AN OPEN DOOR
RHODA was busy kneading bread in the kitchen one afternoon, and talking
and laughing merrily with Hannah, when they were startled by a knocking
at the front door. Hannah went to open it, and returned saying, in a
tone of surprise, "A lady to see you, mum."
Rhoda took the visiting card handed to her in her floury fingers and
read, "Miss Montague."
Her face brightened at once.
"Do you think you can go on kneading this, Hannah? It is nearly done;
and then will you bring us in some tea? I am so glad she has called."
She washed her hands hastily, took off her large apron, and went in to
her visitor, who was seated holding her "pince-nez" to her eyes, taking
quiet note of her surroundings.
"Miss Carlton, I think? Do you know, I have only just discovered that
you have settled in this part, and as I am a near neighbour, I thought
it would be well for us to know each other. What a charming room you
have here, and what a view!"
She pointed out of the west window as she spoke, where the sun was
sinking over some purple hills—a great ball of fire—sending out
flashing rays of beauty over the soft grey landscape. Like a panorama
the clouds passed by, changing their hues and tints as they did so,
from a pale salmon edged with pearly grey to a bright rose, which
darkened into a deep crimson, whilst streaks of every shade of gold
would illuminate the sky.
Rhoda turned, and for a moment, she and her visitor watched it in
silence, which Miss Montague presently broke,—
"I wonder if you are as fond of nature as I am."
"I am very fond of it," said Rhoda, "and living up here I seem to get
all the beauty of it untouched by man."
"Ah, I see we shall have much in common. You must come and see me and
my flowers. That is one thing I should miss up here. It is too bleak
and cold for much vegetation. I like grand wild scenery, but not so
well as the sweet rural part that I live in; I think I like nature in
detail better than 'en masse.' Is that sense to you? I know what I mean
by it. Now tell me, have you come here to live?"
"I hope so," Rhoda answered, smiling, "I have settled down to do so."
"I am not going to ask you yet why you have chosen to bury yourself
alive here, though I am burning with curiosity to know. Why, my dear,
you are young and fresh and—may I say it?—good-looking! Now what has
possessed you to do it?"
Rhoda could not help laughing.
And Miss Montague joined her a little shamefacedly, then added, "Oh, I
know I am very rude, but you see if you live long here, you cannot be
conventional. I have been here two years and a half, and do you know in
all that time I have not spoken to a single woman in my own position in
life. So you can fancy I was rather pleased to hear of your advent. I
heard it through my little maid, who heard it through another girl who
occasionally visits some farmer's family of the name of Tent. Gossip
flies round even in this part. Well, it is a nice part of the country
to be in, and I am content. I have found what I wanted. A life apart
from society, and—men!"
Miss Montague brought out this last word with some bitterness, then
noticing Rhoda's surprised look, she went on calmly, "Yes, I hate them.
I think I honestly do. I am sick to death of them. I think I would like
to clear the world of them, perhaps leaving a few doctors and lawyers,
and possibly one or two clergymen."
"Do you like women better?" Rhoda asked, amused.
"I think I do, on the whole. I don't care for any one very much except
myself. But don't think I am a misanthrope. Oh dear no! And I do not
shun my fellow-creatures. I think I am a sociable being at heart,
and perhaps my bark is worse than my bite. I am a lonely woman, Miss
Carlton, without kith or kin. I have led a very gay life, and have
known what it is to have every luxury; but when my money departed, and
I had to struggle on trying to keep up appearances in London, I could
not do it. My soul revolted at dingy, dirty lodgings, and impudent
servant girls; I must have things nice about me, and I could not have
them on my small income in London. So I discovered this part of the
country, and have never regretted it. And I said good-bye to society
without a sigh. Perhaps, to be quite frank, society took the initiative
in bidding me farewell after my money went, but I had a good many
friends in town up to the time I left. Perhaps, after all, my motive
was not to get rid of the men so much as to economize; but this does
not alter my feelings about them. They are born selfish, they are
brought up and trained to be selfish, and they live and die grasping
all that is best for themselves, and consider that woman's object in
life is to amuse, interest, and minister to them."
"I think you are very hard on them. I suppose you rank yourself among
the strong-minded women of the day?"
"Strong-minded women! Excuse my repeating your words, but I do hate
that expression. It is as much as to say that the majority of women
have weak minds, and it is only the few who differ from them. No, I
rank myself among the ordinary Englishwomen, with private prejudices
and opinions of my own. And now, will you tell me what you do with
yourself all day? I will tell you more about myself when I know you
better, but I should like to know your hobby. Not flowers?"
