Transcriber's Note

All illustrations have been moved near to the text they refer to.

Pages have been renumbered to eliminate blank pages. The original page numbers have been retained in the table of contents to give an indication of location and hyperlinks to the correct chapter have been provided.

The cover has been created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

NELLY CHANNELL.

NELLY CHANNELL.

“Until she came to the side of the brook.”—Page 196.

NELLY CHANNELL.

BY

SARAH DOUDNEY,

AUTHOR OF

“Strangers Yet,” “A Woman’s Glory,” “What’s in a Name,” “Nothing but Leaves,” etc.

With Four Illustrations.

Boston.

IRA BRADLEY & CO.,

162, WASHINGTON STREET.

CONTENTS.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER I.

THE HOME AT HUNTSDEAN AND ITS NEW INMATES.

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.

She knew that Robert Clarris had taken Helen from her situation of nursery governess, and had married her after a brief acquaintance. Rhoda’s parents were Helen’s only surviving relatives, and they had given their full consent to the match. It was not a bad match for a penniless girl to make; for Robert Clarris was a confidential clerk in the office of Mr. Elton, son of the widow in Cavendish Square.

It was in July that Mrs. Elton’s health began to fail. Rhoda Farren saw the change stealing over her day by day, and knew what it portended. In a certain way she had been fond of the old woman; but it was an attachment without love. There would be no great pain when the ties between them were broken, and Rhoda was conscious of this. She was even angry with herself for not being more sorry that Mrs. Elton was dying.

“The worry of life is wearing me out, Rhoda,” said the widow one day, when Miss Farren had found her violently agitated, and in tears. It surprised her not a little to hear that Mrs. Elton had any worries. But when the wind shakes the full tree, there is always a great rustling of the leaves. The bare bough does not quake; it has nothing to lose. Mrs. Elton had been a rich woman from her youth upward, and she could not bear that a single leaf should be torn from her green branches.

“I have had a dreadful loss, Rhoda,” she continued; “a loss in my business. The business is mine, you know. I always said my son should never have it while I was alive. But of course I have let him carry it on for me, and very badly he has managed! That confidential clerk of his—Clarris—has robbed me of three hundred pounds!”

“You surely don’t mean my cousin Helen’s husband, Mrs. Elton?” cried Rhoda.

“How should I know anything about his being your cousin’s husband?” said the old lady peevishly. “His wife is a very unlucky woman, whoever she is. Three hundred pounds have been paid into Clarris’s hands for me, and he has embezzled every shilling of it. My son always had a ridiculous habit of petting the people he employed. This is what has come of it.”

“Is he in prison?” faltered Rhoda.

“No; I am sorry to say that he isn’t. Those lazy idiots, the detectives, have let him slip. He has had the impertinence to write a canting letter to my son, telling him that every farthing shall be restored.”

The fugitive was not captured. Perhaps Mr. Elton had a secret liking for the ci-devant clerk, and did not care to have him too hotly pursued. Poor lonely Helen had travelled without delay to her uncle’s house, and there her little girl had entered this troublesome world. At the end of October Mrs. Elton had ceased to fret for the three hundred pounds, and had gone where gold and silver are of small account. And on this November afternoon Rhoda Farren had returned to her old home once more.

Bond, the carrier, had picked up Miss Farren and her belongings when the train had set her down at the rural railway station. Then came the five mile drive to Huntsdean, over the roads that she had often traversed in her girlhood. The pallid mist clung to every branch of the familiar trees, and veiled the woodland alleys where she had watched the rabbits and squirrels in bygone times. Not a gleam of sunshine welcomed her back to the old haunts; not a brown hare leaped across her path; not a bird sent forth a note of welcome. Nature and Rhoda were in the same mood on that memorable day.

But if the whole scene had been radiant with flowers, Rhoda would still have chosen to “sit down upon her little handful of thorns.” She told herself again and again that her good days were done. Was she not coming home to find the house invaded, and her own room occupied, by the wife and child of a thief?

Yes, a thief. She called him that hard name a dozen times, and even whispered it as she sat under the wagon-tilt. It is a humbling fact, that humanity finds relief in calling names. Ay, it is a miserable thing to know that we have fastened many a bitter epithet on some whose names are written in the Book of Life.

“Wo!” cried Bond to his horses.

The ejaculation might have been applied to Rhoda; for it was a woful visage that emerged from the tilt and met the gaze of John Farren as he came out of the garden gate.

“You don’t look quite so young as you did, Rhoda,” he said when he had lifted her from the wagon and set her on her feet.

There are birds that pluck the feathers from their own breasts. For hours Rhoda had been silently graving lines upon her face, and deliberately destroying the bloom and freshness that God meant her to keep. But she did not like to be told of her handiwork. When Miss So-and-so’s friends remark that she is getting passé, is it any comfort to her to know that her own restless nature, and not Time, has deprived her of her comeliness? Many a woman is lovelier in her maturity than in her youth. But it is a kind of beauty that comes with the knowledge of “the things that belong unto her peace.”

John looked after her boxes, and paid the carrier. The wagon rumbled on through the village, the black retriever barking behind it, to the exasperation of Bond’s dog, which was tethered under the wain. Then the brother put his hands on his sister’s shoulders, glanced at her earnestly for a moment, and kissed her.

“Mother’s waiting for you,” he said.

As he spoke, Mrs. Farren appeared in the porch, and at the sight of her Rhoda’s ill-temper was ready to take flight. But Helen was behind her, waiting too—waiting to weary her cousin with all the details of her wretched story, and expecting her, perhaps, to pity Robert Clarris.

“It’s good to have you back again, my dear,” said the mother’s soft voice and glistening eyes.

“Ah, Rhoda!” piped Helen’s treble, “we were children together, were we not? Oh! what sorrows I’ve gone through, and how I have been longing to talk to you!”

Before Miss Farren could reply, a feeble wail arose from the adjoining room. The baby had lost no time in announcing its presence, and Helen hurried in to the cradle. Dim as the light was, her mother must have detected the annoyance on Rhoda’s face. Or perhaps her quick instinct served her instead of sight, for she hastened to say—

“It doesn’t often cry, poor little mite! But it has been ailing to-day.”

There was only one flight of stairs in the house. As Rhoda slowly ascended them, the loud, steady ticking of the old clock brought back many a childish memory. Would the hours pass as swiftly and brightly as they had done in earlier years? She sighed as she thought of all the small miseries that would make time hang heavily on her hands. It never even occurred to her then that

“No true life is long.”

