TOM EVANS'S END

A FEW weeks later, and Rhoda was able to walk with very little difficulty. She was not often indoors now; her garden was her great delight, and most of the morning she and Jock would be busy there; in the afternoon she would be over the moor, calling on those she knew, or trying to make fresh acquaintances amongst the outlying cottages and farms.

One afternoon, on her way home, she was passing some of the large boulders of granite that here and there appeared in the midst of the heather and bracken, when she fancied she heard some moans. Tartar began to sniff suspiciously along the ground, and suddenly his sharp bark from behind one of the rocks told her he had discovered something. In another instant she was standing beside the prostrate form of Tom Evans, lying partly underneath a heavy piece of stone that had evidently got dislodged from the boulder above and rolled down upon him. She shuddered at the sight, knowing what injuries he must have sustained, and bending down, tried to see if she could move him from his dreadful position. And then, though partly unconscious, he turned and looked at her.

"Water!" he gasped. "I'm done for at last!"

She turned, for she knew a stream was not far off, but she had no cup in which to take it, so dipping her handkerchief in, and soaking it well, she carried it back and held it to his mouth. He sucked in the moisture greedily.

"I will go and get help," she said gently, "for I cannot move you."

"I shall be dead before help comes!" he groaned. "Don't leave me." Then a clearer look coming in his eyes, he said, "I know you, and it's Mike Carr has stole your hoss—the villain!—to carry him away from justice after making a tool of me, and not letting me go halves, as we arranged. He'll swing for it yet. Curse him!"

"Hush, hush!" said Rhoda. "Don't spend your breath in such words. You may not have much longer to live. Listen to some of God's words.

"'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee.'

"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'

"Think over these words; ask God for Christ's sake to pardon you. I must leave you to get help."

She called Tartar, and made her way as quickly as possible to the Tents' farm, which fortunately was not far off.

And shortly afterwards, some strong labourers with a hurdle came to the spot. Alas! They found that it was a lifeless body that was to be their burden. How long he had lain there they could not tell, but the only conjecture was that he must have dislodged a stone in stumbling along, and been crushed under it as it fell.

Rhoda felt the awfulness of his death intensely, and yet could not go home till she had seen his daughters and broken the news to them. She asked Mrs. Tent to let her have the donkey, which was willingly given to her, with the request to ride home on it afterwards, and then she rode as quickly as she could to the Evans's house. One of the girls was at the door.

"I have brought you bad news," said Rhoda gently; "have you not been anxious about your father?"

"Where is he?" demanded the girl fiercely.

And as she spoke, her sister put her head out, and behind her peered the brother, a young man with a far franker countenance than his father's.

"He has been taken to the Tents' farm. He was discovered lying out on the moor, crushed by a stone in falling."

"Is he dead?"

The question was indifferently put.

Rhoda paused for a moment, then said solemnly, "Yes, he died before help could be obtained."

"Good luck to us!" was the exclamation from the son in the background.

And Rhoda was shocked and disgusted by the callousness of it.

"Will you not go to the farm?" she asked, addressing herself to him.

"Suppose I must," he muttered, and he stepped out of the doorway as he spoke—a great, tall, broad-shouldered young fellow. Coming up to Rhoda, he said, "I see I've shocked you, miss, but if you knew our past, you would not wonder. For these last five years, I've bin tryin' to earn a honest livin'; I've got taken on the railway here, and it's as much as I've bin able to hold it, since we've bin put under a ban! Seems to me most folk 'll lend a shoulder to push a chap down, if they can, and it's precious hard to hold up against them!"

With that he strode off, and Rhoda was just about to speak to the girls, when they suddenly darted in and banged the door after them, and turning round, to her surprise she met Mr. Rokeby's grave gaze. He had ridden up quietly, and she had not noticed his approach.

"You are not alone?" he questioned gravely.

And Rhoda, with a quick resentment of his tone, replied coldly,—

"Yes, I am, and I am going home immediately."

He bowed stiffly, and moved aside to allow her to pass on.

Only Rhoda, ashamed of her momentary pique, said, "I suppose I must offer an explanation, as I have broken my word to you, but poor Tom Evans is dead, and I came to tell his daughters so."

"Dead! You don't mean it! That will settle the business I have come over about."

Rhoda gave him the facts of the case.

He listened, and was shocked at the circumstances in which the man had died, then remarked, "In one way it is a great relief to my mind, as this will enable me to get rid of them before I go abroad."

"Why? Will you not give the young fellow a chance, if he is desirous of keeping on the cottage? He is employed in honest work, and it may mean ruin to him if you turn him adrift."

"I thought you were longing for me to turn out the whole family, neck and crop?"

"Not now that the father has been removed."

"They will only be pests to the neighbourhood, I expect."

"I think not. I have hopes of reaching the girls now."

"I will see," Mr. Rokeby said, looking at her meditatively; "of course, I must have an understanding with this son first. I expect to leave this part next week, but I am sure my present agent will prove perfectly capable of looking after things while I am away, and if you have any pet project in your head for the benefit of any of my tenants, he will forward such to me, and I will try and meet with your wishes as much as possible."

This speech jarred on Rhoda. She made no reply.

"I must go over to the Tents' directly," he continued. Then, looking at her earnestly, he added,—

"I think this may be our last meeting, Miss Carlton. I may be two or three years abroad, and will most likely find you flown by the time I return."

"I do not think that is likely," said Rhoda, meeting his gaze frankly as she spoke. "I hope Miss Rokeby may benefit by the change. Please give her my best wishes for her journey. Good-bye."

