SICK NEIGHBOURS

SUNDAY afternoon found a cosy little party in the Tents' kitchen. Jim and his wife were most anxious that every one should be comfortable, and Robin and Poll were honoured with the two best arm-chairs. Jess was the only one of the party who stood sullenly aloof; she retreated into the farthest corner of the room, and when the hymns were started, she resolutely closed her lips. Rhoda had feared, from her not arriving to see her on Saturday, that she was still displeased about it, and felt a great pity for her.

"Pray, Hannah, that they may keep awake. A sleeping audience is my horror," was the request that Rhoda made of her old servant on entering the house.

And it was with great thankfulness that she noticed how interested all seemed to be. She took as her subject the parable of the wedding garment, first describing the scene as graphically as she could, and then going onto the solemn lessons it taught. And as her clear soft voice grew more earnest as she pleaded with all to be sure that they possessed the spotless robe so freely given, and which had cost the Lord so much to give, old Mrs. Tent wiped the tears from her eyes, and Robin and Poll felt their old frozen hearts quicken and thaw under the power of God's holy Word. The little boys never took their eyes off her, and when the closing hymn was being sung, the smallest called out,—

"Can a' have a goon liketh that 'un, mother? Can a' get 'un?"

He was hushed, but Rhoda called him to her before leaving.

"You must ask Jesus to give you that white robe, Jacky. He loves to give it to little boys as well as grown-up people."

He nodded impressively, and she felt that some seed had fallen into soft ground.

They were pressed to stay to tea, so that it was late when they set out homewards. Rhoda had tried up to the last to win a word from Jess, but with no success, save a few grunted monosyllables.

Old Mrs. Tent said apologetically, when she had limped out of the room,—

"She be in one o' her moods, miss. You mustn't mind her; she's sometimes days like this. I was only sayin how wonderful free she have been from 'em lately. And it has been rare nice this arternoon; we haven't had such a talk out o' the Bible for years. I hope nought will prevent your coming next Sunday."

"I hope not," Rhoda said promptly. "I will be sure to come if I can."

"I think you've made a good beginnin', mum," said Hannah, as they tramped through the dead heather and moist grass, "but I'm not likin' the idea of the walk for you every Sunday."

"Oh, Hannah, what is the walk compared with the chance of reaching those poor dark souls! I felt this afternoon as if I would give anything for an experienced evangelist to have the opportunity I had, and then I was ashamed of myself, because God's Word is always powerful, and it does not depend on the skill of the instrument, but of the player, if I may use such a simile. I believe the Holy Spirit Himself was there this afternoon. We asked for His presence, and I realized it. And as far as the walking goes, I am much more fit for it than you. Do you think you will be able to manage it? It is so nice to have you."

"I shall manage it right enough, mum. It is mostly on the level, not like that terrible hill from Ashampton."

The mists of evening were rapidly descending, but Rhoda knew her way well along this part of the moor, and did not fear. Suddenly a horseman appeared, and they were startled by Mr. Wallace's voice.

"Good afternoon, Miss Carlton. You are just the person I wanted to see."

He dismounted, and leading his horse walked by her side while he continued, "I have just been making a visit, and as I should judge from what I have heard that you like errands of mercy, I am going to bring this case to your notice. It is a young woman seriously ill—rheumatic fever, I believe. Her husband works for Mr. Rokeby, your tyrannical landlord. She seems all alone in her sickness, and has two babies making demands on her for food and attention. Could you go and see her, I wonder? A lady always manages best in these matters."

"I shall be only too glad. Where does she live?"

"It is about two miles and a half from where we are now. It would be a long walk, but if you are riding, it would be quite an easy matter. It is a little cottage at the bottom of the tor, just where the river goes past. You can make no mistake, for there is no other dwelling-place near."

"But she ought to have some one with her at once. Has she no one?"

"She will have her husband till some one relieves him. I am afraid he makes a very inefficient nurse. If you could get some woman from this part to stop with her for a bit, it would be a charity. I will send over a doctor to see to her to-morrow—at least Mr. Rokeby will. He does sometimes look after his tenants, Miss Carlton, though perhaps you will not believe it."

