MRS. CRICKLADE.
RALPH TRULOCK'S illness proved a very tedious one, but he never was in
any actual danger, and he was right well cared for after little Ruth
came to him. Every morning, as soon as Ollie had left home for school,
Ruth took her work and ran down the hill to the Rest, and Ollie there
after school hours. They went back to Cricklade's every night, leaving
Ralph made thoroughly comfortable, with a tiny fire to keep him company
until he fell asleep. Since Annie died Ralph had never been so happy,
and he dreamed every night either that she was still alive or that Ruth
was Annie grown young again; and every day he became more convinced
that Ruth really was like Annie, which he thought very curious, as he
did not think there could be any relationship to account for it.
Once or twice, while he was still very ill, Ralph asked the child if
his money were not all gone; but until the day came round when the
pensions of the inmates of the Rest were paid, Ruth always said that
she had enough. If he had not been ill, and rather dull and sleepy,
he would have known that no money ever yet held out as this did, but
he was too stupid just then to reason. When the pensioners were paid,
the warden brought Ralph's to the house and paid him a visit, giving
the money into his own hand, as he was bound to do. And thus Ruth knew
nothing of the amount he received; but she took money from him next day
for his own use.
At last, he was really better, quite well, the doctor said, and only
needing to get up his strength again. The doctor desired him to take
a glass of "good sound wine" every day, for that he really required
it. Ruth was present when this was said, and the next day when she was
going out to the shops, she said,—
"What wine shall I ask for, Mr. Trulock?"
"None, child; none. I can't afford it," said Ralph, his face getting
back something of the old uneasy expression which had of late been
passing away.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock! Could you not get even one bottle? Now it is because
you have helped us that you cannot afford it, and that makes me so
unhappy."
"No, Ruth; not for that reason, my dear. I—I have a claim upon my
income,—I am not free to spend it as I choose."
"Why, that's what father used to say!" cried Ruth wonderingly. "But,
Mr. Trulock, let me go to the doctor, or to Mr. Cloudesley; either of
them would help you."
"I cannot, Ruthie. I could not take charity, I am a proud man—I fear
too proud. Even now I would rather die than accept charity."
Ruth considered for a moment in her grave, childlike wisdom; and then
with her usual directness, she said,—
"I think we ought to take help, though, when we really want it. You
know the rich are told to help the poor, and so I suppose the poor
ought to take the help when they are willing to give it."
"There are plenty to take it," said Ralph.
"I took your help," she answered simply; "but I know you didn't mean
it in that way. You mean that idle, extravagant poor people will get
money, and not work for themselves; but then it seems a pity that
the good poor people should not get some of it; don't you think so?
Particularly when they want it as badly as you do."
"I cannot do it, dear. I cannot explain why, but ought not to want
help; and I will not take it."
Ruth said no more, but tied on her hat and trotted off with her basket
on her arm. Once out of the house, she paused thoughtfully.
"I don't know what wine to get," she murmured, "nor what the price
ought to be, nor even where to get it. I must ask some one. Not Mrs.
Short—and Mrs. Cloudesley would offer to send him some. But I can go to
Miss Jones; she won't scold me, I hope, as she scolds poor Maria Freak."
Maria Freak was Miss Jones's last new girl, and a few days ago she had
complained sorely to Ruth of her mistress's continual fault-finding.
While waiting at the door, Ruth heard voices, and could distinguish
Miss Jones's own monotonous thin tones, going on, and on, and on, in a
very exasperating style.
"If you allow yourself to acquire such slovenly ways, Maria—or to
continue them, I should say, for you don't need to acquire them, having
them by nature—you'll never make a parlour-maid, so don't think it.
You'd better turn your mind to being a kitchen or scullery-maid, and to
stay so all your life, and—"
"There's a knock at the door, miss," said Maria.
"Why don't you go to it, then? Don't I tell you often never to keep any
one waiting?"
"How could I go, and you jawing of me?" inquired Maria sulkily.
"Say ma'am, not miss, Maria,—and speaking, not jawing. You're the most
hopeless girl I ever trained yet. Go to the door, child."
"Is that you, Ruth Garland?" cried Maria. "And did you hear her? Did
you ever hear the like?"
"Does she always go on so?" said Ruth.
Maria grinned. "Oh no—only when I do something she don't like. I used
to think I must run away home; but, bless you, she's real kind except
with her tongue. Was it to see me you came?"
"No; but because I want Miss Jones to help me. I want to know
something."
"She's your woman then, for she knows everything, and she'd go round
the gravel road of the Rest barefoot to help you, and scold all the
time, so that you'd think she hated you," replied Maria.
"Miss Jones," she called aloud, "Ruth Garland wants to speak to you."
