FIRST-FRUITS
VERY long and weary were the days that followed, and Rhoda's faith and
patience sadly failed. Even Hannah was surprised at the change in her
bright, light-hearted young mistress. Sometimes her irritability and
impatience would thoroughly dishearten the old servant, and then those
phases would be followed by others of the deepest depression of spirits.
"I suppose I must have utterly failed in carrying out the work given to
me, or I should not have been so laid aside," she said to Hannah one
lovely morning in May, as she lay on her couch looking out into the
sweet, soft sunshine, and vainly trying to restrain her longings to be
out in the midst of it all.
"It's a fresh class you have been promoted to," said Hannah, sagely.
"If only I could know the reason for it! Just to happen when my long,
trying winter's work was over, and I was beginning to see some results!
Look at our Sunday afternoon services—increasing week by week; the
last Sunday I took it there were twenty-five, and promises of more,
now the weather is improving. And then suddenly it has been brought to
a standstill. Was I getting too uplifted, Hannah? I tried not to be.
I think and wonder as I lie here, and though with my lips I say, 'Thy
will be done,' my heart is not in accord with it. I have been wondering
whether it is the devil's doing, whether he determined to upset the
work when it seemed most promising. Do you think it can be?"
"He could not work without God's permission, mum," Hannah said slowly.
"The seed has been sown, and God maybe can water and tend it without
you for a time."
"Oh, I know all that," and Rhoda's tone was impatient. "I know I am not
wanted at present, or I wouldn't be lying here. I have heard from my
uncle suggesting my coming to his house in town till I am better. I am
half inclined to go. A cottage upon the moor is very pleasant when one
can get about, but it is simply unbearable when you have to lie still
in the same small room day after day. There! I see from your face how I
shock you by my impatience. I think my illness may show me what a vile
temper I have when things are not according to my liking. The last time
I went to see that young Mrs. Brown, she was fretting at not getting
on faster after her attack of rheumatic fever. I preached patience and
resignation to her with the greatest self-complacency. It is a very
different matter to preach it to oneself. Do you think any one will
ever come and see me here? Oh, what sympathy I shall have with those
who are lying sick after this experience of mine! I think what makes me
mind it most is the insignificant cause. A sprained and broken ankle!
If I felt really ill, too ill to care for anything, the time would pass
quicker. But my health is capital, and I am just panting to have a good
run across the moor. Don't go, Hannah; I must grumble, it does me good.
Say you're sorry for me—say it's very hard."
"I am sorry, mum, but nothing would make me say the Lord is hard upon
you, for I know better."
And these words brought a feeling of shame to Rhoda's heart, as she
realized against whom she was grumbling.
Hannah had hardly left the room before there was a timid knock at the
door, and upon Rhoda's calling out "Come in," Jess appeared, looking
very shy.
"I thought you'd excuse my calling, miss, but I did want to know how
you were, and mother said she thought as how you would understand."
"Why, Jess," Rhoda exclaimed, holding out her hand to her, "I'm
delighted to see you. I was only saying to Hannah just now how I longed
for a visitor. I really think God must have sent you just to cheer me
up. Come and sit down by me, and we will have a nice talk together. You
don't know how lonely I have been feeling."
Jess took a seat by the couch with a look of infinite, satisfaction.
"We've missed you dreadful on Sundays," she said, "but Jim he got your
message to keep the service on if possible, and so we have plenty o'
hymns, and Jim he reads a chapter, and Hal Brown he led in prayer last
Sunday. He said he used to think a deal of such things years ago, only
he had fallen away like, and it had brought it all back agen to him. He
got up and he said a few words last Sunday, and he spoke very nice. He
said he was a-makin' a fresh start, and mother she set to a-cryin' when
he was talkin', and we had a grand time."
"Thank God!" breathed Rhoda to herself, almost afraid to trust herself
to speak.
Jess was at no loss for conversation, and had so much to tell about
her home life, and Mrs. Brown and her family, who were still a great
interest to her, that Rhoda could only lie still and listen and wonder,
as she noted the brightness in her face at the change from the sullen
Jess who had so obstinately resisted the idea at first of having a
service at home.
She kept her to lunch with her. But after it was over, Jess lingered,
and showed so plainly that she had something on her mind, that Rhoda
asked her at length,—
"Have you anything else to tell me, Jess?"
"Yes," she said, hanging her head.
