TOM EVANS'S END
A FEW weeks later, and Rhoda was able to walk with very little
difficulty. She was not often indoors now; her garden was her great
delight, and most of the morning she and Jock would be busy there; in
the afternoon she would be over the moor, calling on those she knew, or
trying to make fresh acquaintances amongst the outlying cottages and
farms.
One afternoon, on her way home, she was passing some of the large
boulders of granite that here and there appeared in the midst of the
heather and bracken, when she fancied she heard some moans. Tartar
began to sniff suspiciously along the ground, and suddenly his sharp
bark from behind one of the rocks told her he had discovered something.
In another instant she was standing beside the prostrate form of
Tom Evans, lying partly underneath a heavy piece of stone that had
evidently got dislodged from the boulder above and rolled down upon
him. She shuddered at the sight, knowing what injuries he must have
sustained, and bending down, tried to see if she could move him from
his dreadful position. And then, though partly unconscious, he turned
and looked at her.
"Water!" he gasped. "I'm done for at last!"
She turned, for she knew a stream was not far off, but she had no cup
in which to take it, so dipping her handkerchief in, and soaking it
well, she carried it back and held it to his mouth. He sucked in the
moisture greedily.
"I will go and get help," she said gently, "for I cannot move you."
"I shall be dead before help comes!" he groaned. "Don't leave me."
Then a clearer look coming in his eyes, he said, "I know you, and it's
Mike Carr has stole your hoss—the villain!—to carry him away from
justice after making a tool of me, and not letting me go halves, as we
arranged. He'll swing for it yet. Curse him!"
"Hush, hush!" said Rhoda. "Don't spend your breath in such words. You
may not have much longer to live. Listen to some of God's words.
"'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.'
"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'
"Think over these words; ask God for Christ's sake to pardon you. I
must leave you to get help."
She called Tartar, and made her way as quickly as possible to the
Tents' farm, which fortunately was not far off.
And shortly afterwards, some strong labourers with a hurdle came to the
spot. Alas! They found that it was a lifeless body that was to be their
burden. How long he had lain there they could not tell, but the only
conjecture was that he must have dislodged a stone in stumbling along,
and been crushed under it as it fell.
Rhoda felt the awfulness of his death intensely, and yet could not go
home till she had seen his daughters and broken the news to them. She
asked Mrs. Tent to let her have the donkey, which was willingly given
to her, with the request to ride home on it afterwards, and then she
rode as quickly as she could to the Evans's house. One of the girls was
at the door.
"I have brought you bad news," said Rhoda gently; "have you not been
anxious about your father?"
"Where is he?" demanded the girl fiercely.
And as she spoke, her sister put her head out, and behind her peered
the brother, a young man with a far franker countenance than his
father's.
"He has been taken to the Tents' farm. He was discovered lying out on
the moor, crushed by a stone in falling."
"Is he dead?"
The question was indifferently put.
Rhoda paused for a moment, then said solemnly, "Yes, he died before
help could be obtained."
"Good luck to us!" was the exclamation from the son in the background.
And Rhoda was shocked and disgusted by the callousness of it.
"Will you not go to the farm?" she asked, addressing herself to him.
"Suppose I must," he muttered, and he stepped out of the doorway as he
spoke—a great, tall, broad-shouldered young fellow. Coming up to Rhoda,
he said, "I see I've shocked you, miss, but if you knew our past, you
would not wonder. For these last five years, I've bin tryin' to earn
a honest livin'; I've got taken on the railway here, and it's as much
as I've bin able to hold it, since we've bin put under a ban! Seems to
me most folk 'll lend a shoulder to push a chap down, if they can, and
it's precious hard to hold up against them!"
With that he strode off, and Rhoda was just about to speak to the
girls, when they suddenly darted in and banged the door after them, and
turning round, to her surprise she met Mr. Rokeby's grave gaze. He had
ridden up quietly, and she had not noticed his approach.
"You are not alone?" he questioned gravely.
And Rhoda, with a quick resentment of his tone, replied coldly,—
"Yes, I am, and I am going home immediately."
He bowed stiffly, and moved aside to allow her to pass on.
Only Rhoda, ashamed of her momentary pique, said, "I suppose I must
offer an explanation, as I have broken my word to you, but poor Tom
Evans is dead, and I came to tell his daughters so."
"Dead! You don't mean it! That will settle the business I have come
over about."
Rhoda gave him the facts of the case.
He listened, and was shocked at the circumstances in which the man had
died, then remarked, "In one way it is a great relief to my mind, as
this will enable me to get rid of them before I go abroad."
"Why? Will you not give the young fellow a chance, if he is desirous of
keeping on the cottage? He is employed in honest work, and it may mean
ruin to him if you turn him adrift."
"I thought you were longing for me to turn out the whole family, neck
and crop?"
"Not now that the father has been removed."
"They will only be pests to the neighbourhood, I expect."
"I think not. I have hopes of reaching the girls now."
"I will see," Mr. Rokeby said, looking at her meditatively; "of
course, I must have an understanding with this son first. I expect to
leave this part next week, but I am sure my present agent will prove
perfectly capable of looking after things while I am away, and if you
have any pet project in your head for the benefit of any of my tenants,
he will forward such to me, and I will try and meet with your wishes as
much as possible."
This speech jarred on Rhoda. She made no reply.
"I must go over to the Tents' directly," he continued. Then, looking at
her earnestly, he added,—
"I think this may be our last meeting, Miss Carlton. I may be two or
three years abroad, and will most likely find you flown by the time I
return."
"I do not think that is likely," said Rhoda, meeting his gaze frankly
as she spoke. "I hope Miss Rokeby may benefit by the change. Please
give her my best wishes for her journey. Good-bye."
Only a hand-shake, but Rhoda felt the grip for long after.