Mr. Wallace's tone was slightly mocking, but Rhoda only laughed.

"I am glad to hear it," she said. "Does he often get helped in doing so by you?"

"Is that a gibe at me?"

"Not at all. I was thinking it was good of you to go and visit a sick person. I know how men dislike that kind of thing, but I think it is a pity that Mr. Rokeby always does things by proxy."

"I happened to be passing by, that was how it was. I dare say you will be glad to hear that your friend Crake is leaving."

"Is he really? Well, I am glad, and so will all be who have had dealings with him."

"And would you like to know his opinion of you? I think I must tell you.

"'It is they kind of women that takes the bread out of honest men's mouths, and raises the dust, if a tack isn't in according to their liking!'"

Rhoda laughed merrily. "Poor Crake! He told one of his workmen in my hearing, when I was superintending some repairs to my cottage, that he could understand—

"'A party with money being particular in the adornment of his mansion, but when there was neither money nor mansion in the question, it was past his comprehension.'

"So I stepped up to him, and said, 'Next time you take a walk, Mr. Crake, you pick the smallest wayside flower that you can see, or take up the most insignificant insect in your path. Put them under the most powerful magnifying glass you can get hold of, and you will be surprised to see that the Creator of all things takes, if possible, more pains with the small things in life, than with the large.'

"He did not like it, of course."

Mr. Wallace seemed amused.

Hannah had discreetly dropped behind, but he was in no hurry to go his way.

"I wonder what you have been doing this afternoon?" he said. "Pardon my curiosity. I expect it has been a visit to some one, has it not?"

"I have been to the Tents'," Rhoda replied gravely. Then she added, with a slight effort, "I have been having a Bible reading in their kitchen at their own request. We are all so far away from church up here that a little gathering over the Bible is very helpful."

"How large was your congregation?"

"Twelve with myself, including the children."

"May I come and listen one afternoon?"

The question was put so coolly that Rhoda felt quite taken aback. She glanced at him, and though there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes, he added gravely,—

"I am in earnest. Do not think I am joking. Why should I not come?"

"I think there is no necessity for it," Rhoda answered, quietly recovering her composure. "You have a church close to you, and can study your Bible at home in a way that these poor people cannot."

"I do not think I have ever sat down to study my Bible in my life," he remarked meditatively, "and I am not irreligious, nor a sceptic. Perhaps, if I were to hear you, I might take a hint as to how to commence."

She shook her head.

Then, with a quick change of the subject, he continued, "Why are women so intense nowadays, I wonder? Whether it is golf, or tennis, or University degrees, or religion, their eagerness and rapidity make us poor men gasp for breath! I sometimes think, like in the old fairy tale, they have been sleeping through all these generations, with their faculties lying dormant, and have only just wakened to the fact that life is real, something beyond mere existence. It is such a new sensation to them that their ardour and energy surpass those who have the real burden of life on their shoulders. One wonders, after a generation or so of sharing in the toil and struggle for supremacy, whether they will maintain the zeal and activity with which they started."

Rhoda was silent.

"I am interested," he went on in the same calm, dispassionate tone, "to watch your scheme of life up here. You have started a line for yourself, and whether from philanthropical or religious motives, I cannot but help wishing you success. An unordained clergywoman is your 'rôle,' is it not?"

Rhoda's eyes flashed a little, and with raised head she said, "I think our slight acquaintance, Mr. Wallace, hardly warrants such scoffing!"

"I beg your pardon."

His tone was perfectly courteous, but his heavy moustache fortunately concealed his smile.

And then, after a moment's silence, he said, "And now I must bid you good afternoon. I trust you will forgive my words. They may have appeared derisive, but I assure you, I have the deepest respect for your principles, and am thankful to think that the isolated families out here may benefit by your ministrations."

