THE ADRIANS AT HOME.
The home of Ruth Adrian was not altogether a happy one, and yet her
father and mother idolized her, and were both very worthy and lovable
people.
Mr. Adrian was a kind-hearted old gentleman, who had made enough in
trade to enable him to retire, and live modestly in a sixty pound a
year house, keep two servants, and go out of town for a month once a
year. He had been out of business some years, and was prepared to pass
the rest of his life quietly with the _Times_ newspaper, half-price
after four o’clock, and the books of a non-fictional character which he
borrowed from the local circulating library.
Perhaps ‘non-fictional’ is hardly the word to apply, for Mr. Adrian’s
favourite literature was travel and exploration, and travellers and
explorers of all ages and all times, more especially of modern times,
have found fiction a by no means to be despised element in their
veracious and soul-stirring narratives.
Mr. Adrian had had but one romance in his life. He had fallen in love
with a beautiful girl, and fancied once that his passion was returned.
He woke from his dream to find his lady-love the affianced wife of a
successful rival, a country gentleman named Heritage. He had got over
the blow and found another wife. Having devoted his youth and manhood
to commerce, he had never wandered during his short holidays further
than the coasts of his native isle. In his old age, when he had the
leisure, he had not the inclination. He had become wedded to a certain
routine of life; he liked English food and English habits, and was
content to read all about foreign countries in the letters of ‘Our own
Correspondent.’
Europe, even in literature, however, had no great attraction for John
Adrian. He loved to lose himself in virgin forests and jungles, to sup
with savages, and dance war-dances with the warriors of the Far West.
He was at home in the South Sea Islands, and familiar with Central
Africa. He could tell you more about the manners and customs of the
Aztecs and the Bosjesmans than he could about the peculiarities of his
next-door neighbour; and he had the most sublime faith in the perfect
veracity of the thousand-and-one books of travel which he passed his
leisure in devouring.
Mrs. Adrian, on the contrary, was eminently practical. A good-hearted,
loving wife, and a fond and devoted mother, she was yet, at times, a
sore trial both to her husband and daughter.
Mrs. Adrian was eccentric, and prided herself upon her outspokenness;
further, Mrs. Adrian, in spite of much real nobility of nature, was
mean in small things. Once a busy housewife, seeing to everything
herself, and trotting about her house from morning to night, she had of
late years grown rapidly stout, and at last arrived at a state of
corpulence which, in conjunction with shortness of breath, compelled
her to sit still and let Ruth superintend the domestic arrangements. It
was her infirmity of body, doubtless, which gradually developed an
infirmity of temper. Mrs. Adrian in her young days had been inclined to
speak her mind and find fault. Now that she had nothing else to do, the
practice had grown on her, and she was, at times, what Mr. Adrian,
putting it very mildly, called ‘exceedingly trying.’
She would have gone through any discomfort, she would have sacrificed
any pleasure, really to promote the happiness of those she loved; and
yet she found her principal occupation in grumbling at what they did,
and rendering them occasionally as uncomfortable as she could.
Mrs. Adrian looked with anything but an approving eye on Ruth’s
missionary work. In her plain-spoken way she shot many little arrows at
her daughter which went home.
One evening after tea the Adrians were seated round the table. Mr.
Adrian was deep in the marvellous adventures of a gentleman who had
spent a year in Patagonia, and Mrs. Adrian was knitting.
Ruth sat gazing in the fire. For a wonder, she was doing nothing. Both
her mother and father had noticed a change in her for some time past.
Mrs. Adrian, looking up from her knitting, and noticing the far-away
look on her daughter’s face, spoke her mind on the subject.
‘What’s the matter with you, Ruth? Why don’t you do something instead
of sitting mumchancing there, staring at the fire as if you expected to
see somebody walk out of it? I hope you’re not going to sit like that
long. It gives me the creeps.’
Ruth coloured, and picked up the work which had fallen into her lap.
‘I beg your pardon, mother dear,’ she said softly; ‘I was thinking.’
‘Well, my dear, I could see that; but you can think without looking
like a death’s head at an evening party. It’s my idea you’ve something
on your mind. What do you think, John?’
‘Eh, my dear? What do you say?’ asked Mr. Adrian, looking up from his
book.
