RALPH'S CHRISTMAS ROSES BLOOM AT LAST.
A BRIGHT little fire burned that evening in Ralph Trulock's parlour,
and at one side of it sat Ralph, in the easiest chair the house
contained (and, with the help of pillows, Ruth had made him very snug,
though the chair was by nature angular and uncompromising). Opposite
him, in a low wooden chair, sat Ruth, her small fingers plying her
knitting-needles with great zeal, while her eyes rested fondly on
Ollie, who was stretched at lazy length upon the little rug between
the other two, reading a book lent him by Miss Jones. Ollie lay face
downward, his round chin propped up on his two hands, and the firelight
playing upon his dark hair and bright face, made him "quite a picture,"
as Ruth privately told herself. Oh, if Ollie could always have such a
fire as that to bask before! For the child loved warmth like a little
cat.
"Ruth, do you remember what you said to me yesterday about getting
work?" said Ralph.
Ruth started and blushed, half afraid that he had discovered what was
in her thoughts at the moment.
"Oh yes," she said hurriedly; "do you think people would be afraid of
the measles now?"
"No, I don't suppose they would. But, Ruth, I don't want you to work
for Price's any more. I want you and Ollie to stay here with me."
"Always?" exclaimed Ollie, turning over on his back suddenly, and
gazing up at the speaker. "Oh, Mr. Trulock! Never go back to Mrs.
Cricklade again! That would be so lovely!"
Ollie did not know, even yet, that Mrs. Cricklade was dead. He had not
been told at the time because he was still weak, and Ruth had shrunk
from the subject afterwards.
"Mr. Trulock," said Ruth, "you are good—too good. You would only have
to pinch yourself for us: it could not be. Ollie, don't say any more,
dear."
"Listen to me, Ruth," said Ralph earnestly. "You think I am very poor,
and I don't wonder at that, because I have given you good reason to
think so. But I am not really poor. I have as much to live on as any
one else in the Rest: as much as Mrs. Short, or Mrs. Archer, and you
know she has six children."
Ollie gave a quick look round the room, mentally contrasting it with
Miss Jones's and Mrs. Short's parlour; but Ruth shook her head and
answered,—
"You told me once, you know, that there was a claim upon your money. I
remember it, because it was what father used to say when people told
him he ought to send me to a better school."
"Yes, I told you so, and I thought so at the time. But I was wrong,
Ruth. I was too proud to accept a kindness, but I have made up my
mind to accept it, and to spend my money in making us all happy and
comfortable. You shall keep house for me, my dear, and I can teach you
in the evenings,—I'm a fair scholar in a plain way. And Ollie shall go
to a good school, and get a good education."
"Oh! Oh, Mr. Trulock! if I were only sure that you would not be making
yourself poor for us."
"I shall be richer, Ruthie, than I ever thought to be, for I shall have
a daughter and a—"
He stopped short. He could not say the word "son." Poor lost Fred!
"You mean me," said Ollie. "But, Mr. Trulock, we ought to be called
your grandchildren," he added after a little reflection. "We're too
little to be your children, don't you think? Ruthie, what makes you
cry? I think it is too good to be true. You know how cold it is at Mrs.
Cricklade's, and she is very often cross too! She hit you often, I know
she did. Oh, Ruthie, do say you will stay here. It can't be wrong—is
it, Mr. Trulock?"
"It would be wrong and unkind to leave me," replied Ralph quickly.
"Oh, I am only too glad to stay—you know that," Ruth cried, springing
up and running to his side. "I only feared—"
"Have no fears, my dear child. We shall be very comfortable, and I hope
very happy too. I thank God for my two dear children."
So the question was settled, and the little Garlands stayed with Ralph.
Ollie had a holiday, as we know, but he was not allowed to be idle, for
Ruth found employment for him. She set to work, with a charwoman to
assist, to clean the house from top to bottom, and Ollie was as busy as
any one. What a polishing and brightening that house got, to be sure!
Ralph bought a little additional furniture too; and altogether his
abode quite lost the poverty-stricken air which had so distressed May
Cloudesley.
Christmas Eve came round again, and Mr. and Mrs. Cloudesley betook
themselves to Lady Mabel's Rest, to pay a short visit to each house.
