VISITORS
TWO days after this, the weather, which had been becoming increasingly
cold, developed into driving snow and wind. And as evening came on, the
gale was so violent that Rhoda told Hannah to make up a bed for Jock,
and let him sleep the night there. They were glad enough to shut up the
house and draw the curtains, for the snow beat in at every crevice, and
the wind howled round the house in a perfect fury.
"I do not wonder that people and cattle perish in such storms as this,
if out upon the moor," said Rhoda, as Hannah came in with a dainty
little meal for her at seven o'clock.
"It's an awful night, mum! We seem to be right in the thick of it, too!
It's a wonder the windows don't blow in. I'll put another log or two on
your fire, for it's bitter cold."
And Hannah bustled about, pulling a curtain here and a mat there, until
Rhoda laughed, saying,—
"I believe you think me a hothouse plant, by the care you are taking of
me! Why, I am as warm as a toast in here! I hope you are as comfortable
in the kitchen."
"Yes, we are nicely there. How thankful I'm to think you ordered
shutters for the windows! What should we have done without them! But
there, I've left one window unclosed. I thought maybe if there was
any poor soul out, it would be a beacon light to them. Jock has been
telling me his father was lost in just such a storm as this, six years
ago come this Christmas, and when he was found in the morning quite
dead, he wasn't above fifty yards from a dwelling-place!"
Rhoda shivered. "Don't tell me any more, Hannah, or you will make me
nervous."
Hannah left the room, and Rhoda was wrapped in thought whilst disposing
of her food.
Later in the evening, she went to her piano. She was passionately fond
of music, and had a beautiful voice. Now as she tried over some of her
songs, Hannah and Jock in the kitchen listened spellbound, but when she
drifted into some sweet old hymn tunes, and finally into the solemn
prayer for those at sea, old Hannah added her quavering voice to the
refrain—
"'Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.'"
The last note had hardly died away when all were startled by a
thundering knock at the front door, which opened immediately into the
sitting-room.
For a moment Rhoda, starting from her seat, stood irresolute, and then
when the knock was repeated and a hoarse voice shouted for admission,
she motioned to Hannah, who had already appeared, to unfasten it.
[Illustration: "YOU MUST PARDON ME FOR MY UNCEREMONIOUS ENTRANCE."]
When once the door was open, such a blinding shower of snow swept in
that it was very difficult to distinguish the man's figure in the midst
of it. He turned without a word to help Hannah close the door behind
him, and it needed all their strength to accomplish that feat, for the
wind was driving against them like a hurricane. Then, taking off his
cap, he looked about him in bewilderment.
"I haven't the faintest idea where I am," he said, addressing Rhoda;
"you must pardon me for my unceremonious entrance. I was nearly
desperate. I think I have been wandering about for hours, and then I
saw your light and made my way here."
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in rough shooting suit and gaiters.
His heavy moustache was glistening with icicles, and his eyebrows and
hair were so thickly powdered with snow that it gave him the appearance
of an elderly man. His dark eyes were keen and rather fierce at first
sight, but they softened when he spoke, and his voice was that of a
cultured gentleman.
"I am glad our light has been a guide to you," said Rhoda, quietly; "it
must be terrible out to-night."
"It is indeed. I have my horse outside. Is there a stable where I could
put him up for a short time, till I know my bearings?"
"Jock will bring him round. Hannah, will you tell him?"
Hannah was standing looking with great disapprobation at the melted
snow that was pouring from the stranger's clothes and making pools of
water where he stood. He caught her look.
"May I come into the kitchen," he asked, "and have a rub down? I am
really not in a fit condition to stay here."
He followed her, and Rhoda seated herself by the fire, he wondering who
he was. But it was not long before he returned, and she ordered a cup
of hot coffee to be brought to him at once. More than this he would not
take.
"I must be making the best of my way back," he said. "I have not the
slightest notion what part of the moor I am in. Can you tell me how far
Rokeby Court is from here?"
"You are a very long way from it," said Rhoda. "Are you staying there?"
"Yes, and I want to get back, or they will be anxious."
"We are close to Ashampton; the village is only about a mile and a half
from us."
"Ashampton! I am very far out of my beat, then. I ought to be on the
other side of the moor."
He looked perplexed.
And Rhoda said, "You must not think of venturing to Rokeby to-night.
You would never reach it."
"No," he said, with a short laugh, "it would be madness to attempt it.
Now, can you put me in the way of reaching Ashampton? I will get a bed
at the inn there."
