A FOILED SCHEME
"I HAVE come up to get a breath of air. Ashampton is suffocating, and I
am stagnating in the airless atmosphere."
It was Miss Montague speaking, and she lay back in an easy-chair by the
open window in Rhoda's sitting-room.
Rhoda herself, in a simple holland dress, looked fresh and cool, as she
took a seat near her friend.
"I am so glad to see you," she said. "I do indeed think I have the best
of it this warm weather. What have you been doing lately?"
"I've been fighting with old Jacobs over his prize carnations. I
tell him, if I had his opportunities, I would beat him hollow! I
have been entertaining Mrs. Hutton now and then with the gossip of
the neighbourhood. She likes me to go up to her, for she says I keep
her lively, but of course you are her favourite. I am too old to be
jealous, I never was that way inclined; jealous people make themselves
miserable, and misery and I keep apart. Why, my dear, I do believe if
her nephew ever offends her, and she cuts him out of her will, you will
step into his place! What have you done to bewitch her so? Tell me,
honestly, how you like the major."
"I have never thought much about him," said Rhoda candidly; "I have
only seen him once or twice. He seems a pleasant, genial man."
Miss Montague laughed.
"You are such a cool, unimpressionable young lady! I should not think
any one has ever given you a heartthrob yet. Now, don't frown at me and
put on that severe air. I am glad enough to meet with a sensible woman,
who has other ideas in her head but the one most women live upon—that
of getting a husband! Only, let me offer you a friendly warning. The
major came down for three days. He is staying on for nearly a month,
and you see him at least once, if not twice a week—and Mrs. Hutton has
her plans, so beware!"
"Did you come up to talk about Major Hutton?" asked Rhoda serenely.
"Because I do not think he is interesting. I want to ask you if you
will come up and stay with me here for a week. The change will do
you good. Every time I go down to Ashampton, I am struck with the
difference in the air. It is, as you say, quite suffocating in this
heat. I have a spare room now, and it would be such a pleasure to have
you."
"I declare I will come! Many thanks. Stop, though—there are my flowers
to be considered. But my man who helps me will look after them, and you
are so delightfully breezy up here that it is a great temptation."
"Then let us consider it settled. When can you come?"
"Not to-morrow, but the day after, I will with the greatest pleasure,
and you will take me over the moor in your little cart, won't you? I
shall look forward to it. Now, let me tell you whom I stopped coming to
see you this afternoon—Mr. Long. I met him toiling up to the station,
and I brisked up and passed him.
"'Good afternoon,' I said sweetly; 'are you going up to the moor? I
am—to see Miss Carlton.'
"'I was thinking of calling on her myself,' he said, 'but will defer my
visit to another day.'
"Has he been to see you yet?"
"Some weeks ago he called. He seemed rather nervous, poor man, and I am
glad to be spared another visit from him."
"The rector is very ill, I hear. If he died, we might have a pleasant
change. Not that I think it likely—you know my opinion of the clergy."
"Ah, don't be so bitter against them," Rhoda said gravely; "I have
known so many good, earnest men, that I cannot bear to hear them run
down. An individual does not represent a class, remember!"
"Well, we won't quarrel over them. I hope I shall see a good one before
I die. How are old Darby and Joan? And the deep-dyed ruffians who got
hold of your horse—have they cleared out yet?"
Rhoda gave her the news of the neighbourhood.
But after Miss Montague had gone that afternoon, she remained deep in
thought, looking out of her window upon the wide expanse of moor, and
watching the purple-tinted hills and the rugged outlines of the tors
in the distance. She had not been oblivious to Major Hutton's marked
attentions, and though never giving him the slightest encouragement,
was finding that her constant visits to Mrs. Hutton were becoming a
great difficulty. The old lady would allow no excuses, when she tried
to make her visits less frequent.
"I am as much a part of your work as any of your poor people on the
moor. I will have a weekly visit from you, so don't tell me you are too
busy to come."
Rhoda was quite willing to go to see her, for she often got an
opportunity of having interesting talks with her. But it was a
different matter to have Major Hutton invariably in the room, and now
that Miss Montague had put into words what her own heart felt to be
true, she was more than ever disinclined to continue her visits.
The next time she was there, Major Hutton accompanied her down the
avenue as she was returning.
She was making some remark about the beauty of the place, when he
suddenly turned to her, and said with emphasis, "It is a fine old
place. Could you be happy to make it your home?"
"No," she said decidedly, looking straight in front of her, and trying
to speak lightly; "I shouldn't like it at all. Ashampton is so low and
relaxing after the moor air, I am always glad to get back to my little
cottage again, though I confess it is a pleasant change to come and see
Mrs. Hutton; but then—I am fond of her."