May had persuaded her mother to send her a great hamper of apples,
nuts, pears, gingerbread, and jam tarts, that she might have little
presents for the children, for she knew them all now, and loved nothing
better than giving them pleasure. She had some small gift for every
one, mostly made by her own hands, and that intended for Mrs. Short was
a pretty woollen mat to ornament her table. Mrs. Short liked the mat
better than the flowers of last year, but she was intensely curious to
know what Mrs. Cloudesley was taking next door, to Mr. Trulock and the
Garlands, and May was quite determined that she should not find out.
Mrs. Short had a long list of grievances to mourn over, and was not
nearly so alert and lively as she had been on that day last year. A
whole year of eating more than enough for two had told upon her.
"Mr. Trulock never was much of a neighbour," she said, "as you know,
Mrs. Cloudesley; but when he was tramping the country from morning till
night, and never had a bit or sup in his house that a proper-minded
person would care to eat, it did not matter so much. But now, ma'am,
things is very different, and they set down to as good meals in a
plainish way as any one could desire, and Ruth is learning cooking
from Miss Jones, and she's learned her to make coffee, and cakes, and
things tossed up in the frying-pan—and I must say the smell is most
tempting—and it's all one gets of them. And if I want anything off
the common, I may just turn to and cook it, which gets to tire one,
somehow; but never once, ma'am, has they said, 'Mrs. Short, will you
step in to tea?' and I that nussed Trulock when every one else forsook
him!"
"You should have a servant, Mrs. Short," said May, for want of
something to say. "She would be company for you."
"Gels eat so much," said Mrs. Short pensively. "I've a good appetite,
ma'am: I re'lly don't see how I could afford a gel. When I say a good
appetite, I don't mean a appetite as can eat anything, but if I gets
what I like I can pick a good little bit; but anything in the way, say
of a sweetbread, now, or mutton kidneys, or a Yorkshire 'Am, or a veal
pie or the like,—which I re'lly require such food, ma'am,—they cost a
deal, and no common gel can be expected to cook 'em. I can't afford a
gel, and that's the truth."
"Oh, Mrs. Short, you are no worse off than your neighbours, you know."
"Well, I don't know how they manage," said Mrs. Short thoughtfully.
"I think," said silent Mr. Cloudesley suddenly, "that by thinking a
little of other people, and not spending every penny they have upon
themselves alone, they seem to get more comfort out of this life even,
to say nothing of a life beyond this. Come, May, it is getting late."
Mrs. Short was offended, and showed them to the door in silence. Her
"Good-afternoon, ma'am," was the stiffest thing imaginable.
"That poor woman! She always depresses me, Gilbert. Why did you not say
more to her? It is so very sad."
"There was no use in saying more, my dear. One can't say more than one
sharp thing, and anything less sharp would not get through the poor
thing's coating of fat. Now, perhaps that small harpoon may stick."
The door of Ralph's house was opened by Ollie whose cheeks were crimson
with excitement.
"Please come into the parlour, ma'am, and I'll tell them. We're all in
the kitchen mixing the pudding."
"Ah, Ollie! Let me go into the kitchen and see the fun," said May.
"Ruth won't mind."
"Indeed she won't mind," said Ollie. "Come along. Will you come, sir?
You've no idea, ma'am, how many things have to go in a pudding, a real
English plum-pudding. We never saw one in France. Ruth wrote the list
and went to the shops, but when she came home, she had forgotten both
the suet and the nutmeg, and I had to run for them. Ruthie, here's Mrs.
Cloudesley, she wants to see the fun,—I suppose she means the pudding;
and Mr. Cloudesley came too."
May stood to look at the scene before her, with all the pleasure and
sympathy she so truly felt, looking out of her sweet eyes. Standing
before the fire with a cookery book in his hand, was Ralph Trulock; at
the table, mixing the various ingredients in a basin, was Ruth, her
hand in no state to be shaken. Her face was very grave. It was a great
undertaking. Ralph, on the contrary, looked amused and happy. What a
contrast to the man May had seen for the first time that day last year!
May helped to finish the mixing, and then to tie the pudding in a
cloth; and it was well she was there, as otherwise the due flouring of
the cloth would have been forgotten, and Ruth's pudding would not have
presented the handsome appearance it did present the next day. May had
brought Ollie some apples and Ruth a little book; but for Ralph she
produced a bunch of Christmas Roses, saying:
"I hardly think you want these now, Mr. Trulock?"
