A CHANGED LIFE
IT was a dull grey afternoon towards the end of October. Rhoda was
seated in her low window-seat facing the setting sun, making a small
frock for one of Mr. Brown's children, and singing softly to herself as
she did so. Suddenly a hurried knock was heard at the door, and Miss
Montague burst in, breathless and excited; she carried a small bag in
her hand.
"I thought I should never get here," she exclaimed. "Can you put me up
for a night or two? Such a dreadful thing has happened! If I wasn't
strong-minded, I think I should go into hysterics; I am quite unstrung,
and that hill has finished me!"
Rhoda saw she was as she said, quite unstrung. She made her sit down in
an easy-chair, and then said quietly but firmly, "Now don't talk for
a few minutes; just rest and be quiet. I will bring you a cup of tea.
Hannah is having hers in the kitchen now, and I shall not be a moment."
Miss Montague looked very near tears, but she did as she was told,
drank a hot cup of tea, and felt better.
"You have no idea what I have gone through to-day," she continued, as
soon as she was able to speak. "I have never had such an experience
before in all my life. You know my little maid—Nelly White; she has
not been very well lately, complaining of a sharp pain in her side. I
called in old Dr. Williams, who treated it as indigestion. She went to
bed last night apparently much better; this morning she did not appear
with my hot water. I went to her room, and I found—" here Miss Montague
gave a little shiver—"I found her lying dead in her bed!"
Rhoda uttered a shocked exclamation.
"Yes; I rushed off for the doctor, and telegraphed for her parents, who
fortunately live only eight miles off. I believe it is heart-disease;
but isn't it awful? I simply can't stay in the house. I have made all
arrangements, but I shall have to attend the inquest to-morrow. I
thought you would come back with me to it. I came off out of the house
as quickly as I could, but even now I can hardly believe it is true.
Why, yesterday at this time she was bringing in my tea, as brightly
as possible, and now she is lying there stiff and cold! Oh, death is
terrible—I can't stand it!
"Suppose I should die like that! I have been haunted all day by the
thought; it is nearly making me lose my senses. I thought of you with
wonderful comfort, and have come to stay till I can get this out of my
mind. Will you have me? Ah, you're sorry for me; I see you are! I would
give worlds to have your faith, and to have no fear of death. I am not
fit to die, Rhoda. I have lived a godless, selfish, worldly life; and I
have been miserable for some time past. Do you remember I told you not
to speak to me about these things till I asked you? Well—I ask you now.
I tell you I am in abject terror; we seem so fearfully close to the
other world.
"Poor little Nelly! She was such a good little servant. Do you know
that she walked up to one of your Sunday services with a friend the
other week? She has been reading her Bible diligently since. I wonder
if she had a presentiment she was going to die! It seems a year since
this morning. I have left my cat, my flowers, everything, and I feel as
if I cannot go back. Do comfort me—say something—you seem a tower of
strength!"
"Let us have a little prayer together," said Rhoda, softly.
And without a word, the worldly little woman sank on her knees, sobbing
with fright and distress.
Very earnestly did Rhoda pray that this sad warning might lead her to
the Saviour, and that she might yield herself up—soul and body—into His
keeping, now and for ever. When they rose from their knees, she stooped
and kissed her.
"You must take this as a message from God," she said.
"Oh, but it is such a cruel way of sending a message, such an awful
shock! I thought I was strong-minded enough to endure anything, but I
always told you I fight shy of the dreadful things in life,—and now for
this to happen to me seems so hard!"
"If Nelly was a child of God, she could not have a happier or easier
translation to her home above. And, dear Miss Montague, perhaps God has
found you have not heeded His gentle voice calling you, so He has had
to speak in a louder tone."
Miss Montague shivered.
They talked together for some time longer, but Rhoda felt that in her
friend's present unnerved state it would be unwise to urge decision
upon her. She could only pray that the strong impression made might not
wear off.
And after a night's rest, Miss Montague recovered her self-possession;
but she was now earnestly desirous of finding true rest for her soul,
and did not shun the help that Rhoda was only too anxious to give. It
did indeed seem as if this sad incident had brought the realities of
life and death before her in a way that she had never seen them before.
And towards the end of that morning, Rhoda had the intense joy of
witnessing her stepping into the Kingdom as simply and trustingly as a
little child.
"I will visit the sick and poor every day of my life, if God wishes me
to," she said, as she turned a tearful yet shining face towards Rhoda.
"That has been the struggle; for a long time I have been fighting
against that thought, I felt I could not do it. But I think I could
be a hospital nurse, or a tract distributor in the slums, to have the
assurance that I belong to Him."
Later on, she said, "I must go back this afternoon, but could you—is
it asking you too much—come home with me, and stay for a day or two? I
dread being alone there. Yes, I cannot get over my nervous feelings,
though I know it is wrong."
Rhoda willingly agreed, and the day or two lengthened into a
fortnight's visit. She did not leave her till she was comfortably
settled with a fresh maid, and many and long were the spiritual talks
they had together.
Dora Montague was a changed woman. She still had a great deal to learn,
and her tongue was as voluble as ever, though a vein of earnestness had
crept into her tone, and the sad event in her little household had left
a shade upon her brow.
But she was happy; and the peace in her heart, after long years of
restlessness, was such a new and blessed experience that she could
hardly understand it.
One of the first things she did was to grip hold of Miss Frith's hand
across the little shop-counter, and say, to the utmost astonishment of
that good woman,—
"I am converted, so must shake hands with you. I dare say you won't
believe it, but I really am. And it is through Miss Carlton. I know
you are a real Christian, so I shall come in and ask your advice about
things, when I can't get hold of her. Do you know of any needy family
in the village? I am going to take a district. Won't Mr. Long be
pleased?"