And as she rode slowly away, Mr. Rokeby stood silently watching her out
of sight, then with a little sigh, he went up to the cottage, to say a
few words to the girls before he went on to the Tents'.
As Rhoda returned home, the remembrance of the awful death of Evans
weighed heavily on her spirits, and not even the hopes of gaining an
entrance to the cottage could lift the depression that seemed to creep
over her.
Hannah listened to all she had to tell her with her usual grave
interest.
"It's been almost too much for you, mum," she said; "I will bring you a
cup of tea at once, you look worn out."
"See that Jock looks after the donkey well," said Rhoda, sinking into
a chair; "Mrs. Tent said the boys would call for it on their way to
school to-morrow."
Then, for a few moments after Hannah had left her, she gazed dreamily
out of the open window in front of her.
"I am glad he is going," she said, half to herself. "I shall have no
fear of meeting him too often now, and shall be able to give up my
whole thoughts and time to the work here. I must try to be content to
sow the seed broadcast, and wait patiently God's time for it to spring
up and bear fruit. This spring has shown me one tender sprout springing
up, and I shall pray and hope for others. Does Mr. Rokeby imagine I
shall tire of my life here? Yes, I am very glad I have said good-bye to
him, very glad!"
Yet a sigh that was like the echo of the one breathed by Mr. Rokeby a
short time before, followed her emphatic words.
Jess was a great joy and comfort to Rhoda. Every Saturday she came over
for a little private Bible reading, and her Bible was becoming more and
more precious to her, whilst her religion was shaping and altering her
life, so that all who knew her marvelled at the change.
The following Sunday, when Rhoda went over to the Tents', she saw to
her surprise and delight young Evans. Jim Tent had given him a warm
invitation to come, when he attended his father's funeral with him;
and though the young fellow occupied a back seat, and looked ill at
ease, when Rhoda began to speak upon the story of the Good Samaritan,
his eyes never left her face, and he listened with eager attention.
She had a word or two with him afterwards, and expressed her hope that
he would be able to continue to support himself and his sisters in the
neighbourhood.
"I'm agoing to try," he said with quiet determination, "and ye'll have
no fear of being turned out if ye comes to speak with the girls."
This sounded promising, and Rhoda thanked God for the opening.
"You had one in the audience that maybe you didn't see, mum," said
Hannah, when walking home with her young mistress.
"Who?"
"Mr. Rokeby. He slipped in late behind you, and took a seat at the
door. He was gone directly the closing prayer was over."
"I am glad I did not see him," said Rhoda, after a minute's silence,
"but there will be no chance of that being repeated. This is his last
Sunday in England for a long time to come."
"He got the message anyhow," said the old servant, "and he looks like a
gentleman that may be seeking the truth, I always fancy."
Rhoda made no reply.
Her life was very quiet and uneventful for some time after this.
Several times she had tried to reach the Evanses, but the girls were
always out. She had suspicions that they locked themselves in upon
seeing her approach, but of this she could never be sure. Ned Evans,
their brother, did not appear again at the Sunday service for a long
time, and then every now and then he would slip in, and take himself
off without a word after it was over.
The spring slipped by, with its keen east winds and bright sunshine,
and the days lengthened out, and the sun began to beat fiercely down.
Rhoda came in hot and tired one morning from a good two hours' work in
her garden.
"Hannah," she said, sitting down on the low window-seat in the kitchen,
"do you know, I am very discouraged about my plants. When I look at the
wealth of flowers that Miss Montague lives amongst, and then consider
the result in my barren plot of all these months of work, I begin to
doubt whether this bleak moor-ground will yield anything that will
repay me for all my trouble, and also whether I am fitted to be a
gardener at all. I dare say it is my inexperience at it that has made
it such a failure."
Hannah smiled.
"A garden takes time, mum; it doesn't yield much the first year. You
have to fight against difficulties that Miss Montague knows nothing
of—the violent storms of wind and rain without any trees or buildings
to break its force. And of course the ground is poor; hard and stony it
is, very; but you've been enriching it, and it will bear fruit. Seems
to me," went on Hannah, thoughtfully, "that every beginnin' takes time
to be a success."
"You are right," Rhoda said, looking up with sparkling eyes; "and my
garden is only another picture of the spiritual seed I am trying to
sow up here. With the exception of Jess, I have seen no signs of it
springing up and bearing fruit. But I suppose I must go on, and not be
discouraged."
"'After many days,'" said Hannah, softly; "and sometimes the slowest
work is the surest."
"To witness," put in Rhoda, "those seedlings that started up so quickly
in the garden a month ago, and made me think that I should have a gay
bed of flowers in no time. The frosts bit them, and the wind beat them
down, and in a fortnight, they were dead. I don't think I wish for
crowds to be converted, and a wonderful revival blessing, but after
eight months' work, don't you think we ought to see more of these
people around us coming out boldly on the Lord's side?"
"I think the Lord will let you see them when He sees fit. Meanwhiles,
He may be carrying on His work underground. There's a deal goes on with
a seed before it shows itself to us."
"I wish I had your patience and faith, Hannah. What should I do without
you? You cheer me on so often. Do you think that God cannot give some
of His workers such success as others, because they are too liable to
be uplifted? I sometimes think it is so with me. I suppose, if I had
had my way, I should have thought myself a wonderful creature, and had
my head turned by success. Well, I must be content with small things.
My garden will just supply our needs in the way of vegetables—for that
I am thankful. I must not expect to compare mine with Miss Montague's.
And I have a few flowers coming on in it. Then as to our spiritual
field, we have had opportunities for sowing; and, after all, casting in
the seed is, as you often tell me, perhaps the chief work. If I could
get at those Evans girls, I should be happier. But the opening may come
yet."