A STRAIGHT TALK
MR. ROKEBY came and went for the next few days with news of the Evanses
and their friends, but nothing could be proved against them. The real
culprits seemed to have escaped, and no trace could be found of them or
of the horse.
As he was wishing Rhoda good-bye at the garden gate, after the last of
these interviews, he said, looking at her intently, "I do not think
you will be tempted to go past the Evans's house just yet, but I wish
you would promise me you will not go near the neighbourhood for the
present."
"I am not likely to be able to walk so far for some time," said Rhoda,
a little coldly. "I never make promises to any one."
"I only ask it for your own sake," he urged. "You have no one to look
after you here. It is not safe for you to be in their vicinity by
yourself. Your brothers, I think, would be the first to say so."
Rhoda smiled.
"My brothers have given me up as incorrigible, long ago. I shall not do
anything rash, but when I get stronger on my feet, I shall go to see
Mrs. Dyke, if I can possibly manage it."
"Will you not take some one with you? I would offer myself as an escort
with pleasure, but I feel I would not be acceptable."
"No, thank you. I always like to do my visiting alone. After all, Mr.
Rokeby, you can easily make the coast clear for me. Why do you keep
such disreputable tenants?"
Mr. Rokeby looked amused.
"And this from the lady who has hitherto always stood up for the
tenants' rights, and written furious notes to the unjust and arrogant
landlord demanding justice for the oppressed! Are you aware that
a landlord cannot turn a tenant out without a quarter's notice,
especially when he has no ground for ejecting them?"
Rhoda looked rather crestfallen, and then laughed.
"But you should not have taken them in the first instance without more
careful inquiry. We have been so peaceful and quiet up here till they
came. If a system of robbing and bullying all who go their way is to be
the order of things now, we have you to thank for it."
"And that is why I venture to plead with you not to expose yourself to
the chance of another experience like that of a few nights ago. I plead
guilty to bringing unsafe characters here. Is it too much to ask you to
keep away from them?"
Their eyes met; and there was something in his earnest look that made
her say hastily, "Very well! I promise to take Hannah with me the next
time I go. That must content you."
"Thank you," he said simply, and left her.
"It is no concern of his what I do, and where I go," she said musingly.
"It ought not to interest him in the least. I cannot bear the idea of
being considered unprotected. As if I want a bodyguard always dogging
my footsteps! I did hope, when I came up here, that I should have
perfect liberty and independence. I wish I need have no intercourse
with him."
The next day was Sunday; and, true to her promise, Miss Montague
arrived early in the afternoon, and brought Rhoda a lovely bouquet of
flowers.
"How are you bearing your confinement to the house?" she asked,
settling herself in a big chair opposite Rhoda, and arranging the
cushions to her liking.
"Badly, I am afraid," was the truthful answer. "I can't help worrying
over the loss of my horse at times, but I hope I am learning my lesson.
I am trying to be at rest about it."
They talked for some time, then Miss Montague said,—
"I heard to-day that Mr. Rokeby intends to go abroad again soon, with
his sister. You are such friends that I should think you would quite
miss him."
"I see very little of him, as a rule. Lately, he has taken this matter
of my horse into his hands, but I shall be very thankful if he goes
abroad. I came here to work amongst the poor, and I like to do it with
perfect freedom."
"I don't believe you like men better than I do," said Miss Montague,
laughing; "I wonder if you came here to get away from them?"
"I don't dislike the sex," Rhoda replied gravely, "because I have
always been a great deal amongst them. I am the only girl, and have
seven brothers, who all have their particular cranks and crotchets; but
I never had any difficulty in living with them."
"And you don't think that they are all selfish creatures? Don't be
shocked at my plain speaking. May I give you a little of my experience?"
"Do."
"At seventeen, I was engaged to be married to a young fellow in the
Guards only a few years my senior, and I think we both imagined
ourselves desperately in love with each other. I suppose we were both
too young, and being equally headstrong, soon came to grief. I found he
expected me to minister to his wants and pleasures on every occasion,
and I asked him one day if this was his idea of a woman's duty.
"'Most certainly,' was his calm reply; 'after marriage, if not before
it.'
"'Then you can get some one else to marry you,' I said, 'for I
certainly will not be your victim.'
"And we never spoke to each other again. You are smiling, and I can
smile too now, though at the time I was in misery about it.
