ROBIN AND POLL

MISS FRITH returned a few minutes after the old man's departure. She had been successful in having the bad tooth out, and was very grateful to Rhoda.

"I should like to send you straight to bed, and give you a nice cup of tea, or something hot to make you sleep," said Rhoda. "If only I was capable of taking your place, I would stay on, and go home after the shop is closed."

Miss Frith smiled, tired and exhausted as she was. "You've been a good friend to me to-day," she said, "and I shall be all right soon. I have very good health as a rule—one of my mercies, I suppose."

Then Rhoda related her experiences, and laughed merrily at Miss Frith's dismay when she heard of the telegram.

"I don't know who Mr. Wallace may be, but Mr. Rokeby has gentlemen friends staying with him at this time for the hunting. The old man is Robin Day; he and his wife have a hard struggle to live, half a crown is a good deal for them to spare. He has a few sheep and pigs, and comes in with vegetables to sell on market days. It isn't often he pays me a visit any other day. But, dear me! I'm sorry about the telegram. I hope he wasn't put out. I really must never leave again."

"Will you teach me the telegraph code, and then I shall be able to relieve you occasionally? I am in earnest. I am very quick at getting hold of new things generally, 'though I say it that shouldn't!' And I can't bear things to master me. I like to know and be able to do everything."

But Miss Frith would not promise this, and Rhoda took her leave.

Her heart was full as she walked up the steep hillside home. Poor old Robin's ignorance and apathy had touched and distressed her greatly, and she longed to be able to bring light into his soul. Earnestly did she ask to be used in this way, and with prayer and thoughts, the walk back seemed shorter than usual.

She was not long before she visited old Robin and his wife. It was a crisp frosty afternoon when she set out, and the fresh bracing air had a most exhilarating effect on Tartar, who raced to and fro in high glee. It was a long walk, and once or twice she found herself in some boggy places, which delayed her progress, but at last she reached the cottage. It was more like a wooden shanty than anything else; an irregular stone wall surrounded it, and a little group of stunted trees and bramble bushes, which went by the name of the copse, formed a shelter from the wind across the moor. Just below it was a deep railway cutting, and a little further on a small farm.

The door was opened to her by the old man himself, who did not seem to recognize her at first, but when he did, begged her to come in. It was a neat little kitchen, and in the chimney corner, on an old-fashioned settle, was seated his wife. Rhoda was struck with her clean and quaint appearance. She wore a close-fitting white frilled cap, stiff with starch, and her wrinkled face looked out of it, a picture of cheery content; a very short blue serge skirt showed a neatly clad pair of feet in coarse grey worsted stockings and stout country boots, and a large white apron and bright red crossover completed her attire.

"Poll," said the old man, going eagerly forward and indicating the visitor by a backward gesture of his thumb, "this be the young pusson down toon—her madeth that short bit o' prayer so sudden like that a' telled 'ee of."

"Glad to see you, me dear. Sit down 'longside o' me. Robin an' me do take a bit o' rest in the afternoons, an' us be vurry glad to see a visitor. This be a terrible lonely place in the winter. Be you a-livin' near?"

"Not many miles away. I am up on the moor too, and I love it."

"Ay, ay, the moor be a vine stretch o' coontry, so it be; an' wouldn't the Lunnon volks be pleased to have it in their big city! Ever bin' to Lunnon town, me dear, or eithermore you ain't?"

"Yes," Rhoda said, smiling, "but I was glad to get away from it. I don't like towns."

"Ay, ay, but when I were a young maid, I be sent up there, an' I meeteth my virst husband over yonner. I've had vour on 'em, me dear; an' Robin he cometh last, an' he be the best o' they all!"

She nodded across at the old man, who rubbed his old hands together with a pleased chuckle. She continued,—

"There were Ned Blake, he were a peart an' likely lad, but were weak on the chest; us were married in Lunnon, an' baided there for two year; then he took on ill, an' coughed hisself away to an early grave. An' his tombstone were put over he by his uncle, who did it grand, for he did have a shop o' his own, an' sold fish to the quality. I mindeth the words o' it noo—

"'Edward Blake. Aged twenty-vive. Not lost, but gone before.'

