Mrs. Errington had lodged in Mr. Maxfield's house ever since she first
came to Whitford. Jonathan Maxfield, commonly called "Old Max," kept a
general shop in that town. The shop was underneath Mrs. Errington's
sitting-room, and the great bow window, of which mention has been made,
jutted out beyond the shop front, and overhung the street. The house was
old, and larger than it appeared from the street, running back some
distance. There was a private entrance--a point much insisted upon by
Mr. Maxfield's sister-in-law and housekeeper in letting the lodgings to
Mrs. Errington--and a long passage divided the shop entirely from the
dwelling rooms on the ground-floor.
Old Max was reported to be somewhat of a miser (which report he rather
encouraged than the reverse, finding that it had its conveniences), and
to have amassed a large sum of money for one in his position in life.
"Old Max!" Whitford people would say. "Why, old Max could buy up half
the town. Old Max might retire to-morrow. Old Max has no need ever to
stand behind a counter again."
Old Max, however, continued to stand behind his counter day after day,
as he had done for the last thirty or forty years, and would serve a
child with a pennyworth of gingerbread, or a rich man's cook with stores
of bacon and flour, in an impartially crabbed manner.
He was a grey man: grey from head to foot. He had grey hair, closely
cropped; twinkling grey eyes; and a grey stubble on his shaven chin. He
usually wore a suit of coarse grey clothes, with black calico sleeves
tied on at the elbow. But even these had an iron-grey hue, from being
more or less dusted with flour; as, indeed, were all his garments, and
even his face.
When Mrs. Errington first came to live in Whitford, Jonathan Maxfield
was a widower for the second time. He had two sons by his first wife;
and, by his second, one daughter, whose birth cost her mother's life.
The sister of his first wife had kept house for him ever since his
second widowhood. This woman, Betty Grimshaw by name, had been servant
in a great family; and at her master's death had received a legacy,
which, together with her own savings, had sufficed to purchase a small
annuity. She had been able to lay by the greater part of her annuity
since she had lived in Whitford, and announced her intention of
bequeathing her savings to her nephew James, Maxfield's second son. The
elder son had married a farmer's daughter with some money, and turned
farmer himself within a few miles of Whitford. Thus the family living at
home on the autumn night on which our story opens, consisted of Jonathan
Maxfield, Betty Grimshaw his sister-in-law, his son James, and his
daughter Rhoda.
The sound of the street-door closing violently behind Mr. Diamond,
startled this family party assembled in the parlour, together with Mr.
David Powell, Methodist preacher.
They were all seated at a table, on which lay hymn-books and a large
bible. Old Maxfield sat nearest to the fire, in his grey suit, just as
he appeared in his shop, except that the black calico sleeves had been
removed from his coat. He had a harsh face, a harsh voice, and a harsh
manner. So much could be observed by any who exchanged ten words with
him.
Next to him, on his left hand, sat his son James, a tall, sickly-looking
young man, of six-and-twenty. He had a stoop in the shoulders, a pale
face, with high cheek-bones, eyes deeply set, light eyebrows, which grew
in thick irregular tufts, and hair of a reddish flaxen colour. There was
a certain family likeness between him and his aunt, Mrs. Grimshaw, as
she was called in Whitford, despite her spinsterhood. She too was tall,
bony, and hard-featured; with a face which looked as if it had been
painted and varnished, and reminded one, in its colour and texture, of
those hollow wooden pears, full of tiny playthings, which used to
be--and probably still are--sold at country fairs, and in toy-shops of a
humble kind.
The preacher sat next to Betty Grimshaw. He seemed to belong to a
different order of beings from the three persons already described.
A striking face this--dark, and full of fire. He had sharply-cut,
handsome features, and eyes that seemed to blaze with inward light when
he spoke earnestly. His raven-black hair was worn long, and fell
straight on to his collar. But although this made his aspect strange, it
could not render it either vulgar or ludicrous. The black locks set off
his pale dark face, as in a frame of ebony. He was young, and seemed
vigorous, though rather with nervous energy than muscular strength.