"But a few years after, I got over it and went out to India to my
father, who was a judge there. I pinned my faith, whilst there, to a
barrister. We were engaged for nine months, and then I overheard a few
chance remarks of his to a friend one day.
"'Do you know pretty Rose Finch is pining for you at home?' his friend
said. 'I saw her just before I came out again.'
"'She ought to have got over it by this time,' said my 'fiancé.' 'I
have, very nearly. When I wrote to break it off, I was desperate, but
time heals such wounds. You see she hadn't a penny to bless herself
with. What could I do? A man cannot support a wife on an income that
will only just suffice for his own needs.'
"'You are in luck now, at any rate.'
"'As far as pounds, shillings, and pence go, I am,' was the reply.
"You will not be surprised to hear that when we first met after that, I
gave him his 'congé,' and my faith in genuine affection was shattered
again.
"I suppose it was foolish of me to trust another man, but I did,
and this time it was a London doctor, who was an earnest worker, a
philanthropist. I really believed in that man, and began to feel
interested in better things. I must tell you this was after my father's
death, when I was making my home again in England. We were within a few
weeks of our marriage, when a crash came in the company in which most
of my money was invested.
"'What a mercy,' I said to myself, 'that it will make no difference to
me! My future husband is not mercenary, as he has often assured me his
feelings would be exactly the same if I did not possess a penny!'
"And knowing that he was enjoying a very fair income, I went cheerfully
on making preparations for our wedding. The week before the day that
was fixed for our marriage, I received a note from him to the effect
that he was in great trouble, as he felt more and more how unsuited I
was to help him in all his good work; he had been fighting with his
conscience for weeks, but he dared not marry me without telling me of
his scruples and doubts concerning our union, &c. I needn't tell you
more. It was sickening cant to me; all his conscientious motives were
laid bare by his sister telling me of the awful state of mind he had
been in since hearing of my loss, and how impossible it was for him to
contemplate a marriage with a penniless girl! What do you think of my
experience of mankind, Miss Canton?"
"I think you have been unfortunate, and I feel very sorry for you."
"You need not. I have got over it. I am afraid I flirted with lots of
men after that, but never was so foolish as to lose my heart to any;
and I soon discovered that my reduced income made a great difference in
my attractions. I have not become soured with it, only I have learnt to
live my life happily without men, and you will be wise if you do the
same."
There was silence for a few moments, then Miss Montague said,—
"Now, are you ready to give me a Bible lesson? That is what I came for,
you know, not to talk gossip."
"Shall we read a little together?" Rhoda said, putting out her hand
for her Bible, which was always close at hand, and breathing an inward
prayer for guidance as she did so.
Miss Montague's eyes twinkled ominously, but she took a Bible that was
offered to her in silence, and then Rhoda suggested reading part of the
seventeenth chapter of Jeremiah. When they came to the fifth verse,
Miss Montague looked up.
"I don't mean to be irreverent, but may I say of the first part of this
verse that 'them's my sentiments'? Did you choose it 'à propos' of our
talk just now?"
"No, I did not remember the exact words. It only seems to give us two
wonderful pictures—light and darkness—winter and summer—and since I
have lived on the moor, I can picture the desolate scene in the sixth
verse so. Shall we read on?"
They did so; and then Rhoda said softly, "It seems to me such a
wonderful contrast, that one wonders, if we believe the reality of it,
that we can put ourselves under the curse and not under the blessing.
And the curse is not on the outwardly immoral and ungodly, only on
those who place their confidence in themselves, whose hearts are out of
the Lord's keeping."
"You are giving it to me hot and strong, with a vengeance," murmured
Miss Montague. "I did not know you had me up here to curse me!"
But her eyes were scanning the page intently as she spoke.
"Anyhow," she added, "my experience is not at all that of the sixth
verse. I'm a very happy person, in my way, and I don't feel I'm living
in a parched land at all."
"Don't you think the soul may be in a parched land, though the body may
be in prosperous circumstances? Now, shall we look at the eighth verse?
Isn't it a beautiful picture of a happy life; like a tree sucking in
moisture underneath and out of sight, having an inexhaustible fountain
to feed its growth, quite independent of all outside means, so that in
hard, difficult times, when others around would be withered up with
blasts of adversity, this one would stand fresh and beautiful, never
ceasing to yield fruit for its Maker?"
Miss Montague knitted her brows. "You go on too fast for me in your
eloquence. I don't think the verse says all that. 'Shall not see when
heat cometh'—what does that mean, may I ask?"