"Truly, madam, they grow by my own fireside now; and for great part my
thanks are due to you. You first told me how to grow them."
"I expect that's a parable," said Ollie, gravely. "Isn't it, Mr.
Trulock?"
"It is, Ollie."
"And we are the flowers?" said the boy with a nod of his curly head.
"You! You are a weed, Master Ollie!" cried May laughing; "And an ill
weed too. Don't you know the old saying that 'Ill weeds grow apace'?"
Mr. Cloudesley's sharp harpoon stuck fast, but the effect was not
exactly what he wished!
A day or two after Christmas, Ruth was running home from Miss Jones's
house, where she had been having a lesson in clear starching from that
notable lady, when she was surprised to hear Mrs. Short calling to her,
in very dulcet and amiable tones.
"Where are you, ma'am?" inquired Ruth, after looking round in vain.
"In my own kitching, Ruth, and the 'all door is open. You just step
here, I want a word with you."
"Oh dear!" thought Ruth, "And I can't venture to talk French to her,
like that saucy Ollie. What can she want?"
She found Mrs. Short sitting in a well-padded beehive chair before
the kitchen range. A basket at her feet contained various brushes,
saucers, and bits of rag, and her face beamed with complacency and
self-satisfaction.
"Good-day, Ruth Golong," said she. "I've been thinking how kind Miss
Jones is, teaching you so much and having you there so constant; and I
feel I ought to help both you and her a bit."
"Yes, ma'am," said Ruth doubtfully.
"Yes, indeed, Ruth; which I am a very notable woman, my dear, and can
teach you even better than Miss Jones can, though the gentry do think
such a heap of her. My Matthew, that's dead and gone, poor fellow, used
to say that for cleanly ways and housekeeping generally, there was not
a woman to equal his wife in England; and if not in England, where?
For it's not to be thought that amongst poor benighted furriners and
sich,—black, some of 'em, I'm told, and copper-coloured others,—would
be as nice in them respects as a English woman. So I've made up my mind
as it's selfish in me to keep all that knowledge locked up in my own
buzzom, and take it, as one may say, out of the world with me when the
time comes as I must leave all my little comforts and go to a better
place, and therefore I'm going to teach you, Ruth Golong. And as it's
best to begin at the beginning, we'll begin by learning to black up
the kitching range. I've everything ready; so now, my dear, you begin.
Here's a rag, rub the rust off first with ile—this bottle's the ile."
"But, ma'am," said Ruth, "I have learned to do all this, and my dinner
is in the oven, and no one is there to look to it; for Mr. Trulock and
Ollie are gone for a walk."
"Well, you know, Ruth, there's the comfort of a oven, your dinner is
a-cooking all the same and will never miss you. Here, child, take the
rag."
Ruth, unwillingly enough, took the proffered rag and removed the rust
as directed. She was rather vexed, but being shy could think of no way
of escape.
"Now here's the blacklead, child, and this is the brush. Rub it on
well, dear—oh, that won't do at all—rub hard—harder—quick now, up and
down the bar. That's more like it. Good, my dear!"
In this manner did the good creature keep her pupil to the task until
the grate was polished to her liking, and Ruth in a glow with heat and
vexation.
"Now," said she, "that's not bad, my dear, for a beginning. A few more
lessons, and you'll black a grate with any one living, you will indeed.
Now there's a great art in lighting of a oven. Some folks will take an
hour or more to do it. Very disconvenient these here little ovens are,
as have a fire all to themselves. You take a shovel full of lighted
coal, my dear," etc., etc.
Again poor Ruth found herself unable to escape, the fire was lighted
under Mrs. Short's directions.
"That's enough for one day, my dear," said the old woman. "I'll call
you in again whenever I can make time to give you another lesson.
Good-day, Ruth Golong; you're a handy gel, and will do us credit yet."
Ruth escaped as fast as she could, and ran home, half angry, but more
than half amused. Mrs. Short rose from her chair and got her neatly
made veal pie from her cupboard.
"Sich a comfort," she murmured, "to get the grate done. Mrs.
Cloudesley's sure to hear of it. It will be nearly as good as having
a gel, and it's no more than good-natured to teach that poor orphian
to get a living, as that crusty old feller may turn her out to do for
herself any day."
