All that she had heard of the Methodist preacher had taken strong hold
of Minnie Bodkin's imagination. Mr. Diamond's description of him
especially delighted her. It was in piquant contrast with her previous
notions about Methodists, who were associated in her mind with ludicrous
images. This man must be something entirely different--picturesque and
interesting.
But there was a deeper feeling in her mind than the mere curiosity to
see a remarkable person. Minnie was not happy; and her unhappiness was
not solely due to the fact of her bodily infirmities. She often felt a
yearning for a higher spiritual support and comfort than she had ever
derived from her father's teachings. She passed in review the
congregation of the parish church, most of whom were known to her, and
she asked herself what good result in their lives or characters was
produced by their weekly church-going. Was Mrs. Errington more truthful;
Miss Chubb less vain; Mr. Warlock less gloomy; her father (for Minnie,
in the pride of her keen intellect, spared no one) less arrogant and
overbearing; she herself more patient, gentle, hopeful, and happy, than
if the old bell of St. Chad's were silent, and the worm-eaten old doors
shut, and the dusty old pulpit voiceless, for evermore? Yet there were
said to be people on whom religion had a vital influence. She wished she
could know such. She could judge, she thought, by seeing and conversing
with them, whether or not there were any reality in their professions.
Minnie seldom doubted the sufficiency of her own acumen and penetration.
No; she was not happy. And might it not be that this Methodist man had
the secret of peace of mind? Was there in truth a physician who could
minister to a suffering spirit? She thought of Powell with the feeling
half of shame, half of credulity, with which an invalid hankers after a
quack medicine.
Minnie had been taught to look upon Dissenters in general as quacks, and
upon Methodists as arch-quacks. Dr. Bodkin professed himself a staunch
Churchman and a hater of "cant." He considered that Protestantism, and
the right of private judgment, had justly reached their extreme limits
in the Church of England as by law established. He detested enthusiasm
as a dangerous and disturbing element in human affairs, and he viewed
with especial indignation the pretensions of unlearned persons to
preach and proselytise. Although he had no leaning to Romanism, he would
rather have admitted a Jesuit into his house than a Methodist. Indeed,
he sometimes defined the latter to be the Jesuit of dissent--only, as he
would take care to point out, a Jesuit without learning, culture, or
authority.
"I can listen to a gentleman, although I may not agree with him," the
Doctor would say (albeit, in truth, he had no great gift of listening to
anyone who opposed his opinions), "but am I to be hectored and lectured
by the cobbler and the tinker?"
Minnie had no taste for being hectored or lectured; but it seemed to her
that what the cobbler and tinker said, was more important than the fact
that it was they who said it. She thought, and pondered, and wondered
about the Methodist preacher, and about her chance of ever seeing or
hearing more of him, until a thought darted into her mind like an arrow.
Little Rhoda! She was a Methodist born and bred, and knew this preacher,
and----Minnie would send for little Rhoda.
When she announced this resolution to her mother, Mrs. Bodkin found
several difficulties in the way of its fulfilment.
"What do you want with her, Minnie?"
"I want to see her. Mrs. Errington talks so much of her. I remember her
coming here with a message once, when she was a child. I recollect only
a little fair face and shy eyes, under a coal-scuttle straw bonnet.
Don't you, mamma? And I want to talk to her about several things," added
Minnie, with resolute truthfulness.
"Oh, dear me! What will your papa say?"
"I don't see how papa can object to my asking this nice little thing to
come to me for an afternoon, when he doesn't mind your boring yourself
to death with Goody Barton, whose snuff-taking would try the nerves of a
rhinoceros, nor forbid my inviting the little Jobsons, who are
unpleasant to look upon, and stupid beyond the wildest flights of
imagination. He lets me have any one I like."
"Yes; but you teach the little Jobsons the alphabet, my dear. And that
is a charitable work."
"And Rhoda will amuse me, and I'm sure that is a charitable work!"
Minnie would get her own way, of course. She always did.
That same evening Minnie said to her father, with her frank, bright
smile, "Papa, may I not ask Rhoda Maxfield to take tea with me some
afternoon?"
"Rhoda what?"
"Little Maxfield, the grocer's daughter, papa," said Minnie, boldly.
Mrs. Bodkin bent nervously over her knitting.