"No, I hardly think so, though I am very fond of them. I have a variety
of occupations; I bake, I milk, I dust, I garden, and I ride and walk
as I feel inclined."
"Do you ride? I wish I did; but I cannot afford a horse, and I think
I have lost my nerve. But you must be able to get over the country
quickly. Dear me, what a time I took walking up here! I thought I
should never reach you. I met Mr. Rokeby in the station road, and he
directed me. Do you know him?"
"No, I have never seen him, but he is my landlord."
"He is the only man about that I am on speaking terms with. He knew
some friends of mine, but I have a contempt for his grand, lordly airs;
he always seems to consider it a mark of condescension to speak to you
at all. I must tell you one day about Mr. Long. He is the curate who
comes over on Sunday to give us the benefit of his ministrations. He
came to see me once, but I don't think he will ever come again. Well,
go on, tell me more about yourself."
"I visit my neighbours," Rhoda said quietly; "I came here to do some
work."
"What kind of work?"
"To help some of these poor country people to live happier, fuller
lives—not to exist like mere animals, but to know something of what
they were sent into the world for."
"Oh, I see! You are a philanthropist. I'm sure I do not know what I was
sent into the world for. Can you tell me?"
"I think the Bible will, Miss Montague. Were we not made for God's
glory?"
"Good gracious! You're worse than a philanthropist, you're an
enthusiast, you're a religious fanatic! And yet you don't look like
one. Your room, your dress, is distinctly worldly, I consider. I am
glad I know your object in coming here. To 'help us poor country folks
to live happier, fuller lives.' That is what you have got to do to me.
I think I might possibly be happier, and there is plenty of space in
my life for something more. I am not 'to exist any longer like a mere
animal.' I wonder what kind of animal I resemble! I think a fastidious
Persian cat. I love soft cushions, and warm corners, and plenty of
sleep. Now, I am not laughing at you, nor joking. I shall hold you to
that purpose of yours. Here is my hand upon it!"
She stretched out her daintily gloved hand, and Rhoda took it, feeling
overwhelmed at her rapid mode of speech. But there was something so
attractive in her bright winning tone that she felt strangely drawn to
her, and a quick prayer went up from her heart that she might be used
in earnest to win her into the Kingdom.
Tea came in, and Miss Montague sat on, seeming to be thoroughly
enjoying herself.
When she at length rose to go, she said, "I feel I have been amply
repaid for a long and tiring walk by my charming visit, and I hope I
shall entertain you as kindly when you come down to see me."
As Rhoda went to the little gate with her, Miss Montague pointed down
the valley to where she lived.
"How superior you must feel up here! Don't you have a kind of pitying
contempt for the poor valley folk? Do you think it is a type of our
lives—yours and mine? You on the heights where few can live, I with
the rest of the world at your feet. I wonder if atmosphere affects
the soul. Do you think if I dwelt nearer heaven in reality, I should
be nearer spiritually? But I couldn't do it. I don't like these cold,
grand, desolate places. I am only a cat. Cats don't roam over mountain
tops. Good-bye. Don't leave me long without coming to see me."
Rhoda watched her disappear in the fast-gathering twilight, and with a
smile and a sigh went back to her room, feeling that her life was fast
filling with fresh interests, and that there was no fear of her tiring
of the monotony of her environments.
That same week she went over to the Tents', and returned with a radiant
face.
"Hannah, the way before us is opening. What do you think Mrs. Tent
has asked me this afternoon? She said the younger boys didn't like
being left behind every Sunday, and there were a great many tears in
consequence. She couldn't send them, for it was too far, and they had
to rest the donkey on Sunday. So she asked, with great hesitation
and many apologies for doing so, if I would go over there on Sunday
afternoons, and give them all the benefit of a Bible lesson. She said
they could so seldom get to chapel, that Sunday was a long day, and
her husband liked to sit still and read. Old Mrs. Tent would be so
pleased if I would come, and her husband himself told her to ask me. I
said I would be delighted, and then I thought of old Robin Day and his
wife. They don't live very far from the Tents, and I asked permission
for them to come. You will come too, won't you? We will have some
hymn-singing, and, who knows? It may grow into a large meeting—a Sunday
service on the moor! Oh, I am so thankful the opportunity has come at
last! I only hope I may be able to speak so as to interest them. We
shall need to pray much about it, Hannah."
"Yes, mum—I am very glad. It is much better than having the service
here; their kitchen must be a good big one."
"It is a splendid room. The only one who was not pleased was Jess. She
looked as black as a thundercloud. Poor thing! I think she loves coming
over here. I told her she must come to me on Saturdays instead, when
she wanted to change her book for another. I think that mollified her,
but she looked very sullen up to the last. I shall try and see the Days
to-morrow; I do hope they will come."