The last person in the group was Rhoda Maxfield--"little Rhoda," as Mrs.
Errington had called her. But the epithet had been used to express
rather her social insignificance, than her physical proportions. Rhoda
was, in fact, rather tall. She was about nineteen years old, but
scarcely looked her age. She had a broad and beautiful brow, on which
the rich chestnut hair was smoothly parted; a sensitive mouth, not
over-small; and bright hazel eyes, which looked out on the world with an
open gaze, that was at once timid and confiding. Her skin was of
remarkable delicacy, with a faint flush on the cheeks, which came and
went frequently.
And yet Rhoda Maxfield was not much admired among her own compeers.
There was something in her face which did not please the taste of the
vulgar. And although, if you had asked Whitford persons "Is not Rhoda
Maxfield wonderfully pretty?" most of those so addressed would have
answered, "Yes, Rhoda is a pretty girl;" yet the assent would probably
have been cold and uncertain.
Rhoda, at nineteen years old, had never been known to have a sweetheart.
And this fact militated against the popular appreciation of her beauty;
for a very cursory observation of the world will suffice to show that on
the score of good looks, as on most other subjects, public opinion is
apt to find nothing successful but success.
"What a wind there must be, to make the door bang like that!" exclaimed
Betty Grimshaw, when the loud sound above recorded reached her ears.
"Who went out?" asked James.
"I suppose it would be that Mr. Diamond, the schoolmaster," replied his
aunt.
They both spoke in a subdued voice, and cast furtive glances at Mr.
Maxfield, as though fearful of being reprehended for interrupting the
evening devotions; but, as they spoke, he closed his hymn-book, and drew
his chair away from the table towards the fireside. Upon this signal,
Betty Grimshaw rose and bustled out of the room, declaring that she must
see about getting the supper; for that that little Sarah could never be
trusted to see to the roasted potatoes alone. There was a suspicious
alacrity in Betty's departure, suggestive that she experienced some
sense of relief at the breaking-up of the devotions. James soon
sauntered out of the room after his aunt. Mr. Powell rose.
"Good night," said he, holding out his hand to the old man.
"Nay; won't you stay and eat with us, Brother Powell? The supper will be
ready directly."
Mr. Powell shook his head. "You know I never eat supper," he said,
smiling.
"Well, well; perhaps you're in the right," responded old Max, very
readily.
"And I am not clear," continued the preacher, "but that it would be
better for you to leave off the habit."
"Me? Oh, no! I need it for my health's sake."
"But would it not suit your health better, to take your supper early?
Say at six o'clock or so; so that you should not go to bed with a full
stomach."
"No; it wouldn't," answered the old man, crabbedly.
David Powell stood meditating, with his hand to his chin. "I am not
clear about it," he murmured. But Maxfield either did not hear, or chose
to ignore the words.
"Father, may I go upstairs to Mrs. Errington?" asked Rhoda, softly; "I
don't want any supper."
The old man grunted out an inarticulate sound, and seemed to hesitate.
"Go upstairs to Mrs. Errington?" he said, answering his daughter, but
looking sideways at the preacher. "Let's see; you promised, didn't you?"
"Yes; you gave me leave, and I promised before--before we knew that Mr.
Powell would come to-night."
Rhoda was gifted with a sweet voice by nature, and she spoke with a
purer accent, and expressed herself with greater propriety, than the
other members of her family. Mrs. Errington had amused herself with
teaching the motherless girl, who had been a lonely, shy, little child
when their acquaintance first began. And Rhoda was a quick and apt
scholar.
"Well--a promise--I can't have you break your word. Don't you stay late,
mind. Not one minute after ten o'clock; do you mind, Rhoda?"
Rhoda, with a bright smile of pleasure on her face, promised to obey,
and left the room with a step which it cost her an effort to make as
staid as she knew would be approved by her father and Mr. Powell. When
she got outside the door, they heard her run along the passage as light
and as swift as a greyhound.
Maxfield turned to Mr. Powell, with a little constrained, apologetic
air, and began expatiating on Mrs. Errington's fondness for Rhoda; and
how kind she had always been to the girl; and how he thought it a duty
almost, to let the good, widowed lady have as much of Rhoda's company as
she could give her without neglecting duties.