‘I said, if you’d leave those blessed Paddygonians you’re always
talking about——’
Patagonians, my dear.’
‘Oh, bother!—Pat and Paddy, it’s the same thing. If you’d leave them
and look at your own flesh and blood, you’d be doing your duty as a
father better——’
‘What’s the matter now, my dear?’
‘Matter? Why, you oughtn’t to ask. Look at your daughter—she’s thin,
she’s pale, she’s listless. It’s my opinion she’s killing herself over
this mission work, as she calls it—worrying herself about a pack of
ungrateful varmints that would take a track from her with one hand and
pick her pocket with the other.’
Ruth could never convince her mother that her missionary labours did
not consist in giving tracts. The old lady would recognize no other
process of visiting the poor.
‘Mother,’ she said gently, ‘you wrong my poor friends very much.’
‘That’s right, Ruth, prefer ragged ragamuffins to your mother. If
that’s your religion, I’m sorry for you. If you’ve got a tract on
honouring your father and mother, I’d recommend you to read it. Wrong
your friends, indeed! What are they? A grateful lot, I dare say. Give
you all they’ve got, my dear, wouldn’t they? Well, as all they’ve got
generally is a fever and a few specimens of natural history, I dare say
they would.’
Ruth coloured, and looked pained.
‘Don’t tease the girl so, Mary,’ said Mr. Adrian, looking up from his
book. ‘She isn’t well, and you worry her.’
Ruth cast a grateful look at her father, and then crossed the room,
and, stooping down over her mother, stopped the sharp retort that was
rising to her lips with a kiss.
Mr. Adrian took advantage of the pause.
‘Just listen to this. It’s really very wonderful. Fancy, the
Patagonians always sleep with their mouths open. The Rev. Mr. Jones
ascertained it for a fact, and he gives the following interesting
description of it.’
‘Don’t, John, for goodness’ sake!’ exclaimed Mrs. Adrian, freeing
herself from Ruth’s embrace. ‘Have your Patagonians, and welcome, but
don’t bother me with them. All I can say is, if the Rev. Mr. Jones went
all the way to Patagonia to see the natives keep their mouths open,
he’d have done more good by stopping in Whitechapel and teaching the
natives there to keep their mouths shut.’
‘My dear,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘if you are so very
caustic, I shall have to collect your observations and publish them.’
‘Oh, I know what I say is ridiculous in your eyes, John. If I was a
Patagonian woman, with a ring through my nose, you’d listen fast
enough, I dare say, though I did talk in an outlandish language.’
‘The Patagonian women, my dear Mary, do not wear rings through their
noses, Mr. Jones, who lived among them——’
‘More shame for him! I dare say he left his wife and children to the
parish.’
Mr. Adrian was fairly roused on his favourite subject. He rushed with
ardour to the defence of the Rev. Mr. Jones and the ladies of
Patagonia.
Mrs. Adrian replied with all the homely sarcasm of which she was
mistress.
Ruth, who knew of old that the duel would probably rage till
supper-time, or till Mr. Adrian, exhausted, resigned the Patagonians to
their fate, and sought refuge in the _Times_’ City article—a neutral
ground, which Mrs. Adrian allowed him to enjoy in peace—was about to
creep out and have a quiet half-hour in her little room by herself,
when the servant entered with an announcement that a ‘young person and
a dawg’ were at the door, asking for Miss Ruth.
Ruth started up, and her cheeks went a burning crimson. It was Gertie
come to warn her that Marston was in danger. What should she do?
She stammered something, and was about to leave the room and go out to
Gertie, when Mrs. Adrian stopped her.
‘Ruth!’
‘Yes, mother.’
‘If it’s _one_ of those horrid people you visit, don’t let her come in.
We don’t want fevers here.’
‘Oh, mother, there’s no fear of that. It’s little Gertie Heckett.’
‘What, the model child of Seven Dials? Take your father’s overcoat out
of the hall at once.’
‘Mother!’ exclaimed Ruth, reddening, ‘how cruel you are! I shall bring
her in, and you shall see her.’
‘I shall have to sprinkle the room with camphor if you do. I expect we
shall all be murdered in our beds; that’ll be the end of your
encouraging all these bad characters.’
Ruth was out of the room and in the hall before her mother could finish
the sentence.