A fretful spirit will spin hours out of minutes, and weeks out of days.

“I told you, Rhoda, my dear, that we had given your room to Helen. I said so in a letter, didn’t I?” remarked Mrs. Farren, leading the way into the chamber that she had prepared for her daughter. “This is nearly as good. And I felt sure that you would not grudge the larger room to that poor thing and her child.”

“What is to be, must be,” Rhoda replied.

“Don’t stop to unpack anything,” continued her mother, trying not to notice the gloomy answer. “Come downstairs again as soon as you can. There’s a good fire, and a bit of something nice for tea. It’s a kind of day that takes the light and colour out of everything,” she added, with a slight shiver. “I’ll never grumble at the weather that God sends; yet I’m always glad when we’ve got through November.”

It was Rhoda who had brought the damp mist indoors. It was Rhoda—God forgive her—who had taken the light and colour out of everything. In looking back upon our lives, we must always see the dark spots where we cast our shadow on another’s path—a path which, perhaps, ran very close beside our own. It may be that our dear ones, enfolded in the sunlight of Paradise, have forgotten the gloom that we once threw over their earthly way. But we never can.

When Rhoda went down into the old parlour, she found it glowing with fire and candle light. Her father had come in from the wet fields and the sheepfolds, and was waiting to give her a welcome. Red curtains shut out the foggy evening; red lights danced on the well-spread table. The baby, lying open-eyed on Helen’s lap, had its thumb in its mouth, and seemed disposed for quiet contemplation. The black retriever, stretched upon the hearth-rug, had finished a hard day’s barking, and was taking his well-earned repose.

They gave her the best chair and the warmest seat. All that household love could do was done; and she began to thaw a little under its influence.

Once or twice Helen tried to introduce the subject of her troubles, but the farmer and his wife quietly put it aside. Rhoda had made no secret of her resentment. There were many other things to be told; little episodes in village lives; little stories of neighbours and friends. The talk flowed on like a woodland stream that glides over this obstacle and under that. It was threading a difficult and intricate way, but it kept on flowing, till night broke up the family group.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER II.

BROTHER AND SISTER.—RHODA FARREN PERPLEXED.

The father and mother retired first, then Helen. John seated himself in the farmer’s large arm-chair, and looked at Rhoda as she sat on the other side of the fire. These after-supper talks had been a custom with them in the old days. The sister knew by her brother’s glance that he understood her mood, and was prepared for a long chat.

It is a trying thing for a woman that a man will seldom begin a subject, however full his heart may be of it. He will wait, with indomitable patience, until she speaks the first word, and after that he will go on glibly enough. Rhoda first learned to understand something of man’s nature by studying John, and she knew perfectly well that she should never get a sentence out of him unless she broke the silence.

“Well,” she said at last, with a little movement of impatience, “this is a miserable business. I never thought that I should come back to the old home and find the wife and child of a felon comfortably settled in it. But there is no end to sin—no limit to the audacity of criminals. It is not enough for Robert Clarris to rob his employer, he must also thrust his own lawful burdens on other folks’ shoulders.”

“When one commits a crime,” replied John gravely, “one never foresees what it entails. When Clarris found that discovery was inevitable, he came home to his wife and asked her to fly with him. But she would not go——”

“How could she go?” interrupted Rhoda indignantly. “Think of her condition, and of the misery and disgrace of following his fortunes. He is a base man indeed.”

John moved uneasily in his chair, and kept his eyes fixed on the burning log in the grate. More than once his lips opened and shut again.

“I suppose you’ll be very hard on me,” he said at length, “if I own that I’ve a sort of tenderness for this poor sinner. I don’t mean to make light of his crime, but I believe that when he took the money he intended to pay it back.”

“Oh, John,” said Rhoda severely, “I am really ashamed of you! What has come to your moral perceptions? There is a saying that the way to hell is paved with good intentions;—of course this man will try to excuse himself. The world has got into a habit of petting its criminals, and it is one of the worst signs of the times. As Mrs. Elton used to say, it would be well if we could have the good old days back again!”

“The good old days when men were hung for sheep-stealing, and starving women were sentenced to death for taking a loaf!” retorted John with unusual heat. “How I hate to hear that cant about the good old days! And when the gallows and the pillory and the stocks were so busy, did they stop the Mohawks in their fiendish pranks at night? or did they put down the Gordon riots till the mob had begun to sack and pillage London? I am glad the world is changed, and I hope it will go on changing.”

“If we change from over-severity to over-mercy, we shall just have to go back to over-severity again,” replied Rhoda.

“No, Rhoda,” he said more calmly. “By that time we shall have got to the days ‘when the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord as the waters cover the seas.’”

Rhoda looked at her brother and wondered. These were strange words to hear from a young man living in a Hampshire village, where everything seemed to be standing still. There was no more talk that night. It was evident to Rhoda that John had shot ahead of her in the road of life. Not being able to say whether he were in a bad way or a good way, she said nothing and went to bed.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER III.

A SPARED LIFE.—NEWS FROM ROBERT CLARRIS.

A great sorrow is like a mountain in our way: we must either climb to its top, or lie grovelling at its base. If we grovel, the path of life is blocked up for ever, and the shadow of our misery is upon us night and day. If we climb, we shall find purer air and fairer regions. Heaven will be nearer to us, the world will lie beneath our feet;—we shall bless God for the trial that has lifted us so high above our old selves. We shall comprehend a little of the vast Love that reared the mountain;—ay, we shall break forth into singing, “Thou, Lord, of Thy goodness, hast made my hill so strong!”

It was clear that Helen would never climb her mountain. In the old days, although she was three years older than her cousin, Rhoda had found out that nothing would ever lift her above the dead level of life. Always beautiful, always common-place, always a little sly—such were her childish characteristics, and they were unaltered by time. Her beauty was of that kind which inevitably gives a false impression. Every smile was a poem; every glance seemed to tell of thoughts too deep for words. She was the very impersonation of the German Elle-maid—as hollow a piece of loveliness as ever sat by the roadside in the old Schwarzwald, and lured unwary travellers to accept the fatal goblet or kiss.

When she said, tearfully, that Robert Clarris had fallen in love at their first interview, and would not rest till he had married her, Rhoda knew that she spoke the simple truth. No one who looked into the eloquent brown eyes, and watched the play of the sweet lips, could marvel at Robert’s impetuosity. One could understand how that fair face had drawn out the old Samson cry, “Get her for me, for she pleaseth me well.”

