A SMALL SEAMSTRESS.
RALPH TRULOCK had never been a very happy man. Even when his worldly
affairs prospered, and his wife, whom he tenderly loved, and who
deserved his love, was with him; even before his son's behaviour gave
him cause for anxiety,—he had not been a happy man. He had had all that
the world could give him, and if you had asked him what more he wanted,
he would probably have said, "Nothing;" and yet he did want something,
and want it so badly that his heart was never at rest for the lack of
it.
The truth is, he was trying to satisfy an immortal spirit with mortal
things, and no one ever yet succeeded in doing that, excepting those
who are too dull to look beyond mere eating and drinking, warmth and
comfort. Of this class, Mrs. Short was a tolerable specimen; but Ralph
cared little for these things. His idol was of a higher order: it was
his own opinion of himself. He did not greatly care for other people's
admiration, but he must satisfy himself. His notion was, that a man
should be perfectly just, utterly truthful and upright, fulfil all his
engagements honourably, and never ask or accept a favour. He did not
add, consciously, "and never give any one anything except what they
earn," but he acted on that principle, though he never interfered with
his wife's charities. He believed that if he lived thus, perfectly
righteous in all his dealings, he should certainly go to heaven, even
if he never felt any of those warmer religious feelings of which his
wife sometimes spoke. She had quite a different kind of religion; but
that was all right: she was a woman, and humility and dependence become
a woman, but men should be made of sterner stuff.
Mrs. Trulock was a timid, gentle creature, far too humble even to
think that Ralph could need to be taught anything. She taught her
boy carefully, and when he went astray her loving heart broke, and
she died, expressing with her last breath a belief that "Fred would
remember what she had taught him, yet." I don't suppose she had ever
heard the story of the mother of St. Augustine, but she might have said
with her, "He must be saved, for he is the child of many tears and many
prayers."
But if Ralph Trulock had never been a thoroughly happy man, he was
certainly a very miserable man now. He had never been idle in his life;
and here he was with nothing to do but to see on how little he could
keep body and soul together, that he might rid himself of the hated
obligation he now lay under, to men whose equal he had once been. May
Cloudesley's sweet face and sympathetic manner had thrown him off his
guard, and he had spoken to her more freely than he had ever spoken
before, even to himself, for he hardly knew that he had it in him to
feel and speak thus until he found himself doing it. And then that
little traitor, May, having stolen softly within his guard of proud
silence, had used her opportunity to stick a little dagger into his
very heart!
Twenty times a day he told himself that she was only a silly young
woman, and that he knew better than she did; twenty times a day he
resolved to think no more of her words. But they kept coming back to
him, and would not be forgotten. He had always read a small portion
of the Bible on Sundays, and he found himself now, sorely against his
will, remembering that the spirit of the words he read agreed with
what May had said, more than with his own opinions. He could not keep
his mind from trying to make out a case for himself, and he could not
help knowing that he failed; that no text bore him out in his opinions.
Still he was haunted by one text which he could not remember exactly,
but in which the words, "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do
justly?" certainly occurred; and he imagined that if he could only find
that verse, he could return to his old way of thinking comfortably, and
forget May's little dagger.
After much searching, he found the text at last; but it did not turn
out a comfort to him. "He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and
what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly—" oh that it had
stopped there! But it went on—"and to love mercy, and to walk humbly
with thy God?" So not even this solitary text, on which he had built so
much, would bear the meaning he wished to find in it. Nay, might not
May have used it against him?
"To love mercy!" How could he set about that? He need not relax his
stern self-denial much,—not at all, in fact; but he might give a small
portion of what he saved, and it would only delay his hoped-for payment
a little.
Though Ralph looked so old, he was only sixty-five, so he hoped he had
time enough before him to permit of a little delay. And his conscience
would not let him go on without making some effort to walk by the new
light which May had let in upon him. He began to look about for some
one whom he might help, and one seldom looks long for that!