Rhoda was beginning to feel ashamed of her outburst, and she said, looking up at him with her frank smile, "You see, I am only a faulty woman after all, who shows temper upon the slightest provocation. I know the way you men look upon women's work! Founded on enthusiasm, and carried on by fits and starts, guided only by the impulses of the moment! But, believe me, I have not come here to obtrude my actions upon my neighbours. I am trying to live quietly amongst the poor and do the little I can to help them heavenwards. I do not think that it is an unwomanly life, and the truth is so precious to me that I long to pass it on. I do try to benefit their bodies, but, above and beyond that, I long to be the means of benefiting their souls. Shall we shake hands, to show we do not bear any malice?"

Rhoda felt the grip of his hand for long after, and as he rode away, she turned to Hannah:

"What a dreadful lot of old Adam is in me still! But Mr. Wallace always gives me the impression that he looks upon my life here as child's play, a mere pastime, a Quixotic fancy; his superior, complacent tone rouses all that is bad in me. Oh, Hannah, it is easy to talk to others about the Gospel, but how one fails to live a Christ-like life oneself! I feel utterly condemned this afternoon."

As Hannah had not heard the foregoing conversation, she could offer no remark.

The next morning, Rhoda set off on Sultana, to see the sick woman. She took a basket with some groceries in it, and told Hannah she might be late for lunch.

The afternoon wore away, and dusk had set in before she appeared. Hannah gave a relieved sigh when she heard the clattering of Sultana's hoofs outside; she was always anxious after dusk for the welfare of her young mistress.

"I am very tired, so give me a cup of tea, and then I will tell you what I have been doing."

And Rhoda, pulling off her gloves, sank into her easy-chair by the fire with great content. Tea was not long in coming, and then she kept Hannah to listen.

"I had no difficulty in finding the cottage. Poor young woman! She was almost delirious with fever and racked with pain. Her husband, a strong, hearty young man, seemed perfectly helpless; he was sitting by the bedside, holding a baby in his arms and trying to feed it with some cold milk in a bottle. Another child was crying by his side, and the room in a perfect litter, with the remains of breakfast on the table. They seemed to be all living in the bedroom, for there was no fire in the kitchen. I told him the doctor would be there soon, and asked him if he would put my horse in his stable and then light the kitchen fire and tidy up a bit there, while I saw to his wife and children. He seemed quite relieved to be told what to do. I found there was some hot water, so I tucked up my habit and set to work. I undressed and washed the children first of all; they were so dirty—

"Ah, you should have let me go, mum!"

"I thoroughly enjoyed myself, I tell you! I found some clean clothes for them. Poor woman! She must be a tidy clean body when she is well, but everything was at sixes and sevens. Then I warmed some milk, and sweetened it. Was that right, Hannah? I felt quite ignorant about babies' food, but the child took it, and I rolled it up in a shawl and made an impromptu cradle on the top of a box. To my delight, it settled off to sleep, and the other child was as good as gold, sat in its little chair, sucked its thumb, and stared with large open eyes at every movement of mine. I tidied the room up—it was more untidy than dirty, I am thankful to say—I washed the breakfast things, and then made the poor woman as comfortable as I could. I dared not wash her, for she seemed to be burning with fever.

"I was still busy when the doctor arrived. A nice old man he was, but he looked very grave over her, and set to work to swathe her in cotton wool. I took the children out of the room, and then came back to help him. He said she must have some one with her, and if I could think of no one, he would try to get somebody from his village to come over with him, only he knew of no one for the next few days. So I told him I would be responsible for her for that time, and when he had gone, I asked the husband, Hal Brown by name, if he thought he could get a bit of dinner for himself and the children. I think the poor fellow had been quite dazed before I came, for now he seemed to brighten up out of his lethargy, and told me he could manage very well indeed.

"So I got him to bring round Sultana, and I rode off to the Tents', and told them the facts of the case. I had early dinner with them. I saw that young Mrs. Tent could not leave, for she was full of work, and her dairy could not be left; old Mrs. Tent had a bad cold on her chest; so I set to work to tackle Jess. I got her away from the others, and coaxed her out of the sulks, and pleaded and implored her to help me. I have discovered that Jess loves to feel her importance, and though she hung back for a long time—partly, I think, from dislike to going near her neighbours—she yielded at last, Mrs. Tent was quite willing that she should go; so we set off, she on the donkey, and I leading the way.

