"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.