A GIFT
THE next day Rhoda started for church in Ashampton. She always attended
the morning service there, and Hannah sometimes accompanied her,
but found it too long a walk to take often. It was a bright, frosty
morning; icicles were glittering in the sun, and the snow was crisp and
hard underfoot. Down the snowy slopes in front lay the little village,
half buried in the snow, and the ridge of pine woods stood like grim
sentinels above on the other side of the valley.
There were not many people about as she came down the village street,
but the bells were chiming merrily, and presently in front of her she
noticed Miss Frith come out of the post-office, and wend her way up the
steep little cobble-stoned lane leading to the church. For one moment
Rhoda hesitated, then determined to join her. As yet she had been quite
unsuccessful in getting to know her, for Miss Frith seemed always so
busy that she could barely spare time to hand the letters across the
counter when asked for them.
"Good morning, Miss Frith. We are both rather early, I think."
Miss Frith turned round, and the lines about her mouth became more set
when she saw Rhoda's intention of walking with her.
She responded civilly, and then Rhoda inquired for the invalid.
"She is fairly well, thank you. This sharp cold rather tries her. She
was asking after you only this morning, wondering whether you would
come and see her."
"Yes, I will, indeed. May I come to-morrow afternoon? I hardly know
when you are at leisure."
"As to me, I'm generally busy with the shop, but Lucy is always at
leisure. She will be glad to see you to-morrow."
"I wish you had some one to relieve you sometimes. How tired you must
get of always being on duty! Don't you?"
Rhoda spoke brightly and sympathetically, but the reply was rather
sharp.
"I suppose we are never intended to be off duty in this life, are we? I
never expect to be."
"No," Rhoda said thoughtfully, "we ought not to be—in the sense you
mean; but very few remember that;" and she added softly, almost under
her breath, "'Blessed is that servant whom his Lord when He cometh
shall find so doing.'"
Miss Frith caught the words, and her face softened wonderfully, but her
voice had the same sharp ring in it as she asked, "Are you one of His
servants?"
"I hope I am," Rhoda responded.
"You're one of the few, then. There aren't many in this part of the
world. A more benighted, heathenish place I never was in, and our
clergyman—well, I needn't tell you what he is like—you have heard him.
It's a case of the blind leading the blind."
Rhoda could not truthfully deny this statement, though she was saddened
at the bitterness of tone with which such an assertion was made.
Changing the subject, she said, "I have been seeing old Mrs. Tent
lately; she was telling me she used to be an old friend of yours."
"Yes, when she lived out our way. That was before her son married. I
haven't seen her for a long time, nor Jess, the deformed daughter. The
others come in occasionally on market days."
"Jess came to tea with me yesterday."
Miss Frith stood still, partly to gain her breath—for the ascent to the
church was very steep—partly in sheer amazement.
"You don't say so! I wouldn't have thought it! She was always very
queer with strangers, and wouldn't have anything to do or say with
them. She must be changed since I knew her."
"Poor thing! I feel so sorry for her. She has had a very lonely life, I
fear."
Miss Frith pursued her way in silence.
Just before they reached the church, Rhoda asked, "Do you know a Miss
Montague who lives about here?"
"You will see her in church," was the reply; "she sits in the front
seat under the pulpit. She has called at the office sometimes, but she
has only settled in these parts for the last two years."
The church was not very full, and Rhoda could not help letting her eyes
stray to the front seat, but there was nothing very noticeable in the
figure there, except perhaps a briskness and alertness in the poise of
the head and in every motion of the body.
As she came down the aisle after the service was over, Rhoda saw that
she was comparatively young in years, though her white hair, combed
back over her broad, low brow, gave her at first sight an elderly
appearance. She was quietly though stylishly dressed, her dark eyes
flashed and sparkled with animation, and as she passed quickly out of
the churchyard, and Rhoda watched her open a gate and disappear across
a field, she said to herself, "I should like to know her. She is a
woman of some character, I should say, and there is something very
dainty and charming about her."
She had a solitary walk home, but she had been refreshed and
strengthened by the liturgy and hymns, if not by the sermon, which was
delivered by a sleepy-looking curate, who seemed only too glad when he
could pronounce the Benediction and get out of church and back to his
own parish again.
But Rhoda's thoughts were busy; she was thinking of Miss Frith. She had
felt instinctively that she was a good woman, but wondered how much joy
and freedom she had in her religion, and then, when she remembered her
past history, was ashamed of herself for judging her.
"I am certain of this, Hannah," she said, when talking it over with her
old servant afterwards, "that duty is a very strong principle with her.
She has evidently lived a quiet, faithful life, keeping herself in the
background, and serving and caring for all but herself. I admire her
immensely, and only wish she would be more friendly with me. But I know
it will be a work of time to gain her confidence."