One afternoon in June—it was June now, for it took him a long time to
arrive at this point in his mental struggle—he went into Fairford to
buy himself some new shirts; his old ones had gone beyond even his not
unskilful repairs. There was a good shop in High Fairford. Price's, and
to that shop he betook himself. The young man at the shirt counter told
him that he had not a shirt of the particular size he asked for in the
house, but that there were a number actually in hand, and if he would
sit down and wait a few minutes, one of the workwomen had promised him
four that very day, "and she is always punctual," concluded the young
man.
Not caring to return next day, Ralph took a seat and waited. Presently
a girl—a child rather, though there was a staid, responsible air about
her that was wondrous womanly—came quickly up the shop, and laying a
parcel on the counter, said to the young shopman,—
"Please, sir, I have brought home the four shirts."
"I told you she was punctual, Mr. Trulock!" said the shopman.
"Why, you don't mean to say that this child is one of your workers!"
said Ralph.
"And a very handy worker too! No need to look over these shirts—there's
never any scamped stitches in Miss Garland's work," added the young man
pleasantly, as he opened the parcel and took out the four shirts. They
were wonderfully well-made—you must remember that Ralph's trade had
made him a good judge of needlework—every part was as well done as the
girl could do it, the button-holes were well worked, and the buttons
conscientiously sewed on. It was all so clean, too. Ralph conceived a
good opinion of the girl at once. He bought the shirts, and paid for
them: he saw the girl cast a quick glance upon the sixteen shillings he
laid down, and give her head a little shake. She was paid for her work
at once—three shillings. Ralph lingered near the door: something in the
girl's face pleased and yet puzzled him, and he wanted to see more of
her. She came out in a moment, but was passing him without notice, when
he said to her,—
"Do you get only ninepence a piece for making these shirts?"
"That is all," she answered with a sigh; "but, sir, it is better than
nothing."
"How long does it take you to make one?" he asked.
"One whole day and most of another. Now I have got petticoats to
make—with braid on them; like doing that, I get on quicker."
"Your mother should not let you sew so much," said Ralph. "It is bad
for a growing girl."
"I have no mother, sir, and neither has poor Ollie."
"Neither has who?"
"Ollie—Oliver, my little brother, sir."
Ralph thought she said the name oddly.
"Oliver?" he repeated. "Is that what you said?"
"That is the same name, but Ollie's mother was French, and we have
lived in France, where they say it as I do."
"You and Ollie lived in France?" Mr. Trulock said. He felt strangely
interested in the child. She was a rather pretty little girl, with a
pale round face and very soft dark eyes: she wore her short dark hair
tucked away behind her little ears, and she was dressed in a plain and
scanty black cotton frock, her straw hat being trimmed with a morsel
of fresh black crape. Something in her look, her voice, and above all
her smile, interested him: they reminded him of some one, he could not
think of whom—the slight foreign accent puzzled him, perhaps.
She answered his question after a momentary hesitation,—
"Yes; me and Ollie and our father."
Two great tears slowly welled up and then ran down her cheeks: she put
up her small right hand to rub them away, and he saw how the forefinger
was seamed with needle marks.
"And now there are only me and Ollie," she added quietly.
"You are here with friends I suppose?"
"No, sir; we have no friends here. Father was on his way here when his
illness came on—he bid me come here. I expected to find his people
here, but no one even knows the name. I suppose they lived here long
ago, and are all gone away now."
"Do you mean to tell me, child," said old Ralph half angrily, "that you
and this boy are alone in the world?"
"Indeed we are—quite, quite alone," the girl answered, with that quiet
sadness which was so like some one, if he could only remember who it
was.
"But you have money?" he said, turning to look at her.
"Oh yes, I have a little money. When my father died; he had some
money,—I do not know exactly how much—they took some to pay the doctor,
and the bill at the hotel, and—for his funeral. Oh, I don't want to
speak about it, sir!" and again the big tears rolled down, and the poor
little hard-working hand went up to her face. But after a moment she
went on again: "I am keeping all I have left very carefully. I work as
hard as I can, and so does Ollie, though he can only run with messages,
of course. I want to keep the little I have until winter."
"How long have you been here?" asked Ralph.
"I forget exactly. Oh, there's Ollie!"
A beautiful boy of about seven years sprang up from his game of
marbles,—he was playing with a lot of young urchins on the pavement.