"Ned were a good lad to me, but he were too weakly to be o' much service. Then there were Harry Carter. I cometh doon to home agin, which were nigh Exeter, an' he were as smart a man that ever were in the baking trade. Him an' mesel', us set up for ourselves arter us be wedded, an' they loaves of his'n were foine. I smelleth 'em a'most noo, an' when Robin do bring the bread from toon, I taketh a sniff wi' me nose an' saith ofttimes that it mindeth me o' Harry's bread. Ay, I do, Robin, don't I? Es fay, us were wedded six year; but he did take to the drink, an' I had a fearful time on't, 'twas the business agoing doon, an' the drink that dooed it—an' I lost me two childer, an' his horse runneth away wi' he, an' pitched of him oot, an' he were a-carried back to me wi' a broken collar-boon, an' he were in the churchyard a week arter. I were well a-rid o' he, but it were a sad pity, an' he were sich a smart man when virst I a-knowed him.

"Tim Booth coometh a-coortin' me two weeks arter the funeral, but I wouldn't ha' nought to say to he in me widder's deep black. Tim had wanted me afore, but he were not so smart an' illegant like Harry; he were cross-eyed, an' I a-flouted him. But arter two or three month, it were very dull at home, an' mother her kep' on a-saying,—

"'Tis to sarvice you'm best be goin', Polly.'

"So saith I one day, 'I goeth into Tim's sarvice, 'tis that will soot the best.'

"An' our banns were called, an' us were man an' wife in vour weeks from that day. I hath not much to tell agen Tim; he were a terrible steady chap, a mourning sort o' man wi' his head allays dandyin' doon, an' he were great at releegion—winderful pious he were! He thought a heap o' his chapel, an' were class-leader; but ay, ay, he were too pious for me, an' he wouldn't have a laugh wi' me, an' I gotted that moped I runneth home to mother once, but she giveth me such a talkin' that I did get back quicker nor I came, an' we did pull togither peaceable till he taketh ill o' a complaint they do call roomity vever, an' then he goeth into churchyard same as t'others. I mindeth us did have a beautiful funeral, there were all the village to bury him—'twas so respected he were. Tim he left me a bit o' money, for he were a carpenter, an' had saved.

"An' then I goeth to baide wi' me married sister, an' Robin he were on a varm close by. That were vorty year ago coom this Christmas, an' us have baided all those year wi'out a mummur!"

"Wi'out a mummur!" echoed old Robin, as he looked across at her with fond eyes. "Ah, but her were a pretty maid when a' virst coorted she!"

The white cap seemed to grow several inches taller at this, and then Rhoda asked if they had heard any fresh tidings about their son.

A sigh came from the old woman.

"Ay, ay, me dear, it be a sore trial; he were me only boy, an' sich a brave lad he were, but us coodn't keep him to home. Oot to 'Mericky he must go, an' he gotted on a farm an' dooed right well, an' wedded all in a twel' month; an' noo he be a-dyin', an' his old mother can't smooth his pillow out an' watch his last breath. Us will not have a letter agen for a long spell, shall us, Robin?"

The old man shook his head.

"Us be gettin' into years," his talkative wife continued, "but us be winderful stirrin' still, an' the childer have not to keep us. Jenny her be doin' well, an' now an' agen her sendeth us some o' her airnins; but Robin he be a dreadvul worker. He getteth up at vive of a mornin, an' he diggeth the taters up, an' tendeth to the sheep, an' cleaneth the kitchen out afore I getteth oot o' me bed. But I stirreth round when I be up, an' I wash an' starch me caps every second day, an' hath a big wash a fortnight; an' I liketh not dust an' dirt, so I'm allays a wipin' an' cleanin'.

"Did you see our stone wall, me dear? All on't Robin putteth up, an' all a-done of hisself. He picketh up the stones off the moor and buildeth like a mason vor sure!"

So she chatted on, now and then appealing to her husband, and Rhoda found that she was not wanted to do more than listen. She asked them if they could read, but Robin shook his head.

"My old woman did a-used to, her did, afore her eyes wanted glasses. A' did get zome vor she, an' they were zmashed the week arter. A' just satted doon on 'un, a' did; an' times is bad—very bad—an' us never hath bin able to buy zome agen."

"I wonder if you would like me to read you a little before I go, about a poor blind man?"

