"THIS IS THE MAN ALL TATTERED AND TORN."
"WILL you please to tell me what you want?" said Mrs. Curr one morning,
as she opened the door to a young man in rather disreputable garments,
but with the unmistakable look of a sailor both about him and them.
He stared at her as at an unexpected face; then he said,—
"Why, I thought my—at least Mrs. Moo lived here."
"Well, young man," replied Mrs. Curr, "if I was to say she never did
live here, it would be a lie; likewise, one and the same thing if I was
to say she lived here now, which she doesn't, nor will, except she turn
single again, and that ain't likely."
The stranger frowned. "What do you mean?" said he. "Mrs. Moo turn
single again? Why, she's a widow, and has been one for years."
"Humbly begging your pardings," replied Mrs. Curr in her most dignified
manner; "she's now neither a widder nor yet Mrs. Moo. Come, it ain't
no use beatin' about like this; tell me who you are as wants her, and
maybe I'll tell you who she is, and where."
The stranger had removed his cap, and was looking the old woman full in
the face. She returned his gaze with a puzzled expression in her eyes,
and as she finished her sentence, she cleared her throat in her most
emphatic and peculiar manner. No sooner, however, had she done this,
than the young man sprang a step forward, and laid his hand on her arm,
saying—
"Why, Mrs. Curr, it's you after all! I didn't know you till you made
that noise, for all the world like the scraping of a boat's keel on the
shore. Don't you know me? I'm Frank Moo!"
"Frank Moo! No, really!" cried the old woman. "To think of your gettin'
home at last after bein' so long away. Come in, come and sit down, if
you can spare a quarter of an hour; you ought to hear what's happened
afore you goes to them as it's happened to."
"And what an age it is since I saw you!" said Frank, taking a seat.
"Why, I haven't set eyes on you for years and years. Ah, talk of things
happening! I've seen a peck of trouble since we met last. I married a
girl down in Devon, and she only lived a year. Poor Susie! Ah, you say
mother has told you about it. She didn't like the match because she was
a Catholic, but I was in love, and of course mother couldn't prevent
it."
"Susie, and a Catholic?" questioned Mrs. Curr, to whom Nan had
mentioned her sister, and her sister's marriage, though without giving
the name of Susie's husband.
"It were down in Devon, as you say, you met her, Frank?" said the old
woman. "Were she the youngest niece of an old priest?"
"Yes; how come you to know that?" asked Frank in his turn. "But, of
course, you and my mother are friends, and you may have heard it from
her. And now tell me what's come to mother, for bein' at sea, no letter
has reached me, and I haven't heard any news."
"Well," replied Mrs. Curr, "your mother has married John Drinkrow, of
'the House that Jack built,' and she seems a-gettin' on all right. If
you remember, Frank, I used to be housekeeper there, but one day I up
and spoke to Mr. Tom about something as had angered me, and he talked
his father into turning me off—out of spite, you know."
"He always was a spiteful fellow," said Frank. "But what's become of
t'other chap—the younger brother—they called him Ratcliffe, I think?"
"Ah, poor boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Curr. "He offended his father and got
sent about his business, which his father won't have nothin' more to
say to him; no, nor his brother won't neither."
"You don't say so!" cried Frank. "What a shame, to be sure! Ah, many
and many's the spree we've had together when we were both boys, before
I went to sea. How I'd like to see him again!"
"He ain't in London," said Mrs. Curr, suddenly remembering that she
must be reserved on the subject of Ratcliffe's whereabouts; "so your
seein' him ain't possible. But look here, my lad; you surely ain't
a-goin' to your mother in them old clothes, are you? Why, you might be
a beggar instead of a well-to-do sailor. You're all tattered and torn.
What's come to you?"
Frank's eyes dropped for a moment.
"Ah, Mrs. Curr," said he, "all my trouble hasn't cured me of my folly
yet. When I came ashore last night, I somehow got among a bad set, and
I drank too much, and when I woke up in the morning, I found I'd been
robbed of my good clothes as I'd brought with me, and these old ones as
I had on were torn and spoilt. The money too that I'd been fool enough
to leave in my pockets was all gone; but happily most of my earnings
was sewn up in a bag and hung by a string round my neck under my shirt,
and they didn't find that. Still, I've lost more than I need have
done—if I hadn't been so foolish."
"Which I quite agrees with you," said Mrs. Curr. "But now sit down a
moment longer, and let me get a needle and thread, and sew up some of
these big rents. Then you'll be a little more respectabler to go to
your mother, and see your new father."