Monday morning brought a letter from Edgar, saying he had sent the
horse off, and it would arrive at Ashampton about three in the
afternoon. And after a consultation with Hannah, Rhoda settled to take
Jock down, and go to the station herself to meet it.
"I am glad we have got the stable ready for it. I am afraid the forage
will be an expensive item in our housekeeping."
"Yes, indeed it will, mum," responded Hannah, with a solemn shake of
her head; "and I don't see that it will be of much use to us in the
winter. You will be able to get some riding, but that's about all."
"Oh, come now, we will work it more than that Jock can bring the coals
and provisions up in our small cart, which we have never used yet,
instead of paying a man from Ashampton to do it, and our marketing can
be done on a larger scale. We will not have to take so many journeys to
the village. I am wishing at this present moment for a groom to go to
the station and bring the horse up without my troubling about it, but
I put my pride in my pocket long ago, so I ought not to mind. I shall
send Jock back with it, and then shall go on to see Mrs. Thatcher; so
do not expect me home till late."
It was nearly six o'clock before she returned. Hannah was getting
anxious, as it was a very dark evening. She had been herself to the
stable, and seen that Jock had done all that was necessary for the
welfare of the fresh arrival, which was a very beautiful black mare,
looking far more fitted to carry a cavalry officer than to cart coals
and vegetables up and down the moorside.
"But it's just like Mr. Edgar," Hannah muttered to herself, with
another shake of her head. "He spends his money freely, and without a
thought. I wish he had sent a stout young donkey instead; that would
have been far more to the purpose."
Jock, hearing this soliloquy, put in his word.
"Hir be a old 'un; the men at the station were lookin' at 'un, an' they
openeth hir mouth an' zed zo. Hir be wonderful zteady; a' rideth 'un
up, an' hir mouth baint hard neither, but 'tis the hills will do for
she, an' she taketh hir time zurely!"
This information did not make Hannah more hopeful. When Jock was
leaving for home, she made him take the lantern with him.
"You'll meet the mistress coming up, and she'll be in want of a light,
and thankful to have it; so don't you miss her, whatever you do!"
Very glad was the old servant when, later on, she saw the lantern
returning. She met Rhoda with a relieved face.
"I wonder what the gentlemen would say if they saw you, mum, tramping
about the country at all sorts of hours."
"What a good thing it is that I'm an independent woman!" said Rhoda,
with her bright laugh. "Now, Hannah, I have a lot to tell you. Wait
till I get my cloak off."
"Have you had a cup of tea, mum?"
"Yes; a very nice one. I want nothing till seven o'clock. Have you seen
my horse? Isn't she a beauty?"
Chatting away, Rhoda divested herself of her outer wraps, and then sank
into her easy-chair by the fire with a sigh of content.
"Now, Hannah, sit down: I can't talk comfortably if you will persist in
standing."
But this Hannah would never do; the usual response came—"I like
standing best, mum."
And so Rhoda had to let her have her way.
"First of all, I managed very well at the station. On the platform,
waiting for the London train, was Mr. Wallace. At first, I wondered if
I should speak to him, but seeing he recognized me, and being the only
one on the platform besides himself, I spoke. He told me he had got on
very well the other night, and reached the inn after tumbling into no
less than three snowdrifts! He seemed grateful for our hospitality, but
really we could not have done much less for him.
"And then I told him my errand at the station, and he kindly offered
to see to everything for me, as his train did not leave till a quarter
of an hour after the Aldershot one came in. It was such a relief to
be able to put it into his hands. He seemed very well known at the
station. I suppose he spends a good deal of his time with Mr. Rokeby.
"I think I showed my discomfiture at the first sight of the horse, for
you know, Hannah, though she does look such a beauty, she is rather a
contrast to the moor pony we talked of! And I told him how it was. He
asked me to let him know at any time if we wished to make an exchange,
for Mr. Rokeby had a good deal to do with horses, and he might be able
to help us. I replied very stiffly that I would not dream of troubling
Mr. Rokeby in the matter, and that no doubt one of the farmers would
be able to effect the exchange. The foolish man looked rather hurt, so
I told him frankly that I had not found Mr. Rokeby such an obliging
landlord as to make me desirous of asking him a favour. And then he
wanted to know what he had done.
"Don't look so solemn, Hannah; it's much best to say a thing straight
out. I told him that I had never seen him personally, but his agent,
with whom I had most to do, was one of the most disobliging men I had
ever met, and if he did or said anything particularly disagreeable, he
was sure to back it up by, 'It's Mr. Rokeby's orders.' And I told him
Mr. Rokeby had the name of being a very hard and grasping landlord. Now
doesn't every one say that of him? Was I wrong? Well, of course I ought
not to have been so free with my tongue. I felt so afterwards, when it
was too late, as he is a friend of his, but I really couldn't help it.
