RALPH TRULOCK'S STORY.
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!"