Gertie, shamefaced, trembling, and red-eyed, stood in the hall; Lion
was close by her side, motionless as a statue. He wagged his tail as
Ruth came towards him, but he never barked. He was a well-bred dog, and
knew how to behave in a lady’s house.
Ruth stooped down and kissed the poor trembling little one, and tried
to put her at her ease. All was so new and strange to her, and the
excitement of the last two hours had been so great, that Gertie was
quite unnerved. She attempted to speak, and then the pent-up emotion
found an outlet. Sobbing hysterically, she fell on her knees and asked
Ruth to protect her.
Ruth was deeply moved herself; the genuine grief of the child and her
quick sobs told her that Gertie had gone through much that evening.
‘There, there, don’t be afraid, Gertie,’ she said, wiping away the
little one’s tears and patting Lion’s head gently. ‘Lion and I will
take care of you, won’t we, Lion?’ For the moment, in her sympathy with
the child, she had forgotten herself; but it was only for a moment.
Looking round nervously at the half-open sitting-room door, she
whispered to the child, ‘Have you heard anything about _him?_
‘Yes, miss, I have.’
Between her sobs, and in a low voice, Gertie told her little story,
never stopping till she had explained how her grandfather had
threatened her life, and how she would never dare to go back again.
The child felt, even as she spoke, that she was playing the
traitor—that she was revealing a secret which might bring harm to him
who had brought her up and fed her, and who was the only relative she
had in the world.
She was shrewd enough to see all this, and when her tale was done she
looked up beseechingly in the face of her protectress.
‘I’ve done this for your sake, miss,’ she said; ‘but you won’t let any
harm come to grandfather through what I’ve told you, will you?’
‘No, Gertie, I won’t; I promise you. And now you must come in and speak
to my father and mother, and we must see what ean be done with you.
Come along; don’t be frightened.’
Ruth took her by the hand.
‘Please may Lion come too?’ asked Gertie, laying her hand on the dog’s
head, as though loth to leave him for a minute.
‘Certainly, my dear! Come along, Lion.’
When Ruth entered the sitting-room, leading Gertie, and followed by the
huge mastiff, Mrs. Adrian gave a little scream.
‘Good gracious, Ruth!’ she cried, ‘what will you bring into the house
next?’
‘Don’t be frightened, mother. Lion’s very gentle. Lie down, Lion!
Gertie nodded to Lion, as much as to say he might obey Miss Adrian. At
his little mistress’s signal he sank down on his haunches, and, with
his ears up and his eyes open, waited for further orders. What he
thought of the proceedings it is impossible to say; but he had
evidently made up his mind that Gertie was among friends, for he didn’t
even growl when Mrs. Adrian called him a ferocious-looking beast, and
horrified Gertie by asking how many people he usually ate at a meal.
With sundry reservations, Ruth told Gertie’s story for her, and then
she begged that for the present, at least, she might be allowed to
offer the child the shelter of their roof.
Mr. Adrian’s kind heart went out to the poor little child who had
remained so simple and so gentle amid such surroundings, and he was as
interested in her as though she had been a young Patagonian or a small
South Sea Islander. He gave his consent directly.
Mrs. Adrian was not so easily mollified. She was sure that it was a
plot, that robbers would come in the night, and that Gertie was to get
up and let them in. Then she insisted that the child had various
infectious complaints. But at last, having exhausted her objections,
and made out fully to her own satisfaction that she was being turned
out of house and home by a juvenile malefactor and a bloodthirsty
mastiff, she gave her consent, and, having given it, was condescending
enough to acknowledge privately to her daughter later on that Gertie
was an interesting little thing, and much to be pitied.
That night Gertie slept with Ruth, and Lion, with much coaxing, was
persuaded to accept the hospitable offer of the mat outside the door.
To Gertie all was new and strange, and the momentous events of the
evening had not been without a disturbing influence on her mind; but
Gertie was a child, and soon fell asleep.
Happy childhood, when nothing that happens can banish sweet sleep from
our eyelids! How many of us, grown to man’s estate, would give all that
such an estate confers upon us for the privilege of closing our eyes
and forgetting as easily and as quickly as Gertie Heckett forgot all
that happened to her during the most eventful day in her little life!