"I wish we could offer you hospitality here for the night," said Rhoda,
thoughtfully, "but we have really no accommodation."
He looked up, and a softer gleam came into his eyes.
"I am very much obliged to you, but I would rather get to Ashampton if
I could."
"I think, then, if we guide you to the cart-track just in front of our
gate, you cannot go astray, for that goes straight down to the village,
and there is some fencing on one side of it the whole way."
"Thank you, that will be first-rate."
There was a pause; sipping his coffee, the stranger made good use of
his eyes, and Rhoda noted with amusement his perplexed and wondering
gaze, as he saw the different tokens of comfort and refinement around
him.
"Isn't this a rather lonely place for you?" he asked at length, a
little hesitatingly.
"No, I never feel it so. I love the moor."
"But excuse me, I do not mean to be inquisitive; but surely you do not
live here alone?"
Rhoda's head was a little raised as she answered, with a touch of proud
reserve in her tone, "I live here with my old and faithful servant,
Mrs. West."
"Still, I think you must feel the want of space in such a tiny place as
this, don't you? This must be a mere labourer's cottage."
"It quite satisfies my requirements."
He would not be suppressed by her tone.
"I often think," he said reflectively, "that, after all, comfort and
not space is the chief thing to aim at in a house. You have proved it
so here. We can live in one room as happily as in a dozen, for we can
but be in one room at a time."
"Will your horse be fit to ride down to Ashampton?" Rhoda inquired,
quietly changing the conversation.
"Oh yes, thank you; he wasn't as exhausted as I was. Is there no farm
nearer to you than Ashampton?"
"No, the nearest is a good two miles from here."
"And can you tell me—"
He stopped suddenly, and then, as if struck by some strange idea, said,
"Surely you cannot be Miss Carlton?"
"I am."
He looked a little confused, then gave a short laugh.
"Mr. Rokeby had an idea you were quite an old lady, and it was
having had this spot described to me as being the nearest cottage to
Ashampton that made me think you must be she. Haven't you—er—had some
correspondence with Mr. Rokeby lately?"
"Has he been telling you he has had some one meddling with his tenants
and prying into matters that do not concern them?"
And Rhoda smiled as she spoke.
"It was a question of peat, wasn't it? I remember hearing something
about it."
"Yes, and if you have any influence with Mr. Rokeby, I do wish you
would persuade him to reconsider his decision."
Shortly and graphically she brought the case before him. And when she
paused, her hearer seemed interested.
"I think, in justice to Mr. Rokeby, I must remind you that all his
straggling property on the confines of the moor used to be rich in
peat, which is not to be found everywhere. We are not in Ireland, you
know, Miss Carlton, and the peat veins, as the people about here call
them, are getting very scarce. Cutting the peat impoverishes the land.
He has a right to withhold that permission from any tenant."
"I really can hardly imagine the land becoming more impoverished than
it is. As Mrs. Tent said to me, if it doesn't produce peat, it will not
produce anything else. But of course Mr. Rokeby must do as he thinks
best. It is cutting off one of the means of livelihood for these poor
people."
"Shall I speak to him again about it?"
"I wish you would, if you have any influence with him."
"I can but try, at all events."
For some time longer her guest stayed talking, and then rose to go.
Jock brought his horse round, and Hannah, wrapped up in a shawl,
ventured outside the door to point out to him some landmarks. The storm
was lessening, and the snow had almost ceased to fall. In the distance,
the twinkling lights of the village could be seen.
And when Hannah came back to her mistress, she said cheerfully, "It
isn't possible for him to lose himself now, mum, and the snow is not so
deep as it might be."
Rhoda was gazing dreamily into the fire, but turned round.
"Have you any idea who he may be, Hannah? Some relative of Mr. Rokeby,
do you think?"
"I made so bold as to ask him his name when he was shaking the snow off
him in the kitchen. Mr. Wallace, he calls himself, but he seemed rather
high and mighty over himself, and I asked no more. I have heard Mr.
Rokeby lives by himself. He must be a friend staying there."
"He looks an unhappy man, with restlessness strongly marked on his
face. It is a very resolute face too, but I should say he was a man
with little religion."
"He has a very high-handed way of speaking, but he gave five shillings
to Jock, which has pleased him mightily."
"It is fortunate Jock was here. That reminds me, Hannah, I have had
a horse promised me by Mr. Edgar. Don't you think we shall find it
useful? He says he has bought one very cheap from an officer going
abroad, and will send it to me for a Christmas present."