“I might have done far better, Rhoda,” she said, plaintively; “but I had a hard situation, and I wanted to get out of it. You don’t know the misery of being nursery governess. One is just like the bat in the fable, neither a bird nor a beast—neither a lady nor a servant. The position is bad enough for an ugly girl; but it is ten times worse for a pretty one.”

No one could blame Helen for speaking of her beauty as an established fact.

“When I was married to Robert,” she continued, “I soon began to be disappointed in him. There was an end to all the nice little attentions. I was almost his goddess until I became his wife.”

“Oh, that’s a very old story,” responded Rhoda. “Lovers are just like our old apple trees; one would think to see the quantity of blossom that there would be a deal of fruit; but there never is. Great promise and small fulfilment—that’s always the case with men.”

“He was dreadfully stingy,” went on Helen. “He worried me sadly about my expenses. I was not allowed enough money to keep myself decently dressed. I think he liked to see me shabby.”

“You are wearing a very good dress at this moment,” remarked Rhoda.

“Yes, this is well enough,” answered her cousin, colouring slightly. “I was obliged to get things without his leave sometimes, or I should have looked like a scarecrow. Robert would never believe that I wanted any clothes.”

“What did he do with the money that he stole?” Rhoda asked abruptly.

“How should I know?” sighed Helen. “He never gave a shilling of it to me. One day he came home and told me, quite suddenly, that his sin must be discovered. I thought that he was crazed, and when I found that he was in his right mind, I nearly lost my senses. Never get married, Rhoda; take my advice, and be a single woman. It’s the only way to keep out of misery.”

“I’m not thinking of marrying, Helen,” replied Rhoda, rather sharply; “but every marriage is not such a mistake as yours has been. God knew what He was about, I suppose, when He brought Adam and Eve together. There’s little sense in abusing a good road just because you couldn’t walk upright on it.”

“You would not have found it easy to walk with Robert,” said Helen, mournfully. “And now he has gone off, and has left me sticking in the mire! It’s worse than being a widow.”

Rhoda melted at once at the thought of Helen’s desolate condition.

“Perhaps he may really get on in Australia,” she rejoined, trying to speak hopefully; “and then he may send for you and the child.”

“Oh, I hope not!” returned Helen, with a little start. “If he gets on, he will send home money for us; but I do not want to live with him again.”

There can be no separation so utter and hopeless as that which parts two who have been made one. The closer the union, the more complete is the disunion. Even at that moment, when Rhoda’s wrath was hot against Robert Clarris, she was struck with Helen’s entire lack of wifely feeling. She could almost have pitied the man who had so thoroughly alienated the mother of his child. And then she reflected that this dread of reunion on Helen’s part told fearfully against him. Helen was weak, but was she not also gentle and affectionate? Better, indeed, was it for them to keep asunder until another life should present each to the other under a new aspect.

She did not pursue the subject further. With a sudden desire to be away from Helen and her troubles, she wrapped herself in a thick shawl, and went up the fields that rose behind the cottage. On the highest land the farmer was mending a fence. She could hear the strokes of his mallet as he drove the stakes into the ground.

As Rhoda drew near, she stood still and looked at him—a hale, handsome man, whose face, fringed by an iron-grey beard, was like a rosy russet apple set in grey lichen. His smock-frock showed white against the dark background of brown trees. The air was so quiet that one could listen to his breathing as his strong arms dealt the sturdy blows.

She was proud of him as she stood there in the wide field watching him unseen. He would leave her nothing save the legacy of an unstained name, but the worth thereof was far above rubies. No one would sneer at her as the daughter of a disgraced man. No one would whisper, “She comes of a bad stock; take heed how you trust her.” Many a rogue has wriggled out of well-earned punishment with the aid of his sire’s good name. Many an honest Christian has gone groaning through life under the burden of a parent’s evil reputation.

With this pride in him Rhoda was unconsciously blending a pride in herself. “Some eyes,” she thought, “are too blind to see their blessings; I am quick of sight. The Author and Giver of all good things finds in me a grateful receiver.”

Thus she loudly echoed the Pharisee’s cry “Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other men.” And never, perhaps, is the Divine patience so severely tried as when that self-complacent voice is heard. How sweet in Christ’s ears must be those other voices—stealing up to Him through the egotist’s loveless Te Deum—breathing the publican’s old prayer, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”

It was a day of sober brightness. A white mist had risen above the western slopes, and the setting sun shone through it. Brown furrows had begun to take a rich auburn tinge; tree-shadows crept farther and farther across the green sod; crows flew heavily homewards. From the wet thickets came the old fresh ferny scents, sweetening the calm air. The mallet blows ceased; the farmer had ended his task, and turned towards his daughter.

“You are not sorry to get back to our fields, Rhoda?” he said. “You’ll see the primroses showing their pretty faces by-and-by. Ah, it seems but yesterday that you and Helen were filling your pinafores with them!”

“Helen’s winter has come before its time, father,” answered Miss Farren, gravely. “Her wicked husband has made her life desolate.”

“And his own too,” added the farmer, in a pitying tone.

“That is as it should be,” returned Rhoda, quickly. “He has escaped the punishment he merited; but there’s satisfaction in knowing that God’s justice will surely reach him.”

“Ay,” murmured the farmer softly, “God’s mercy will surely reach him.”

“God’s favour is for those who walk uprightly,” said Rhoda.

“Ah, Rhoda, the mercy is granted before they learn to walk uprightly,” replied her father. “It comes to those who have fallen and are ready to perish. There are few of us who can see ourselves in every criminal, as old Baxter did. And there are fewer still who can believe that a man may come out of the Slough of Despond cleaner than he went in.”

They turned towards the house, walking silently down the green slopes. Rhoda was angry and perplexed; what was the use of living a respectable life if sinners were to be highly esteemed? When she spoke again it was in a harsh tone.

“Robert Clarris has found defenders, it seems! A man who has committed such a crime as his should scarcely be so lightly forgiven!”

“There is one thing I’d have you remember, Rhoda,” said the farmer, patiently, “and that is, the difference between falling into sin and living in sin. It’s just the difference between the man who loves and hugs his disease and he who writhes under it, and longs to be cured.”

“Even supposing that this is Robert’s first fault,” continued Miss Farren, “there must have been a long course of unsteady walking before such a fall could be brought about.”

“Maybe not,” her father responded. “Some men lose their characters, Rhoda, as others lose their lives, by being off their guard for one moment. And when you talk of God’s justice, recollect that it means something very different from man’s judgment. The Lord hates the sin worse than we do, but He knows what we can never know—the strength of the temptation.”