"What on earth for? Why do you want to associate with such folks? Have
you not plenty of friends without----?"
"No, papa. But I don't ask her because I'm in want of friends."
"Oh, Minnie," said Mrs. Bodkin in the quick, low tones she habitually
spoke in, "I'm sure nobody has more friends than you have! Everybody is
so glad to come to you, always."
"You're my friend, mamma. And papa is my friend. Never mind the rest. I
want to have little Maxfield to tea." Minnie laughed at herself, the
moment after she had said the words, in the tone of a spoiled child.
Dr. Bodkin crossed and uncrossed his legs, kicked a footstool out of the
way, and then got up and stood before the fire.
"If you want amusement, isn't there Miss Chubb or the McDougalls, or--or
plenty more?" said he, shooting out his upper lip, and frowning
uneasily.
"Now, papa, can you say in conscience that you find Miss Chubb and the
McDougalls perennially amusing?" Then, with a sudden change of tone,
"Besides, you know, the other people are playing their parts in life,
and strutting about hither and thither on the stage, and they find it
all more or less interesting. But I--I am like a child at a peep-show. I
can but look on, and I sometimes long for a change in the scene and the
puppets!"
The doctor began to poke the fire violently. "Laura," said he,
addressing his wife, "that last tea you got is good for nothing. They
brought me a cup just now in the study that was absolutely undrinkable.
Is it Smith's tea? Well, try Maxfield's. You can have some ordered when
the message is sent for the girl to come here."
In this way the doctor gave his permission.
The next day Minnie despatched her maid, Jane, with the following note
to Mr. Maxfield:--
"Will Mr. Maxfield allow his daughter Rhoda to spend the afternoon with
Miss Bodkin? Miss Bodkin is an invalid, and cannot often leave her room,
and it would give her great pleasure to see Rhoda. The maid shall wait
and accompany Rhoda if Mr. Maxfield permits, and Miss Bodkin undertakes
to have her sent safely home again in the evening."
Old Max was scarcely more surprised than gratified on reading this
invitation. He stood behind his counter holding the pink perfumed note
between his floury finger and thumb, and turning over the contents of it
in his mind, whilst his son James served the maid with some tea.
Miss Minnie was a much-looked-up-to personage in Whitford. And here was
Miss Minnie inviting Rhoda just as though she had been a lady, and
sending her own maid for her. This would be Algy's doing, the old man
decided. Algy had more sense than his mother. Algy knew that Rhoda was
fit to go anywhere, and could hold her own with the best. The young
fellow was very thick with Dr. Bodkin's family, and had, no doubt,
talked to Miss Minnie about Rhoda. All sorts of ideas thronged into old
Max's head, which, nevertheless, looked as obstinately idealess a one as
could well be imagined, as he stood conning the pink note, with his grey
eyebrows knotted together, and his heavy under-lip pursed up. Perhaps
not the feeblest element in his feeling of exultation was the sense of
triumph over David Powell. Powell might approve or disapprove, but
anyway, he would see that he was wrong in supposing the Erringtons did
not think Rhoda good enough for them! If they introduced her about among
their friends, that meant a good deal, eh, brother David? And that the
invitation came by means of the Erringtons, Maxfield felt more and more
convinced, the more he thought of it. So many years had passed, and Miss
Minnie had taken no notice of Rhoda. Why should she now? Maxfield was at
no loss to find the answer. Maybe old Mrs. Errington had talked for
talk's sake more than she meant. Maybe her boasting was in order to
drive a hard bargain, when Algy should come forward and offer to make
Rhoda a lady.
The Erringtons' friends were going little by little to make acquaintance
with Rhoda, in view of the promotion that awaited her. Well, Rhoda could
stand the test. Rhoda was quite different from the likes of him.
He called his sister-in-law out of the kitchen, and in a few hurried
words told her of the invitation, and bade her tell Rhoda to get ready
without delay. He cut Betty Grimshaw short in her exclamations and
inquiries. "I've no time to talk to you now," he said. "The maid is
waiting. Bid Rhoda clothe herself in her best garments."
"What! her Sunday frock, Jonathan?" exclaimed Betty in shrill surprise.
"'Sh! woman!" answered Maxfield, and gripped her wrist fiercely. He did
not want that family detail to come to the ears of Miss Bodkin's maid.
