MISS MONTAGUE
WHEN Miss Frith had quite recovered, Rhoda went one day to return
Miss Montague's visit. She could not help being charmed with the tiny
house, though the wealth of hothouse plants and flowers that adorned
the rooms were almost overpowering with their perfume. Everything about
Miss Montague was bright and comfortable; she seemed, with her graceful
little figure, silvered hair, and sparkling dark eyes, to be a fit
inmate of the quaint, old-fashioned room with all its dainty belongings.
"Don't think me snobbish," she said to Rhoda, "if I tell you that all
my possessions are real of their kind. I cannot stand imitations and
shams. Nowadays it is hard to tell the difference, but I am determined
not to fall into the craze of getting cheap, tawdry impositions of
foreign goods. I have been in India, and have collected my curiosities
myself. They are all genuine. I know some people laugh at me, but, do
you know, I can tell in the taste of my food whether my fork and spoon
is real silver or electro-plated. I have not a plated article in the
house. What I have is a small quantity, but it is real."
Rhoda felt amused. She thought that with a small income, this expensive
taste might prove rather awkward.
Miss Montague continued: "I tell you, I am sick of seeing
twopenny-halfpenny 'art muslins,' as they call them, draped all over
the windows and walls, and penny fans stuck in every imaginable corner,
with cotton wool frogs and spiders, and beetles and monkeys swarming up
your curtains and draperies. I went down to Aldershot to see a friend
of mine in the camp. She was very proud of her hut drawing-room, and
asked me what I thought of it.
"'It looks exactly like a toy-shop,' I said, 'or a linen-draper's
bazaar!'
"Enough of my room—I told you I liked comfort and warmth, and I'm
thankful I have it. What have you been doing with yourself? I was told
you were nursing our postmistress. Is that true?"
"Yes. She is a great friend of mine."
"A queer taste you must have for friends, though she is my ideal of a
postmistress, grim and forbidding; a woman that would not condescend
to gossip over all the letters coming and going—oh yes, I am very
well satisfied with her. But I am aghast at the idea of nursing such
a dragon! How did you manage it? Sickness in any shape or form is
abhorrent to me. I keep well away from it. I think I am the most
selfish person in existence; for as to doing anything disagreeable that
I could get out of, I shouldn't dream of it! Dirt, misery, disease, and
abject poverty are my sworn foes. I give them a wide berth."
"Would you not like some one to come and nurse you if you were ill?"
"My dear, I hope I never shall be ill. I have enjoyed wonderful health
all my life. Oh yes, I know by the grave curl of your lip what you are
going to say. I must die. Well, I suppose I must some time, but that is
a subject that I put on a shelf with my other foes. I will not touch
upon it. You can teach me how to live, but not how to die. Have you
come prepared to preach to me this afternoon?"
"No, I have not," said Rhoda, laughing; "I have come to improve our
acquaintance. I am afraid I am breaking the tenth commandment. I am
coveting your flowers."
"Ah, you must come into my conservatory;" and Miss Montague opened the
glass doors at the end of her room.
It was not a very large one, but every variety of creeper covered the
roof, and the stands were crowded with the choicest hothouse plants.
"Of course it is an expense to me," Miss Montague said, "so I try to
turn an honest penny by them. I supply three of my London friends with
flowers every week, at a cheaper rate than they can get them in Covent
Garden; I condescend to send some to the market here every Saturday,
and I write articles in several gardening papers. I consider myself a
very good amateur gardener. Then of course I grow my plants myself,
and attend to them, with occasional help from a gardener near here.
Perhaps I am more a florist than a gardener. I don't go in for fruits
or vegetables. It is astonishing how fond one gets of a plant that has
been a great trouble to rear. MY sickly children have a strong hold in
my affections."
"You tolerate disease in plants?"
"Am I inconsistent? I love them, that is the reason; but think of
the difference between a flower's infirmities and a human being's!
I went into a sick-room once, in London, where there was a woman
suffering from abscesses in her throat. Faugh! Shall I ever forget the
atmosphere? There is nothing repulsive in plants."
"I think," said Rhoda, meditatively, "that we both might help each
other. If you let me buy some flowers from you occasionally, I should
be so glad, for I should like to take some to my sick neighbours. Miss
Frith is very fond of flowers."
"I will give you one for her," Miss Montague responded quickly, "for
I always respect a woman who can hold her tongue. I never could
hold mine, and have got into hot water many a time through overmuch
speaking. And then I shall with pleasure take any orders from you. Do
you think she would fancy the heliotrope?"
"You are very kind. I am sure she will, and I will take it in to her on
my way home."
