Meanwhile Rhoda, at Duckwell Farm, supposed herself to be too unhappy to
care much for anything. She did not have a fever, nor fall into a
consumption, nor waste away visibly; but she passed hours crying alone
in her own room, or sitting idle-handed, whilst her thoughts languidly
retraced the past, or strove to picture what sort of a lady Algernon's
wife might be. Headaches, pallid cheeks, and red eyes resulted from
these solitary hours. Mrs. Seth Maxfield wondered what had come to the
girl, having no suspicion that young Errington's marriage could be more
to Rhoda than an interesting subject for gossip.
Old Jonathan went over to Duckwell immediately after receiving the first
newspaper, sent by Mrs. Errington from Westmoreland.
The announcement of the intended wedding had taken him wholly by
surprise. It would be hard to say whether wrath or amazement
predominated in his mind, on first reading the paragraph which Mrs.
Errington had so complacently marked with red ink. But it is not at all
hard to say which feeling predominated within an hour after having read
it.
According to old Max's judgment, there was not one extenuating
circumstance in Algernon's behaviour; not one plea to be urged on his
behalf. Utter vindictive anger filled the old man's soul as he read. He
had been deceived, played upon, laughed at by this boy! That was the
first, and, perhaps, the most venomous of his mortifications. But many
other stinging thoughts rankled in his mind. David Powell had been
right! That was almost unendurable. As to Rhoda, old Max could not, in
the mood he was then in, contemplate her being bowed down by grief and
disappointment. He would have her raise her head, and revenge herself on
her faithless lover. He would have her successful, admired, and
prosperous. He would have her trample on Algernon's pride and poverty
with all the insolence of wealth. Even his beloved money, so hardly
earned, so eagerly hoarded, seemed to him, for the first time in his
life, to be of small account in comparison with a sentiment.
He took his Bible, and gloated over menaces of vengeance and threats of
destruction. Future condemnation was, no doubt, in store for Algernon
Errington. But that was too vague and too distant a prospect to appease
old Max's stomach for revenge. He wanted to see his enemy in the dust,
and that his enemy should be seen there by others. In the midst of his
reading, he suddenly recollected the acknowledgment he held of
Algernon's debt to him, and jumped up and ran to his strong-box to feast
his eyes on it. It seemed almost like a clear leading from on High that
the I.O.U. should come into his head just then, old Max thought. He was
not the first, nor the worst man who has wrested Scripture into the
service of his own angry passions.
Then he sent to order a gig from the "Blue Bell," and set out for
Duckwell Farm.
"I hope your father isn't sickening for any disease, or going to get a
stroke, or something," said Betty Grimshaw to her nephew James. "But I
never see anybody's face such a colour out of their coffin. It's a
greeny grey, that's what it is. And he was frowning like thunder."
But Jonathan Maxfield's disorder was not of the body. He arrived at
Duckwell unexpectedly, but his arrival did not cause any particular
surprise. He had business transactions to discuss with his son Seth, to
whom he had advanced money on mortgage. And then there was Rhoda staying
at the farm, and, of course, her father would like to see Rhoda.
Rhoda was called from her own room, and came down, pale and nervous.
She dreaded meeting her father. Did he, or did he not, know the news
from Westmoreland? It had only come to Duckwell Farm by means of Mr.
Pawkins's servants. It might possibly not yet have reached Whitford.
On his side, old Max took care to say nothing about the _Applethwaite
Advertiser_. He had destroyed that journal before leaving home, placing
it in the heart of the kitchen fire, and holding it there with the
poker, until the remains of it fluttered up the chimney in black,
impalpable fragments.
But old Max had brought another document in his pocket, which had been
placed in his hand just as he was starting in the gig. It was a letter
directed to Miss Rhoda Maxfield, High Street, Whitford. And this he
pulled out almost immediately on seeing Rhoda. A glance at her face
sufficed to show him that she was unhappy and dispirited. "She has heard
it!" he thought. And something like an anathema upon Algernon followed
the thought in his mind.
The old man's countenance was not so clearly read by his daughter;
indeed, she hardly raised her eyes to his, but received his kiss in
silence.