"I think a moor pony would answer our purpose better than one of that
sort," replied Hannah, dubiously. "We want one to go up and down the
hills with a cart."
"Well, we will see what this one is like. If it is of no use to us,
I will exchange it for another. I don't like to refuse it. I told my
brothers I would not be proud, and would accept anything they liked to
send me, from a horse down to a milk-can or a washing-tub. And this is
the first offer I have had. It is not one to be despised."
The next day being Saturday, Rhoda wondered whether Jess Tent would
be enterprising enough to come across to her in the snow. A frost had
followed the storm, and the snow was crisp and hard. Still, it would
be tiring walking, and she half hoped that she would not attempt it.
However, about half-past three, as she went to the door to look out,
she saw a figure in the distance, and knew from the limping gait that
it was Jess.
"Now, Hannah, you must bring in a dainty little tea for us at four.
Make us some of your nice hot cakes. I want to give this poor girl a
treat."
Jess arrived rather breathless, but with eager curiosity and
anticipation shining in her large, pathetic grey eyes. Rhoda took off
her heavy shawl, and seated her in a cushioned chair by the fire, and
Jess felt as if she must be in fairyland. Yet there was nothing very
costly in the things about her; it was only the contrast from the
farmhouse kitchen that she felt, and the few plants, photographs, and
pretty knickknacks scattered about gave a charm to the whole in her
eyes.
She was dressed in her Sunday best, her hair smooth and shining from
the liberal use of hair-oil, a blue ribbon with a tiny locket on it was
tied about her neck, and stiff starched frills of lace were round her
throat and wrists. A black silk apron with two pockets trimmed with
violet ribbon completed her attire. Poor Jess! Though outwardly gruff
in tone to all around, she had a longing for sympathy and kindness,
and Rhoda's bright face and cheery voice had from the first quite
fascinated her. She had been counting the hours to this visit, and had
determined to come in spite of the bad weather.
"You are sure your feet are not wet?" Rhoda said kindly. "I know those
snowshoes you have just taken off are wonderful things, but the wet
sometimes gets through them."
"My feet are quite dry, thank you."
And then Rhoda drew up a chair to the other side of the fire and
began to talk. She had the great gift of being able to win people's
confidence, and before long Jess was pouring into her ears thoughts and
aspirations that for years had been fast locked within her breast.
"I dare say it may seem foolish to you, but I want to know, and I
haven't a bit of knowledge. I sit and think things out when I'm
working, and I'd give worlds to be a scholar. I've heard tell of people
knowing all the stars by name, and others know every leaf and plant on
the moor by grand Latin names. I love books—any sort I can get hold
of—not stories so much. I used to read magazines which Jim used to
bring from Ashampton, but it was all very well as long as I was wrapped
up in it, but after it was finished, it made me hate myself and my life
more than ever. And then I got hold of a geography book, and I found
that a deal better; it made me feel, after I'd studied it a bit, as if
I was getting something into my head that would last. I began to think
of other countries, and how I should live in them if I went there,
and it makes me feel I know more of the world than just this bit of
England."
Jess paused, and Rhoda said, with interest, "Please tell me more. What
other books have you read?"
"History. Ah! I just dote on English history. There was a time when
I used to hear father talk about the Roman road across a part of the
moor, and I used to think the Romans was black savages; and then
there's supposed to be an old British village, or the stones of it,
hereabouts—do you know of it, miss?"
"Yes, I am longing to know more about it. Hannah and I were out one
morning trying to discover traces of it, and certainly some of the
old stones are most interesting. We have been told that a hearthstone
was dug up in our plot of ground behind the house some time ago in
beautiful preservation."
"Ah, well, when I first heerd tell of it, I thought the Britons were
French people. I didn't know they had aught to do with us. But the
History told me all about it, and about the Romans too. It's wonderful,
the difference there is betwixt books—I was thinking it out the other
day. The story-papers make me feel awful discontented and restless
like, the other hard reading leaves me a comfortable, filled kind of
feeling after. The stories make me think what a miserable wretch I am,
of no good to no one; the History and such like, they make me feel I
know a lot more than most of our folk do, and it lifts my head up like."
"I must let you look at some of my books after we have had tea, and you
must choose one to take back with you. Now I know you will not mind
my asking you, but amongst the books that you read, do you study the
Bible?"
"No."
Jess looked surprised, and a slight pucker settled between her brows
as she spoke. "I do read a chapter now and again on a Sunday, but it
doesn't suit me as well as the other kind of reading."
"You find it dry and uninteresting?"
"Yes," she said, with a short laugh. "I don't think I'm different to
most folks if I do."