I am afraid he did not like it. He left me with a cold, curt bow, but I
do not mind, for I only spoke the truth.
"I went on to the post-office then. Mrs. Thatcher was expecting me. I
couldn't help wondering how she would like it if she knew I had been
told her past history, but she chatted away as brightly as usual.
"I said to her, 'Can you ever help Miss Frith in her business? It seems
a good deal for her, single-handed.'
"'Yes, so it is,' she said, with a smile; 'and when first I came, I
wanted her to let me, but she is one of those people who like to do
everything themselves. I often wish, when the time seems so long in
here, that I could have more occupation. The very people coming in and
out make a stir and keep it lively. But I am quite shut away from it,
and, after all, in winter the cold draughts would never do for me.'
"Well, we talked on; she begged me to stay to tea, and so I did. Just
before it was brought in by their little maid, I got an opportunity of
saying the word I wanted. We were talking about the church, and what a
pity it was that there was no resident clergyman, and I asked if she
did not feel sometimes the want of Christian teaching and help.
"She answered, 'As to that, I can't say I miss it, for I never see the
good of other people coming to preach to you as to what you ought to
do, and what you oughtn't. I'm not fond of interference at any time,
and I'm not a drunkard to be converted to total abstinence, nor yet a
great sinner to be talked into better ways.'
"'Of course,' I said, 'I think if we learn life's lessons from the
great Teacher Himself, we do not need any human being to teach us. But
I must confess that as you like to have a chat with me to brighten the
day, so I like to have a talk with others about the things that are
dearest to my heart.'
"'Are you very religious?' she asked, with a surprised look. 'I
shouldn't have thought so from your face.'
"'I am sorry I do not carry my colours well,' I said. 'Don't I look
religious?'
"'Oh, you're too bright. You look as if you live without a care
or thought of such things. Now, there's Susan—she has always been
religious—she sits up with her Bible in front of her on a Sunday, and
looks fit to snap your head off if you venture to make a remark. She's
always been the good one in the family. Where right and wrong have come
in, she's always done the right. Poor dear John used to say,—
"'"Susan has such a high standard of things, I always feel below her.
One has to stretch on tiptoe to understand her views of life!"
"'But then religion has made a dismal work of her. I don't profess
much, but I'm a long sight happier than Susan is. My motto is, "Make
the best of things and slip along easy." If religion is to make me as
solemn and melancholy as Susan, I'm far better without it.'
"She said some more in the same strain. I could not help saying,
'I don't think it is religion that has made your sister grave; we
can't be all alike in temperament, and circumstances may have been
against her. I think, from what I have heard, she has always had great
responsibilities on her shoulders, and has been the one to manage for
others. She may have troubles of her own that do not appear on the
surface.'
"I saw this was not palatable to Mrs. Thatcher, so I added, 'I am
defending religion, you must remember. True religion, a life lived in
communion with God, is one of the brightest and most joyous experiences
that any one could wish for.'
"I could not say more, for tea came in, and then Miss Frith
appeared.—Am I tiring you, Hannah? Shall I stop?"
"No, indeed, mum," was the hearty reply. "I always pray for you when
you go a-visiting, because I know what you want to be at."
"'My Father's business,'" said Rhoda, softly, as she gazed into the
glowing coals before her. "I ought to be at it every day, but it seems
difficult. Well, we had a cosy tea, hot muffins and watercress. Miss
Frith was at first quite silent, and seemed to be always listening for
the shop-bell, but no one came to disturb us. I told them a little
about myself; they liked to hear it, and we had a nice time. Miss
Frith decidedly thawed, and once she smiled, and her face was quite
transfigured by it. I feel now that I have really made friends with
them. Miss Frith gave me quite a warm hand-shake when I came away. I
wonder if she will greet me just as grimly to-morrow morning when I go
down for the letters!
"Hannah, do you know what my last idea is? Don't purse up your lips
like that, but listen! I should like to build a tiny greenhouse against
one side of the house here, and then I could have some flowers all the
winter, and could take some with me when I go visiting. Flowers are
always appreciated. Do you think we could manage it?"
"It would take a lot of money, mum, and how would you keep it warm?"
"Oh, some hot pipes, I suppose, and a small furnace. Do you think it
would be extravagant?"
"I'm thinking the first storm would shatter it to pieces up here. Think
of the wind last week."
"But our windows stood it. It would have to be made very strong, of
course, with perhaps some big shutters. I wonder how much it would
cost. I could ask Mr. Crake, only he is so glum. I think I will get
a carpenter from the village, and plan it myself. I will inquire in
Ashampton to-morrow."
Hannah said no more. She felt her young mistress did not yet know how
little could be done with £130 a year; she had been so accustomed
to have everything done for her in her old home that she had hardly
discovered the difference in her circumstances. But the old servant
wisely concluded that experience would be her best teacher.