"Don't be afraid to tell me. Are you in any trouble?"
"No."
Rhoda waited. Then, with a little burst, Jess came out with,—
"I thought perhaps you'd like to know, I see it different now to what I
did. I—I couldn't get out of my head what you said to me months ago."
"What was that?" asked Rhoda, gently, though her heart beat quickly as
this revelation was made.
"It was the Sunday I came here, and went to sleep when you were talking
to me. You said—I mind the very words—
"'He died for you, He loves you, and He wants to have you in His fold.'
"I couldn't get them out of my head, and I was miserable, and when
you gave up having me here on Sundays, I said to myself it was no use
tryin' to be better, for there was an end of it all. And then you come
and took me off to Mrs. Brown, and when I was a-nursin' her I felt if
it was me I shouldn't be ready to die, and I got more and more anxious
like. And then I wondered if your words were true, and I got my Bible
one night when I was watchin' her, and I come across that verse in the
beginnin' of Revelation,—
"'Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood.'
"I thought over that for a long while, and I prayed every night that I
might belong to them that could say that. And then, that Sunday when
you told us about Naaman, I seemed to see it clearer. And last Sunday,
hearing Hal Brown speak up, I saw what he had I could get, and I—I went
to my little room after, and asked to be washed and taken into the
Fold. And, miss, you don't know how happy I am, for I feel He really
has done it."
"Oh, Jess, I am thankful! I have prayed so much for you."
They talked a little longer, and then Jess took her leave.
But directly she was gone, Rhoda put her head down amongst her cushions
and burst into tears.
"How good of God!" she sobbed. "How little do I deserve it! It is
overwhelming, when I think of my ungrateful and impatient grumbles
against Him. And all the time, He was preparing this great joy for me."
An earnest prayer for pardon, mingled with thanksgiving, went up from
her heart.
And when Hannah came in later on, a glance at her mistress's softened,
radiant face led her to expect some good tidings.
Only those who know the joy of seeing a careless, unawakened soul enter
into the Kingdom, and receive the gift of eternal life, can realize the
happiness that filled Rhoda's heart.
Hannah did not hear a murmur pass her lips for many days after, but
she was not surprised when she said to her, "I have refused my uncle's
invitation, Hannah. I feel I cannot leave. Jess is coming over every
Saturday to have a little Bible reading with me, and practise some
hymns. God is going to give me some work to do, I think, and I will not
run away from it."
Rhoda's next visitor was Miss Frith. She had got some one to take her
place, and though it was a considerable effort on her part to do it,
she had conquered her feelings of reticence, and arrived one afternoon
at three o'clock.
Rhoda, of course, was delighted to see her, and spoke to her frankly of
her difficulties in bearing her confinement with fortitude and patience.
"I have failed so miserably," she assured her. "I know it is all my
own fault, for God has sufficient grace for all our needs. But it is
a fight with me, and I thought at one time I had got past fighting. I
think it shows one how much hidden depths of sin is buried within us;
it only needs certain circumstances to bring it out. I remember, when
you were laid up, I could not understand your restlessness; but you
were a saint compared with me!"
"Ah, no," Miss Frith said, gravely. "You are of too bright a
disposition to be as soured and rebellious as I was."
"Indeed, you don't know me. I feel I could fling my cushions at
Hannah's head, sometimes, in sheer temper. I have never been patient,
and I think I have had my own way pretty much through life. Even in my
work here, there is no one who hinders or opposes me. It is the first
real check I have received, and I am beginning to see now that I have
had a lesson set before me that I sadly needed to learn. But I won't
talk about myself the whole time. How is your sister?"
"She has been rather poorly the last week or two with a bronchial
attack. I don't think so much of that, as she has often had them
before, but she seems so depressed with it. She says she knows she is
going to die, and that isn't like her."
"I am sorry. Excuse my asking you, but have you ever spoken to your
sister on serious subjects?"
"Never," said Miss Frith, setting her lips together firmly; "it's the
life, not the lips, must teach. I don't approve of preaching."
"There is a verse that has been a great help to me in my life. I wonder
if I may give it to you. Would you mind handing me my Bible? I should
like to read it to you. It is in Isaiah, and the marginal reading is so
striking, I think. Here it is:
"'Ye that are the Lord's remembrancers, keep not silence.'