By that time the pair had descended the last slope, and were drawing near the cottage. The back-door stood open. Rhoda could see the red glow of the kitchen fire, and the outline of her mother’s figure as she moved to and fro. It was a pleasant glimpse of household warmth and light, and it charmed her ill temper away. But she did not remember that there might be wanderers in the world at that moment—driven out into life’s wilderness by sin—whose hearts would well-nigh break at this little glimpse of a home. She did not think of that awful sense of loss which crime must leave behind it. Perhaps that open house-door had suggested thoughts like these to the farmer, for he paused before they entered.

“Rhoda,” he said, solemnly, “never fall into the mistake of thinking that sinners aren’t punished enough. It’s a very common blunder. Many a man might have hanged himself, as Judas did, if Christ hadn’t stepped in and shown him what the atonement is. It is to the Davids and Peters and Sauls that He says, ‘Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.’”

November came to an end. December set in with biting winds and gloomy skies, and then followed a sharp, wintry Christmas.

It was a hard time for the birds. Rhoda would sit at the window and watch them congregating on the brier-bush in the corner of the garden. Now it was a plump thrush, puffing out its speckled breast, and feasting on the scarlet hips; now it was a blackbird, with dusky plumage and yellow bill. Then a score of finches and sparrows would alight on the frozen snow, and quarrel over the crumbs that she had scattered there. All day the sky was grey and clear; but sometimes at sunset, a flush would rest upon the white fields, tinting them with the delicate pink of half-opened apple-blossoms.

On Christmas Eve, Rhoda Farren sat watching the hungry birds no longer. A little human life was drawing very near to immortality. The baby—Helen’s wee, fragile baby—was hovering between two worlds.

And then, for the first time, all Rhoda’s sleeping instincts started up, awake and strong. Anger and selfishness were alike forgotten. Let the solemn feet of death be heard upon the threshold of the house, and all the petty wranglings of its inmates are stilled. He was coming—“the angel with the amaranthine wreath”—but Rhoda held the little one in her arms, and prayed the Father to shut the door against him.

We know not what we ask when we pray for a child’s life. We are pleading with the Good Shepherd that He will leave a little lamb in the wilderness instead of taking it into the fold. We are asking that it may tread the long, toilsome way home, instead of the short, smooth path that leads straight to rest. Surely our Lord never loves us better than when He says nay to such prayers as these. When we become even as they—the little children—and enter into the kingdom, we shall understand the infinite compassion of His denial.

Christmas night closed in; and outside the cottage, the mummers, gay in patchwork and ribbons, clashed their tin swords, and sang their foolish rhymes. John went out and entreated them to go away. A glance through the open door showed Rhoda the clear, broad moonlight, shining over the snow-waste, and she heard the subdued voices of the men as they went off to some happier house. Then the door closed again, and she saw nothing but the little child’s wan face.

“If it were taken,” she thought, “they should all feel something as the shepherds did when ‘the angels were gone away from them into heaven.’” Even she had begun to realize that a babe is indeed God’s angel in a household. Often, like those Christmas angels, it stays just long enough to be the messenger of peace and good-will, and then returns to Him who sent it. Like them, it leaves us without an earth-stain on its vesture; without a regret for the world from which it is so soon withdrawn.

But Helen’s little one was to remain. The household rejoiced, and Rhoda learnt to recognise herself in a new character. She became the baby’s head-nurse and most devoted slave.

“Was there ever such a child?” she asked, as it gained strength and beauty. “It will be as pretty as Helen by-and-by.”

“It has a look of Robert,” said the farmer, thoughtfully.

Rhoda’s smiles fled. She wanted to forget the relationship between that man and her darling. Nor was she without a fear that it might have inherited some touch of his evil nature. Her heart never softened towards him because he was the father of the child. And yet how much richer her life had grown since she had taken the baby into it!

The snow lay long upon the ground. It was so lengthened a winter, that spring seemed to come suddenly. There was a burst of primroses on the borders of the fields. They lit up shady places with their pale yellow stars, and spread themselves out in sheets. Every puff of wind was sweet with the breath of violets; birds sang their old carols—now two or three clear notes—now a shake—then a long whistle. All God’s works praised Him in the freshness of their new life. Old dry stumps, that Rhoda had thought dead and useless, began to put forth green shoots. The earth teemed with surprises; all around there was a continual assertion of vitality. And so hard is it to distinguish the barrenness of winter from the barrenness of death, that every spring has its seeming miracles. The tree that our impatient hands had well-nigh hewn down may be our sweetest shelter in the heat of summer noontide.

Not until the high winds had sent the blossoms drifting over the orchards like a second snowfall, did there come news of Helen’s husband.

The tidings came through Mr. Elton. Clarris had written to him, enclosing a letter for his wife. He had also sent notes to the amount of forty pounds to his former employer. From time to time he promised money should be forwarded until the whole sum that he had taken was restored.

“I believe,” wrote Mr. Elton to the farmer, “that he will keep his word. He does not, he declares, hope to wipe out his sin by this restitution. ‘I am not one whit better than any other criminal,’ he writes, ‘but I have been more leniently dealt with than most of my brethren. God’s mercy, acting through you, has done much for me.’”

Helen did not show Rhoda the letter that had been received. She was paler and sadder after reading it, but she said nothing about its contents. Rhoda took the child in her arms, leaving its mother sitting in silence, and went out into the garden.

The wild winds had sunk to rest. A light shower had fallen in the early morning, beating out the sweetness of the new-born roses, and the long, soft grass. The old walks glittered and twinkled in the sunshine. The sky was radiantly blue, and the clouds were fair.

“After all,” thought Rhoda, looking upward with a sudden lifting of the spirit, “heaven is full of forgiven sinners!”

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER IV.

AN INVITATION FROM SQUIRE DERRICK.

As the summer advanced, Helen’s spirits rose. She was not the pale, plaintive woman that Rhoda had found on her return from London. Her beauty brightened visibly, and more than one neighbour remarked that it was a sin and a shame for such a pretty creature to be tied up to a man who was nothing but a cross to her.

Perhaps Helen herself was of the same opinion. The baby was given up more and more to Rhoda’s care, while its mother went freely to the villagers’ houses. She was one of those women to whom admiration is as necessary as their daily food. Her pleasure in her own loveliness amused while it saddened her cousin. There was something in it that seemed akin to the delight of a child in its fine clothes. Helen’s mind had never grown with her body. But Rhoda and the others had got into the habit of viewing her weaknesses indulgently. And they gratified the little fancies that were, as a rule, harmless enough.

