Mrs. Thimbleby set a cup full of hot tea and a slice of bread on the
table, and glided out of the kitchen in a humble, noiseless way, as if
she feared lest the mere sound of her footsteps should be deemed
importunate.
"You have something to say to me?" asked Powell, still standing opposite
to Minnie's chair.
"Yes; but first you must take some food. Please to sit down there at the
table."
Powell shook his head. "Food disgusts me," he said. "I do not need it."
"That will pain your kind landlady," said Minnie, gently. "She has been
so careful to get this refreshment ready for you."
Powell sat down. "I would not pain the good soul for any earthly
consideration," he answered. "But if the burthen be laid on me, I must
pain her."
"Come, Mr. Powell, no injunction can be laid on you to starve yourself,
and grow ill, and be unable to fulfil your duties!"
After an instant's hesitation he swallowed some tea, and began to break
off small fragments of the bread, which he soaked in the liquid, and ate
slowly.
Minnie watched him attentively. The widow had lighted a candle, which,
standing on the high mantel-shelf, shed down its pale rays on the
preacher's head and face, the rest of his person being in shadow. Now
and again, as he lifted a morsel of bread to his lips, one thin long
hand, yellow-white as old ivory, came within the circle of light. His
whole countenance appeared to Minnie to have undergone a change since
she had seen him last. The features were sharper, the skin more sallow,
the lines around the mouth deeper. But the greatest change was in the
expression of the eyes. They were wonderfully lustrous, but not with the
soft mild lustre which formerly shone in them. They looked startlingly
large and prominent; and at times seemed literally to blaze with an
inward fire.
"He is ill and feverish," thought Minnie. And then, as she continued to
watch him, there came over his face an expression so infinitely piteous,
that the sympathetic tears sprang into her eyes when she saw it. It was
a pathetic, questioning, bewildered look, like that of a little child
that has lost its way, and is frightened.
When he had eaten a few mouthfuls, he asked, "Who told you that you
would find me here?"
"Oh, it was not difficult to discover your whereabouts in Whitford, Mr.
Powell," answered Minnie, smiling with an effort to seem cheerful and at
ease. "Your coming has been spoken of in our little town for weeks
past."
"Has it so? Has it so? That is a good hearing. There must be souls ripe
for conviction--anxious, inquiring souls."
There was a pause. Minnie had expected him to speak of their last
interview. But as he made no allusion to it, she opened the subject
herself.
"You remember, Mr. Powell, before you went away from Whitford, giving me
a charge--a trust to fulfil for you?"
He looked at her inquiringly, but did not answer.
"There was a young member of your flock whose welfare you had greatly at
heart. And you thought that I might be able to help her and show her
some kindness. I--I have honestly tried to keep the promise I then made
to you," persisted Minnie, on whom Powell's strange silence was
producing an unpleasant impression. She could not understand it. "I
fancied that you might still feel some anxiety about Rhoda's
welfare----"
At the sound of that name, Powell seemed moved as if by an electric
shock. The change in his face was as distinct, although as momentary, as
the change made in a dark bank of cloud by a flicker of summer
lightning.
"You know, of course," continued Minnie, "that the person whose
influence you feared is married. And I assure you that, so far as my
attentive judgment goes, Rhoda's peace of mind has not been fatally
troubled. She fretted for a while, but is now rapidly regaining her
cheerfulness. She even visits rather frequently at Mr. Errington's
house, having, it seems, become a favourite with his wife."
David Powell's head had sunk down on to his breast. He held one hand
across his eyes, resting his elbow on the table, and neither moving nor
looking up. But it was evident that he was listening. Minnie went on to
speak of Rhoda's improvement. She had always been pretty, but her beauty
was now very striking. She had profited by the opportunities of
instruction which her father afforded her. She was caressed by the
worthiest people in her little world.
Minnie went bravely on--nerved by the sight of that bowed figure and
emaciated hand, hiding the eyes--speaking the praises of the girl who
had sent many a pang of jealousy into her heart--a jealousy none the
less torturing because she knew it to be unreasonable. "He could never
have thought of wretched, crippled me, if there had been no Rhoda
Maxfield in the world!" she had told herself a hundred times. But she
tried to fancy that the withering up of the secret romance of her life
would have been less hard to bear, had the sacrifice been made in favour
of a higher, nobler woman than simple, shallow, slight-hearted Rhoda
Maxfield.
