HOWARD'S ARRIVAL
"NOW, Howard, give me your opinion of my quarters."
Rhoda was standing triumphantly before her brother as she spoke, and he
was seated in one of the big easy-chairs in her sitting-room. He had
come to stay with her for ten days. She had met him at the station,
and walked up the hill with him in the cool of a lovely evening in
July. She had shown him round her small domain; every plant—vegetable
and flower—in the garden had been duly admired; the horse and cow, the
pigs, the poultry were all inspected; and then, after a comfortable
little dinner, she awaited his verdict.
He glanced up at her, as she stood in front of him, clad in a simple
black lace gown, with a bunch of wild roses fastened in her belt. Her
soft, white skin, if a little sunburnt by the constant exposure to
the moor air, did not seem to have suffered much; her brown eyes were
sparkling with light and gladness, and in her face was an increased
softness and sweetness that struck him very forcibly after the jaded,
discontented countenances he had become accustomed to see in London
society.
"It seems to suit you," he said slowly.
"I don't want your opinion of myself, but of my quarters. I am happy,
as I knew I should be. Of course I have my ups and downs, but I would
not exchange my present life for any other that you could offer to me.
Are you tired? No? Then come and watch the sunset from the garden gate."
Howard followed her out, and drew a deep breath of the pure, sweet air,
as he stood looking down over the river and the valley to the range of
hills on the other side.
It was a soft, still evening; the cornfields in the distance and the
wooded slopes were being touched up by a succession of lights and
shadows that were most fascinating to watch. For miles the horizon
stretched away in one dazzling line of gold. Soft, rosy clouds passed
swiftly by, the gold mingled with dark crimson waves, and then like a
ball of fire, the sun began to sink behind the purple line of hills.
They stood silent for some minutes, watching the beautiful panorama
before them, and then Rhoda said softly,—
"'Can any understand the spreadings of the clouds...? Behold, He
spreadeth His light upon it.'"
Howard drew another long breath, and when the afterglow had subsided,
he turned to his sister.
"You have me at a disadvantage. How can I complain of your quarters in
such a country as this? I tell you frankly, I am sickened of town life.
I was never made for it. I hate the noise, the rush, the struggle for
life, the selfish pushing to the wall of all the weak in the race. I
hate the streets, the gas, the mud and soot, the misery and sin one
sees on all sides. And above all, I detest the desk-work to which I
am confined day by day. I would gladly throw it up for such a life as
yours, but it is impossible. Sometimes I have had thoughts of joining
Rodney for a few years; I am thoroughly disgusted and down-hearted.
Now, preach me one of your sermons, Tabby, to brace me up."
"I am sorry," Rhoda said sympathetically; "no, I shall not preach to
you to-night. You look worn out. Why, Howard, your forehead is getting
lined with wrinkles! You will grow old before your time."
"Ten years," continued Howard moodily, "ought not to seem long to a
man my age, but this last year seems like ten to me! I have had an
invitation to go down to the Manor, but I hardly dare trust myself to
do so. I don't believe any of you care for it as I do; I love every
stick and stone in the place. Well, I will talk no more about my own
affairs; tell me of yours. Are there any people here fit for you to
associate with? Who is this Mrs. Hutton that has given you the pony?"
"She is a dear old lady, who tries to mother me, I have promised to
take you to dine with her one day soon. She wants us to go next Friday.
Will you do it?"
"I do not mind. This air is too cold for you in that thin dress, let
us go in. Will you allow me to enjoy a cigar, whilst you sing me
something?"
And as he sank again into the easy-chair, and the soothing fumes of
the fragrant weed dispelled for the time his discontent, he muttered
to himself, "She was right, and we were wrong; she could not have done
better."
Yet after the first favourable impression had passed by, Howard began
to criticize his sister's ways and habits rather severely. And he
startled her by saying suddenly one afternoon as they were out walking,—
"Who is this Mr. Rokeby that Hannah has been speaking to me about?"
"He is my landlord. What has Hannah been saying?"
Rhoda's voice was very quiet, with a touch of dignity in it that made
her brother pause to choose his words.
"Has he been over here much? Have you had much to do with him?"
"Very little. We have corresponded about various matters, and
circumstances have thrown us together occasionally."
"He is abroad now?"
"Yes."
