima, I'm the little thing's grandmother by marriage! And I've a right to do all for her that I can. My own grandchild only lived a week or two—poor Frank's baby, you know. He married a girl down in Devon, of whom I knew nothing, and she died a year after, and the baby too; the little thing would have been about the age of Maida here."
After some more conversation, Mrs. Drinkrow took her leave, promising to come again very soon and bring some present for the little girl, who had evidently quite fascinated her by her pretty ways.
"Which I must write to Mrs. Ratcliffe, and tell her what I've done," said Mrs. Curr to herself. "I hope there wasn't no harm in telling the whole story to Sairey Ann; she's quite to be trusted, and I did want little Maida here to have another friend. God knows she may want one very soon, and Sairey Ann will be a friend for sure, spite of her crooked nose and her odd ways. My! Didn't she work round that there old miser!"
And Mrs. Curr chuckled and cleared her throat in her intense satisfaction, and then proceeded to put Maida to bed, an operation which was always regarded as a serious matter, and requiring a great deal of care and grave attention.
CHAPTER VIII.
"THIS IS THE MAN ALL TATTERED AND TORN."
"WILL you please to tell me what you want?" said Mrs. Curr one morning, as she opened the door to a young man in rather disreputable garments, but with the unmistakable look of a sailor both about him and them.
He stared at her as at an unexpected face; then he said,—
"Why, I thought my—at least Mrs. Moo lived here."
"Well, young man," replied Mrs. Curr, "if I was to say she never did live here, it would be a lie; likewise, one and the same thing if I was to say she lived here now, which she doesn't, nor will, except she turn single again, and that ain't likely."
The stranger frowned. "What do you mean?" said he. "Mrs. Moo turn single again? Why, she's a widow, and has been one for years."
"Humbly begging your pardings," replied Mrs. Curr in her most dignified manner; "she's now neither a widder nor yet Mrs. Moo. Come, it ain't no use beatin' about like this; tell me who you are as wants her, and maybe I'll tell you who she is, and where."
The stranger had removed his cap, and was looking the old woman full in the face. She returned his gaze with a puzzled expression in her eyes, and as she finished her sentence, she cleared her throat in her most emphatic and peculiar manner. No sooner, however, had she done this, than the young man sprang a step forward, and laid his hand on her arm, saying—
"Why, Mrs. Curr, it's you after all! I didn't know you till you made that noise, for all the world like the scraping of a boat's keel on the shore. Don't you know me? I'm Frank Moo!"
"Frank Moo! No, really!" cried the old woman. "To think of your gettin' home at last after bein' so long away. Come in, come and sit down, if you can spare a quarter of an hour; you ought to hear what's happened afore you goes to them as it's happened to."
"And what an age it is since I saw you!" said Frank, taking a seat. "Why, I haven't set eyes on you for years and years. Ah, talk of things happening! I've seen a peck of trouble since we met last. I married a girl down in Devon, and she only lived a year. Poor Susie! Ah, you say mother has told you about it. She didn't like the match because she was a Catholic, but I was in love, and of course mother couldn't prevent it."
"Susie, and a Catholic?" questioned Mrs. Curr, to whom Nan had mentioned her sister, and her sister's marriage, though without giving the name of Susie's husband.
"It were down in Devon, as you say, you met her, Frank?" said the old woman. "Were she the youngest niece of an old priest?"
"Yes; how come you to know that?" asked Frank in his turn. "But, of course, you and my mother are friends, and you may have heard it from her. And now tell me what's come to mother, for bein' at sea, no letter has reached me, and I haven't heard any news."
"Well," replied Mrs. Curr, "your mother has married John Drinkrow, of 'the House that Jack built,' and she seems a-gettin' on all right. If you remember, Frank, I used to be housekeeper there, but one day I up and spoke to Mr. Tom about something as had angered me, and he talked his father into turning me off—out of spite, you know."
"He always was a spiteful fellow," said Frank. "But what's become of t'other chap—the younger brother—they called him Ratcliffe, I think?"
"Ah, poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Curr. "He offended his father and got sent about his business, which his father won't have nothin' more to say to him; no, nor his brother won't neither."
"You don't say so!" cried Frank. "What a shame, to be sure! Ah, many and many's the spree we've had together when we were both boys, before I went to sea. How I'd like to see him again!"