Miss Jones came up the passage, looking particularly grim. Ruth
explained her errand; Miss Jones replied by putting on her bonnet and
going with her—leaving Maria, as she sadly remarked, to spoil a nice
dinner in the cooking.
"But you see, Ruth, the best wine in Fairford is to be had at Hawes's,
of the Blue Bear; and that is no place for a girl like you to go to
alone."
The wine was purchased—three bottles. Miss Jones made a good bargain
with Hawes, and then lectured Ruth well for wearing her hat thrown back
too much, which, Miss Jones averred, gave her a bold-faced look. She
advised her to cut her curls shorter, or to brush her hair straight and
pin it up tight to her head; and then she bought half a pound of sweets
for Ollie, because Ruth, passing the shop, said she wished she had a
penny to spare, for Ollie was so fond of sweet things. Then they went
home—or rather, Miss Jones went home, and Ruth returned to Mr. Trulock.
Presently she appeared at his side with a glass of wine and a biscuit
on a little tray.
"Please, Mr. Trulock, wouldn't this be the best time to take your wine?
I bought three bottles, and that will last a long time. I used some of
the money I had been keeping up; and you know, sir, you have spent more
than that on us, and it would not be right that you should want this
wine while we have money lying by. So you must not be angry, please."
Ralph's face was worth looking at. Angry he was not; but he was both
touched and troubled.
"Ruthie," he said, "you should not have done this."
"Oh, indeed, indeed I ought! What do I not owe to you, sir? If you only
knew how lonely and frightened I felt before I had you; and then you
are so poor, and yet you helped us!"
"Well, give me the wine, Ruthie; as to the money, I will settle that
with you when I am well again."
Ralph got better quickly now; but a fresh misfortune occurred before he
was quite well again. Ollie came from school one day, heavy and sick
(not to say cross); Ruth took him home to put him to bed, and ran down
to the Rest in the morning to say that "Ollie was out in measles."
"So I cannot come any more to you just now, sir; but what a comfort it
is that you are so nearly well! May I ask Miss Jones to come in and see
you? she would do your shopping for you."
"No, thank you, dear, I am quite able to get out now, and I shall soon
be creeping up the hill to see after you and Ollie. Has the doctor seen
him yet?"
"No; nor am I going to send for him. I had them myself last year, and
father never had a doctor to see me, because he said I was not bad, and
neither is Ollie. I must keep him warm and take good care of him."
She lingered for a minute. All her little store was gone, and attending
on Ralph had left her but little time for needlework. But she could
not bring herself to speak. He was old, and poor, and suffering,
and how could she ask him for money? It would have been like asking
for the price of the wine back again. So she went home, and, by
Mrs. Cricklade's advice, she took some of her father's clothes to a
pawn-shop, and asked the man there what he would give her for them.
The pawnbroker was very civil, and explained the system to her very
clearly; but poor innocent Ruth telling him her reason for wanting
money, he made a great favour of giving her a mere trifle for the good
clothes, because he said he must keep them separate, coming as they did
from an infected house. So with five shillings for her poor father's
best suit, Ruth went home, spending the greater part of it on the way;
for she must have coal to keep Ollie warm.
Ralph had hoped to see the children the next day, but it snowed, and he
was afraid to go so far. Then followed a sharp frost, and he was laid
up again for some days; so altogether some time had passed before he
succeeded in creeping up the hill as far as Mrs. Cricklade's shop. He
went early, and to his horror found the shop closed, and the neighbours
told him that they had not seen Mrs. Cricklade that morning.
"She was a sad drinker," the woman next door told him, "and lately
she has seldom been quite sober, and her bread is so bad that she has
lost all her custom; and often has she said to me that she'd run off
in the night before quarter-day came round again, for that she had
nothing laid by to pay her rent. And I asked her where she'd go, and
she said she didn't know, and didn't care. So yesterday the shop didn't
open—that was nothing new, for often it was closed for the best part
of the day lately—but I am surprised that she hasn't opened it yet; at
least I should be, only I am sure she has run off."
"And the children!" cried Ralph, turning pale. "Ruth and Ollie—where
are they?"
"Oh, she said they had a friend somewhere in Fairford that would take
them in, and you may be sure that she sent them off yesterday. Only the
boy was sick in bed, to be sure."
"I am their only friend here, and they did not come to me. Are you sure
Mrs. Cricklade is gone?"
"Indeed, sir, I am not sure of anything about her. She and I were
friends once, but of late 'twas borrow, borrow, with her, and I was
obliged to keep her at a distance. And then they had the measles, you
know; that is, Ollie had, and I didn't want my children to get them. I
have not seen Ruth, oh, I don't know when."
Ralph turned away in despair, and to his great delight he saw Mr. and
Mrs. Cloudesley coming down the street. May spied him instantly.