"Of course, I was more than half inclined to stay with the sick woman myself, but I thought it would be such a grand opportunity to get Jess interested in others. And I saw, from the way she set to work when she got there, that she has her wits about her. She is fond of children, which is such a mercy, and when I left her an hour later, her face was quite radiant with satisfaction and self-importance. Don't you think I have done a good day's work? I have promised to ride over and see how she is to-morrow. But I am confident that Jess will prove a good nurse."

And this was indeed the case. Jess was only too delighted to have her powers called into requisition, and when the doctor asked her if she would like to be relieved in a few days' time, she was indignant at the idea.

"No one wants me at home," she confided to Rhoda. "The baby knows me and smiles at me, and is as good as gold, and I like tending on sick folk."

"The little hunchback will do," pronounced Dr. Bedford as he took his leave; "she knows how to nurse, and she has only to follow my directions. I believe our patient will pull through, but it is a tedious illness and will take time."

Rhoda was backwards and forwards a good deal, and she found Sultana of great value now.

One afternoon, Jess informed her that Mr. Rokeby had paid a morning visit—"And he left a sovereign, miss, for me to spend as I thought best for the good of the family."

Poor Jess's head was raised proudly as she spoke.

"I told him," she continued, "that you brought over most things, and he asked how often you came. He was very agreeable, quite different to what I thought he was, but I've never had a chance to speak to him before. Hal Brown says he is a very stern master, but he's fair and just, and he said it was Mr. Crake to fault always in matters between us and Mr. Rokeby."

"I am glad to hear it," responded Rhoda, heartily; and she wondered if it was Mr. Wallace's influence inducing him to take more interest in his tenants.

It was only a day or two after this, that, going into the post-office for her letters, she was surprised to see a stranger in Miss Frith's place.

"What is the matter with Miss Frith?" she asked the girl.

"She is taken very bad with pleurisy. I was telegraphed for yesterday evening from Abeythorpe. I help in the post-office there, and they sent me over at once."

"But I was here yesterday, and she only had a bad cold. I wonder if I might see her?" And, distressed at the news, Rhoda passed through into the sitting-room.

Mrs. Thatcher was sitting placidly before the fire with her knitting.

"I am so sorry to hear of Miss Frith's illness," Rhoda said. "Do you think I might go up to see her?"

"Yes, isn't it trying? I never do complain, but I have had such a trying morning. Susan she will go on until she knocks up, instead of nursing her cold properly, as she should do; and I'm sure our girl Maggie seems to have quite lost her head this morning. To begin with, she brought me my breakfast half cold, and not fit for a pig to eat—toast all black and burnt! Susan always makes my toast for me; she knows it's one of the few things I do care for. Then my fire has nearly gone out, she left me so long without coals. And this Miss Green is such a young upstart—she said she had come to attend to the business, and not to me. That was only because I asked her to fetch me my glasses from upstairs, and my knitting."

"Have you seen your sister this morning?"

Rhoda's tone was a little impatient.

"I looked in at the door as I was coming down, but she seemed asleep, so I did not venture in. That room of hers has a north aspect, and is so cold that I daren't stay there long. It wouldn't do for both of us to be laid up, and I'm very susceptible to atmosphere."

Rhoda said no more, but went up a very narrow staircase, and found herself in a bare, cold little room.

Maggie was doing up the hearth, and vainly trying to make the fire burn brightly: smoke was coming out in volumes. Miss Frith lay in bed looking on, but too ill and in too much pain to care whether the fire smoked or not. A light came into her eyes when she saw Rhoda, who came forward, and with an impulse of pity stooped and kissed her on the forehead.

"You poor thing! I am so sorry for you. And how bitterly cold your room is! You will never get well here."

"The doctor said her oughter go in t'other room," observed Maggie, "but Mrs. Thatcher stoppeth of me when I were agoin' to try an' move her. This fire won't light; 'tis no good. I've bin a-trying for over an hour."

"I will help you," said Rhoda, brightly. "No, Miss Frith, you mustn't object, and you are not to talk. I am going to nurse you. Maggie, show me the other room."