"I remember when it first struck me. It seemed to come as an
inspiration. Don't you think it means we must testify with our lips?"
Miss Frith did not answer.
"I know I am not as old a Christian as you, but it seems to me that God
does use us again and again as His mouthpiece. I could tell you of one
quite lately who has been truly converted, I hope and believe. Some
words of one person first set them thinking; God continued the work.
But they were brought to decision by the words of quite an ignorant
man, who was testifying in his simple way of what the Lord had done for
him. Don't you think we may miss opportunities by keeping our mouths
shut?"
"I think," said Miss Frith, with deliberation, "if a person is anxious
to hear, then is the time to speak. My sister would neither care nor
understand, and least of all would she listen to me. If you were able
to come and see her, it would be different—she's always asking after
you. Do you think you could manage it soon?"
"I will if I can, but I wish you would try. Will you read her a verse
or two from the Bible?"
Miss Frith shook her head, and changed the subject.
Rhoda kept her to tea, but when she was wishing her good-bye she put
her hand on her arm gently, and said, "Don't be angry at my persistency.
"'Ye that are the Lord's remembrancers, keep not silence.'
"Think it over, won't you? And send me up word how your sister is by
Jock when he calls for my letters."
Three days after, Rhoda was startled and shocked by the tidings of Mrs.
Thatcher's death. She had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and died
one night, when only her sister was with her. Rhoda longed to go down
and offer comfort and sympathy to Miss Frith, but this Dr. Bedford
forbade her to do, so she had to content herself with writing.
"Now, I wonder," she said to Hannah, "if there was opportunity of
speaking to her; she seemed quite laid upon my mind when Miss Frith was
here. I suppose no clergyman was sent for. I do so wish now that I had
tried to reach her more. I don't think I ever found it more difficult
with any one than with her."
There was no word or sign from Miss Frith, but knowing her silent,
reserved character, Rhoda was not surprised, and for the time being she
was kept in suspense.
Other people came to visit her in her convalescence; Miss Montague came
several times, and certainly enlivened her by her flow of conversation.
And one day Miss Rokeby came over in the brougham, accompanied by her
brother. They had been very kind in sending over books and flowers, and
occasionally a present of game, but Rhoda felt that Miss Rokeby's visit
had cost her some effort, and appreciated it accordingly.
"My dear," she said, on leaving, "I think you have a charming little
retreat, but you ought not to be living alone here. I do not want to
be curious, but I cannot help wondering what has induced you to come
and bury yourself alive on this moor. If you want to work, there is
plenty of scope in the large towns and cities all over England. Our
hard-worked clergy are always calling out for workers. Is not that more
natural and fitting a sphere for you to be engaged in?"
"I know most people think so," rejoined Rhoda, earnestly, "but the
people in the towns live in a blaze of light compared with the country
people in such parts as this. Workers get in each other's way, and one
denomination hinders the work of another. I have talked it over with
my brother, who is a curate in the East End of London, and though of
course workers are wanted everywhere, I do think the country wants them
most. Christians always congregate in towns; they want scattering; and
I determined not to form one of their number. It always seems to me
that the ground in the town is over-tilled, whilst many parts in the
country lie fallow and waste."
"What is your work here?" asked Miss Rokeby, with interest.
For an instant Rhoda hesitated; then she said simply, "Trying to make
people see and believe the reality in religion, and how it can become
part and parcel of our everyday lives."
"But that is the work of the clergy."
"There are no clergy here. No minister of any denomination visits the
small farms about the moor."
Mr. Rokeby had been listening in silence, but now he said, "And how
is the Sunday service getting on? I hear grand accounts from Brown,
who goes to it. I believe he will end by being a preacher of some sort
before long. Since his wife's illness, he has come out in quite a new
light. I was having a chat with him the other day in the wood, as he
was cutting down some trees, and he turned round and asked me a very
pointed question as to my spiritual state. Do you train them to preach,
Miss Carlton?"
"No," she said, meeting his quizzical glance very gravely, "but I
suppose those words are true,—
"'Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.'"
There was no more said, but as Miss Rokeby left the house, she said to
her brother,—
"It is a strange life for a young girl, and such a good-looking one,
too! A vein of eccentricity in her nature, I suppose. I wonder her
relatives allow it."
"A more wholesome life than pining in useless luxury for occupation, or
steeped in the frivolities of town dissipation," responded her brother,
drily.