Rhoda set off with a light heart to visit the old couple the next day.
She had been several times to read to them, and they seemed to enjoy
her coming. She found old Robin out in his garden, but he followed her
in immediately.
"Us have bin a-wantin' of 'ee zore, miss. Bob Smith—him that worketh
the zignal box below—have a-zented up a letter vrom the pozt, an' us
be not able to read 'un. Us knoweth not rightly if our lad be alive or
dead."
Old Poll thrust the letter forward with a shaking hand, and both stood
by the side of Rhoda, their old faces quivering with excitement. She
did not keep them waiting. The letter was from their daughter-in-law,
saying that he had taken a wonderful turn for the better, and was now
out of danger.
"Ay, ay, to think on't!—" and Poll's apron came up to her eyes—"Us
niver did a-think he'd have gotted through. Why, all last evenin' afore
us getted to bed, me dear, Robin an' me was a-makin' up some bootiful
verses for his tomb. Ay, 'twas somethin' vine, they were! Robin he do
be a bit o' a poet. An' to think as they be not needed! Ay, it be a
zore pity! Us allays writes our own verses for graves. 'Tis a thing you
can't get nowhere unless you makes it yerself. Will 'ee like to hear on
'em?"
"Yes, I should," said Rhoda, divided betwixt laughter and tears at the
poor old things, and wondering if she would ever get so old as to be
more interested in some composition of her feeble brain than in the
life of a human being, and that one an only son.
Poll immediately began in a solemn sing-song tone,—
"Varewell, dear son, us hopes to meet agen,
An' won't us all be very happy then!"
"There be three verses of they," put in Robin, eagerly; "the old woman
maketh the lazt 'un, her did!"
And taking the words out of his wife's mouth, he continued,—
"Ay, zadly shall us miss 'ee, dear,
But doctors coodn't keep 'ee here.
His body rezts aneath the zod,
His zoul, he hath flown up to God."
There was a pause.
Then Rhoda said gently, "I am sure those verses are very nice, but how
glad you must be that they will not be wanted! I think God has answered
our prayers, and raised your son up again in a wonderful way. Don't you
think it would be nice to thank Him together?"
Robin rubbed his head doubtfully and looked at his better half.
"Ay, ay, me dear," she said briskly, "us 'll like a bit o' prayer. Me
dear departed Tim he were winderful clever at prayer, he were. Many's
the time me knees have hurted terrible, but he were as vresh as a
daisy; he did pray louder an' longer than any on 'em to chapel. But you
doos your best, me dear."
And with this encouraging word, Rhoda knelt and gave thanks for the one
restored to health.
When she rose, she said brightly, "I always think it is such a comfort
that God does not need long prayers from us. He is our Father. If
children want anything, they don't take long in telling their parents
what it is. He likes us to ask for everything, and to thank Him for
everything."
The old couple nodded their heads, and then Poll said, with a little
hesitation in her tone,—
"Might us trouble you, me dear, to write doon they verses, for fear as
they should slip our mem'ries? They taketh a winderful long time to
make up, an' I'm a-thinkin' as they'll coom in handy vur Robin, if so
be the Lord do take on him."
Robin scratched his head, and looked uncomfortable, but his wife patted
his arm consolingly.
"Maybe us 'll go togither," she said, "but I can't deny as I've
a-buried three on 'em, an' the Lord may requeer the vour!"
Rhoda wrote down the verses, and Poll carefully folded the paper up and
put it in an old tin tea-pot on the shelf. Then Rhoda told them about
the little service on Sunday afternoon, and asked them if they would
come.
Poll got quite fluttered over it.
"Us hath not bin to chapel for many year; I mindeth the last time I
putted on me bonnet were for old Abel's vuneral, an' that were nigh six
year ago, an' me rheumatics be rayther badly; but us might conzeider
on't, mightn't us, Robin?"
"Ay, us might conzeider on't. 'Tis not zo vurry far ower yonner."
"I mindeth when I vurst gooed to a kitchen meetin' wi' me dear departed
Harry. Poor dear lad, I 'ticeth of him to coom, but he were mighty
uncoomfortable, an' saith he when us were cooming oot,—
"'If that be a meetin', Polly,' saith he, 'I'm jiggered if I don't do
me meetin's in me own kitchen arter this! An' you can do the praychin'
whiles I taketh a nap!'
"Poor Harry, he allays liked his coomfortable cheer, an' us were on a
vorm in the kitchen wi'oot a back for nigh two hour! But Robin an' me
will do our best to coom, me dear, if it pleaseth you; and there! it
will be a bit o' a change for we."