RALPH TRULOCK'S CHRISTMAS ROSES

BY

ANNETTE LYSTER

Author of

"The Boy who never lost a Chance," etc.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. LADY MABEL'S REST

II. RALPH TRULOCK'S STORY

III. MAY CLOUDESLEY SPEAKS HER MIND

IV. A SMALL SEAMSTRESS

V. RALPH'S DINNER PARTY

VI. HOW THE CHRISTMAS ROSES BEGAN TO TAKE ROOT

VII. RALPH'S NURSE

VIII. MRS. CRICKLADE

IX. RALPH'S LETTER

X. RALPH'S CHRISTMAS ROSES BLOOM AT LAST

XI. MONSIEUR OLIVER

CHAPTER I.

LADY MABEL'S REST.

IN one of the midland counties of England, there is a village of considerable size; of such size indeed that the inhabitants sometimes call it a town; but it must be confessed that, in spite of this, it is straggling of aspect. I think myself that it is a mistake to call it a town, because as a village it is a large place, whereas, considered as a town, it is disappointing; but no doubt this is a matter of opinion. The name of the place is Fairford, and it is divided by a shallow stream into two parts, High and Low Fairford. It took its name from the existence of a ford, which but is not much used, as there has long been an excellent stone bridge over the river. None but the Low Fairford boys, on their way to school in High Fairford, ever use the ford now, but they seem to prefer it to this day.

High Fairford contains not only the school but the post-office, the market-place, shops, and several houses of respectable size and appearance, which all cluster round the church and parsonage. Then Low Fairford, to which you go by a street so steep that it is like the roof of a house, and across the little bridge at the foot of the hill,—is merely a straggling street of cottages, which stand farther and farther apart until they are lost altogether, and you reach the border of a great piece of wood, the remains of a very celebrated forest in which Robin Hood once carried on business in the very "taking" fashion peculiar to that class of hero.

In a large flat space, close to the forest, there are twelve pretty houses all in a row. They stand separate, each in a little garden, and a broad road sweeps all round them, bounded on one side by the low walls of the gardens, on the other by a high wall with two gates, one in front and one at the back. That into the forest is seldom opened, but the one which faces the village is open all day.

These twelve houses were built more than a hundred and fifty years ago, by a lady who owned all the land in those parts, and who was the last of her race and name. Hers had been a grand family, and though active enough in all the troubles of their times, they had contrived to keep their property together. But if the property did not diminish, the family did, and ended at last in one young orphan girl, Mabel Greatrex; whose name will outlive those of all the rest of her house. This young girl, being rich and fair, had no lack of suitors for her hand. But she was a long time before she met with one to her mind; so long that people had begun to say that she would never marry at all. But the right man came at last, and married she was, in the church of High Fairford; and the wedding party was coming gallantly down the hill and over the ford, on horseback, according to the fashion of the day, when the bridegroom's horse slipped on a stone in the water, grew frightened and restive, struggled out of the stream on the Low Fairford side, and

scoured away towards the forest. No one was alarmed, for Sir Henry was a gallant rider; but while they watched how he was bringing his horse under control again, they saw him carried under the branch of great tree, which swept him from the saddle and left him dead for his bride to find when she galloped up.

Mabel never married again, though she was still young. And when she had somewhat recovered the first shock of her grief, she caused these houses to be built on the spot which had been so fatal to her—and she called the place "Lady Mabel's Rest." It was built, said the legend over the gate, "To the glory of God and the good of His poor." There were six men and six women, with a warden to see after them, who had comfortable rooms over the principal gate; and Lady Mabel framed the rules herself, and secured to them many privileges before she passed away, leaving her great possessions to distant kindred who did not bear her name, but leaving (as she said in her will) "to her native place something by which to remember kindly the last of her race."

So wisely and so well had Lady Mabel done her work, that the machinery she set going is going on well to this day. The rector of the parish for the time being manages the affairs of the charity, and is well paid for so doing. The only conditions for election are, respectability, poverty, and being a native of Fairford; the most deserving person of those whose names are sent in is to have the preference. As a general rule the selection is wisely made, but an occasional mistake occurs once in a way, of course.

Two vacancies had just been filled up when my story opens: a man and a woman having been chosen to fill them. It happened that the two vacant houses stood together at the end of the row. The rector, who had been abroad with his delicate wife, had come home to arrange about the selection, and had then returned to the South of France, leaving his curate and his curate's wife to make acquaintance with the new-comers.