"And if you like a person the place does not signify?" persisted the
major.
Rhoda did not answer.
"My aunt wants me to sell out and come and settle down here during her
lifetime," he continued; "there is only one thing that would make me do
it. As a bachelor I could not stand it."
"No," responded Rhoda, "and I should think it would be a great pity if
you gave up your profession so soon. It would be such an idle, useless
life in Ashampton. Of course, if Mrs. Hutton really wanted you, I would
be the last to dissuade you. But she will be going abroad in a month or
two, and what would you do with yourself all the winter?"
"Yet you manage to exist here during the winter."
"I have my work," Rhoda said, a soft light coming into her eyes; "and
having found my vocation in life, winter or summer makes no difference
to me."
"Do you mean to say," he said, with impatience in his tone, "that you
meditate living in that cottage up there for the rest of your life? It
is preposterous!"
Rhoda laughed. "It is a good thing every one has different tastes," she
said; "what would be misery to you is delight to me. We must be content
to go our own ways, Major Hutton, and not judge one another's plan of
life too hardly."
They had come to the gate, and Major Hutton stopped and leant against
the pillar, gazing wistfully at her. Her tone and words had rung a
death-knell to his hopes. Yet, making a last desperate effort, he said,
as he took her hand in his, and forced her to look at him, "I think
this will be good-bye. I shall go back to my regiment the end of this
week."
Rhoda's clear, unembarrassed gaze met his. She knew the pain she was
giving, but it was only true kindness to him.
"Good-bye," she said brightly; "I think an active life is much more
healthy than one of leisure and ease. You will think so yourself when
you get back to your work again."
She felt his earnest, intent look, but never wavered, and wringing her
hand, he sadly retraced his steps.
It was not so much her beauty, perhaps, as her bright, winning tone and
manner that had won his heart, and Miss Montague was quite right in her
supposition that his aunt favoured his suit.
Rhoda sighed as she took her way homewards.
"I wish they wouldn't like me," she said to herself half-comically,
"but I really think there is no chance of my coming across any one else
here. Mr. Rokeby is the only other unmarried man about—and he is safe.
Perhaps he may bring a wife back with him from abroad."
Yet as she said this, a certain wistfulness gathered in her eyes, and a
shadow came across the brightness of her face.
The next morning she received a note by post from Mrs. Hutton:—
MY DEAR RHODA,
I want to see you at once. Please come to me "without fail" to-morrow
morning.
Yours affectionately,
SELINA HUTTON.
Rhoda read this at the post-office, and dashed off a note whilst there,
sending it by a village boy:—
MY DEAR MRS. HUTTON,
I cannot possibly come to you to-day, nor again this week, I am afraid.
Will you not let me know by letter what it is I can do for you?
Yours affectionately,
RHODA CARLTON.
"There," she said to herself, "she will be very angry, but I cannot
help it. I will go and see her after Major Hutton has left, but not
before."
And when Rhoda visited Mrs. Hutton the following week, she was received
with the stately coldness that she anticipated.
"I am sorry you should have wasted your valuable time in coming to see
an old creature like me," Mrs. Hutton said, with severity. "I can only
say, I do not wish to detain you for any length of time, as I know how
irksome it must be to you."
Rhoda stooped down and kissed her.
"Don't be angry with me, Mrs. Hutton. I am dreadfully sorry for having
vexed you so, but I could not act in any other way."
"Indeed! And pray, why not?"
"I did not wish to come here again till Major Hutton had gone. We had
said good-bye to each other when I was last here."
Then Mrs. Hutton faced round, and her cap-strings shook in her
agitation.
"You had no business to say good-bye to him! Why should you come here
week after week, and steal away his heart, only to turn round and flout
him in the end? Yes—you need not flash your eyes at me, I am angry with
you, 'very' angry. I have planned this from the first day I saw you,
and it is not always that my nephew falls in with my wishes so readily
as he did in this case. I might have looked for a rich bride for him,
or a lady of title, but I saw in you what I knew would make him happy,
and so I watched with delight your intercourse with him. Pray, what
have you to say against him? If he is not good enough for you, who is?
How do you expect to get a husband, if you are so ultra fastidious?"
"Mrs. Hutton," said Rhoda, with quiet dignity, "I will pass over much
of what you have said, because I know you are very vexed. I think,
when you are calmer you will allow that neither by word nor sign have
I given any encouragement to Major Hutton. I am very sorry that your
plans for him have failed. I did not come to this part of the country
with any ideas of marriage in my head. I want to be free and unfettered
in my work. I do not wish to say anything in disparagement of your
nephew. He is no doubt a good and honourable man, but his interests in
life are not mine, nor mine his, and 'how can two walk together, except
they be agreed?'"