They had their first disagreement at the end of August. There was an early harvest that year. In the southern counties most of the wheat was cut and stacked before September set in. The crops were plentiful, and there was rejoicing on all sides. But it was not always the right kind of rejoicing.

“It’s a strange way that some folks have got of thanking the Lord of the harvest,” remarked Farmer Farren one day. “He gives them bread enough to satisfy all their wants, and they must needs show their gratitude by stupefying themselves with beer! I used to think, when I was a lad, that ’twas an odd thing for King David to go a-dancing before the Almighty with all his might. But there’s more sense in dancing than in drinking for joy.”

Father and daughter stood side by side, leaning against the garden wall; for it was evening, and the farmer’s work was done. Just before he spoke, some drunken shouts disturbed the quiet air. Labourers were roystering in the village tavern, and many a wife’s temper was sorely tried that night.

“O Uncle, I am glad you don’t think it’s wrong to dance!” cried Helen, coming suddenly out of the house. “Here’s good news! Squire Derrick is going to give a feast in his park next Friday. I know that John can’t go, because of his sprained ankle; but William Gill will drive us to the park in his chaise. There’ll be room for Rhoda and me and Mrs. Gill.”

“But, Helen, I don’t go to merry-makings,” said Rhoda, gravely. “We have never taken part in anything of that kind. And as to father’s remark, King David’s sort of dancing was very different from the waltzes and polkas and galops that there will be on Friday night.”

Helen’s face clouded like that of a disappointed child.

“O Uncle, would there be any harm in my dancing?” she asked.

“No harm exactly, my girl,” responded the farmer uneasily, as he picked a piece of dry moss off the wall. “But even when things are lawful, they are not always expedient. You are a married woman, you see, and your husband’s under a cloud, and miles away—poor fellow!”

“Ah!” sighed Helen, “I’m always doomed to suffer for his sins! I thought that perhaps a little bit of fun would help me to forget my troubles.”

Poor Helen was still grovelling at the foot of her mountain.

Large tears stood in her soft eyes. The farmer gave her a quick glance, then looked away, and busied himself with the little cushion of moss that still lay in his broad palm. At heart he was more than half a Puritan, and hated jigs and feastings as lustily as did the Gideons and Grace-be-heres of Cromwell’s day. But he was far too tender-natured a man to bear the sight of a woman’s tears.

But for that unfortunate allusion which her father had made to Robert Clarris, Rhoda would have set her face as a flint against going to the fête. But his tone of pity stirred up all her old resentment. Why was this young wife, lovely and foolish, left without her lawful protector? Had she not said truly that she was doomed to suffer for his sins? After all, it was scarcely her fault, perhaps, that she was not elevated by her trial. To “erect ourselves above ourselves” is a bliss that we do not all reach. And it is a bliss which bears such a close relationship to pain, that one has no right to be hard on a fellow-mortal who chooses the lower ground.

Thoughts like these were passing through Rhoda’s mind, while Helen still wept silently. But it did not occur to Miss Farren that the truest kindness that can be done to another is to raise him. She forgot that it is better to stretch out a hand and say, “Friend, come up higher,” than to step down to his level. At that moment she thought only of pacifying Helen. Of late her cousin had grown very dear to her, partly, perhaps, for the sake of her little child. Her whole soul recoiled from the harvest-feast. She hated the clownish merriment, and the dancing and drinking; and yet, to please Helen, she was willing to endure much that was distasteful.

“If you would promise not to dance, Helen,” she began, hesitatingly. Her father looked up in undisguised astonishment.

“Why, Rhoda,” he said, “I didn’t think anything in the world would have made you go!”

“O Rhoda, how good of you to give way!” cried Helen, brightening. “Of course I’ll promise. It’s just like her, Uncle: she was always the most unselfish girl on earth! She doesn’t despise me because I’m weak-minded, and like a little bit of pleasure. Ah, how kind she is!”

The farmer said no more. He had a great reverence for his daughter, and would not take the matter out of her hands. But he went indoors with a grave face; and Helen followed him in a flutter of delight.

As Rhoda lingered that evening in the dewy twilight, she began to charge herself with cowardice. It would have been hard to have held out against Helen’s desires. And yet—for Helen’s own sake—ought she not to have been firm? Most of us suffer if we stifle our instincts; and hers had told her that this feast was no place for her cousin.

“It shall be the last time that I am weak,” she thought, hoping to atone for the present by the future. “I will let her have her way this once, and then I will set myself to guide her in a better path.”

The grey, transparent veil of dusk stole down, and the clear stars shone through it. A little wind came creeping up the garden like a human sigh. One or two white moths flitted past, and a bird uttered a sleepy, smothered note. For a minute she loitered in the porch, listening to the pleasant, household stir within. Helen’s laugh mingled with John’s cheery tones and the clatter of supper-plates.

“Where is Rhoda?” she heard her mother say.

The jessamine, which grew all over the porch, swung its slender sprays into her face. The sweet, chill blossoms kissed her lips as she passed beneath them; but she went indoors with an unquiet mind.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER V.

HELEN UNDER A NEW ASPECT.

On Friday afternoon, Helen’s chamber-door chanced to be left open, and Rhoda caught a glimpse of a delicate silk dress lying on the bed. She went straight into the room and examined it. Bodice and sleeves were trimmed profusely with costly lace; the rich lilac folds might have stood alone, so thick was the texture. It was not the sort of dress that should have belonged to the wife of a merchant’s clerk. Rhoda was perplexed.

“Isn’t it handsome!” asked Helen’s voice behind her.

“I hope you are not thinking of wearing it this evening,” said Rhoda. “It’s a most unsuitable dress for a country merry-making. Do put on something plainer, Helen.”

“O Rhoda,” she pleaded, “I am not like you; I can’t abide browns and greys! I want to be dressed as the flowers are! You loved the lilacs when they were in bloom; why may I not copy them?”

“Their dress costs nothing,” said Rhoda, “and the silk is a poor imitation of them. Even Solomon in all his glory wasn’t arrayed like the lilies of the field. This gown must have been very expensive, Helen.”

“It is the best I have,” answered Helen, flushing slightly. “I should like to give it an airing, Rhoda. I own I am fond of fine clothes, but you are so kind that you won’t be angry with a poor silly thing like me!”