Rhoda was not surprised at the contrast between the two rooms, for she had expected it. She was glad to find it was large enough to take in Miss Frith's small bed quite easily. Every comfort seemed to have found its way there, and the sun was streaming in through the south window.

She told Maggie to light the fire at once. And then, when that proved an easy task, she wrapped a blanket round Miss Frith, and, with Maggie's help, half led, half carried her in, and put her in a chair by the fire till they were able to bring her bed in and arrange it for her.

She stayed for a couple of hours, putting everything in perfect order, and then, going downstairs, announced to Mrs. Thatcher the change she had effected.

That good lady's complacence quite forsook her; she was really angry. But Rhoda's quiet, firm tone awed her, and she relapsed into tears.

"It is very awkward," she sobbed. "How can I share a room with a sick person? I really don't know what Dr. Williams could have been thinking of, to give such an order. I suppose it means I shall have to sleep down here on the sofa, and who is to arrange things for me? Oh dear! It is a wretched state of things! The best plan would be for Susan to go into the infirmary. My nerves are not in a fit state to stand the strain; I haven't the health or strength for nursing. Dear! Oh dear! Was there ever any one so unfortunate as I am!"

Patience was not one of Rhoda's virtues, and she bit her lips hard to prevent hasty words from being uttered.

"Now listen, Mrs. Thatcher. There is plenty of space for you to sleep in your own room, and some one must be there to-night to keep the fire up. Will you try and do this? Your sister's life depends on it. I would come down myself and be with her, and if she is worse to-morrow, I certainly will. But I thought you would like an opportunity of trying to repay her a little for all the care and love she has given you. Maggie will be a real help to you; she has a good head on her little shoulders, and she understands what medicines are to be given.

"Will you try, for your sister's sake, to do what you can for her? She must not be talked to, and the room must be kept at a warm, even temperature. Dr. Williams has said he will be in again this afternoon, and he will give further directions. She has a plaster on now, and it may have to be changed, but Maggie understands about that."

It needed a great deal of talking and reasoning to get Mrs. Thatcher to see that she must try and exert herself a little, but Rhoda felt that, if ever she was to be roused, now was the opportunity, and before she left she was sobbingly assured,—

"I'll do my very best, and if I'm taken ill too—well, it will be a natural consequence. But I'll try and see what I can do for her."

When Rhoda reached home, she had a long consultation with Hannah.

"It seems as if every one is getting ill, Hannah! I feel that Miss Frith will get no proper care and attention. If she is worse to-morrow, I must go and nurse her myself. I can do it, for I nursed Rodney through just such another attack once. And I should love to make her comfortable; she has never had any one to look after her. No, I am not going to let you go and nurse her; I shall do it myself. Why, what am I here for, except to help in a time like this?"

Miss Frith was worse the next day, and Rhoda went to her, and for a fortnight never left her. Mrs. Thatcher began to value for the first time her silent, self-denying sister, and seemed a changed woman for the time being. If she could not help much in the sick-room, she certainly tried to keep things straight downstairs.

And then gradually Miss Frith came back to health and strength again. She said very little, but one afternoon, as Rhoda was sitting by her and reading some verses of comfort from the Bible, she suddenly laid her hand on hers, and with eyes full of tears, said brokenly,—

"Why did you do it? You have saved my life; the doctor said only skilful nursing could have brought me through. You had better have left me alone—it is hard to turn back to life again. I seem to have had so much of it, and I am so tired of it all! I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I was wanting to go."

"But we want you with us still, Miss Frith;" and Rhoda tried to speak lightly. "What would your sister do without you? She has been in real distress about you. She told me only yesterday that you had been her best friend through life, and I'm hoping that she will help you more when you get well again. You will let her, will you not? Don't spoil her so, but let her have the pleasure of waiting on you sometimes."

Miss Frith shook her head rather sadly, but said no more.

When Rhoda eventually left her, there was a strong bond of friendship between them that could never be broken. Many a long talk had they over the Bible, and the truths that were so precious to each of them drew them closer together, whilst Rhoda learnt many a lesson from the deep strong nature that had been so long shut away from any human being.