It was the dreariest of November days. The only bright spot was a crimson sumach, spreading its gorgeous foliage against the watery grey of the sky, and misty back-ground of fog-hidden fields. It was a day that made the burdens of life seem heavier than they really were, and set the heart aching for the sunshine of the vanished summer.
The scene was as still as death. There was not wind enough to lift the pale vapours that hung over the meadows. No kindly breezes came to the poor brown leaves, heaped on the wayside, and carried them off to quiet hollows where they might have decent burial. Better rain and tempest than such a gloomy calm as this; and better the roar and rattle of the train than the heavy jog-trot of the carrier’s horses, and the rumble of his wagon.
“It will never be the same home again,” said Rhoda Farren to herself, as the old grey cottage came in sight. There was the low, moss-grown wall, built of flints—there were the splendid sumachs, brightening the desolate garden. Rhoda and her cousin Helen had chased each other along those grassy paths when they were children. But they were women now, and had put away childish things. Rhoda loved her cousin reasonably well, yet not well enough to give up her own bedroom to her and her baby.
The baby was the principal grievance. Rhoda had had very little to do with children; and being of a studious turn, she did not want to improve her acquaintance with them. In reading her favourite books she always skipped the parts that related their sayings and doings. It was, therefore, no small cross to find an infant of two months old introduced into the family circle. For there she had hoped to reign supreme.
She had a presentiment that there would be rivalry between the baby and herself—a struggle for mastery, in which her little opponent might possibly be victor. “Baby lips would laugh her down,” if she attempted remonstrance. Even parents and a fond brother might be won over to the cause of the small usurper.
For three years Rhoda Farren had been living away from home, only coming back for a fortnight at Christmas, and sometimes for a few days in midsummer. Neighbours and friends had looked upon her as fortunate. She had held the post of companion to the rich widow of a London merchant, and had been well treated, and not ill remunerated.
The widow was lately dead, and Miss Farren was returning to her home with an annuity of twenty pounds, to be paid regularly by Mrs. Elton’s executors.
Mrs. Elton had not been difficult to live with; and her companion had adapted herself to her ways more readily than most girls of twenty would have done. The quiet house in Cavendish Square had been no uncheerful home. But the mode of life there had strengthened Rhoda’s habits of self-indulgence. She had had ample time for reading and musing. No harsh words had chafed her temper, no small nuisances had planted thorns in her path. They had few visitors. Weeks would pass without their hearing other voices than those of the servants. It did not matter to them that there were mighty things done in the great world. It was an unwholesome life for two women to lead—a life of cramped interests and narrow thoughts.
Helen had been living in Islington, while Rhoda was in Cavendish Square. But in those days Miss Farren never went to see anybody; and she excused herself for not visiting Helen by saying that Mrs. Elton did not like her to be gadding about. Thus it came to pass that she had not even once seen her cousin’s husband.