The curate was a young man, and this was the first time that he had been left in sole charge, so he was naturally anxious to do his best, and his sweet little bride was anxious to make every one as happy as she was herself. So, on Christmas Eve, this young couple betook themselves to Lady Mabel's Rest, to visit the ten families they already knew, and to see the two new inmates for the first time.

Mrs. Cloudesley had provided herself with a quantity of Christmas roses from the rectory garden, which she had made up into twelve nosegays, one for each family. "Let them be ever so proud," said she, "a few flowers cannot offend them."

Ten of the nosegays were disposed of when the pair knocked at the door of the last house but one, and awaited with some interest the appearance of Mrs. Short, of whom they knew nothing but the name, and the fact that she was a widow.

The door was opened after a short pause by a round little woman, with a round face, a round nose, a round mouth, and a pair of—no, her eyes were not round, because they were almost invisible, lost in the plumpness of her face. But she opened them as wide as she could when she saw her visitors; and then they completed the series of O's which composed her features. She wore a cherry-coloured merino dress, warm, and a snowy apron and cap: the latter with a cherry-coloured rosette on the top, the last round thing about her. She smiled and curtsied, and looked very picturesque, thought Mrs. Cloudesley.

"You are Mrs. Short, I think?" said that young lady, after waiting in vain for her husband to speak. He said afterwards that he thought she could manage it better than he could; and I daresay he was right.

"Yes, miss, I am; and will you walk in, miss? For it's bitter cold, surely; and though I haven't got my furniture settled quite to my mind yet, perhaps you and the young gentleman will excuse that."

"Oh, yes; we know you only came two days ago. This is Mr. Cloudesley, you know, and I am Mrs. Cloudesley; and we promised Mrs. Barton to call and see you as soon as we could."

The round woman burst into a fat, smothery laugh, as she answered,—

"A married lady, and me calling of you miss; but re'lly you do look so young, you must excuse it. Walk in, ma'am, and you, sir, if you'll be so good."

She opened the door of her little parlour as she spoke, and in they all walked. Mr. Cloudesley felt a little surprised at the furniture; for though many of the old inmates of the Rest were well off in that respect, it was not usual for a new-comer to possess such comforts as he saw here. A carpet covered the floor, a handsomely gilt clock stood on the chimneypiece, reflected in a mirror of some size; warm curtains hung over the window, a bright fender, thick rug,—everything, in fact, of the best; and also, it must be confessed, of the most hideous, so gaudy was the colour of each article, where colour was possible. A large, luxurious easy chair stood close to the fire, which burned brightly, and a small round table was drawn up beside it. The other chairs were of the common shape, and were covered with Berlin wool flowers which made Mrs. Cloudesley feel quite uncomfortable, they were so brilliant. Into the easy chair the fat lady sank, having first drawn forward two of the less comfortable ones for her guests.

Mrs. Cloudesley looked about for something to talk about; not a book was to be seen, not even a newspaper.

"You are making your sitting-room very comfortable," said she, looking round again.

"Ah, yes, indeed, ma'am; the furniture is very 'andsome, thanks be to 'evin. Yet it do make me sad-like to look at it—but there! That's me all over! As my poor Matthew, that's dead and buried, poor fellow, used to say of me. I'm too good-natured for my own 'appiness."

Mrs. Cloudesley, failing to see the connection between the furniture and the good-nature, looked inquiringly at the speaker.

"You know, miss,—leastways, ma'am, only it's ridiculous,—I'm a Fairford woman, of course, or I couldn't be here; but I married a Londoner, and never saw Fairford for thirty year! My 'usbin were a baker, and my son,—the only child I have, I may fairly say; for as to my daughter Jane, poor thing she's lost to me, and may be dead or may be alive, I know no more than if I was dead myself,—he's a baker, too, and has a very good shop—and of course I've lived with him and kep' his places beautiful. But there, young men is fools,—he goes and marries! And I haven't a word to say against her, a civil little body, and decent in her ways, but selfish, very selfish, poor Seliner is, and ever will be; a boy the first year, and a girl the next, and then a girl again, and then a boy again, and so on, and this year twins! No, miss,—ma'am, I mean,—the twins done it; the 'ouse is small, and when one twin ain't crying the other is, and I'm not so young as once I were, and I said I'd like a little rest and time to mind on my latter end—" (with a

glance at the curate, who was listening gravely), "before my time came to die. My good Matthew left me but little money, and that little is gone now; and, of course, he never thought I should have to leave my 'ome in my old age; but the furniture was mine, some he left me by will, and some I bought myself since he was took, and that's what I meant just now, miss—ma'am—I'm feared they'll miss it, though I left them everything I could do without—I'm that good-natured."