"He ain't in London," said Mrs. Curr, suddenly remembering that she must be reserved on the subject of Ratcliffe's whereabouts; "so your seein' him ain't possible. But look here, my lad; you surely ain't a-goin' to your mother in them old clothes, are you? Why, you might be a beggar instead of a well-to-do sailor. You're all tattered and torn. What's come to you?"
Frank's eyes dropped for a moment.
"Ah, Mrs. Curr," said he, "all my trouble hasn't cured me of my folly yet. When I came ashore last night, I somehow got among a bad set, and I drank too much, and when I woke up in the morning, I found I'd been robbed of my good clothes as I'd brought with me, and these old ones as I had on were torn and spoilt. The money too that I'd been fool enough to leave in my pockets was all gone; but happily most of my earnings was sewn up in a bag and hung by a string round my neck under my shirt, and they didn't find that. Still, I've lost more than I need have done—if I hadn't been so foolish."
"Which I quite agrees with you," said Mrs. Curr. "But now sit down a moment longer, and let me get a needle and thread, and sew up some of these big rents. Then you'll be a little more respectabler to go to your mother, and see your new father."
So saying, the good woman got out her workbox, and was just sitting down to mend Frank's coat, when little Maida toddled into the room, from the garden where she had been playing. Her checks were flushed, her golden curls fell over her brow, while her innocent blue eyes peeped through them wonderingly at the stranger.
Frank looked round. "Oh you little darling!" he exclaimed. "You sweet, pretty little pet! Who are you?" And he caught the child, took her on his knee, and kissed the round pink cheeks.
"Who is she, Mrs. Curr?" he asked. "She's the dearest little girl I ever saw; she must be about the age my baby boy would have been had he lived. Look up, little one! Bless me, why how like she is to what my wife was. The same golden hair and sweet blue eyes, only this little one's eyebrows and lashes are darker; how very strange!" And glancing at Mrs. Curr's face, he saw an expression there which made him lay his hand on her arm and say, "Tell me, who is this child? Surely there is no harm in my knowing. If it's a secret, I promise not to tell."
"Well!" sighed Mrs. Curr. "If you must know, I suppose you must; she's Nancy's child—Nancy bein' sister to your wife that's gone. Nancy married your old friend Ratcliffe Drinkrow, but John Drinkrow (that's the father, as you know) hasn't heard nothink about it, so don't you let it out, whatever you do. As for Mr. Ratcliffe, he's down in Devon for his health, which it's consumption he's in, I'm certain sure; and his wife she's with him; and I'm a-takin' care of their little one while they're away. And Frank, here's your coat, which the biggest of the slits is cobbled up, and now you'd better go and see your mother. You know your way to 'the House that Jack built' without my tellin' of you. It's that as began you in your wild ways, and 'twas there you got to know Mr. Ratcliffe."
"Yes, I know my way," replied Frank; "good-bye, Mrs. Curr, and thank you. Good-bye, little pet!" And once more the rough sailor stooped and kissed the child.
As Mrs. Curr watched him away from the door, the postman came up and handed in a letter. It was from Nancy, and the old woman hastily retreated into the house, and putting on her spectacles, commenced reading the letter, which began thus—
"DEAR MRS. CURR,—I have been putting off writing to you, hoping to have
better news to give; but I think now it is no use waiting any longer.
My husband gets worse every day, and his spirits are no better. He
hardly talks at all, and he groans and moans in his sleep fit to break
one's heart. Uncle is very kind, and so is his servant boy, James
Cocks, but all the kindness in the world cannot, I feel sure, save
Ratcliffe's life.
"He does not grumble or complain, and the only wish he has expressed
since he came down here is to see our little one. Sometimes I think if
Maida were here, her pretty ways might cheer up her father a little
bit."
*****
"Here I had to stop writing, for at that moment uncle came in, saying
that he had heard my husband sighing to himself as he lay in a half
doze,—
"'Ah, my little one, I want you Maida dear, come, come!'
"And uncle said—oh! so kindly—'Nancy dear, if Ratcliffe wants the
child, why not send for her? Mrs. Curr would bring her, and we'll
manage somehow about a room; and listen, Nancy, I will bear the
expenses of the journey.'
"So then, when I had thanked him, I said, 'Well, uncle, I am writing
now to Mrs. Curr; am I to say this to her?' and he replied, 'Yes, do!'