"Doesn't it mean that we shall not notice the troubles that would
naturally distress us? It is an Eastern image, and I suppose the
blazing waves of heat are to be dreaded for most trees there, when
there is so little rain to keep them cool."
"Go on."
"I like to put another verse with this. Shall we turn to it? It is the
third chapter of Habakkuk.
"'Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in
the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall
yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there
shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will
joy in the God of my salvation.'
"The first half seems such utter poverty, doesn't it? The last as rich
as any one can be! It is a case of leaf being green in the blazing
heat, of not being careful or anxious in the year of drought."
"Then what a trifle the loss of your horse must be!" Miss Montague said
mischievously.
"It is," said Rhoda, with shining eyes, "when I get to verses like
this. That is where this Book is such a comfort. A verse or two like
these seem to lift one up altogether out of the Slough of Despond. It
makes me feel ashamed of my groans over my small troubles. I know I am
a bad practiser of what I preach, but I am only a beginner in God's
school, and when I look up such passages as this, it is a splendid
tonic. I chose this chapter quite as much for myself as for you. I am
so fond of it."
"I don't think I have ever read or heard those verses before. Now, go
on with your description of a Christian's life, and see if you cannot
make my mouth water!"
Rhoda was not shocked with the apparent flippancy of tone. Her heart
was longing after the bright, worldly little woman in front of her, and
she said most earnestly,—
"Oh, how I wish I could, Miss Montague! But it is the Holy Spirit who
will give you that longing. I have only experienced the reality of it
myself for a few years. Soon after I left school, I began to think
seriously of life; and for a long time I seemed to be seeking after
light which did not come. I hardly know when I found it. It was the
Bible showed me Christ, and I saw at last if I took Him as my Saviour,
I took all the riches of heaven with Him. I don't think any one can
describe the deep, restful satisfaction and joy it is to live with Him
and for Him every day. Nothing—no one—can mar the peace that passes
understanding, that keeps our hearts and minds through all that comes.
I suppose it is only by looking back to our former life that we see how
intensely barren it was in every way."
Miss Montague laid her head back on the cushions, and watched Rhoda's
glowing face as she spoke.
"You are an enthusiast," she said; "some people would tell you all this
was a dream or a fancy. But I'm not sceptical myself. I believe you
have something that I have not, and I have been secretly envying you
for that possession for some time past, let me tell you. I am going to
quote Bible words:
"'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian!'
"'But,' and this is a very big 'but,' I tell you frankly, if it entails
my going into dirty houses in Ashampton, and visiting the sick and the
poor, and the loathsome and the vile, I cannot, and I will not, do it!
Now then, what have you to say to me?"
"You would do anything and everything for Him, Miss Montague, if you
once came to Him and knew Him!"
"But don't you see this prevents my 'coming to Him,' as you term it?"
"I suppose it may do so. I think if you were to have a sight of
your own heart, as I had, and realize that for living away from and
rejecting Christ, God's wrath is daily and hourly over your head, that
would prevent you from weighing your soul's salvation with your own
momentary case and comfort."
"Now, that is hitting out very straight! I think I have had enough for
to-day. I will think it over. Don't I hear the clattering of tea-cups
in the other room? Am I going to be rewarded by some tea?"
And when Hannah came in a few moments after with the afternoon tea,
Miss Montague looked up laughingly into her face and said, "I have had
my powder—I took it well—and now it is over, and here is the jam!"
As she took her departure a little later, she said half-seriously,
half-comically, "We have come to very close quarters this afternoon,
but I don't know that I should care for a repetition of it. So you must
give me your word before I go that you will not attack me again on the
same subject till I give you leave. I will not be bullied into it, and
though you have not badgered me much yet, I am always in fear of you,
especially if you think you see signs of my coming round. I know what
you good people are like! Promise me that you will leave me alone."
Rhoda could not help laughing, and Miss Montague joined her. "I
certainly promise. I did not start the subject this afternoon,
remember."
"No, I brought it upon myself. I wanted to hear your side of the
question, that was all—to see how well you could plead for your
cause—and you have not done badly. Good-bye! I hope your foot will be
better soon."
"If I cannot speak to her, I can pray for her," said Rhoda to herself
after she had gone, "and God can speak Himself, and convince her of her
need. I don't feel as if this afternoon has been wasted. It has been
different kind of sowing, that is all."