They went back to the fire then, and a few minutes after Miss
Montague's little maid appeared with tea. It was daintily served. The
small wafers of thin bread and butter and rice-cakes were on Crown
Derby plates, the tea was fragrant, and the silver tea-service was
delightfully antique in appearance. But Rhoda could not help agreeing
with the verdict already pronounced upon Miss Montague's housekeeping,
that quality, not quantity, held the ascendency.
Miss Montague continued her voluble flow of conversation.
"It is delightful to have a chat with one's fellow-creatures. I dare
say you wonder how I can stand living alone; for I am fond of talking,
there is no denying it. But you see I am a typical old maid—I have my
puss!"
Here Miss Montague took up a white Persian cat from the hearth-rug and
fondled it lovingly.
"And so I talk all day long to her, and she understands me. Don't you
think me very frivolous, Miss Carlton?"
"No, I don't think so," was the reply; "only, to be quite frank, I
cannot help wishing something better for you."
"Better than a 'mere animal existence.' You see I remember your
vocation. It is to get us all out of this. But what would you have
me do? I loathe visiting the poor. I tell you, the very thought of
tract distribution, and carrying greasy soup, and sitting in smelly,
stuffy bedrooms and kitchens drives me crazy! I consider I benefit my
fellow-creatures by rearing flowers for them, and I am fairly happy.
I have had my troubles in life; and let me say by the way that all my
troubles came through the men, and now I am having my resting time. I
suppose I shall go gently downhill till I arrive in my dotage, and sit
up in a chair by the fire, nodding and mumbling away to myself. I hope
I shall have my flowers and a soft-cushioned chair and a cheery fire,
and then I think I shall be content. I am not going to have you come
here and try and turn me topsy-turvy, and alter my whole plan of life,
when I have arranged it for myself so satisfactorily. What is it you
wish better for me?"
"I will not tell you to-day," Rhoda said quietly. "Perhaps you would be
angry, and not wish to see me any more, and I want to see you again. I
do not set myself up as a preacher."
"My dear, I couldn't afford to quarrel with you. If you don't answer my
question, I shall pass a sleepless night trying to solve it. You good
people ought never to be backward in telling us poor sinful creatures
our faults."
"I can't believe, then," said Rhoda, softly, "that your present life
thoroughly satisfies your soul. Does it?"
"I don't know whether I have a soul. I think I am like Undine in her
first stage. How much happier she was then, wasn't she? Her troubles
began when her soul began to grow. Of course, man's perfidy had a large
share in it. Perhaps another day I may give you some of my experiences
of men. But I am philosophical; they have not blasted my life. I have
discovered that I can live without them. I will try and find out if
have a soul by the time I see you next. Ah, I see, I am shocking you!
I told you I was flippant. But you good people are such paragons of
perfection that very little shocks you. Is it true that you conduct a
Sunday service up on the moor?"
"I have a Bible reading at a farmhouse on a Sunday afternoon, but I had
to stop it during Miss Frith's illness. It is only for a few of the
people about who cannot get to church or chapel."
"Now, look here; if you ask me to lunch with you one Sunday, I will go
to it. I cannot manage the walk otherwise. And you can prepare your
discourse expressly for me. Give it to me hot and strong; it will be a
splendid opportunity, and then you will have delivered your soul—isn't
that one of your phrases?—and we need never touch on the subject again."
Rhoda hesitated. She felt a strong dislike to having Miss Montague as
one of her audience, and yet she hardly dared refuse her. "I shall be
very glad for you to come to lunch," she said, after a pause, "but
you must not expect me to alter my subject. I am taking simple Bible
stories, and explaining them in the most childish language, so that the
smallest child can understand. I don't think you would care for it, but
you are welcome, if you think you would like to come."
"I shall come. I shall see you at church next Sunday, and we can go up
the hill together. Good-bye, if you must be going. I know you think me
an awful creature, but I assure you I am mostly on the surface. I have
no hidden depths of wickedness in me. Some friends have told me I have
no depths at all!"
And so it came to pass that on the following Sunday Miss Montague
formed one of Rhoda's audience.
She talked and grumbled in her light-hearted way the whole time she
was walking to the Tents', of the roughness of the road, the keenness
of the air, and the dreariness of the weather; for it was a cold grey
day in February, and the distant landscape was obliterated by a thick
mist. But when she arrived in the farmhouse kitchen, she subsided into
silence, and her bright eyes were busy taking note of everything around
her.
Rhoda's congregation was increasing. Some of the farm lads attended;
Hal Brown had commenced to come, bringing a nephew with him, for his
wife was now convalescent; old Robin and his wife, of course, were
there; and Jess, no longer in a sullen mood, led the singing with great
animation. Rhoda told the story of Naaman; she had prayed much that
Miss Montague's presence might not disturb her or fetter her speech in
any way, and after the first few moments, she ceased to be conscious of
her being there. She had the gift of being able to tell a story well,
and when she had thoroughly aroused their interest, did not find it
difficult to let the incidents teach the lessons they were intended to.