And receiving two nods in assent, Rhoda took her Testament out of her pocket, and read the account of Bartimaeus, explaining in simple language a few of the lessons it taught. They listened, and when she had finished the old woman said,—

"That be vurry nice, me dear. You speaketh proper—us be pleased to hear you."

"Ay," muttered old Robin, "her be a winderful pious young pusson!"

Rhoda could not help smiling, though she felt nearer crying. How could she get at these sleeping, frozen hearts!

When she left them, after promising to come and see them again, her heart sank within her.

And when she arrived home, she went straight into the kitchen to Hannah, and started that worthy woman by saying emphatically,—

"I believe now more than ever in the terrors of the law being preached. I can understand the doctrine of hell fire and doom and judgement being essential to awaken some dead souls. You speak of the love of Christ, and they hug themselves and smile, 'Ay, ay, He be merciful!' You speak of sin—'Ay, ay, He won't be hard on us!' Oh, Hannah, what can I do to wake these people up? I never dreamt they would be so apathetic and dense."

"It's the beginning that is hardest, mum; you came here because they were such heathen. The soil is hard, but the farmer breaks it up with his plough, and he don't expect to see corn at this time of the year."

Jess and her two little nephews arrived the next Sunday. And in telling Bible stories to the children, Rhoda found that Jess was far more interested than she had been the Sunday before.

"I was above her head," she confided to Hannah afterwards; "there is something remarkably childlike about her, though sometimes her intelligence fairly startles me. She not only listened this afternoon, but asked several questions and volunteered additional explanations of her own to the boys. I shall not despair of winning her yet."

Christmas came and went very quietly. Rhoda was so entreated to spend it with some of her brothers in London that she went up to her uncle's house for three days. She had to stand a great deal of chaffing and criticism from all assembled there, but she bore it with calm equanimity.

"I am happy," she said, "and Hannah is too. I have everything I want and a wide field to work in, so you can laugh away. When the spring comes, I shall invite some of you down, and you will end by envying my snug little house."

"How many of us can you put up?" questioned Edmund. "You are liberal with your invitations, but unless we sleep in the pigsty or the stable, I don't know how you're going to find room for us."

"I am afraid I can only put up one at a time, so you must take it in turns. I shall ask Howard first."

"Many thanks, Tabby. I shall be glad and thankful to get out of town by that time, I expect. I feel like a fish out of water here."

"He is afraid of the fogs," laughed Edmund. "I met him in the City the other day, and he would hardly vouchsafe me a word; he was so occupied in keeping his mouth shut, to say nothing of a silk handkerchief wound round up to his ears."

"And do you go careering all over the moor on your black horse like a wild gipsy?" inquired her uncle. "It is too unconventional a life for a young woman, and I am surprised at your brothers allowing it."

"I am not so very young now," Rhoda said; "you forget how the years pass. I am not a mere schoolgirl, uncle!"

"I do trust that you have your clergyman's sanction to all the visiting that you seem to be doing," Herbert said, with concern.

Rhoda's laugh rang out merrily. "I have no clergyman," she said. "If I were to start a Sunday service in my kitchen, Bertie, would that be heresy and schism? Because I am thinking of it. And, uncle, I assure you, no one could live a quieter and more staid and respectable life than I am doing."

"Ah, well, you will get tired of it in a few months' time," her uncle said, resignedly. "Novelty always has a charm to young people."

And most of Rhoda's friends were of the same opinion.

Not long after she had been back, she discovered another little outlying farm a mile or two away. An old woman and her son lived in it, and they seemed in a miserable condition. The poor woman broke down and sobbed like a child when telling Rhoda her troubles. The son, Nathan Cobb by name, was very much away from home, sometimes selling his vegetables and poultry in neighbouring villages, and old Mrs. Cobb seemed to till their little patch of ground, and do all the farm work out of doors as well as in. The house itself was sadly in need of repairs, the roof letting the rain in, and the flooring quite broken up.

"Who is your landlord?" asked Rhoda.