Mrs. Cloudesley did hear of it, and so did Mr. Cloudesley; and what a
laugh May had at her husband about his "harpoon!"
For some time after this Ruth's life was rendered a burden to her by
the exactions of her "good-natered" neighbour; but at last she was
obliged to rebel, and told Mrs. Short that she had not time to do the
work of two houses. Mrs. Short characterized this as an act of the
basest ingratitude, and was never tired of telling any one who would
listen, how she tried to befriend that set-up-thing, Ruth Golong, and
how the gel turned upon her with langwich which was too violent to be
repeated!
In consequence of Ruth's vile ingratitude, it became plain to Mrs.
Short that she must do one of three things, none of which she entirely
liked. She might return to doing the work herself, which her rapidly
increasing size rendered both difficult and distasteful to her. Or she
might leave the work undone—cease to keep her place so beautifully
clean, and attend merely to her cooking; to do her justice, this idea
only suggested itself to be rejected. Or again, she might get a "gel."
This she would do, she decided, after much deliberation.
The next point was, to get a "gel" for as little wages as possible—for
none, if it could be managed. She therefore wrote to her son, offering
in the handsomest manner to take "his Mary Kate" off his hands,
educating her to be a notable woman like herself, and leaving to her
such sums as she should have saved before her death. But Mat Short was
very fond of his children, and they were not fond of their grandmother!
Moreover Mat did not believe in the savings, for as he said to his
wife, "Mother'd eat five hundred a year if she had it!" This obliging
offer was declined. Mary Kate howled from the moment she heard her
grandmother's letter read until the reply was safely posted. Then, and
not till then, did Mrs. Short bethink herself of her long-lost daughter.
Now, though she always spoke of Jane as lost, Jane might more properly
be said to be merely mislaid. Mrs. Short did not know where she was,
simply because she had never inquired! Jane had offended her mother
while very young, by going out as a servant, owing to what Mrs. Short
called "competition of temper" at home. Then she had married, and Mrs.
Short, then a widow, had cast her off: people were unkind enough to say
that she feared lest Jane might expect a little help occasionally. Now,
however, the case was different, and Mrs. Short caused a little quiet
inquiry to be made about Jane, and discovered that she was a widow,
with one son, who was at sea. Mrs. Short piously declared that it was
"quite a Prominence," and forthwith wrote to Jane whose name, by way of
a joke, was Mrs. Long,—to invite her to be a comfort to her mother's
declining years.
Mrs. Long, who was again in service, thought she might as well try, in
spite of the "competition" I have mentioned; or perhaps she knew that
her temper had improved since the last competition, and wished to try
again. At all events, she came, and great was Ollie's amusement at the
queer contrast presented by Mrs. Long and Mrs. Short when he first saw
them, on their way to church together, on the first Sunday after Mrs.
Long's arrival. Mrs. Short, broader than she was long, waddling up the
hill in her handsome tartan shawl, the tartan of some clan which was
addicted to colour, and did not mind being seen a good way off. Mrs.
Long, a very tall, thin woman, with an expression of meek obstinacy in
her face, stalking beside her mother in a shabby, rusty black cloak,
and a bonnet which looked as if she had accidentally sat down upon it.
But before long (I don't mean that for a pun) Mrs. Short found that she
had made a great mistake, and, what was worse, one that could not be
un-made. Jane's temper had quite the best of the competition now! She
did not scold or storm, she seldom even answered again; but she smiled
sourly when her affectionate mother tried to feed her upon bacon and
cabbage, while she herself dined upon various costly delicacies. After
a brief struggle, Jane had her own way, and her full share of such good
things as were going. But these were not as plenty as of old.
Mrs. Long remarked that it was her mother's plain duty to save a
certain sum weekly, to form a little fortune for her when she should be
again left homeless by the old woman's death. She not only pointed out
this duty, but she saw that it was done. She made the old woman fairly
comfortable, however, and nursed her carefully when she required it;
but she ruled her completely, and altogether things were not to Mrs.
Short's mind, and she sometimes mournfully wished that she had "got a
gel."
"But there," she said, "that's me all over; I couldn't get Jane out of
my head, thinking she might be actially in want, and I in comfort; I'm
too good-natured, that's the truth, and Jane don't take after me!"
"That's the Long and the Short of it!" As saucy Ollie Garland remarked
when he heard this lament.