So, dear Mrs. Curr, come as soon as you can, for every day makes a
difference now to my dear husband, and somehow I cannot help feeling as
if God would make your coming with our darling a blessing to us all."
A few more lines ended the letter, and Mrs. Curr laid it down, and, hiding her face in her hands, indulged in a hearty fit of sobbing. Then she roused herself, taking herself to task as if she had been another person: "Now, Jemima," she said, "don't go for to be a donkey; your duty's plain, and you must get ready and go to-morrow, you and the little one. And since there's heaps upon heaps to do, 'tain't no use in wastin' time weeping!"
Wiping her eyes, Mrs. Curr first set about writing a letter to Nancy, saying that she would start with Maida the next morning. The letter was a wonderful production as regarded composition, spelling, and writing, but it carried with it such hearty sympathy and love as alone would ensure it a welcome.
By that evening, Mrs. Curr and her little charge were ready for their morrow's journey, and when the morning came they set off, and after a long railway ride, which was pure enjoyment to Maida, if not to Mrs. Curr, they arrived safely at their destination, where they received a hearty welcome.
CHAPTER IX.
"THIS IS THE PRIEST ALL SHAVEN AND SHORN."
LITTLE Maida was like a sunbeam in the home of Father Francis. The old man had quite forgiven Ratcliffe for his former misdemeanours, and for the concealment of his marriage from his own relatives and friends; and now, in his loveless, childless old age, Ratcliffe's little one called forth all the best feelings of his nature. For some time past his health had been too poor to allow of his undertaking any active duty in connection with his religion or profession, but having a little property of his own, he contented himself with such quiet occupations as his little house and garden afforded, varied sometimes by a visit to a neighbouring friend, or a drive in his little chaise to some place of interest within easy distance.
His only servant was a youth, James Cocks by name, whom he had employed in his service from a child. The boy was a staunch Protestant, nor did the priest ever try to influence him against the religion in which he had been brought up; and James, or Jim as he was usually called, repaid his master's kindness with the most devoted care and attention. A thorough Jack-of-all-trades, he united in himself the varied capacities of cook, housemaid, gardener, and coachman, and perhaps a more unselfish, industrious servant never sang and whistled over his work.
Jim was like other people in the fancy that he took to little Maida, only that he showed his affection in a practical way, by trying to add the office of nurse to his numerous avocations.
As for Ratcliffe, the presence of his child brought with it a softening influence which his wife could not but notice with thankful heart. Before he and Nancy had left home, the little one's prattle had sometimes seemed to annoy him, and he had even been impatient with her occasionally, and brought the frightened tears to her wondering blue eyes. But he had now been without her for some time, and had learned to miss and long for the nestling golden head, and the sweet-toned voice of his little maiden; and perhaps, too, as the disease which was slowly stealing away his life, marched on with rapid strides, all the fatherhood in him awoke and clutched instinctively at the treasure which he must so soon leave.
Nor was this the only change visible in the behaviour of the young man. The sullen, dogged expression of his face was fast disappearing, and in its stead had come a sad, yearning, regretful look, which told of dawning repentance.
Once, when his wife came suddenly into his room, she found the little old Bible which he had picked up on the dust-heap, lying on the bed. Ratcliffe had evidently put it down as she entered. Perhaps he was ashamed as yet to be seen reading it. On another occasion, when she had taken up the volume, she had asked him whose initials were the letters E. D., which were written in the fly-leaf, and he had answered, "They stand for Emily Drinkrow, Nancy dear. That was my mother's name; and," he added with a sigh, "she was a real good woman, I believe, and if she'd only lived, I should have been a better man."
Nancy was too wise to pursue the subject, but she welcomed these few words as tokens of the change for which she had so earnestly prayed, and so long waited.
One evening the time had come for Maida to go to bed. It was Sunday, and Nancy was at church, as she had been unable to go out before that day. Mrs. Curr undressed the child, and then told her to say her prayers before going to sleep. But the little one, with the curious obstinacy that children sometimes show, declined, since her mother was out, to say them to any one but her father.
"Baby go dadda!" she kept saying in piteous tones, until at last Mrs. Curr was obliged to take her to Ratcliffe's bedside, and tell him what the child wanted.
A painful flush dyed his cheeks.
"I never did such a thing in my life as hear a child's prayers," said he, glancing anxiously up at Mrs. Curr.