When she concluded with a few earnest words of pleading, as was her
wont, there was a silent hush over the room, and Miss Montague was more
moved than she cared to show. Yet when it was over, and Rhoda turned
to have a little conversation with the Tents, Miss Montague took the
opportunity of drawing out old Mrs. Day, and was soon rattling away,
highly amusing the old couple by her voluble chatter.
"Your husband's name must be Darby," she was persisting, "and yours is
Joan. I have a song that I used to sing about you."
"To think o' that!" ejaculated Poll, with a laugh. "But 'tis a mistake,
mum; I ain't never had a Darby! There have a-bin Ned, an' Harry an'
Tim, an' it be Robin that be my man noo!"
"Why, you naughty old woman, have you had for husbands? That is too
many for any one. Why should you have had four and I none?"
"Hur were a pretty maid, hur were!" put in Robin, with a chuckle.
"Well, I wasn't an ugly one. I dare say you mayn't believe it,
but I was considered rather nice-looking at one time. I think one
husband would have contented me, though, and, after all, I believe a
single life is the blessed one. Four husbands! It's truly awful to
contemplate! I expect you got rather tired of some of them, didn't you
now? Perhaps were rather glad when they were taken?"
The old woman looked solemn.
"Us must be thankful vor our mercies, mum. 'Twere, the right time vor
they to be tooken, natur'lly 'twere zo!"
Miss Montague laughed gaily.
"And is the last one the best of the four?"
Old Poll turned to Robin with shining eyes, and laid her withered,
trembling hand on his arm. "Ay, ay, me dear," she said, with a little
break in her voice; "he be a good man to me. Us do be particulooly
sooted, Robin an' me. I be rare vond o' he!"
And the pathos in the old woman's voice as she looked into her
husband's face, and the cheery smile he gave her as he lovingly patted
her hand, brought a lump in Miss Montague's throat. She turned away;
and when, a short time after, she and Rhoda, with Hannah a few steps
behind, were wending their way back, she said shortly,—
"A single woman's life is not altogether blessed. Why do some people
live such fuller lives than others?"
"I thought you hated men," observed Rhoda, with a smile.
"So I do. I abominate them. Allow me to congratulate you on your
sermon. I wish we had that style in our churches. Couldn't you coach up
our wretched curate here to be a little more interesting?"
Rhoda made no reply.
Miss Montague continued, "Now, tell me truly, do you really believe all
you tell those people Sunday by Sunday?"
"I do," was the grave reply.
"And you think there is no help for us, whether we are big or little
sinners, unless we are cleansed, and that is to be one definite act?"
"The Bible says so, does it not?"
"Oh yes, you gave us plenty of texts. Frankly, this is a new gospel to
me. I thought the correct thing was to do one's best, and one would
stand a chance of being put right—cleansed, as you call it—just before
death, if one wasn't cleansed in baptism. I rather fancy I used to be
told we were, and didn't want another cleansing. But I am very foggy
about these things. You have stirred me up this afternoon to think I
may be a kind of sinner after all. I wonder if I am?" Then with a quick
change of tone, "What old dears those ancient folk are! Where did you
get hold of them? They look as if they must have walked straight out of
the Ark! And what a little humpbacked monstrosity that girl or woman
was that sang so beautifully! Who is she?"
And, as if to elude all serious subjects, Miss Montague chattered on
without a pause till they reached Rhoda's cottage.
She came in to tea, had a rest, and then departed.
"I won't come up every Sunday to hear you—it is too much of a walk—but
you have not seen the last of me. I shall come occasionally."
Rhoda sank into a chair with a weary sigh.
"She takes a lot out of one, Hannah, and I have had her on my hands for
nearly five hours. I wonder if it is any good trying to reach her!"
"You are tired, mum," said Hannah, briskly; "to-morrow you'll be
thankin' the Lord for putting it into her heart to come. Rest a bit,
and you'll feel better."
"I don't know what I should do without you to cheer me up," said Rhoda.
And five minutes after, the old servant, coming in to attend to the
fire, found her young mistress fast asleep.
She stood and watched her for a minute in silence, and went out into
the kitchen muttering to herself, "She is but a bit of a child yet in
some things, but the Lord means to use her in these parts. I felt the
Spirit's power this afternoon. Bless her sweet face, sleeping there as
tired out as a baby! She'll wake up her bonny bright self again, I'm
thinkin'!"