CHAPTER VI.

"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.