"Why, Mr. Trulock, I'm glad to see you so far from home, for I suppose
you are quite well again," she began blithely; but perceiving his
troubled looks, she said quickly, in quite a different tone:
"What is the matter; see, Gilbert."
"I hope there is nothing really wrong, madam," said poor Ralph, trying
to smile. "But I am startled. Ruth has not been with me for a long time
(the boy was ill, you know), and this good woman tells me that the shop
here was closed all yesterday, and that she thinks Mrs. Cricklade has
run away; and—where can the children be?"
Mr. Cloudesley asked several questions, and made himself master of the
state of affairs, as far as any one knew them. Then he said:
"You had better go home, May, and we'll have our walk later. You've
never had measles, and I don't want you to catch them. And we may have
to get into this house."
May turned and went home at once, like the sensible little woman she
was, causing no delay by objecting.
"Who is the owner of the house?" Mr. Cloudesley asked the friendly
neighbour.
"I don't know, sir; but Mr. Gambit, he collects the rents."
"Gambit, who lives in Rest View Cottage? Then we had better go there at
once, Trulock. He may know all about it."
To Mr. Gambit they accordingly went, but he did not know all about it,
nor, in fact, did he know anything. But he had plenty to say, for all
that.
"A drunken creature she was becoming, sir, and getting worse every time
I saw her. I daresay the people are right, and that she has run off.
Very likely she has murdered the poor children in her drunken fit, and
then just cut her stick."
Mr. Gambit was one of those people who like to anticipate the worst, in
order that no one may imagine them taken by surprise; but poor Ralph,
not being aware of this peculiarity, was horribly frightened.
Mr. Gambit came with them now, but before they reached the house a
messenger came after him, and he was obliged to run home again, some
one having called on business. Ralph and Mr. Cloudesley returned to
Hill Street, where they found a small crowd collected to stare at the
shutters of the little shop.
"We must get in," said Mr. Cloudesley.
"Must you, sir?" said a man among the crowd; "rather you nor me, sir.
Once afore she didn't open, and we took fright and busted in, and how
she did jaw us, to be sure!"
"That must be borne," said Mr. Cloudesley. "We must see about the
children; but we had better knock first."
And knock they did, both loud and long, but no sound was heard in
the shut-up house. The party was now reinforced by a policeman, who
promptly climbed the next door neighbour's wall, dropped into the yard,
and presently opened the shop door.
"Come in, reverend sir, and you, Mr. Trulock," said he; and when they
had squeezed through the half-opened door, he shut it fast, to the
infinite disgust of the crowd.
"I have seen nobody, sir; there does not seem to be any one in the
house. I called up the stairs and got no answer. I hardly expect to
find the children here."
"My children!" cried Ralph, and rushed up the little creaking stairs
with all the speed of fear; his rheumatism actually frightened away for
the time. The others followed him as he went swiftly up to the attics.
But he reached the children's room first.
"Ruth!" he gasped, "Ruthie! Answer me, child, for Heaven's sake."
"Oh!" cried a small voice, "is that you, Mr. Trulock? Oh, thank God! I
have been praying so hard that it might be you ever since I heard the
knocking. Ruthie is here lying over me, and I can't get her to move.
Oh, do come and see what's the matter with Ruthie."
On the bed, his pretty face wild with fear, lay Ollie, and over him,
face downward, lay Ruth; and when Ralph lifted her, he thought for one
dreadful moment that she was dead. But Mr. Cloudesley saw that she
breathed, though faintly, and taking her from the old man, he carried
her to the window, which he opened wide.
"Water," said he. There was none in the room, but the policeman tramped
downstairs to get some. Ruth opened her eyes and saw Ralph Trulock.
"Was it all a dream? Can dreams be so dreadful?" she said in a whisper.
"Oh, Mr. Trulock, have I been asleep and dreamed it all?"
She sat up and looked round.
"No," she said, "I'm afraid it's true. Oh, poor thing, poor thing; it
is too dreadful!" And with a cry of horror she fainted again.
"What is it, Ollie?" asked Mr. Cloudesley, while he bathed the girl's
face and rubbed her hands—such poor little, thin, cold hands!
"I don't know, sir," Ollie said, dismally. "Ruth said she must go down
again, even if Mrs. Cricklade beat her, for we had nothing in the room,
not even water. And so she went, but in a moment she came running back,
and fell down on the bed, and never said a word until you came."
"Was it long before we came?" said Ralph.
"Hours and hours!" said poor Ollie. It had not really been very long,
but it had truly seemed so to the terrified and helpless child. "I
couldn't move, because Ruth fell upon me; and oh, but I am hungry and
thirsty, and frightened too. Ruth was so dead, you know."
Ruth was again recovering consciousness.
"Sit down on the bed, Trulock, and hold her in your arms—do. Let her
see only you and Ollie. Peters wants me to go with him, and he will
find out what frightened her. Here, Ollie, drink this water, and I will
bring you something better as soon as I can."