She smiled her fat smile, and closed her little twinkling eyes, as if the contemplation of her good-nature was too much for her. But if she had stated that her gorgeous purchases had been made with her son's money; that her right had only extended to taking furniture for two rooms; and had also described what she had left for the use of her son's family, adding that "Seliner" had said, "Let her take it all, if she will only go," perhaps the Cloudesleys might have opened their eyes with quite a different feeling. As it was, Mrs. Cloudesley felt a little puzzled.

"Do you care for reading?" she said, presently. "For we can lend you books, if you wish."

"Indeed, I'm no great reader, ma'am. I like to have a bit of work on 'and as will be a credit to me—them flower pieces are all my own, cross-stitch every bit of 'em; but I think I shall have no time for it now. By the time I get my places as nice as I like to have 'em, and my little meal cooked and ate, there'll be little time for idling."

"Well, but reading is not idling," said Gilbert Cloudesley.

"Ain't it, sir? Well, I don't know. A-settin' with a book in my 'and, doing nothing, I should be asleep in five minutes, sir, that's certing; even, as I said, if I had time."

"But you'll keep a girl, won't you?" asked the lady. "Miss Jones—your neighbour, you know,—she regularly trains girls for service, and so well that they always get good places when they leave her."

"Well, but you see, miss, I'm very pertic'ler, and gels is so careless and dirty, and breaks and eats so much; and I never could bear to be scolding; that's me all over, as my poor Matthew used to say. I'd rather do the work than be scolding for ever, as Miss Jones do. Besides, I like to do summut myself; I'm none of your idle ones, nor do I set up to be a fine lady."

"Miss Jones," said the curate, "says she would rather do the work herself, too; but, you see, it is a way in which she can be of use, and so she goes on with it."

"Of course, sir; and I'll think of it," said Mrs. Short smoothly. "Won't you read a little to me, sir, before you go?" she added, folding her fat hands and smiling encouragingly at him.

"Not to-day," he said, quietly; "it is late, and we must leave you now."

"And I have brought you these flowers, Mrs. Short—Christmas roses, you see. I am so fond of them. They come to tell us that we are never forgotten at any time of the year, and that summer will come again."

"Thank you, ma'am, I'm much obliged," Mrs. Short replied, taking the flowers and laying them on the table without a glance at their fair, fragile faces.

"I have a bunch for your neighbour, too, you see," Mrs. Cloudesley went on, seeing that she eyed the basket curiously.

Mrs. Short laughed. "For Ralph Trulock!" said she. "Flowers and he won't go well together. Poor Trulock! Such a cross-grained body! Are you going, ma'am? Well, I hope you'll come again some day. I'm greatly obliged for the visit,—and the posy," she added, after a moment's pause.

She opened the door for them, bidding them good-bye again with great cordiality. A poor lad had ventured into her little front garden, and seemed inclined to address them, but Mrs. Short retreated hastily, crying,—

"Oh, what a miserable-looking creetur! I must run in, ma'am, or the sight of him will spoil my appetite for my tea, I'm that good-natured."

The Cloudesleys looked at each other, the lady puzzled, the gentleman amused.

"A kind-hearted woman, May?"

"Yes, Gilbert," in a doubtful voice. "I dare say she is. Do give that boy sixpence, dear."

"No, Mrs. Cloudesley; that is an extravagant notion, quite unfit for a curate's wife. Besides, I will not encourage begging; but we'll see who he is. Very likely he wants work rather than charity."

A few words with the boy, and then they went on to the next house, and knocked at the door of Mr. Trulock's home. It was opened after a little while by a tall, stooping man with grey hair and a thin, grave face,—more than grave, indeed, for it was both stern and sad. He was decently dressed, but not warmly; and he looked cold, and not particularly glad to see them, little Mrs. Cloudesley thought, as she held on tight to her husband's arm, and gave it a little pinch, as much as to say, "You must speak this time."

"Mr. Trulock?" said the curate.