"Never mind, sir," replied she; "which you might do worse than begin now. Chil'en gets nearer heaven with their little prayers than many of us grown ones; and, if it's the pure in heart a sees God, why, the babies must needs see Him, for ain't they the purest?"
Ratcliffe was still hesitating, however, when the little one broke into a wailing cry, and stretched out both her arms to her father, sobbing, "Baby say p'ay'rs to dadda! Please dadda, take baby."
Such entreaty as this Ratcliffe could not resist. With tears in his eyes, he motioned to Mrs. Curr to lift the child on to his bed. She did so, and left the room.
Then Maida knelt, and, with her little hands folded reverently, and her golden head bent, she prayed—
"Dear Desus, b'ess dadda; and mamma, and mate Maidie dood, and mate
dadda well, and mamma no k'y, and take us all up high wen us is 'eddy,
for Desus died sake, amen."
So the little three-year-old lisped her simple prayer in the hearing of her guilty, sorrowing father, and as she finished, and flung her soft arms round his neck, and laid her rosy cheek against his pale face, wet with tears of shame and remorse, he groaned aloud—
"Oh, my little innocent child, God keep you so, never to be lost, oh, never, like your poor father! Oh, my child, my child!" And he strained little Maida to his breast, and covered her brow and hair with passionate kisses.
As the child raised herself again to a sitting posture, her face had grown grave and thoughtful beyond her years. She gazed with strangely penetrating eyes at her father's suffering countenance; then, putting out her tiny hands and gently stroking his thin cheeks, her lips broke into a sudden smile, as if the child-spirit had seen a way out of the darkness which she felt was about her father. She stooped lower, lower still, till her face was close to that of the sick man; then she murmured in soft, caressing tones, "Desus loves 'oo, Desus does love 'oo, dadda!"
Ratcliffe started as if a new thought had struck him, then sank into a deep reverie. He hardly noticed when Mrs. Curr came and took away the little preacher with her one text. To his inmost heart the words had been spoken, "Jesus loves you!"
In thought he went back to earlier days, to the time when he was a pleasure-loving boy, but before he became wicked and wild. He remembered the sadness that stole over him when he lay down at night, with no words of endearment sounding in his ears, no mother-kiss upon his cheek. Ah! If the words had been but spoken then, "Child, Jesus loves you!"
Then had come the later time; the nights when evil companions began to tempt him, and he yielded; when the excitements and false pleasures of the world were smothering all the better feelings of his nature.
"Surely not even God's love can have followed me since then!" said the stricken man to himself. But, as if in reply, his child's words echoed again in his heart and memory—
"Desus 'does' love 'oo, dadda!"
At length, unable to bear the strife of his own inner nature, he started up and seized the little old Bible that lay on the table beside his bed. He opened it and turned over some of the leaves. In doing so, he noticed with fresh interest, and a deeper understanding, the underlined passages which Nancy had remarked on the night when he had brought home the book.
Parts of texts, the half of a verse—even a single sentence sometimes bore this mark, and Ratcliffe, with a strange feeling of being brought nearer to his dead mother by the perusal of her much-loved Bible, read such words as these in the fresh light that his child's words had shed—
"When he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion." "Now Jesus 'loved' Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus." "This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you." "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us." "God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us."
He was still engaged in turning over the discoloured leaves, and reading such passages as we have given, when Father Francis came in.
"Ah, Ratcliffe," said he, "I've come to sit with you a little till Nancy gets home. Is anything the matter, my boy?" For the old man noticed the tearstained cheeks, and the trembling hands that laid the book down.
"No, uncle; I've only been thinking," replied Ratcliffe, with a touch of his old reticent manner; and the priest asked no more questions. But he said to Nancy privately, soon after she reached home—
"Have an eye on your husband, my child, for his mind is very full of something. If he were of my religion, I should recommend him to confess to me that he might have the comfort of absolution, but I can't do that now, I suppose."
"No, uncle, you cannot," replied Nan, gravely. "If he wants to confess, he has a Heavenly Father who is ever ready to hear him, and to grant him absolution through Christ."
Father Francis sighed.
"So be it then, child, so be it," said he, "but don't break your own heart meanwhile."
Nancy made no reply, but stole away to her husband's room. He lay in the sort of stupor which took the place of sleep with him, and he seemed unconscious of her entrance; but as she bent over him, she heard him whisper to himself with a half sob—
"Baby said, 'Desus does love 'oo, dadda!'"