It was more than probable that he would marry again one day. A hard-natured, selfish man—such as she believed him to be—would need a wife to slave for him. Then he would send for Rhoda’s ewe lamb, and there would be an end to her dream of future happiness. She did not realize that God seldom makes us happy in our own way. Blessings, like crosses, nearly always come from unexpected quarters. We search for honey in an empty hive, and find it at last in the carcase of a dead lion.
The Gills, mother and son, were little the worse for that night’s catastrophe. Like all tragedies, Helen’s death was a nine days’ wonder. There was plenty of sympathy; there were condolences from all sides. And then the excitement died out; the small topics of daily life resumed their old importance. And so the time went on.
At the end of October, the farmer received a reply to his letter. Rhoda refrained from asking any questions, and they did not tell her how the widower had borne the blow. She saw tears in her mother’s eyes, and thought that a great deal of love and pity are wasted in the world. Long afterwards, her opinion changed, and she understood that money is often wasted—love and pity never. Thank God, it is only the things that “perish in the using” which we ever can waste!
On the very day after the Australian letter came, the black mare was put into the light cart. The farmer dressed himself in his best clothes, and carefully examined the harness. These were signs that he was going to drive to the town.
“Maybe it would do you no harm to come, Rhoda,” he said, suddenly. “Put on your bonnet, and bring the little one.”
Rhoda ran up into her room, and dressed herself in haste. Little Nelly crowed with glee when her small black pelisse was buttoned on. She was quite unconscious of the compassion that her mourning garments excited. And even when she was fairly seated in the cart, her shrill cries of delight brought a smile into the farmer’s grave face.
It was one of the last, peaceful autumn days. The early morning sky had been covered with a grey curtain, whose golden fringes swept the hills from east to west. As the sun rose higher, the clouds were lifted, the bright fringes broadened, and there was light upon all the land.
Rhoda and her father did not talk much. Her instincts told her that he was disposed to be silent; and there was a great deal to occupy eyes and mind. The bindweed hung its large white flowers across the yellow hedges. The wild honeysuckle, in its second bloom, was like an old friend who comes back to comfort us in our declining fortunes. They reached at length the brow of the great chalk hill that overlooks the harbour. There lay the sea—a waste of soft blue-grey, touched with gleams of gold and dashes of silver. There, too, lay the Isle of Wight in the tranquil sunshine. The mare trotted on, down hill all the way, till they entered the noisy streets of the busy seaport, and left peace and poetry behind.
The farmer stopped at last before a silversmith’s shop. He put the reins into Rhoda’s hand, took a little wooden box from under his seat, and descended from the cart. For a few seconds his daughter was utterly bewildered. The stock of family plate was limited to a cream-jug and spoons. And even if they had made up their minds to part with those treasures, the proceeds would hardly have recompensed them for the sacrifice. Yet what could be the contents of the wooden box that her father had carried into the shop? The truth flashed upon Rhoda. He was disposing of Helen’s jewels. He had obtained her husband’s permission to sell them.