Again Rhoda’s strength was no match for her cousin’s weakness. She went out of the room without saying another word about the lilac silk. An hour or two later William Gill’s chaise stopped at the gate, and Helen came downstairs. She was enveloped in a large cloak which completely hid her dress from the eyes of her uncle and aunt. Her face was flushed; she was in high spirits. William Gill—a prosperous young farmer—looked sheepishly pleased as she seated herself by his side.

Rhoda sat on the back seat with Mrs. Gill. It was a still, sultry evening. The languor of the waning summer seemed to have stolen upon her unawares, and the good woman found her a dull companion. Mrs. Gill was proud of her son, proud of his fine horse, a fiery young chestnut, proud of the chaise, which had been newly painted and varnished. But these subjects had little interest for Miss Farren. And the worthy matron became convinced that she was giving herself airs on the strength of her annuity. By the time they had reached the foot of Huntsdean hill, she was as silent as Rhoda could desire.

The church clock was striking seven as they turned in at the gates of Dykeley Park. Groups of people were scattered about under the trees. The hall door of Dykeley House stood open, and the sound of music swept forth into the evening air. Out of doors there was the crimson of sunset staining the skies, reddening the faces of the countryfolk, and lighting up the west front of the old mansion, till its red bricks seemed to burn among the dark ivy and overblown white roses. Quiet pools, lying here and there about the park, glittered as if the old Cana miracle had been wrought upon them, and their waters were changed to wine. The colour was too intense, too fiery. It made Rhoda think of burning cities, or of the glare of beacons, blazing up to warn the land that the foe had crossed the border.

Squire Derrick’s old banqueting hall had been cleared out for the dancers. The squire himself, a bachelor of sixty, received his guests as Sir Roger de Coverley might have done. Rhoda saw his eyes rest on beautiful Helen in the lilac silk, and his glance followed her wonderingly as she went sweeping away to a distant part of the great room. Other looks followed her too.

Nor could Rhoda keep her own gaze from dwelling on her companion. When the long cloak had been laid aside, and Helen appeared in the lighted room, her cousin could hardly restrain an exclamation. There were jewels on her wrists and bosom, jewels on the white fingers that flashed when she took off her gloves to display them. A miserable sense of shame and confusion overwhelmed Miss Farren. Here was Helen bedizened like a Begum, and here were many of the Huntsdean folk who knew her husband’s story! The air seemed full of whispers. Rhoda grew hot beneath the broad stare of eyes. Yet few glanced at her; the brown wren, reluctantly perched beside the glittering peacock, was sheltered from observation.

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and then Rhoda saw that there were several gay young officers in the room. They had come, by the squire’s invitation, from the neighbouring garrison town, and were evidently prepared to enjoy themselves.

She was scarcely surprised to see two or three of them bearing down upon Helen, bent on securing her for a partner. She heard their entreaties, and Helen’s denials—very prettily uttered. But at that moment an old friend of Farmer Farren’s crossed the room, and gave Rhoda a hearty greeting. Then followed a score of questions about herself and her parents, and in the midst of them Rhoda heard Helen’s voice saying—

“Only one dance, Rhoda; you’ll forgive me, I know.”

Rhoda started, and half rose from her seat. Such a distressed and angry look crossed her face that the old farmer was astonished. Helen had gone off on her partner’s arm. It was too late to call her back. She must take it as quietly as she could, and avoid making a scene.

“Who is that lovely young woman? Any relation of yours, Miss Farren?” asked the old man by her side.

“My cousin,” Rhoda answered.

Several persons near were listening for her reply. Rhoda hoped that her questioner would drop the subject, but he did not.

“Let me see; didn’t I know her when she was a child in your father’s house?”

“Very likely,” Rhoda said. “She used to live with us when she was a little girl.”

“And did I hear that she had married?” he persisted.

“She is married,” said Rhoda, desperately. “Her husband is in Australia.”

Obtuse as he was, the old gentleman could yet perceive that he had touched upon an awkward topic. Poor Rhoda was a bad actress. Her face always betrayed her feelings. She sat bolt upright against the wall, looking so intensely uncomfortable that her companion quitted her in dismay.

There she remained for three long hours; sometimes catching a glimpse of the lilac silk among the dancers. From fragments of talk that went on around her, she learned that Helen was the centre of attention. And at last, when a galop was over, and the groups parted to left and right, she caught sight of her cousin surrounded by the officers.

She now saw Helen under a new aspect. Her looks and gestures were those of a practised coquette, who had spent half her life in ball-rooms. People were looking on—smiling, whispering, wondering. The squire himself was evidently amused and astonished. Even if she had been less beautiful, Helen’s dress and jewellery would have attracted general notice. It was, perhaps, the most miserable evening that Rhoda had ever passed. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” was the question that she asked herself a hundred times. Was she indeed to blame for suffering Helen to come to this place? The music and dancing and flattering speeches had fired Helen’s blood like wine. The gaiety that would have been innocuous to many was poisonous to her.

At last a loud gong sounded the summons to supper. The repast was spread in a large tent which had been erected in the park. Out swept the crowd into the balmy August night, Helen still clinging to the arm of her last partner, and carefully avoiding a glance in her cousin’s direction. Rhoda strove in vain to get nearer to her; the press was too great. But she contrived to reach William Gill, and to say to him earnestly—

“We must go away as soon as supper is over, Mr. Gill. I promised father that we would come back early.” The moon had risen, large and red, and the night was perfectly still. Chinese lanterns illuminated the great supper-tent from end to end. Flowers and evergreens, mingled with wheat ears, decorated the long tables. The light fell on rows of flushed and smiling faces. Rhoda, pale and sad, sat down on the end of a bench close to the tent entrance.

“I’m ’most worn out,” said Mrs. Gill’s voice beside her. “I’m downright glad that you’re for going home early, Miss Farren. Old women like me are better a-bed than a-junketing at this time o’ night! Mercy on us, how your cousin has been a-going on, my dear! And brought up so strict too!”

The words cut Rhoda like a knife. There she sat, lonely and miserable, amid a merry crowd. The golden moonshine flooded the park, and the sweet air kissed her face as she turned it wearily towards the tent-entrance. Once a sudden rush of perfume came in and overwhelmed her. It was the breath of the fast fading roses that hung in white clusters about the squire’s windows, and shed their petals on the ground below.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VI.

“THE MASTER IS COME, AND CALLETH FOR THEE.”

Rhoda seized upon her cousin as she was passing out of the tent. She was resolved that Helen should not go back to the dancing-room. What was done could not be undone. But she would take her away before the crowd had begun to disperse.