Rhoda was completely bewildered by the invitation, and by the breathless
haste with which Betty announced it to her, and hurried her
preparations. "But I don't want to go!" murmured Rhoda plaintively. At
the same time she suffered her clothes to be huddled on to her in Aunt
Betty's rough fashion.
"Ah! tell that to your parent, my dear. I have the mark of his fingers
on my wrist at this moment; he was in such a taking, and so--so
uncumboundable." This latter was a word of Betty's own invention, and
she frequently employed it with an air of great relish.
The idea of going amongst strangers was more terrible to Rhoda than can
easily be conceived by those who have never lived so secluded a life as
hers had been. Had she been able to say a word to Algernon, she thought
she should have derived a little comfort and support from him. But he
and his mother were both from home.
All the way from her own house to Dr. Bodkin's, Rhoda uttered no word,
except to ask Jane timidly if she were sure Miss Minnie would be
alone--quite alone?
The gloomy courtyard, and the stone entrance hall of the house struck
her with awe. The old man-servant who opened the door seemed to look
severely on her. She followed Jane with a beating heart up the wide
staircase, whose thick carpet muffled her footsteps mysteriously, and
then through a drawing-room full of furniture all covered with grey
holland. There was the glitter of gilt picture-frames on the walls, and
the shining of a great mirror, and of a large, dark, polished pianoforte
at one end of the room. And there was a mingled smell of flowers and
cedar-wood, and altogether the impression made upon Rhoda's senses, as
she passed through the apartment, was one of perfume, and silence, and
vague splendour. She had no time, even if she had had self-possession,
to examine the details of what seemed to her so grand, for she was led
across a passage and into a room opposite to the drawing-room, and found
herself in Miss Bodkin's presence.
The room was Minnie's bedroom, but it did not look like a sleeping
chamber, Rhoda thought. To be sure a little white-curtained bed stood in
one corner, but all the toilet apparatus was hidden by a curtain which
hung across a recess, and there were bookshelves full of books, and
flowers on a stand, and a writing-table. On one side of the fireplace,
in which a bright fire blazed, there was a curious sort of long chair,
and in it, dressed in a loose crimson robe of soft woollen stuff,
reclined Minnie Bodkin.
Rhoda was, as has been said, extremely sensitive to beauty, and Minnie's
whole aspect struck her with admiration. The picturesque rich-coloured
robe, the delicate white hands relieved upon it, the graceful languor of
Minnie's attitude, and the air of refinement in the young lady and her
surroundings, were all intensely appreciated by poor little Rhoda, who
stood dumb and blushing before her hostess.
Minnie, on her part, was a good deal taken by surprise. She welcomed
Rhoda with her sweetest smile, and thanked her for coming, and made her
sit down by the fire opposite to herself; and when they were alone
together, she talked on for some time with a sort of careless
good-nature, which, little by little, succeeded in setting Rhoda
somewhat at her ease. But careless as Minnie's manner was, she was
scrutinising the other girl's looks and ways very keenly.
"She is absolutely lovely!" thought Minnie, "And so graceful,
and--and--lady-like! Yes; positively that is the word. She is as shy as
a fawn, but no more awkward than one. It is not what I expected."
Perhaps Minnie could scarcely have said what it was that she had
expected. Probably a quiet, pretty-looking, well-behaved young person,
like her maid Jane. Rhoda was something very different, and the young
lady was charmed with her new _protegee_. Only she was obliged to admit,
before the afternoon was over, that she had failed in the main object
for which she had invited Rhoda to visit her. There was no clear and
vivid account of Powell, his teaching, or his preaching, to be got from
Rhoda.
Rhoda could not remember exactly what Mr. Powell said. Rhoda could not
say what it was which made all the people cry and grow so excited at his
preaching. Rhoda cried herself sometimes, but that was when he talked
very pitifully about poor people, and little children, and things like
that. Sometimes, too, she felt frightened at his preaching, but she
supposed she was frightened because she had not got assurance. Many of
the congregation had assurance. Yes; oh yes, the people said Mr. Powell
was a wonderful man, and the most awakening preacher who had been in
Whitford for fifty years.