And she rattled on, leaving Miss Frith transfixed with amazement,
though she did her best to respond, with as much warmth as she ever
showed to any one.
Mrs. Hutton was just making preparations for going abroad again, but
Miss Montague managed to tell her of the change in her life.
"You are so vehement," Mrs. Hutton said calmly; "you talk of being
converted as if you were a heathen or a drunkard. I do not hear Rhoda
Carlton speak as you do. She takes things so much more quietly."
"Because she is accustomed to them," retorted Miss Montague. "My dear
Mrs. Hutton, I feel as if I am only just beginning life; I never would
have imagined it would make so much difference to one. Excuse my asking
you, but have you ever gone through my experience?"
"Never; and I hope I never shall, if it produces such excitement."
"Now, that is too bad. You were always glad when I raved about my dear
puss or my flowers. You never said I was excited then, and now of
course you put me down as a fanatic. Ah, well, I used to do the same
thing myself! But I am sorry you're not pleased about it. You have so
often complained of my frivolity before that I thought you would like
to know I am going to take things more seriously now. Don't you believe
in me at all?"
Mrs. Hutton put up her gold "pince-nez," and criticized her visitor
from head to foot.
"I shall be away six months," she said drily; "I will tell you whether
I believe in you seven months hence."
"That is if you are alive," put in Miss Montague. "Since my little
maid's death, every life seems to me to be trembling in the balance.
Why, you might go to sleep any night, and never wake up in this world
any more!"
Mrs. Hutton rose to her feet.
"I am going for my usual drive," she said; "if you like, to come with
me do, if not, I must ask you to excuse me."
"I am afraid I must get home. I went to see that family outside your
lodge gates to-day. Did you know one of the boys was a cripple? I quite
enjoyed my talk with him."
"Ah, well," said the old lady, sagely nodding her head, "if you keep
on visiting the poor, I shall believe in you. But don't think every
one has to go through the same experience as yours, and don't think it
necessary to remind every one you come across of their death-bed."
The third person to whom Miss Montague spoke about the change in
herself was Mr. Long. She met him in the street and invited him to tea
with her, stopping his hesitating excuses by saying, "Now don't be
afraid I am going to be rude. The past is past, and I hope you will
forget it. I really want to tell you something that as my pastor you
ought to know."
She led the unwilling young man to her house, and after giving him a
very dainty tea, plunged at once into her subject.
"To begin with," she said, "I will take a district in Ashampton. Now
don't you wonder what has made me change my mind? It is not love for
the poor, I am afraid, or for the dirt and misery that I shall find,
but the fact is, I am a changed woman—I am converted. Ah, I thought
you would open your eyes. It is true, and I cannot tell you how happy
I am. It is all the difference between existence and life. Ah, why did
you not tell me about these things before? If you are a real Christian,
how can you keep the blessedness of such a life so in the background?
But I am not going to reproach you. I am learning a lot of things, and
one of them, I hope, is to have more sympathy and charity towards my
fellow-creatures."
Mr. Long certainly was very astonished at these words, but all he said
was, "I am glad that you are—that you see things differently. We shall
be very thankful to have your help in the parish."
"Well," said Miss Montague, "I must say you take my news very coolly.
Aren't you delighted? You ought to be. Do you think I am pretending?
Do you realize what it is to a poor restless, frivolous soul to be
suddenly linked on to Christ Himself, and be the recipient of all His
loving care and the blessings He bestows? Can you imagine what it is to
me, who have all my life dreaded death with an unspeakable dread, to be
able to look forward and even long for it, having the assurance that it
will be but a step into heaven—'for ever with the Lord'?
"Does this sound strange and meaningless to you? I tell you what, Mr.
Long; if you have not experienced this full life, don't you rest till
you get it, and you will find then that you have a burning desire to
pass it on. I believe there are a great many who stop halfway, and are
content to follow 'afar off.' I don't want to be one of those. Pray
that I may be kept close to the Lord, for I am but a beginner. Only I
do long that others should experience the same enjoyment and rest that
I am doing."
Mr. Long looked uncomfortable; he began to talk about parish matters,
and then took his leave.
But Miss Montague's straightforward words made a great impression upon
him, and as he watched her altered life, he began to wonder if his own
life was as fruitful as it ought to be. Things wore a different aspect
now to him, for hours at night did he pore over his Bible.
As time went on, his sermons seemed to gain in power and earnestness,
and he gradually came to realize the joy and liberty in the Lord's
service as he never had done before. He was very quiet about it, but
the poor whom he visited soon felt the difference in his tone, and
learnt from him, for the first time, lessons of a Saviour's love, and
of His saving and helping power.
One afternoon, he met Miss Montague coming out of a house where a
sick lad was dying. They walked down the street together, but as they
parted, he said hesitatingly, whilst a flush came to his sallow cheek,—
"Miss Montague, I have wanted to thank you for a long time for the few
words you said to me some time ago. They were the means of opening my
eyes to a great deal. I think I was following 'afar off,' and I realize
now, as I never have before, the joy of a closer walk with our Master."
Tears came into Miss Montague's eyes, which she tried in vain to
conceal. She grasped his hand.
"Mr. Long, it is good of you to say this to me, but oh, how glad I am!
And let me tell you what a refreshment and comfort your sermons have
been lately. I have led such a dreadfully selfish, idle life myself,
that I wonder I dared say a word to you; I always feel condemned when I
think of my past."
"We will work and help each other now," rejoined the young man.
And from that day he and Miss Montague were staunch friends.