“Come, Helen,” she said, “I have your cloak and hat; you needn’t go into the house again. Mr. Gill will get the chaise ready at once.”

“O Rhoda, the fun is only just beginning,” pleaded Helen. “And I have promised to dance——”

“Then you must break the promise. It won’t be the first that you have broken to-night,” added Rhoda, sharply.

She wrapped Helen in her cloak, and tied her bonnet strings with her own hands. As they stood there, in the strange mingling of lamplight and moonlight, she could see that the lovely face looked half-frightened and half-mutinous. In an instant Rhoda repented of her momentary harshness; somehow she had never loved Helen better than she did at that instant.

“I’m sorry to spoil your pleasure, darling,” she whispered; “but what will the father say if we are late?”

Helen’s brow cleared. Without a word she walked straight to the place where the chaise was standing, and climbed up into her seat. William Gill, assisted by one of the squire’s stable helpers, proceeded to harness the chestnut horse, and in a few moments more they had driven out of the park.

It was such a relief to Rhoda to be going homewards, that for some moments she could think of nothing else. The cool night air soothed and refreshed her. The rattle of wheels and the quick tramp of hoofs were the only sounds that broke the silence. Cottages by the wayside were dark and still. The firs that bordered the road stood up rugged and black; not a tree-top rocked, not a branch rustled. The level highway was barred with deep shadows here and there. Overhead there was a soft, purple sky, and the moon hung like a globe of gold above the faintly outlined hills.

As they drew near the end of the three-mile drive, Rhoda’s troubled thoughts came flocking back. All Huntsdean and Dykeley would be talking of Helen Clarris to-morrow. Her dress, her jewels, her levity, would give the tongues of the gossips plenty of work for months to come. The Farrens were a proud family in their way. They were over-sensitive—as such people always are—and hated to be talked about. Rhoda knew that the village chatter could not fail to reach her father’s ears, and she knew, too, that it would vex him more than he would care to say. As Mrs. Gill had said, Helen had been strictly brought up. She had lived under her uncle’s roof in her childhood, and had gone to school with her cousin. All that had been done for Rhoda had been also done for her.

And then the jewels. Little as Miss Farren knew of the worth of such things, she had felt sure that they were of considerable value. Moreover, they were new and fashionable, and could not be mistaken for family heirlooms. Had Robert Clarris purchased them in his doting fondness for his wife? Were they love-gifts made soon after their marriage? Anyhow, Helen ought not to retain them. It was plainly her duty to dispose of them, and send the proceeds to Mr. Elton. Rhoda determined to speak to her about this matter on the morrow.

Just as she had formed this resolution, they turned out of the highway and entered the lane leading to Huntsdean. The road dipped suddenly; a sharp hill, overshadowed by trees, led into the village.

“Nearly home,” said Mrs. Gill, rousing herself from a doze. The words had hardly passed her lips, when the chestnut horse started forward with a mad bound. It might have been that William Gill’s brain was confused with the squire’s strong ale. A buckle had been carelessly fastened, and had given way. The horse’s flanks were scourged and stung by the flapping strap. There was a wild plunge into the darkness of the lane, a terrible swaying from side to side, and then a jerk and a crash at the bottom of the hill.

For a few seconds Rhoda lay half stunned upon the wet grass and bracken by the wayside. She rose with a calmness that afterwards seemed the strangest part of that night’s history. Mrs. Gill was sitting on the sod staring around her in a helpless way. The other two, William and Helen, were stretched motionless upon the stony road.

Still with that strange composure which never lasts long, Rhoda ran to the nearest cottage. Its windows were closed, and all was silent; but she beat hard upon the door with her clenched hands. A voice called to her from within, but she never ceased knocking until a labourer came forth.

“Hoskins,” she said, as the man confronted her, “my cousin has been thrown out of Farmer Gill’s chaise. You must come and carry her home.”

The man came with her to the foot of the hill, and lifted Helen in his strong arms. Other help was forthcoming. The labourer’s wife had roused her sons, and Mrs. Gill had collected her scattered senses.

They were but a quarter of a mile from home, but the distance seemed interminable to Rhoda as she sped on to the house. The familiar way appeared to lengthen as she ran; and when at last her hand touched the latch of the garden gate, her firmness suddenly broke down. She tottered as she reached the door, and then fell into John’s arms, crying out that Helen was coming.

The farmer sat in his large arm-chair. The Bible lay open on the table before him, for he had been gathering the old strength and sweetness from its pages. He had not guessed that the strength would so soon be needed. But it was his way to lay up stores for days of sorrow, and there was a look of quiet power in his face that helped those around him.

They carried Helen upstairs, and laid her on her bed. The lilac silk was dusty and blood-stained, the fragile lace soiled and torn. With tender hands Rhoda unclasped her glittering necklace and bracelets; the rings, too, slipped easily from the slight fingers. When those gay trinkets were out of sight, Rhoda’s heart was more at ease. Helen was their own Helen without them; the jewels had done their best to make her like a stranger. There was little to do then but to wait until the doctor arrived.

As it will be with the day of the Lord, so it often is with the day of trouble. It comes “as a snare.” Frequently, like the stag in the fable, we are looking for it in the very quarter from which it never proceeds. It steals upon us from another direction—suddenly, swiftly, “as a thief in the night.”

But the children of the kingdom are “not in darkness, that that day should overtake them as a thief.” They sleep, but their hearts wake; and there is light in their dwellings. Let the angels of death or of sorrow come when they will, they are ready to meet them. To the watchful and sober souls the Master’s messengers are never messengers of wrath. Ay, though they come with dark garments and veiled faces, they bring some token of Him who sends them. The garments “smell of myrrh, aloes, and cassia;” the glory of celestial love shines through the veil.

When Helen opened her eyes and looked round upon them all, they knew that there was death in her face. They knew it even before the doctor arrived, and told them the hard truth. She might linger a day or two perhaps, just long enough for a leave-taking, and then she must set forth on her lonely journey. But how were they to tell her that she must go?

“What did the doctor say?” she asked, faintly, after a long, long silence. The day was breaking then, but they were still gathered round her bed—still waiting and watching with that new, calm patience that is born of great sorrow.

“Nelly,” said the farmer, bending his head down to hers, “‘The Master is come, and calleth for thee.’ The call is sudden, my dear, very sudden. But it’s the Master’s voice that speaks.”

First there was a startled, distressed look, but it passed away like a cloud. The brown eyes were full of eager inquiry.