"I think you ought to have a companion here—an elderly lady."
"What elderly lady would consent to be placed in a cottage on the top
of a moor to encounter all the blustering gales and keen east winds,
with no society but Hannah's and mine for most of the year?"
"There are many who might be thankful for the home. It need not be a
very old lady—a widow with limited means."
"I don't like widows."
"We have been talking it over in town; and since that escapade of yours
with your horse we are doubly anxious about it. In fact, Uncle Harvey
is consulting several lady friends of his, and if we hear of any one
suitable, we will let you know."
"Thank you," said Rhoda, swallowing her feelings of annoyance as
well as she could; "but at present, I have no intention of having a
companion. Hannah is quite sufficient for all my needs."
Howard's brows were knitted.
"Cannot you see, yourself," he said, "that a girl of your age ought
not to be receiving visitors in this out of the way place without a
chaperone? I wonder what that fellow thinks we are made of, to leave
you so unprotected!"
"If you mean by 'that fellow,' Mr. Rokeby," Rhoda said calmly, though
her cheeks flushed a little, "he has only been inside my door three
times. Once he was driven in by storm, once he called with his sister,
and once he helped me to interview a policeman. He is now abroad for
two or three years."
"Thank goodness for that!" was the muttered retort.
Rhoda went on very quietly,—"If I thought there was real cause for me
to have a companion, I would do so. But I do not. Away up here, amongst
the simple country people, there is not the slightest necessity for
it. I mean to have a friend or two to stay with me occasionally, but I
have really only just got my spare room properly furnished. Now, don't
look so gloomy, my dear boy. I will do nothing here that could offend
the most straitlaced acquaintance we have. Ask Mrs. Hutton what she
thinks. She is a thorough woman of the world, and she does not think my
position here peculiar or improper."
The subject was changed, and Howard said no more.
He dined at Mrs. Hutton's with his sister, where they met Miss Montague
and a Major Hutton, a nephew of the old lady, who was her heir, and was
paying her a visit for a few days.
If Miss Montague did not like men, she certainly concealed her feelings
very well, for she attracted and amused both the gentlemen, and Howard
remarked, as he drove his sister home in her little car,—
"I am glad there are a few decent people for you to speak to. That Miss
Montague is a taking little woman, not the sort to be living out in the
wilds here."
"I like her much," said Rhoda warmly; "she is true, and thoroughly
kind. She lives in a cottage not much bigger than mine. I am not at all
original in my style of living. I believe many ladies do."
Rhoda was a little perplexed, when Sunday came round, as to what she
should do with Howard, but he calmly informed her that he had arranged
to take a walk with Major Hutton.
"I knew you went in for preaching somewhere, so thought I would make
myself scarce."
"I wish you cared for these things," said Rhoda, with a little sigh.
"Perhaps I care more than you imagine," Howard rejoined gravely; "I do
believe in and respect religion. I am no sceptic, though I have gone
through that phase, as most men do, I suppose. I go to church, and do
the best I can with life as I find it, but I cannot understand your
passion for stirring up people to say they are 'converted.' Let them
believe in God and do their duty, that is all that is required of us."
"That is all," said Rhoda, earnestly; "but have you ever thought over
our duty towards God and our duty towards our neighbour? You talk of
doing one's duty. Who does it? I mean according to the lines laid down
for us in the Bible. And when you mention my stirring up people—oh, I
wish I could; I wish I could! They are all so apathetic, so lifeless,
so sleepy, have so little idea of their position in the sight of God,
so little desire for heavenly things!"
"They are very contented as they are."
"But, Howard, they are utterly unprepared for the next life. If I did
not believe in a future world, I would let them alone; but I do, and
you do too, and can we stand by calmly, and see these poor lifeless
souls go down to destruction without holding out a helping hand? Would
you watch a blind man walk over a precipice without giving him a word
of warning? We say we believe all that the Bible tells us, but we don't
act it out. We are not in dead earnest, as we should be."
"You ought to have been a man, and then you could have gone into the
Church," Howard remarked, with a smile.
This was how a discussion generally ended with her brothers; they would
listen to her perfectly unmoved, and would smile at her enthusiasm. Yet
her words sank deeper than she knew; and perhaps in Eternity itself,
Rhoda would realize that not a prayer for them, not a word said to them
had been in vain. Many a soul finds its way into the Kingdom by very
small links of the chain of God's almighty love.
