CHAPTER VII.

"THIS IS THE MAIDEN ALL FORLORN."

IN spite of the devoted care of his wife and the added attention of Mrs. Curr, Ratcliffe's health grew steadily worse. Yet it was not for want of anything that he had been accustomed to have, for whatever self-denial Nancy felt it right to practise herself, her husband was not allowed to forego anything which had in the past been considered necessary. Early and late the busy little woman toiled. Always clever with her fingers, she had succeeded in obtaining some fancy work to do regularly, and whenever she was not actively employed in household matters, or in actual waiting upon Ratcliffe, her nimble hands would be earning money for the daily expenses.

As for Mrs. Curr, no one could well have been more kind and unselfish. She insisted upon paying a high rent for her room, on the plea that it had "a lively lookout," and was bigger than most of the bedrooms in such houses. Nor did her kindness end here. In a wonderfully delicate manner she would often contrive to provide some little delicacy for the invalid, or cheer him by the gift of a few cut flowers or a fragrant plant; until at last both he and Nancy used to hail with delight the sight of her round face, and even fairly to enjoy the ominous clearing of the throat, which always heralded her approach to their rooms from the upper regions.

But changes were at hand.

One morning the doctor looked more grave than usual as he examined Ratcliffe's lungs. Again and again he applied the stethoscope. At last he said, "My good fellow, it's no use trying to deceive you, your chest is in a very bad state, and a change of air is positively necessary. I should recommend Devonshire if you can get as far, for I think that the air of some parts of that county is specially suited to your case."

Ratcliffe said nothing in reply, but a flush dyed his cheeks, which the medical man did not fail to see, and very wisely he changed the subject and chatted on about other things. Presently Nancy, who had been out of the room with little Maida, came back with a neat packet which she had prepared to give the doctor; it contained the payment in full of the account sent in for his late visits. She kept it in her hand until he rose to go, then, following him to the door, she said, "Please, sir, will you allow me to pay your account now? I think you will find this right. Thank you very much for being so patient with us and so attentive to my husband."

The doctor put back the hand and the parcel together. "No, Mrs. Drinkrow," said he, "I could not think of taking fees from you until your husband has shown more benefit from my treatment. I think that sea air and change of scene are the doctors for him now. Keep this to pay for them. No, not a word of thanks, if you please. Good morning," and the kind-hearted doctor raised his hat as respectfully as though he were saluting one of the high-born or wealthy of the land, and went his way with the music of Nan's trembling words, "God in heaven reward you, sir!" ringing in his ears.

And so it was arranged that with this money Ratcliffe and Nancy should go down to Devon. Father Francis, Nancy's priest-uncle, lived there, and she thought that if he knew the circumstances of the case, he would perhaps allow them, to lodge in his house, which was a comfortable cottage close to the sea, in the outskirts of one of the towns.

Nan accordingly wrote a letter to her uncle—wrote earnestly and humbly—asking this as a favour, and appealing to his love for her in former years, when, being left an orphan, she had lived under his protection. Almost by return of post an answer came granting Nan's petition, and expressing great sympathy for her in her misfortunes.

It was arranged meanwhile for Maida to remain with Mrs. Curr, who was to move into a smaller and cheaper lodging, and there to await the return of Nancy and Ratcliffe.

Our story would grow too long and prosy were we to go into all the details of preparation, or even of the journey. We will only say that the invalid and his wife got safely to their destination, and that Mrs. Curr, after looking in vain in the immediate neighbourhood for a suitable room for herself and the little forlorn maiden under her care, was at last so fortunate as to secure the lodging lately vacated by her friend, the former Mrs. Moo, now Mrs. Drinkrow, of "the house that Jack built."

It was here that, soon after her moving in, she received a visit from the elderly bride, who seemed just as usual, only that her very strong and rather crooked nose had assumed—it appeared to Mrs. Curr—a somewhat more defiant aspect.

Much to Mrs. Curr's delight, "Sairey Ann" was wonderfully taken with little Maida, and the child seemed to return the fancy, and not to have the slightest fear of her new friend and admirer.

"Well, and how do you get on, Sairey Ann?" asked Mrs. Curr, after her friend had fairly rocked little Maida to sleep on her lap.