They were about half-way down the steep hill now, and Ollie had not
seen his sister until she called out his name; how his black eyes
danced when he saw her! And with what glee he held up a fourpenny
piece, crying,—
"See what I have here! A monsieur gave me this for picking up his whip!"
"Why, you've been very fortunate to-day, Ollie—twopence in the morning
for carrying a parcel, and now this; how much is it—fourpence? Well
done, Ollie!"
"Take it, Ruthie; I may lose it," the boy said gravely, and then
returned to his marbles.
"We live here, sir," said Ruth, stopping at the door of a small bakery.
"Good-bye, and I hope you will like your shirts."
Mr. Trulock shook hands with her—a mode of saying good-bye which seemed
to puzzle her not a little. He lingered until she had passed through
the shop. She paused and bought a fourpenny loaf, and he heard her ask
for:
"A stale one, if you please, ma'am;" then she vanished through a door
behind the counter, and Ralph entered the shop.
"Plain or fancy, sir?" said the old woman who stood behind the counter.
"I don't want any bread, thank you," Ralph answered; "I want to ask a
question about the child who has just passed through your shop."
"Do you know anything about her, sir?" asked the woman eagerly.
"Why, I wanted to know if you do?" replied Ralph.
"Not much, sir; she and the boy, Ollie she calls him, came here more
than a month ago. I had been to Derby on business, and they came in
the same train, and came on by the omnibus from the Forest station,
and Ruth began to talk to me. She asked me if I knew people of the
name of Garland in Fairford; and I said there never was a Garland in
the place since I could remember, and that is sixty years and more. It
isn't a Fairford name at all, as I told her. She looked so frightened
and downcast, that I began to ask questions; then she told me that her
father, who had brought the two children from France to Southampton,
had died there, sudden-like; and that he had told her his father lived
in Fairford, and she was to come here to him; he'd been coming here
himself, poor man. I took the children in for the night, and made
inquiry next day; but it was as I thought, no Garland was ever known
here."
"It would be some other Fairford, perhaps—there are places of the same
name in other counties," suggested Ralph, much interested.
"No, sir; Fairford, —shire was written on the box the children brought
with them, in the poor man's own writing."
"But have they no means of living, ma'am, except by what they can earn?"
"None; there's a box with good, comfortable clothes for both of them,
and the same belonging to the poor father; and Ruth has a little money
laid by, but only a few pounds. And that's all. I advised Ruth to save
it up and work hard, and she's a wise little creature, used to manage
things and to be busy. She pays me nothing for the little room they
sleep in, and I am glad to help them so far; but I'm too poor to do
more. My business is not what it used to be, nor what it ought to be,"
she added with a sigh, and a look round the dingy little shop, into
which indeed no one had come since Ralph's own arrival. "I got her work
from Price's; she's a handy worker."
"Will you give the child this, ma'am, and tell her it is from the old
man to whom she was talking?" said Ralph, giving her half a crown.
"Indeed I will, sir, gladly, and very kind it is of you sir. Good
evening."
Ralph walked home. The child's face haunted him. That likeness was so
perplexing. Annie had fair straight hair and grey eyes; this girl had
brown eyes and dark curly hair, yet her smile was like Annie's, and her
quiet voice was like Annie's too, in spite of the accent.
Ralph longed to see the child again, he could not help thinking of her.
He determined to offer to make further and more efficient inquiries
than had as yet been made about the relatives the poor father had
evidently expected to find at Fairford. In other ways, too, he thought
he could be of use; and the fancy he had taken to the girl made it
easier for him to determine to keep his half-formed resolution by
helping her.
With these thoughts, he went up the hill to church on the following
Sunday, and on his way home called at the little shop. It was closed,
of course; but when he had knocked three or four times the old woman
opened the door, and to his horror she was drunk. He asked for the
children, and she mumbled out that they had gone to the Forest, and in
reply to further questions she would only mutter "to the Forest, to the
Forest," with an idiotic laugh. Ralph walked on, passed the gate of
Lady Mabel's Rest, and went along the Forest Road. He would go a little
way, he thought, and perhaps might meet the children.