Nevertheless, she spoke Rhoda's praises now ungrudgingly. Nay, more; she
believed Powell to be capable of the highest self-sacrifice; she
believed that he would welcome a prospect of happiness and security for
Rhoda, even though it should shut the door for ever on any lingering
hopes he might retain of winning her. So, bracing herself to a strong
effort--which seemed to strain not only the nerves, but the very
muscles, of her fragile frame as she sat almost upright, grasping the
arms of her chair with both hands--she added, "And, as I know you have
that rare gift of love which can rejoice in looking at a happiness it
may never share, I will say to you in confidence that I believe Rhoda is
honourably sought in marriage by a good man--a man who--it is not
needful to speak at length of him"--indeed, her throat was dry, and her
courage desperately at bay--"but he is a good, high-minded man; one who
will value and respect his wife; one who admires and loves Rhoda very
fervently."
It was magnanimously said. The words, as she uttered them, sounded the
knell of her own youth and hope in her ears.
We believe that a beloved one is dead. We have kissed the cold lips. We
have kissed the unresponsive hand. Yes; the beloved one is dead. We
surely believe it.
But, no! The death-bell sounds, beating with chill, heavy fingers on our
very heart-strings, and then we awake to a sudden confirmation of our
grief. The bell sings its loud monotone, over roof-tree and grave-stone,
piercing through the murmur of busy life in streets and homes, and then
we know that we had not hitherto believed; that in some nook and secret
fold of heart or brain a wild, formless hope had been lurking that all
was not really over. Only the implacable mental clang carries conviction
with its vibrations into the broad daylight and the common air, and the
tears gush out as if our sorrow were born anew.
Even so felt Minnie Bodkin when she had put her secret thought into
words. The speaking of the words could not hasten their fulfilment. But
yet it seemed to her as if, in saying them, she had signed some
bond--had formally renounced even the solace of a passing fancy that
might flit, fairy-bright, into the dimness of her life; had given up the
object of her silent passion by a covenant that was none the less
stringent because its utterance was simple and commonplace. She was
silent, breathing quickly, and lying back against the cushions after the
short speech that had cost her so much.
Powell remained quite still for a few seconds. Then suddenly removing
the screening hand, the almost intolerable lustre of his eyes broke upon
the startled woman opposite to him, as he said, with a strange smile,
"She is safe. She is happy for Time and Eternity. She has been ransomed
with a price."
"I knew that you would allow no selfish feeling to sway you," returned
Minnie, after an instant's pause. "I was right in feeling sure that you
would generously consider her happiness before your own."
But yet she was not satisfied with the result of her well-meant attempt
to free Powell's mind from the anxiety concerning Rhoda, which she
believed to have been preying on it. There was something strangely
unexpected in his manner of receiving it. Presently Powell looked at her
again with a sad, sweet smile. The wild blaze had gone out of his eyes.
They were soft and steady as they rested on her now.
"You are a just and benevolent woman," he said. "You have been faithful.
You came hither with the charitable wish to comfort me. I am not
ungrateful. But the old trouble has long been dead. I did wrestle with a
mighty temptation on her account. My heart burnt very hot within me; the
fleshy heart, full of deceit and desperately wicked. But that human
passion fell away like a garment, shrivelled and consumed by the great
fire of the wrath of God, that put it out as the sun puts out the flame
of a taper at noonday. Neither," he went on, speaking rather to himself
than to Minnie, "am I concerned for that young soul. No; it is safe. It
has been ransomed. I have had answer to prayer, and heard voices that
brought me sure tidings in the dimness of the early morning; but these
things are hard to be understood. Sometimes, even yet, the old, foolish
yearning of the heart seems to awake and stir blindly within me. When
you named that name--no lips had uttered it to my ears for many
months--there seemed to run a swift echo of it through all the secret
places of my soul! But I heard as though one dead should hear the beat
of a familiar footfall above his grave."