“Must it be?” she whispered. “Ah, I see it must! Oh, I’m not ready—not nearly ready. There’s so much to be forgiven; if I could only know that He forgives me, I wouldn’t want to stay.”

“Nelly!” answered the farmer in a clearer tone, “the Lord has got love and pardon for all those who want it. It’s only from those that don’t want it that He turns away. His blood has washed out the sins of that great multitude whom no man can number, and it will cleanse you too. Do you think He ever expects to find any of His children who don’t need washing? Ay, the darker they are in their own eyes, the fairer they seem in His!”

As Rhoda listened to her father’s words, and to her cousin’s low replies, she began to realize that poor, weak Helen had felt herself to be a sinner for many a day. She had felt it, and had tried to forget it. But this was not the first time that she had heard the Master’s call, and yearned to follow Him. Yet the weakness of the flesh had prevailed again and again, and her feet had gone on stumbling on the dark mountains. They would never stumble any more. The great King had come Himself to guide them over the golden pavement to the mansion prepared in His Father’s house.

All that day Rhoda’s mother was by the bedside. Rhoda herself went to and fro, now ministering to the baby’s wants, now hanging over her cousin’s pillow. Once she stayed out of the room for nearly half-an-hour, and on entering it again, she saw her mother strangely agitated. Helen’s head was on her aunt’s bosom, and her pale lips were moving. But Rhoda could not hear what she said.

“She tarried with them until the breaking of another day.”—Page 7

She tarried with them until the breaking of another day. The sun came up. Shadows of jessamine sprays were drawn sharply on the white blind; a glory of golden light fell on the chamber wall. Towards that light the dying face was turned. To Rhoda, at that moment, came a sudden impulse. Clearly and firmly she repeated the familiar lines that she and Helen had learnt years ago,—

“The wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee,

And sinners may hope, for the Sinless has died.”

For answer, there was a quick, bright smile, and then the half-breathed word—

“Forgiven.”

Only an hour later, Rhoda was walking along the grassy garden-path with Helen’s child in her arms. Was it yesterday that they were children playing together? Had ten years or sixty minutes gone by since she died? If she had come suddenly out of the old summer-house among the beeches—a gay, smiling girl—Rhoda could scarcely have wondered. There are moments in life when we put time away from us altogether.

And yet one had to come back to the everyday world again—a very fair world on that morning. Newly-reaped fields lay bare and glistening in the sun; thistle-down drifted about in the languid air, and the baby stretched out her hands to grasp the butterflies. She looked up, wonderingly, with Helen’s brown eyes, when Rhoda pressed her to her bosom and wept.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VII.

DISPOSING OF HELEN’S JEWELS.

A month went by. The household fell back into its old ways. The little child laughed and played, and grew dearer and dearer to them all.

Mrs. Farren had taken upon herself the task of looking over Helen’s things. She performed this duty without any aid from Rhoda; and not one word did she say about the jewels. The farmer had written to Australia, breaking the sad news to Robert Clarris as gently as he could. How would he receive it? Rhoda wondered. They had left off speaking of him in her hearing. They were aware of all the bitter dislike that she cherished, but they never sought to soften her heart. They were content—as the wisest people are—to leave most things to time. We do not know how often we wrong a friend by hotly defending him, nor how we help an enemy by running him down.

Now that Helen was gone, Rhoda was harassed by a new fear. She dreaded lest Robert should take away the child.

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.

He came out again with a sober face. The silversmith came too, rubbing his hands as if he were not ill satisfied with his bargain. He wished the farmer good day, and the mare jogged steadily back to Huntsdean.

But Rhoda learnt, long afterwards, that the money for which the jewels were sold did not go to Mr. Elton. It went towards the maintenance of Helen’s child.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FARM PURCHASED BY ONE RALPH CHANNELL.

Eight years passed away. In Huntsdean churchyard the grass had grown over Helen’s grave, covering up the bare, brown earth, as new interests cover an old sorrow.

Little Nelly had never realized her loss. It contented her to know that her mother had been laid to rest in a sweet place, and would rise again some day when the Lord called her. She always hoped that Helen might rise in the spring, and find the primroses blooming round her pretty grave. She might have fancied that, like Keats, her mother could “feel the flowers growing over her.” Children and poets often have the same fancies.

November had come again; and with it came a new anxiety.

The small farm, rented by Farmer Farren, had passed into new hands. Squire Derrick was dead, and “another king arose, who knew not Joseph.” The heir was a needy, grasping man. Old tenants were nothing to him, and he was in want of ready money.

He had made up his mind to sell the little farm. It was more than likely, therefore, that the Farrens would be turned out of the old nest. For the young, it is easy to build new homes, and gather new associations around them; but for the old, it is well-nigh impossible. Their very lives are built into the ancient walls. When they leave a familiar dwelling, they long to go straight to “a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.”

John was now bailiff to a rich landowner in Sussex. He had a wife and child; but he was not unmindful of other ties. “Come to me,” he wrote, “if you are turned out of the old place.” But the parents sighed and shook their heads. They had not greatly prospered in Huntsdean, yet no other spot on earth could be so dear to them.

“Whatever the Lord means me to do, I’ll strive to do it willingly,” said the farmer, bravely. “Oftentimes I’m mighty vexed with myself for clinging so hard to these old bricks and mortar, and those few fields yonder. If I leave them, I shan’t leave my Lord behind me; and if I stay with them, He’ll soon be calling me away. But you see, an old man has his whims; and I wanted to step out of this old cottage into my Father’s house.”

In this time of uncertainty, a new duty suddenly called Rhoda from home. Her father’s only sister—a childless widow—lay dying in Norfolk, and sent for her niece to come and nurse her.

It was decided that she must go. Her aunt had no other relatives, and could not be left alone in her need. But it was with a heavy heart that Rhoda said farewell to the three whom she loved best on earth, and set out on her long, solitary journey.

It was a keen, clear morning when she went away. A brisk wind was blowing; the brown leaves fled before it, as the hosts of the Amorites before the sword of Joshua. In dire confusion they hurried along over soft turf and stony ground. It was a day on which all things seemed to be astir. Crows were cawing, and flying from tree to tree; magpies flashed across the road; flocks of small birds assembled on the sear hedges. And far off could be heard the clamour of foxhounds and shouts of the huntsmen.

Rhoda wondered, with a pang, how it would be when she came back. Do we ever leave any beloved place without fearing that a change may fall upon it in our absence? It is at such times as these that the heart loves to rest itself upon the Immutable. “Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place from all generations.” “Thou art the same, and Thy years shall not fail.”