Minnie looked at the simple, serious face, and marked the childlike
demureness of manner with which Rhoda declared Mr. Powell to be "an
awakening preacher." "I don't think he has awakened you to any very
startling extent!" thought Minnie. "This girl seems to have received no
strong influence from him."
That was in a great measure the fact; but also, Rhoda was held back from
speaking freely, by the conviction that her Methodist phraseology would
sound strange, and perhaps absurd, in the young lady's ears. Moreover,
it did not help to put her at her ease, that she felt sundry uneasy
pricks of conscience for not "bearing testimony" with more fervour. She
knew that David Powell would have had her improve the occasion to the
uttermost. But how could she run the risk of being disagreeable to Miss
Minnie, who was so kind to her?
That was the form in which Rhoda mentally put the case. The truth was,
hers was not one of those natures to which the invisible ever becomes
more real and important than the visible. It was incomparably more
necessary to her happiness to be in agreeable and smooth relations with
the people around her, than to feel herself in higher spiritual
communion with unseen powers.
When Minnie at length reluctantly desisted from questioning her on the
subject of Powell, and her chapel-going, and her religious feelings, she
was surprised to find how the girl's frigid, constrained manner thawed,
and how her tongue was loosened.
She chatted freely enough about her visit to Llanryddan in the summer,
and about Duckwell Farm, where her half-brother Seth lived, and, above
all, about Mrs. Errington. Mrs. Errington had been so good to her, and
had taught her, and talked to her; and did Miss Minnie know what a
change it was for a lady like Mrs. Errington to live in such a poor
place as theirs? For, although she had the best rooms, of course it was
very poor, compared with the castle she was brought up in. About
Algernon she said very little; but it slipped out that she was in the
habit of being present when Mr. Diamond came to read with the young
gentleman; and then Miss Minnie was very much interested in hearing what
Mr. Diamond said to his pupil, and how Rhoda liked Mr. Diamond, and what
she thought of him. And when it appeared that Rhoda had thought very
little about him at all, but considered him a very clever, learned
gentleman--perhaps a little stiff and grave, but not at all unkind--Miss
Minnie smiled to herself and said, "He is a little stiff and grave,
Rhoda. Not the kind of person to attract one very much, eh!"
And then tea was brought, and Rhoda sipped hers out of a delicate
porcelain cup, like those which Mrs. Errington had in her corner
cupboard. And there were some delicious cakes, which Rhoda was quite
natural enough to own she liked very much. And then Mrs. Bodkin came in,
and sat down beside her daughter; and finally, at Minnie's request, she
took Rhoda into the drawing-room, and played to her on the grand piano.
"Rhoda likes music, she says, mamma. But she has never heard a good
instrument. Do play her a bit of Mozart!"
"I am no great performer, my dear," said Mrs. Bodkin, opening the piano;
"but I keep up my playing on my daughter's account. She is not strong
enough to play for herself."
Minnie had her chair wheeled into the drawing-room, in order, as she
whispered to her mother, to enjoy Rhoda's face when she should hear the
music.
Rhoda sat by and listened, in a trance of delight, while Mrs. Bodkin
made the keys of the instrument delicately sound a minuet of Mozart,
and then give forth more volume of tone in "The Heavens are telling."
This was different, indeed, from the tinkling old harpsichord at home!
The music transported her. When it ceased she was breathing quickly, and
her eyes were full of tears. "Oh, how beautiful!" she faltered out.
"Why, child, you are a capital audience!" said Mrs. Bodkin, smiling
kindly.
Then it was time to go home. She was made to promise that she would come
again and see Minnie whenever her father would let her. She left Dr.
Bodkin's house in a very different frame of mind from that in which she
had entered it. Yet she was as silent on her way home as she had been in
the afternoon.
How happy gentlefolks must be, who always can have music, and flowers,
and talk in such soft voices, and are so polite in their manners, and so
dainty in their persons! She could not help contrasting the coarse,
rough ways at home with the smoothness and softness of the life she had
had a glimpse of at Dr. Bodkin's. She tried to hold fast in her memory
the pleasant sights and sounds of the day.
In this mood, half-enjoying, half-regretful, she arrived at her father's
house to find the little parlour full of people--besides her own family
and Powell there were two or three neighbours who joined in the
exercises--and a prayer-meeting just culminating in a long-drawn hymn,
bawled out with more zeal than sweetness by the little assembly.