Only a hand-shake, but Rhoda felt the grip for long after.

And as she rode slowly away, Mr. Rokeby stood silently watching her out of sight, then with a little sigh, he went up to the cottage, to say a few words to the girls before he went on to the Tents'.

As Rhoda returned home, the remembrance of the awful death of Evans weighed heavily on her spirits, and not even the hopes of gaining an entrance to the cottage could lift the depression that seemed to creep over her.

Hannah listened to all she had to tell her with her usual grave interest.

"It's been almost too much for you, mum," she said; "I will bring you a cup of tea at once, you look worn out."

"See that Jock looks after the donkey well," said Rhoda, sinking into a chair; "Mrs. Tent said the boys would call for it on their way to school to-morrow."

Then, for a few moments after Hannah had left her, she gazed dreamily out of the open window in front of her.

"I am glad he is going," she said, half to herself. "I shall have no fear of meeting him too often now, and shall be able to give up my whole thoughts and time to the work here. I must try to be content to sow the seed broadcast, and wait patiently God's time for it to spring up and bear fruit. This spring has shown me one tender sprout springing up, and I shall pray and hope for others. Does Mr. Rokeby imagine I shall tire of my life here? Yes, I am very glad I have said good-bye to him, very glad!"

Yet a sigh that was like the echo of the one breathed by Mr. Rokeby a short time before, followed her emphatic words.

Jess was a great joy and comfort to Rhoda. Every Saturday she came over for a little private Bible reading, and her Bible was becoming more and more precious to her, whilst her religion was shaping and altering her life, so that all who knew her marvelled at the change.

The following Sunday, when Rhoda went over to the Tents', she saw to her surprise and delight young Evans. Jim Tent had given him a warm invitation to come, when he attended his father's funeral with him; and though the young fellow occupied a back seat, and looked ill at ease, when Rhoda began to speak upon the story of the Good Samaritan, his eyes never left her face, and he listened with eager attention. She had a word or two with him afterwards, and expressed her hope that he would be able to continue to support himself and his sisters in the neighbourhood.

"I'm agoing to try," he said with quiet determination, "and ye'll have no fear of being turned out if ye comes to speak with the girls."

This sounded promising, and Rhoda thanked God for the opening.

"You had one in the audience that maybe you didn't see, mum," said Hannah, when walking home with her young mistress.

"Who?"

"Mr. Rokeby. He slipped in late behind you, and took a seat at the door. He was gone directly the closing prayer was over."

"I am glad I did not see him," said Rhoda, after a minute's silence, "but there will be no chance of that being repeated. This is his last Sunday in England for a long time to come."

"He got the message anyhow," said the old servant, "and he looks like a gentleman that may be seeking the truth, I always fancy."

Rhoda made no reply.

Her life was very quiet and uneventful for some time after this. Several times she had tried to reach the Evanses, but the girls were always out. She had suspicions that they locked themselves in upon seeing her approach, but of this she could never be sure. Ned Evans, their brother, did not appear again at the Sunday service for a long time, and then every now and then he would slip in, and take himself off without a word after it was over.

The spring slipped by, with its keen east winds and bright sunshine, and the days lengthened out, and the sun began to beat fiercely down.

Rhoda came in hot and tired one morning from a good two hours' work in her garden.

"Hannah," she said, sitting down on the low window-seat in the kitchen, "do you know, I am very discouraged about my plants. When I look at the wealth of flowers that Miss Montague lives amongst, and then consider the result in my barren plot of all these months of work, I begin to doubt whether this bleak moor-ground will yield anything that will repay me for all my trouble, and also whether I am fitted to be a gardener at all. I dare say it is my inexperience at it that has made it such a failure."

Hannah smiled.

"A garden takes time, mum; it doesn't yield much the first year. You have to fight against difficulties that Miss Montague knows nothing of—the violent storms of wind and rain without any trees or buildings to break its force. And of course the ground is poor; hard and stony it is, very; but you've been enriching it, and it will bear fruit. Seems to me," went on Hannah, thoughtfully, "that every beginnin' takes time to be a success."

"You are right," Rhoda said, looking up with sparkling eyes; "and my garden is only another picture of the spiritual seed I am trying to sow up here. With the exception of Jess, I have seen no signs of it springing up and bearing fruit. But I suppose I must go on, and not be discouraged."

"'After many days,'" said Hannah, softly; "and sometimes the slowest work is the surest."

"To witness," put in Rhoda, "those seedlings that started up so quickly in the garden a month ago, and made me think that I should have a gay bed of flowers in no time. The frosts bit them, and the wind beat them down, and in a fortnight, they were dead. I don't think I wish for crowds to be converted, and a wonderful revival blessing, but after eight months' work, don't you think we ought to see more of these people around us coming out boldly on the Lord's side?"

"I think the Lord will let you see them when He sees fit. Meanwhiles, He may be carrying on His work underground. There's a deal goes on with a seed before it shows itself to us."

"I wish I had your patience and faith, Hannah. What should I do without you? You cheer me on so often. Do you think that God cannot give some of His workers such success as others, because they are too liable to be uplifted? I sometimes think it is so with me. I suppose, if I had had my way, I should have thought myself a wonderful creature, and had my head turned by success. Well, I must be content with small things. My garden will just supply our needs in the way of vegetables—for that I am thankful. I must not expect to compare mine with Miss Montague's. And I have a few flowers coming on in it. Then as to our spiritual field, we have had opportunities for sowing; and, after all, casting in the seed is, as you often tell me, perhaps the chief work. If I could get at those Evans girls, I should be happier. But the opening may come yet."