"I'm afraid, father, you'll not find Rhoda's looks doing us credit,"
said Mrs. Seth. "Why or wherefore I don't know, but these last days she
has been as peaky as can be."
"It's the heat, maybe," said old Max shortly and withdrew his own and
Mrs. Seth's attention from the girl, as she read the letter he handed to
her. Rhoda was grateful for this forbearance on her father's part,
although it fluttered her, too, a little, as proving that he was aware
of the cause of her dejection, and anxious to shield it from
observation.
The letter was from Minnie Bodkin. She had written it almost immediately
on hearing of Algernon's intended marriage. It invited Rhoda, if her
father would consent, to visit the Bodkins during the remainder of their
stay at the seaside. There was no word of allusion to the Erringtons in
the letter. Minnie only said, "Mamma and I remember that your cheeks had
lost their roses, somewhat, when we left Whitford. And we think that a
breath of sea-breeze may blow them back again. It is some time since you
had complete change of air. Tell Mr. Maxfield we will take good care of
you." And in a postscript Mrs. Bodkin had added, in her small running
hand, "Do come, my dear. We shall be very glad to have you. Dr. Bodkin
bids me send you his love."
It had been no slight effort of self-conquest which had made Minnie
Bodkin send for Rhoda, to stay with her at the seaside, and had enabled
her to endure the girl's daily presence, and to stand her friend in word
and deed, throughout the weeks which succeeded the announcement of
Algernon's marriage.
To be kind to Rhoda at a distance would have been pleasant enough.
Minnie would willingly, nay, gladly, have served the girl in any way
which should not have necessitated frequent personal communion with her.
But she told herself unflinchingly that if she really meant to keep her
promise to David Powell, she must do so at some cost of self-sacrifice.
The only efficacious thing she could do for Rhoda was to take her away
from Whitford scenes and Whitford people for a time; to take her out of
the reach of gossiping tongues and unsympathising eyes, and to give her
the support of a friendly presence when she should be obliged to face
Whitford once more. This would be efficacious help to Rhoda; and Minnie
resolved to give it to her. But it was a task to which she felt
considerable repugnance. There was an invisible barrier between herself
and pretty, gentle, winning Rhoda Maxfield.
It is curious to consider of how small importance to most of us actions
are, as compared with motives. And perhaps nothing contributes more to
hasty accusations of ingratitude than forgetfulness of this truth. We
are more affected by what people mean than by what they say, and by what
they feel than by what they do. Only when meaning and feeling
harmoniously inform the dry husk of words and deeds, can we bring our
hearts to receive the latter thankfully, however kind they may sound or
seem to uninterested spectators. The egotism of most of us is too
exacting to permit of our judging our friends' behaviour from any
abstract point of view; and to be done good to for somebody else's sake,
or even for the sake of a lofty principle, seldom excites very lively
satisfaction.
Thus Rhoda reproached herself for the unaccountable coldness with which
she received Miss Bodkin's kindness; having only a dim consciousness
that Miss Bodkin's kindness was prompted by motives excellent indeed,
but which had little to do with personal sympathy with herself.
She silently handed the letter to her father, and turned away to the
window. Mrs. Seth bustled out of the room, saying that she must get
ready "a snack of something" for Mr. Maxfield after his drive, and the
father and daughter were left alone together.
Jonathan Maxfield's face brightened wonderfully as he read Minnie's
gracious words. A glow of pleasure came over his hard features. But it
was not a very agreeable sort of pleasure to behold, being considerably
mingled with malicious triumph. Here was a well-timed circumstance
indeed! What could Powell, or such as Powell, say now? Let the
Erringtons behave as they might, it was clear henceforward that Rhoda
had not been received amongst gentlefolks solely on their account. His
girl was liked and made much of for her own sake.
"Well," said he, "this is a very pretty letter of Miss Minnie's; very
pretty indeed." He did not allow his voice to express his exultation,
but spoke in his usual harsh, grumbling tones.
"Yes," answered Rhoda, tremulously, "it is very kind of Miss Minnie, and
of dear Mrs. Bodkin; wonderfully kind! But I--I don't think I want to
go, father."