So saying, the good woman got out her workbox, and was just sitting
down to mend Frank's coat, when little Maida toddled into the room,
from the garden where she had been playing. Her checks were flushed,
her golden curls fell over her brow, while her innocent blue eyes
peeped through them wonderingly at the stranger.
Frank looked round. "Oh you little darling!" he exclaimed. "You sweet,
pretty little pet! Who are you?" And he caught the child, took her on
his knee, and kissed the round pink cheeks.
"Who is she, Mrs. Curr?" he asked. "She's the dearest little girl I
ever saw; she must be about the age my baby boy would have been had he
lived. Look up, little one! Bless me, why how like she is to what my
wife was. The same golden hair and sweet blue eyes, only this little
one's eyebrows and lashes are darker; how very strange!" And glancing
at Mrs. Curr's face, he saw an expression there which made him lay his
hand on her arm and say, "Tell me, who is this child? Surely there is
no harm in my knowing. If it's a secret, I promise not to tell."
"Well!" sighed Mrs. Curr. "If you must know, I suppose you must; she's
Nancy's child—Nancy bein' sister to your wife that's gone. Nancy
married your old friend Ratcliffe Drinkrow, but John Drinkrow (that's
the father, as you know) hasn't heard nothink about it, so don't you
let it out, whatever you do. As for Mr. Ratcliffe, he's down in Devon
for his health, which it's consumption he's in, I'm certain sure; and
his wife she's with him; and I'm a-takin' care of their little one
while they're away. And Frank, here's your coat, which the biggest of
the slits is cobbled up, and now you'd better go and see your mother.
You know your way to 'the House that Jack built' without my tellin' of
you. It's that as began you in your wild ways, and 'twas there you got
to know Mr. Ratcliffe."
"Yes, I know my way," replied Frank; "good-bye, Mrs. Curr, and thank
you. Good-bye, little pet!" And once more the rough sailor stooped and
kissed the child.
As Mrs. Curr watched him away from the door, the postman came up and
handed in a letter. It was from Nancy, and the old woman hastily
retreated into the house, and putting on her spectacles, commenced
reading the letter, which began thus—
"DEAR MRS. CURR,—I have been putting off writing to you, hoping to have
better news to give; but I think now it is no use waiting any longer.
My husband gets worse every day, and his spirits are no better. He
hardly talks at all, and he groans and moans in his sleep fit to break
one's heart. Uncle is very kind, and so is his servant boy, James
Cocks, but all the kindness in the world cannot, I feel sure, save
Ratcliffe's life.
"He does not grumble or complain, and the only wish he has expressed
since he came down here is to see our little one. Sometimes I think if
Maida were here, her pretty ways might cheer up her father a little
bit."
* * * * *
"Here I had to stop writing, for at that moment uncle came in, saying
that he had heard my husband sighing to himself as he lay in a half
doze,—
"'Ah, my little one, I want you Maida dear, come, come!'
"And uncle said—oh! so kindly—'Nancy dear, if Ratcliffe wants the
child, why not send for her? Mrs. Curr would bring her, and we'll
manage somehow about a room; and listen, Nancy, I will bear the
expenses of the journey.'
"So then, when I had thanked him, I said, 'Well, uncle, I am writing
now to Mrs. Curr; am I to say this to her?' and he replied, 'Yes, do!'
So, dear Mrs. Curr, come as soon as you can, for every day makes a
difference now to my dear husband, and somehow I cannot help feeling as
if God would make your coming with our darling a blessing to us all."
A few more lines ended the letter, and Mrs. Curr laid it down, and,
hiding her face in her hands, indulged in a hearty fit of sobbing. Then
she roused herself, taking herself to task as if she had been another
person: "Now, Jemima," she said, "don't go for to be a donkey; your
duty's plain, and you must get ready and go to-morrow, you and the
little one. And since there's heaps upon heaps to do, 'tain't no use in
wastin' time weeping!"
Wiping her eyes, Mrs. Curr first set about writing a letter to Nancy,
saying that she would start with Maida the next morning. The letter was
a wonderful production as regarded composition, spelling, and writing,
but it carried with it such hearty sympathy and love as alone would
ensure it a welcome.
By that evening, Mrs. Curr and her little charge were ready for their
morrow's journey, and when the morning came they set off, and after a
long railway ride, which was pure enjoyment to Maida, if not to Mrs.
Curr, they arrived safely at their destination, where they received a
hearty welcome.