"I suppose you are not," Rhoda said, with a little sigh, "and yet it is
worth more than all the books you have read or could read put together."
Jess looked uninterested, her eyes roved round the room.
Rhoda added brightly, "Will you be surprised if I tell you that I would
rather have my Bible to study than any of the books I have on those
shelves?"
"I suppose you get more out of it than what most do."
"Perhaps you have never tried. I wish you would come to me one Sunday,
and let us have a little study of it together."
"I shouldn't mind," said Jess, laconically; "Sunday is a long day to
me."
"I suppose you never go to church?"
"Not me. Jim he goes to the chapel in Ashampton when he ain't too
tired, and M'ria she goes with him on occasions. Mrs. Tent and me
always keep to home with the boys."
"I won't ask you to come to-morrow because of this snow, but to-morrow
week, if it is good weather, will you come at three o'clock, and then
you will be able to have a cup of tea before you go home?"
"Yes, I'll come," responded Jess.
Hannah now entered the room, and wheeled up the tea-table to the fire.
Jess's eyes shone as she noted the delicate china, the silver
muffin-dish with hot cakes, and another plate of crisp brown biscuits,
the thin bread and butter, and the rich-looking plum cake in the
old-fashioned cake-basket, all had a great fascination for her. She
had few pleasures in her life, and had always appreciated everything
beautiful.
Rhoda noticed her enjoyment of it all, and was as cheery and bright a
hostess as Jess could have had.
When tea was over, she was taken to the bookshelves, but seemed quite
bewildered as to what to choose. She finally selected a book of travels
in Africa, and then, with a longing look at the piano, said, "Do you
play, miss? I'm so fond of music. I can sing myself fairly well, it's
the only thing I can do, but of course we haven't an instrument of any
kind. Jim had a concertina once, but one of the children smashed it,
and we ain't had no music for years."
Rhoda sat down and began to sing one of her simple ballads, then she
asked Jess to join her in a hymn, and she was struck with the sweet
true notes the poor deformed girl had. They sang on for some time,
first trying one thing, and then another, until Rhoda, seeing her
visitor showed no sign of taking her departure, said gently, "I mustn't
keep you longer, for you have a long way to go. I am so glad you have
been able to come, and I shall expect you to-morrow week if it is fine."
"Oh, I'll be sure to come. I like it here. It's rather different to our
home, as you know, and I get so tired of that old kitchen."
Then, as she was putting on her shawl, she said, surveying the room
with approving eyes,—
"It's like the books I've read. I could sit here with comfort if it
was mine, and I never would go outside. I've heerd tell of a lady that
lives like you the other side of the valley. She has a tiny cottage
that we would think a great come-down, but inside it's like a palace.
Jane McKay, that comes and gives us a hand at times, she's been in for
a day; but she says, for all she has such nice furniture, she's awful
poor, and nearly starves herself and her girl that does for her."
"What is her name?" asked Rhoda, with interest.
"Miss Montague, they call her. She lives just the other side of
Ashampton. She's awful fond of flowers, but Jane says that you can't
stay your hunger with them, and she has more flowers than food on her
table, she says."
Rhoda said no more, but bade her good-bye, and then went into the
kitchen.
"Hannah, I think that poor Jess has had a good time here; but oh,
how I want to reach her soul! It seems so difficult, and now she has
gone, I feel I could have said more than I did. I am always losing
opportunities."
"Is she coming again, mum?"
"Yes, next Sunday. Do you know, I have such quantities of plans in my
head for this winter. What do you think of an evening-service on Sunday
night in our kitchen, and a Sunday school in the afternoon, and perhaps
a sewing-party or mothers' meeting in the week, and a village library
attached?"
Hannah smiled, and there was much hidden behind that smile, but she
said quietly, "People don't like coming out on winter nights in country
like this, I fancy. You'll have to get to know them first, mum; there
ain't enough of them yet to fill our kitchen. Better wait a bit. I
believe you may do more good in teaching and talking to the ones and
twos than to crowds."
"Yes, I know that is so, but sometimes I feel I haven't enough to
expend my energy on here. And, Hannah, I have just heard of a lady I am
most anxious to know. I feel very curious about her."
Rhoda related what she had heard from Jess, adding, "Of course I know
my chief object in coming here was to make friends with the poor,
but I confess I did not realize what it would be to cut oneself off
so completely from all one's friends, and she might prove a nice
acquaintance; what do you think?"
But Hannah looked dubious, and could give no advice on this point.