"That is my name, sir," said the tall man, in a sad, toneless voice, as if speaking were a trouble to him.

"I am Mr. Cloudesley, the curate of this parish; and this is my wife. We came to pay you a visit this Christmas Eve, that we may not be quite strangers when we meet to-morrow."

"Thank you, sir, and you, madam. If you will walk in,—but I have no place fit to bring a lady to."

Mr. Cloudesley was so struck with the unwilling air of this invitation, that he was about to say "some other day," and leave the place, when his wife surprised him by walking in. Something in the forlorn man touched little May's warm heart, and leaving her husband's side she entered the house quickly, saying:

"It is too cold to stand talking at the door."

The little parlour was in size and shape exactly the same as the one they had just left. But here there was no carpet, no curtain, no easy chair, and—worst of all—no fire. Four cane chairs and a small table formed the furniture.

"I was sitting in the kitchen, madam," said Mr. Trulock, looking at the bonnie, pleasant face of his little visitor, "and there is a fire there, though not a good one."

May followed him to the kitchen, which certainly was less cold than the parlour, and contained rather more furniture, though of the plainest and cheapest kind. A windsor chair, with arms, but no cushions, was drawn up close to the struggling fire, and in this Mr. Trulock placed the lady, and then slowly brought forward a seat for Mr. Cloudesley, and another for himself.

"You will want a nice tidy girl to keep you comfortable," said May. "Miss Jones will find you one—she knows all the nice girls in the place."

"Thank you, madam, but I want no girl. It is my wish to do without one, if I can at all."

"You have some relative who will live with you, then? No! Surely you will not live quite alone."

"Madam, I must be alone," he said sadly. "A servant would make no difference."

Then he seemed to repent having said so much, and May could get no more out of him. He was civil enough, but only answered, "Yes, madam," or, "No, madam," except that he admitted that he was fond of reading, and they promised to lend him books.

Then May took out the last of her twelve nosegays.

"Do you care for flowers, Mr. Trulock?"

"No, madam." Then he saw that she had brought him some, and added, with a mournful smile, "You mean these for me? Thank you, madam, 'twas a kind thought. I will get a glass to put them in. What are they? 'Tis a strange time of the year for flowers."

"They are Christmas roses, Mr. Trulock."

"It seems unnatural for flowers to blossom now," the old man said, as he placed them in water. "Summer and youth and flowers—winter and old age and no flowers at all; that's how things go, madam."

May had risen to say good-bye, she put her small hand into his, and looking up with tears in her eyes, for his voice was very sad, she said,—

"Yet there are Christmas roses, you see."

"For such as you," he answered.

"For you," she said earnestly. "Only have faith and patience, and open your heart to the sunshine God sends, and the sweet flowers of charity—I like the word, even though love may be more correct—will blossom round your path."

When they were gone, Trulock sat gazing at the fair, pure blossoms, but he murmured, "Not for me! Not for me!"

Mrs. Short forgot to put her flowers in water, and threw them out the next morning, muttering contemptuously,—

"Rubbishy things! If it had even been a bit of holly, now, to stick in my pudding!"

CHAPTER II.

RALPH TRULOCK'S STORY.

BONNIE May Cloudesley caught cold on that Christmas Day, and was so ill that as soon as she was fit to travel, her husband took her home to her mother to be nursed for a while. Very dreary and uncomfortable the poor fellow was during her absence; and when she came home, quite recovered, he informed her that she must never be ill again, as he could not possibly get on without her.

"Nonsense, Gilbert! Why, we have not been married a year—and how did you get on all the thirty-four years before you even knew me?"

"I don't know, May. But it just shows how short a time it takes to spoil a man; for I was really rather a jolly kind of bachelor."

But at the notion of her shy, silent, grave Gilbert ever having been a jolly bachelor, May laughed in the most unkind and disrespectful way.

"You may laugh," said Gilbert; and May seemed to agree with him, for she did laugh very heartily. Then she said,—

"How are all the poor people, Gilbert. How is the boy we met at Lady Mabel's Rest? And oh! How are the two new people there going on?"

"I have seen Mrs. Short several times, and she always tells me what a good kind of woman she is. I've nothing to say against it—she ought to know, of course. Mr. Trulock I have only seen in church; he is always out when I call."

"I must go there to-morrow. When does Mr. Barton come home?"

"Not until June, I think," replied Mr. Cloudesley.