Peters, who had been standing at the door, beckoning incessantly for
Mr. Cloudesley to follow him, now led the way to the next floor. There,
on the narrow landing-stage, he stopped short.
"I don't wonder the child was scared well-nigh to death, sir," said
he. "I don't know yet whether it's 'visitation of Providence,' or
'feller-deasy,' but whatever it is the old woman is lying dead in her
bed!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Cloudesley. "The poor old creature! But are you
sure she is dead? Let us go and see, for we ought to send for the
doctor if not."
"It's the coroner she wants, poor soul, not the doctor," remarked
Peters, as he followed him into the room.
A moment's inspection satisfied Mr. Cloudesley that the poor old woman
was indeed dead, and had been dead for some hours. On a little table
near the bed lay a candlestick with a burned-out candle in it, a quart
bottle of whisky, nearly empty, and a breakfast-cup.
"Do you think it's 'feller-deasy,' sir?" inquired Peters.
"Not intentional, but a case of murder, Peters, and there stands the
murderer," pointing to the bottle.
"True for you, reverend sir; and not the first murder he's
committed—not by many. Pity as he can't be hanged for it! But you see,
sir, she is surely dead; and I must lock the door now, and keep things
as they are for the coroner. If you'd take my advice, sir, you'd remove
the children; the girl will have to appear at the inquest, but she'd be
best out of the house now."
"You're quite right there, Peters, if she is fit to be moved, but such
a shock may have made her really ill. I can be of no use here, so I
shall leave you to do your duty, and see to the children. I must run
first to the Blue Bear, and beg for a little soup for the boy."
"Don't you let any one in, sir, and send some one to the station for
the sergeant, and I will keep the people out until you get the children
off. Any of the boys out there will run to the station for you."
Any of the boys! No, but all the boys; for when Mr. Cloudesley made
it plain that he really did not mean to admit any of them to the
mysterious house, the next best thing, in the estimation of the youth
of Fairford, was to run to the police station in a long, straggling,
vociferating procession. Every boy there had his own private theory
as to what had happened, and every boy roared out that theory at
the policemen as loud as he could yell. And consequently the whole
available police force of Fairford (consisting of two men, and the
wife and baby of the absent Peters) rushed up the hill to the scene
of action, under the impression that Mrs. Cricklade had poisoned Ruth
and Oliver Garland, stuck a knife into old Mr. Trulock and Peters the
policeman, and driven Mr. Cloudesley from the house in terror of his
life!
Meantime Mr. Cloudesley had procured a fine bowl of good soup from
good-natured Mrs. Hawes, and had returned to the children's attic. He
found Ruth much recovered, though still faint and weak. A few spoonfuls
of soup they persuaded her to swallow, but she shivered and seemed
hardly able to do so. What did her far more good was to watch Ollie—who
was quite "over" the measles, and very hungry—absorbing the good soup
with much satisfaction.
"I like a soup," said the little Frenchman.
"Come here, Trulock; I want a word with you. Ruth will sit there and
watch her big baby. Trulock, the poor child has had a terrible shock.
Mrs. Cricklade is dead, must have died some hours ago, and Ruth must
have gone to her room, and found her lying there. Peters says that Ruth
will be better out of the house until the inquest, for everybody would
be questioning her. What shall we do with the children?"
"I will take them home, sir. Ollie has been telling me that they have
been in sore want. I didn't know it, you may be sure, but I am to blame
all the same. The poor child, sir, she has had no work, for of course
they couldn't employ her while the boy had measles; and I thought she
had money laid by, but it seems it had been spent by degrees. Any way,
I'll take them home for the present."
"Very good. Then I will go to the Cottage Hospital, and ask Mrs.
Francis if we can have their old cab; and if so, I will bring it to the
door at once. Ollie ought to be well wrapped up. Have him ready, for we
shall not be able to keep the neighbours out much longer. And don't ask
Ruth any questions as yet; let her tell you of herself. Don't let Mrs.
Short get at her, Trulock," added Mr. Cloudesley with a smile.
"No fear of that, sir," replied Trulock grimly.
Mr. Cloudesley found that the aged cab which was maintained at the
little hospital in High Fairford was fortunately at home, and so
without loss of time the two Garlands were carried off to Lady Mabel's
Rest. The crowd seemed rather disappointed when the children appeared
at the door, apparently uninjured; but the truth was now be coming
generally known, and there was great excitement in the town. One woman
was heard by Mr. Cloudesley to say with great solemnity,—
"And I bought a loaf from her only a week ago—think of that now, and
there she lies dead now!"
Mr. Cloudesley failed to see how the purchase of that particular loaf
affected the matter one way or the other, but he was very glad that he
had not allowed his pretty May to enter the house.