The dusk of evening, the low thrilling tones of the preacher's voice,
the terrible pallor of his face, with its great glittering eyes shining
in the feeble rays of the candle, contributed, not less than the
strangeness of his words, to oppress Minnie with a sensation of nervous
dread. She was not afraid of David Powell, nor of anything that she
could see or touch. But vague terrors seemed to be floating in the air.
She started as her eye was caught by a deep, mysterious shadow on the
wall. The fire had burnt low, and shed only a dull red glow upon the
hearth. The ticking of the old clock appeared to grow louder with every
beat, and to utter some ominous warning in an unknown tongue.
All at once a sound of voices and footsteps in the passage broke the
spell. The fire cast only commonplace and comprehensible shadows. The
clock ticked with its ordinary indifferent tone. The preacher's pale
face ceased to float in a mystical light against the dark background of
the curtainless window. The everyday world entered in at the kitchen
door in the shape of Mr. Diamond and Rhoda Maxfield.
Of the four persons thus unexpectedly assembled, Minnie was the first to
speak.
"What, Rhoda!" she cried, in a quiet voice, which revealed much less
surprise than she felt. "What brought you here at this hour?"
As she spoke she glanced anxiously at Powell, uneasy as to the effect on
him of Rhoda's sudden appearance. But he remained curiously impassible,
looking at those present as if they were objects dimly seen afar off.
"I was coming to drink tea with Mrs. Errington. Mr. Diamond overtook me
and Sally in the street. I saw your carriage at the door, and looked in
here, hoping that I should find both you and Mrs. Errington in this
room, because I know you do not go upstairs."
Thus spoke Rhoda, in a soft, tremulous little voice, and with downcast
eyes. Diamond came and shook hands with Minnie. He pressed the hand she
gave him with unusual warmth and emphasis. His eyes were bright, and
there was a glow of pleasure on his face. He believed that his suit was
prospering, and he wished to convey some hint of his hopeful
anticipations to his sympathising friend Miss Bodkin. Then he turned to
Powell, and touched him on the shoulder. "How are you to-night?" he
asked, in a friendly tone, not without a kind of superior pity. "I am
glad to see that you have been refreshing the inner man. Our friend is
too careless of his health, Miss Bodkin. He fasts too long, and too
often."
Powell smiled slightly, but neither looked at him nor answered him.
Going straight to Rhoda he laid his hand on her bright chestnut hair,
from which the bonnet she wore had fallen backwards, and looked at her
solemnly. Rhoda turned pale and gazed back at him, as if fascinated.
Neither of the others spoke or moved.
"It is true, then," said Powell, after a pause, and the low tones of his
voice sounded like soft music. "I have passed through the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, and between me and the dwellers under the light of the
sun there is a great gulf fixed!"
He released the bright young head on which his hand had rested, and made
as if he would move away. Then, pausing, he said, "I frightened you long
ago--in the other life. Fear no more, Rhoda Maxfield. Be no more
disquieted by night or by day. Many are called, but few are chosen, yet
you are among the chosen." He smiled upon her very sadly and calmly, and
went slowly away without looking round.
As soon as he was gone, Rhoda burst into tears. Diamond made an eager
step forward as if to take her hand; then stopped irresolutely, and
looked anxiously at Minnie. "She is so sensitive," he said half aloud.
Minnie was as white as the preacher, and her eyes were full of tears,
which, however, she checked from falling by a strong effort of her
will. "I must go," she said. "Rhoda tells me my carriage is here. Will
you kindly call my servants?" He obeyed her, first making his formal
little bow; a sign, under the circumstances, that he was not quite in
sympathy with his friend, who showed so little sympathy herself for that
"sensitiveness" which so moved him. However, when, assisted by Jane,
Miss Bodkin had made her way to the door, Mr. Diamond stood there
bare-headed to help her into the carriage. She put her hand for an
instant on his proffered arm as she got into the vehicle. Rhoda came
running out after her. "Good night, Miss Minnie!" she cried.
Minnie leant back, and seemed neither to see nor hear her. But in an
instant she was moved by a generous impulse to put her head out of the
window, and say kindly, "Good night, Rhoda. Come and see me soon."
As the carriage began to move away, she saw Diamond tenderly drawing
Rhoda's shawl round her shoulders, and trying to lead her in from the
chill of the evening air.