"Line upon line, here a little, and there a little"; it may be given
them through a "stammering tongue," but if it be a message from God, it
will bring power and blessing in its train.
Howard's fortnight soon passed. He went on to stay with his cousin at
the Manor for a short time before returning to town, but he felt a
different man when he left the moor.
"I don't know if the air or your wise talk has been a tonic to me," he
said to his sister, as they were walking down to the station together
the last day, "but I am ashamed of my grumbles about my life in town.
Our motto has always been 'Straight ahead.' I have failed to remember
it. Perhaps my depression was most of it physical. I must give you your
due, Tabby, you do brace one up. Do you never feel down yourself, I
wonder?"
"Oh, don't I! I wish you could have seen me when I fractured my ankle
and was laid up! I don't think you could possibly have equalled me, in
my despair and wretchedness. It is very often physical weakness that
makes us depressed. Now, give me a word of commendation before you go.
Don't you think I have done well?"
"As far as air and scenery go, you have. Socially you have not, though
I am easier in my mind since I have had a talk with Mrs. Hutton about
you. She has promised to look after you like a mother, and I think she
will. And if you would have Miss Montague up for a few days sometimes,
I think it would be a good thing."
"Perhaps I will, if she can tear herself away from her flowers.
Good-bye, old fellow! Run down to me whenever you get a fit of the
blues, and tell the others in town that I shall always be glad to see
them when they want a change of air."
And so they parted, and Rhoda came back to her little cottage,
resolving to throw herself into her work with more zest, now that she
would be alone again.
She was slowly making friends with Meg Evans, who welcomed her now as
often as she liked to go. But nothing would induce the girl to go to
the Tents' kitchen on Sunday.
"Ned goes on occasions, and I won't be the one to hold him back, but
I'm not going to be converted by anybody. I've seen revival meetings in
America—they shouts, and they tumble down, and drags one another up to
a wooden form, and screams out that they're saved, and the next day is
shouting and drinking inside the public-houses same as ever! I don't
want any of that bosh! I don't believe a word of it."
And all Rhoda's invitations received the same kind of replies. She
could only pray for her, and now and then drop a word that she trusted
would find an entrance into her heart.
Besides her visits to those on the moor, Rhoda was beginning to know
several of the Ashampton villagers, and soon found that she had as much
visiting as she could well get through. She was very seldom repulsed,
and nearly all were glad to see her bright face and smile when she
entered their cottages.
"I have got a lodger," was Miss Frith's announcement one morning, as
Rhoda was taking her letters from her hand.
"Have you? I am so glad; who is she?"
"It is a 'he,'" said Miss Frith, gravely; "a poor young man dying of
consumption. He has one little girl of six—such a handy little maid
for her age, and no trouble whatever. They came yesterday; some one
had told him I was on the look-out for a lodger, and I took him in the
first minute I set eyes on him. He is a watchmaker by trade, and has
come from Exeter. I doubt if he's very long for this world. His wife
died four years ago."
"But he will be a great charge."
"I want something to do, and the child does a lot for him. She will
have to go to school, but she can help when she is at home."
"But she is a mere baby."
"A child in her position has never known much babyhood, I take it,"
Miss Frith said drily. "I shall be glad if you can come and have a
little reading with him sometimes."
Rhoda looked at her steadily for a minute, then smiled. "You know my
thoughts, Miss Frith?"
"Ah, well, maybe I do, but a fresh face has more attraction and power
than one he'll get pretty well tired of. Besides, I never set myself up
as a teacher."
Rhoda shook her head reprovingly; "God has brought him to you to be
nursed, and to be led into the Fold. I am sure of it, and I don't want
to let you miss the joy of it. Ah, you will, dear Miss Frith, won't
you? Put aside your reserve, and talk to him about the things that you
love just as much as I do. Promise me you will."
Miss Frith turned aside quickly, and Rhoda saw that she was more moved
than she cared to show. In a minute she said gruffly, "I will try, and
if I fail, you must step into my place."
Rhoda left her with a thankful heart. Perhaps of all her friends Miss
Frith occupied the warmest place in her heart, and she was delighted
to find that she was willing to come out of her shell, and do the work
that lay close to her hand.