"He has a great respect for your work," put in Mrs. Hutton eagerly;
"and he told me he thought a landowner's wife ought to take interest in
the tenants, and benefit them, according to their needs. He would allow
you to do exactly as you liked in Ashampton."
"That is not my idea of true unity between husband and wife. What a
wife values, I should think, is being able to go to her husband for
help and advice, for counsel in difficulty, for co-operation in all
she undertakes. No, Mrs. Hutton, we are not suited to each other, and
I mean to live my life alone. A single life as a worker in the Lord's
vineyard is a much more useful and successful one than any other. I am
sorry I have pained and disappointed you, but you must forgive me."
"You are a headstrong, foolish girl, and I have lost all interest in
you."
Rhoda looked a little wistfully into the old face that seemed bristling
all over with injured feeling and annoyance.
Then she said gently, "Perhaps I had better not stay any longer this
morning; I have not lost interest in you, Mrs. Hutton. I think you
are much nicer—" here a twinkle came in her soft brown eyes—"than the
major! Let us part friends."
"That we certainly will not, if you can see anything in such a subject
to joke about! I consider that you have behaved very badly, and do not
want to have anything further to do with you."
Rhoda left her, feeling more sorry for the irascible old lady than hurt
by her. She was not surprised when she received a penitent little note
a few days after. And she was soon reinstated in favour, though it was
long before Mrs. Hutton could get over her disappointment.
Miss Montague spent a fortnight with Rhoda, and both enjoyed the visit.
They went together to the service at the Tents' each Sunday, but Miss
Montague would not let Rhoda speak to her as she longed to, and fought
shy of all serious subjects.
But Rhoda did not give up praying for her.
"It seems all I can do, Hannah," she said to her old servant, in
despair. "Oh, if I had my wish, how many about here would I like to see
brought over the line!"
"I think the Lord is quite as anxious for them," Hannah rejoined,
drily, "only He doesn't hurry. It is 'after many days.'"
And so the summer passed, and Rhoda looked with longing heart over the
rich golden fields on the other side of the valley, as they lay in the
blaze of the warm autumnal sunshine. She watched the reaping with a
sigh, and wondered if she would ever see the harvest of her sowing day
by day. Yet, when she looked around, she had a great many mercies to be
thankful for.
The Sunday afternoon service was a regular institution now, and the
numbers kept up wonderfully. Meg Evans had at last begun to attend—not
regularly, but as the fit took her—and sometimes some would come to
it from Ashampton. Jess was going on steadily; Hal Brown was most
earnest and enthusiastic; Jock had, after these many months, now shown
signs of interest in spiritual things, and had commenced to read with
avidity a large-print Testament that Rhoda had given him. Miss Frith
was ministering to her lodger's need, and one morning met Rhoda with a
sunshiny face.
"I do believe he has got hold of the truth at last," she said; "he told
me last night he saw it, and he had never seen it before, and he seems
so happy—so different to when he came. He seemed to have no belief in
anything then."
Rhoda rejoiced with her, and was thankful to see how the hard, set
face was relaxing into softness and sweetness, when such subjects were
discussed.
It was about the middle of October, when Mrs. Dyke was called home.
Rhoda had seen she was failing for some time past, and had done all she
could to make her last days comfortable and happy ones. She was called
to her late one soft autumnal afternoon. The heather and bracken were
already losing their glory, but the blackberries and scarlet hips and
haws were brightening all the hedges and bushes, and the mountain ash
added to the beauty of the small copses down the steep hillside.
As she entered the sick-room, the last ray of the setting sun was
touching the dying woman's pillows. She turned her head and smiled at
Rhoda's approach.
"I'm going to leave you," she murmured. "I'll thank Him when I see Him,
for sending you to teach me about Him." Then after a pause she said,
"Will you sing to me?"
Rhoda knelt by her side, and her sweet, clear voice began—
"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear!"
When she came to the last verse, to her surprise, Mrs. Dyke raised
herself on her pillow, and in a tremulous voice joined in—
"So shall the music of Thy name
Refresh my soul in death."
As the last note died away, her head sank on her breast, and her
husband, leaning over, drew her to rest against his shoulder, where she
peacefully breathed her last.
As Rhoda drove home in the waning light, her heart was uplifted; she
realized as she never had before, what a glorious entrance into true
life it must be to the sick and weary ones on earth. And as her eyes
travelled upwards, and the last rays of the departing sun met her gaze,
she murmured to herself—
"Ever the richest, tenderest glow
Sets round the autumnal sun;
But there sight fails—no heart may know
The bliss when life is done."