"Betty Grimshaw is a worthy woman," he observed, drily; "but no
companion for my Rhoda. Rhoda features her mother, and has her mother's
nature very much."
Mr. Powell still stood in the same meditative attitude, with his hand to
his chin.
"This Mrs. Errington is unconverted?" he said, without raising his eyes.
"Oh, Rhoda won't take much harm from that!"
"Much harm?" The dark lustrous eyes were upraised now, and fixed
searchingly on the old man.
"Well, it won't do her any harm," the latter answered, testily. "I know
Rhoda; and I have her welfare at heart, as, I suppose, you'll believe.
I don't know who should have, if it isn't me!"
"Brother Maxfield," said the preacher, earnestly, "are you sure that you
have a clear leading in this matter? Have you prayed for one?"
Maxfield shifted in his chair, and made no answer.
"Oh, consider what you do in trusting that tender soul among worldlings!
I do not say that these are wicked people in a carnal sense; but are
they such as can edify or strengthen a young girl like Rhoda, who is
still in a seeking state, and has not yet that blessed assurance which
we all supplicate for her?"
"I have laid the matter before the Lord," said Maxfield, almost
sullenly.
Powell was silent for a minute, standing with his hands forcibly clasped
together, as though to control them from vehement action, and when next
he spoke, his voice had a tone in it which told of a strong effort of
will to keep it in subdued monotony.
"Then, have you thought of it?" said he; "there is the young man
Algernon."
"What of Algernon?" cried Maxfield, turning sharply to face the
preacher.
"He is fair to look upon, and specious, and has those graces and talents
which the world accounts lovely. May there not be a snare here for
Rhoda? She who is so alive to all beauty and graciousness in God's
world, and in God's creatures--may it not be very perilous for her to be
thrown unguardedly into the society of this youth?"
Maxfield looked into the fire instead of at Powell, as he said, "What
has been putting this into your head?"
"I have had a call to say it to you, for some time past. Before I went
away this summer it was on my mind. I sinned in resisting the call,
for--for reasons which matter to no one but myself. I sinned in putting
any human reasons above my Master's service."
"It may be as you would have done better to resist speaking now," said
Maxfield, slowly. "It may be as it was rather a temptation, than a
leading from Heaven, made you speak at all."
Powell started back as if he had been struck. The blood rushed into his
face, and then, suddenly receding, left him paler than before. But he
answered after a moment in a low, sweet voice, and without a trace of
anger, "You cannot mistrust me more than I mistrusted myself. But I have
wrestled and prayed; and I am assured that I have spoken this thing with
a single heart."
"Well, well, well, it may be as you say," said Maxfield, a shade less
harshly than he had spoken before. "But you have neither wife, nor
daughter, nor sister, and you cannot understand these matters as well as
I do, who am more than double your years, and have had the guidance of
this young maid from a baby upward."
"Nay," answered Powell, humbly; "it is not my own wisdom I am uttering!
God forbid that I should set up my carnal judgment against a man of your
years."
"That's very well said--very rightly said!" exclaimed Maxfield, nodding
twice or thrice.
"Aye, but I must speak when my conscience bids me. I dare not resist
that admonition for any human respect."
"Why, to be sure! But do you think yours is the only conscience to be
listened to? I tell you I follow mine, young man. And you can ask any of
our brethren here in Whitford, who have known me for the last thirty or
forty years, whether I have gone far astray!"
Powell sighed wearily. "I have released my soul," he said.
"And just hearken," pursued old Maxfield, in a lowered voice, "don't say
a word of this sort to Rhoda--nay, don't interrupt me! I've listened to
your say, now let me have mine--because you might be putting something
into her thoughts that wouldn't have come there of itself. And keep a
discreet tongue before Betty and James. 'Least said, soonest mended.'
And I'll tell you something more. If--observe I say 'if'--I saw that
Rhoda's heart was strongly set upon anything, anything as wasn't wrong
in itself, I should be very loath to thwart her."
