[CHAPTER IV.]
A SMALL SEAMSTRESS.
RALPH TRULOCK had never been a very happy man. Even when his worldly affairs prospered, and his wife, whom he tenderly loved, and who deserved his love, was with him; even before his son's behaviour gave him cause for anxiety,—he had not been a happy man. He had had all that the world could give him, and if you had asked him what more he wanted, he would probably have said, "Nothing;" and yet he did want something, and want it so badly that his heart was never at rest for the lack of it.
The truth is, he was trying to satisfy an immortal spirit with mortal things, and no one ever yet succeeded in doing that, excepting those who are too dull to look beyond mere eating and drinking, warmth and comfort. Of this class, Mrs. Short was a tolerable specimen; but Ralph cared little for these things. His idol was of a higher order: it was his own opinion of himself. He did not greatly care for other people's admiration, but he must satisfy himself. His notion was, that a man should be perfectly just, utterly truthful and upright, fulfil all his engagements honourably, and never ask or accept a favour. He did not add, consciously, "and never give any one anything except what they earn," but he acted on that principle, though he never interfered with his wife's charities. He believed that if he lived thus, perfectly righteous in all his dealings, he should certainly go to heaven, even if he never felt any of those warmer religious feelings of which his wife sometimes spoke. She had quite a different kind of religion; but that was all right: she was a woman, and humility and dependence become a woman, but men should be made of sterner stuff.
Mrs. Trulock was a timid, gentle creature, far too humble even to think that Ralph could need to be taught anything. She taught her boy carefully, and when he went astray her loving heart broke, and she died, expressing with her last breath a belief that "Fred would remember what she had taught him, yet." I don't suppose she had ever heard the story of the mother of St. Augustine, but she might have said with her, "He must be saved, for he is the child of many tears and many prayers."
But if Ralph Trulock had never been a thoroughly happy man, he was certainly a very miserable man now. He had never been idle in his life; and here he was with nothing to do but to see on how little he could keep body and soul together, that he might rid himself of the hated obligation he now lay under, to men whose equal he had once been. May Cloudesley's sweet face and sympathetic manner had thrown him off his guard, and he had spoken to her more freely than he had ever spoken before, even to himself, for he hardly knew that he had it in him to feel and speak thus until he found himself doing it. And then that little traitor, May, having stolen softly within his guard of proud silence, had used her opportunity to stick a little dagger into his very heart!
Twenty times a day he told himself that she was only a silly young woman, and that he knew better than she did; twenty times a day he resolved to think no more of her words. But they kept coming back to him, and would not be forgotten. He had always read a small portion of the Bible on Sundays, and he found himself now, sorely against his will, remembering that the spirit of the words he read agreed with what May had said, more than with his own opinions. He could not keep his mind from trying to make out a case for himself, and he could not help knowing that he failed; that no text bore him out in his opinions. Still he was haunted by one text which he could not remember exactly, but in which the words, "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly?" certainly occurred; and he imagined that if he could only find that verse, he could return to his old way of thinking comfortably, and forget May's little dagger.
After much searching, he found the text at last; but it did not turn out a comfort to him. "He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly—" oh that it had stopped there! But it went on—"and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?" So not even this solitary text, on which he had built so much, would bear the meaning he wished to find in it. Nay, might not May have used it against him?
"To love mercy!" How could he set about that? He need not relax his stern self-denial much,—not at all, in fact; but he might give a small portion of what he saved, and it would only delay his hoped-for payment a little.
Though Ralph looked so old, he was only sixty-five, so he hoped he had time enough before him to permit of a little delay. And his conscience would not let him go on without making some effort to walk by the new light which May had let in upon him. He began to look about for some one whom he might help, and one seldom looks long for that!