"Not want to go? Nonsense! That's mere idle nonsense. Of course you will
go. I shall take you down by the coach myself."
"Oh thank you, father, but--I really don't want change. I don't care
about going to the seaside."
The old man turned upon her almost savagely. "I say you shall go. You
must go. Are you to creep into a hole like a sick beast of the field,
and hide yourself from all eyes? There, there," he added in a gentler
tone, drawing her towards him, as he saw the tears begin to gather in
her eyes, "I am not chiding you, Rhoda. But it will be good for you to
accept this call from your kind friends. It will be good for mind and
body. You will be quiet there, among fresh scenes and fresh faces. And
you will return to Whitford in the company of these gentlefolks, who, it
is clear, are minded to stand your friends under all circumstances.
Seth's wife is a worthy woman, but she is not a companion for you,
Rhoda."
One phrase of this speech did seem to offer a glimpse of consolation to
Rhoda; the promise, namely, of quiet and fresh scenes, where she and her
belongings were utterly unknown. But her father did not know that Minnie
Bodkin understood her little love-story from first to last; and that
Minnie Bodkin's presence and companionship might not be calculated to
pour the waters of oblivion into her heart. Still she reflected, a day
must come when she would have to face Miss Minnie, and all the other
Whitford people who knew her. There was no chance of her dying at once
and being taken away from it all! And Rhoda's teaching had made her
shrink from the thought of desiring death, as from something vaguely
wicked. On the whole, it might be the best thing for her to go to the
Bodkins. She would better have liked to continue her solitary rambles in
Pudcombe Woods or the meadows at Duckwell; only that now the pain
awaited her, every evening, at the farm, of hearing Algernon's marriage
discussed and speculated on. She could not shut out the topic. On the
whole, then, it might be the best thing she could do, to get away from
Whitford gossip for a time.
These considerations Rhoda brought before her own mind, not with any
idea that they could avail to decide her line of conduct, but by way of
reconciling herself to the line of conduct she should be compelled to
take. It never entered her head that any resistance would be possible
when once her father had said, "You must go."
"Very well, father," she answered meekly, after a short pause.
The Bodkins' invitation was duly communicated to Seth and his wife. And
it was arranged that Rhoda should start from the farm without returning
to Whitford at all, as a cross road could be reached from Duckwell,
where the coach would stop to pick up passengers. "If there's any
garments you require, beyond those you have here, your aunt Betty shall
send them over by the carrier, to-morrow," said Mr. Maxfield.
Mrs. Seth protested (not without a spice of malice) that Rhoda could not
possibly want any more clothes, for that she was rigged out already fit
for a princess. Nevertheless there did arrive from Whitford several
fresh additions to Rhoda's wardrobe, inclosed in a brand-new black trunk
studded with brass-headed nails, and with the initials R. M. traced out
in the same shining materials on the lid.
"Your father's well-nigh soft-headed about that girl," said Mrs. Seth to
her husband, as they stood watching the father and daughter drive away
together.
"H'm!" grunted Seth.
His wife went on, "We may make up our minds as our little ones will
never be a penny the better for your father's money. I'm as sure as
sure, it'll all go to Rhoda."
"As to his will, you may be right," returned Seth. "But I have good
hopes that father will cancel that mortgage he holds on the home farm.
If he does that, we mustn't growl too much. 'Tis a good lump o' money.
And it would come a deal handier to me if I could have the land free
now, than if I waited for father's death. He's tough, is father. And the
Lord knows I don't wish him dead neither."
In this way Rhoda Maxfield went down to the seaside place where the
Bodkins were staying, spent about three weeks with them there, and
returned in their company to Whitford, to find Mrs. Errington no longer
an inmate of her father's house, the old sitting-room decorated and
re-furnished very smartly, and all the circle with whom she had become
acquainted at Dr. Bodkin's on the tiptoe of expectation to behold the
Honourable Mrs. Algernon Errington, whose arrival was looked forward to
with an amount of interest only understood by those who have ever lived
an unoccupied life in a remote provincial town.