David Powell turned a startled, attentive face on the old man, who
proceeded with a sort of dogged monotony of voice and manner: "Christian
charity teaches us there's good folks in all communions of believers.
And there's different ranks and different orders in the world; some has
one thing, and some has another. Some has fine family and great
connections among the rulers of the land. Others has the goods of this
world earned by honesty, and diligence, and frugality; and these three
bring a blessing. Some is fitted to be gentlefolks by nature, let 'em be
born where they will. Others, like my sister-in-law Betty, is born to
serve. We are all the Lord's creatures, and we are in his hand but as
clay in the hands of the potter. But there's different kinds of clay,
you know. This kind is good for making coarse delf, and that kind is fit
for fine porcelain. We'll just keep these words as have passed between
you and me, to ourselves, if you please. And now, I I think, we may drop
the subject."
"May the Lord give you his counsel!" said Powell, in a broken voice.
"Amen! I have had my share of wisdom, and have walked pretty straight
for the last half century, thanks be to Him," observed old Max, drily.
"If it were His good pleasure, how gladly would I cease for evermore
from speaking to you on this theme! But it matters nothing what I desire
or shrink from. I must deliver my Master's message when it is borne in
upon me to do so."
And with a solemnly uttered blessing on the household, the preacher
departed.
The master of the house sat thinking, alone by his fireside. He began by
thinking that he had a little over-encouraged David Powell. Maxfield
considered praise from himself to be very encouraging, and calculated to
uplift the heart. When Powell had first come among the Whitford
Methodists, old Max had taken him by the hand, and had declared him to
be the most awakening preacher they had had for many years. He was never
tired of vaunting Powell's zeal, and diligence, and eloquence.
Backsliders were brought again into the right way, sinners were
awakened, believers were refreshed, under his ministry. The fame of
Powell's preaching drew many unwonted auditors to the little chapel; and
of those who came at first merely from curiosity, many were moved by his
words to join the Wesleyan Connection. On all this Jonathan Maxfield
looked with great satisfaction. The young man had been truly a burning
and a shining light.
But now--might it not be that the preacher's heart had become puffed up
with spiritual pride? Was he not unduly exalting himself, when he
assumed a tone of censorship towards such a pillar of the community as
Jonathan Maxfield? The old man had been for many years accustomed to
much deference, alike from preachers and congregation. The exhortations
and admonitions which were doubtless needful for his neighbours, were
entirely out of place when addressed to himself. His piety and probity
were established on a rock. And the Lord had, moreover, seen fit to gift
him with so large a share of the wisdom of the serpent, as had enabled
him to hold his own, and to thrive in the midst of worldlings. A dull
fire of indignation against David Powell began to smoulder in the old
man's heart, as he pondered these things.
Other thoughts, too, more or less disquieting, passed through his brain.
He thought of Rhoda's mother--of that second wife whom he, a man past
middle-life, had married for her fair young face and gentle ways, much
to Betty Grimshaw's disgust, and the surprise of most people. He looked
back on the long, dusty, dreary road of his life; and, in the whole
landscape, the only spot on which the sun seemed to shine was that brief
year of his second marriage. Not that he had been, or that he now was,
an unhappy man. His life had satisfactions in it of a sober, sombre
kind. He did not grow soft or sentimental in reviewing the past. He was
accustomed to the chill, grey atmosphere in which he lived. But he had
felt warm sunlight once, and remembered it. And he had a
notion--inarticulate, indeed, and vague--that Rhoda needed more light
and warmth in her life than was necessary for his own existence, or for
James's, or Betty Grimshaw's, or, in fact, for most people's. There was
no amount of hardness he could not be guilty of to "most people," and,
indeed, he was hard enough to himself; but for Rhoda there was a soft
place in his heart.
Nevertheless, there were many hopes, fears, speculations, and
reflections connected with Rhoda just now, which had anything but a
softening effect on Mr. Maxfield's demeanour; insomuch that Betty and
James, coming in presently to supper, found the head of the family in so
crabbed a temper, that they were glad to hurry through the meal in
silence, and slink off to bed.