"Get on?" replied the bride. "Oh, very well; just as I said I should. I saw at first that John was going to try and cut me off short, and I says to him, 'Look here now, John: I've promised to love, honour, and obey you, and so I will, but you've a share of the bargain too, for with all your worldly goods you me endow.' I say, Jemima, you should have seen his face when I out with that! So then he said, 'Well, my dear, what's the least you can do the housekeeping, and your dressing, and all that upon?' And I says, says I, 'The least? Why, John, I'm sorry as you're so badly off; I'd never have married you and added to your expenses if I'd known you was such a poor man, for I've lived comfortable even while I've been a lone widow, and could have gone on so for the rest of my life without incommodin' of you or any one else.'

"So then, Jemima, he were a bit ashamed of hisself; but, bein' pretty tough when he's a mind to, I'm not sure as he'd have given in that time if it hadn't been as Tom came into the room just then, and says he, 'Father, don't you go for to be extravagant in the first days of your married life. Brides is the folks for doing people, as you'll find out; there's no fool so big as an old one.'

"Well, Jemima, whether the fool were meant for me or for his father, I can't tell; but John, he turned round, quite fiery-like, and says he, 'Tom, you wiper! Who wanted your advice? I'll do as I choose in my own house. Here, Sarah Drinkrow, say what you want, and your husband won't ask his son's leave to give it you.'

"So then, without any more fuss, I told him what I thought would be enough to keep the house as it should be kep'; and, says he, 'Why, that's twice as much as Mrs. Curr had.'

"And at that, I laughed, you know, Jemima, remembering our talk. 'Yes,' says I, as soon as I could speak for laughin', 'that's likely; Mrs. Curr is a very good manager; but still from the looks and tempers of both you and Tom, I think you've not been properly fed; and people as isn't fed as they should be, and warmed as they should be, get ill and want the doctor, and the doctor costs more than food and firing, as you'd soon find out.'

"Well, at that, Jemima, John, and Tom too, looked as uncomfortable as may be, and says John, 'Well, Sarah, you ought to know what's right, so I suppose I must give you what you want.' Then, seeing my battle was over, I said no more, and now all goes nice enough, only it's awful dull sometimes, for my friends don't come in to see me as they used to before I married again, and John and his son I never see except at meals. I was askin' about Ratcliffe, the younger son, the other day, wonderin' why I never saw him; but his father said he was gone, and gone for good, and his name wasn't to be mentioned no more. But I thought I'd ask you about him, for I knew you was always a friend of the lad's, and he loved you."

[Illustration: "I'LL DO AS I CHOOSE."]

"Oh! That's a sad story," replied Mrs. Curr, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes. "You won't say a word to his father and brother, will you, if I tell it you?" And then, when Mrs. Drinkrow promised silence, the old housekeeper told her Ratcliffe's story, or what she knew of it, including the marriage and the existence of a child.

"Why, this is the child," she concluded, laying her broad hand caressingly on the curly golden head, as the little one lay asleep on Mrs. Drinkrow's lap.

"This is the child!" exclaimed the bride. "Bless me, Jemima, but you are a surprisin' old creature. I made sure as you'd took the little one in for the day to look after, and oblige the mother, and that's why I didn't ask no questions. Sweet little lamb!" And she stooped and kissed the unconscious face. "I'd like to take her home with me; I should never be dull if I had her playing round near me."

"Ay, very likely," responded Mrs. Curr, drily; "but it wouldn't never do for your husband to find out his son's child, partic'lar when he hasn't heard of the marriage."

"No, that's true," said the bride, thoughtfully. "Well, I must come and see her when I can. Why, fancy, Jemima, I'm the little thing's grandmother by marriage! And I've a right to do all for her that I can. My own grandchild only lived a week or two—poor Frank's baby, you know. He married a girl down in Devon, of whom I knew nothing, and she died a year after, and the baby too; the little thing would have been about the age of Maida here."

After some more conversation, Mrs. Drinkrow took her leave, promising to come again very soon and bring some present for the little girl, who had evidently quite fascinated her by her pretty ways.

"Which I must write to Mrs. Ratcliffe, and tell her what I've done," said Mrs. Curr to herself. "I hope there wasn't no harm in telling the whole story to Sairey Ann; she's quite to be trusted, and I did want little Maida here to have another friend. God knows she may want one very soon, and Sairey Ann will be a friend for sure, spite of her crooked nose and her odd ways. My! Didn't she work round that there old miser!"

And Mrs. Curr chuckled and cleared her throat in her intense satisfaction, and then proceeded to put Maida to bed, an operation which was always regarded as a serious matter, and requiring a great deal of care and grave attention.