"Mr. Rokeby; ay, an' he be a hard 'un. Mr. Crake were aroond here last week, an' he zayeth if us don't pay the rent by nex' Moonday us must quit! A' knoweth us be a bit late wi' it, but 'tis the times be so bad, an' try as us can, us zeemeth not to be able to zave. Two o' our coos have gotted the plague and died this las' zummer, an' a' have bin sick o' the 'fluenzy mysel', an' it do zeem zometimes that it must be the Union for a'! A' never thought to zee zuch days; a'd work my fingys to the boon, a' would, to keep a hoose over ourn heads, but work as a' doeth, the varm don't pay, an' us shall be put to doors."

"But what a disgraceful state the buildings are in! Surely Mr. Rokeby would repair it for you?"

"'Tisn't he that'll lift his little vinger for sich as we! A've tramped over the moor to zee 'un, an' begged 'un to give us time—leastways a' zeed Mr. Crake. Mr. Rokeby were away—and he zayeth us must do our oon repair, an' he knowed us have not a bit o' siller to do it. A'm zure the way the last znow a-cometh through on my bed in yonner corner, there were enough to kill a healthy woman an' bury her right off, let 'lone me that be allays troubled with rheumatiz! If so be Mr. Rokeby would wait till the zummer cometh round, us could pay off then; it be the loss of the coos have putted us in zich ztraits!"

Rhoda sympathized with her, left her some money, and came home in an indignant frame of mind.

"I shall write to Mr. Rokeby, Hannah," she said, dashing into the kitchen impetuously, and pouring out the story into her ears; "I don't care if he likes it or not. She seemed such a clean, tidy woman, with such a sad face; she just looks as if she would work until she drops. He might have a little more consideration than to talk of turning them adrift in the winter time."

And going hastily to her writing-table, she penned the following letter:—

DEAR SIR,

I do not think you can know the circumstances of Mrs. Cobb and her son, or your agent would not talk so heartlessly of turning them out. I also think you cannot be aware of the state of the farm buildings. The house is not fit for human beings to live in. Mrs. Cobb has tried to see you about it. Mr. Crake gives her to understand that you absolutely refuse to undertake any repairs. I hardly think this can be the case. May I beg of you to inquire into the matter? Mrs. Cobb has told me that illness and the loss of a couple of their cows is the cause of their present poverty, and if you will give them a little more time, they will endeavour to make up the required rent. I will be answerable myself for a quarter's rent; I do not know exactly how much is due. Hoping you will deal leniently in the case,—

Yours faithfully,

RHODA CARLTON.

Hannah looked dubious on hearing this read, but said nothing.

The reply came in a few days' time.

DEAR MADAM,

These are the circumstances of the case you mention. Nathan Cobb is a notorious drunkard and gambler. He took the farm on a repairing lease, and for three years has not paid his rent. I think these facts explain themselves. Perhaps it would be well another time to obtain more accurate information before concluding that the landlord is a tyrant and the tenant a victim.

Yours faithfully,

W. ROKEBY.

Poor Rhoda looked very crestfallen on receiving this, and then she laughed.

"Hannah, do you think Mr. Rokeby considers me a perfect fool? I suppose, from his point of view, my letter was a piece of feminine simplicity. Well, I still feel intensely for that poor woman. If her son is bad, it does not make her so."

"No," said Hannah, thoughtfully; "it's a sorry look-out for a mother to have to do her son's work, and he a hearty, well-grown man. But you'll not be paying their rent for them, mum?"

"No, if this is true, I do not think I shall. I should like to get Mrs. Cobb into an almshouse. She would be better away from that son. Oh, a happy thought has just struck me. My cousin, Mr. Stuart, has never filled up your place in the Lodge. Now wouldn't that do for her?"

"If she is an honest, respectable woman it might. Would the Tents know aught about her, do you think, mum?"

"I will ask Jess next Sunday."

Jess knew all about the Cobbs, and gave a very satisfactory account of the mother.

But when Rhoda went to see her, and broached the subject, Mrs. Cobb stoutly refused to leave her son.

"He cometh back las' night, an' he zayeth us had better chuck it up, an' a' goeth with 'un till 'un don't want me no more. 'Tis to Exeter us be agoin', an' he do zay he will try to get work yonner. Thank'ee kindly, miss, but a' will stop wi' 'un zo long as he lets me."

Not a word did she say about his bad habits, and Rhoda respected the mother's feelings and said nothing more, only gave her a stamped envelope addressed to herself, and asked her to send it to her if the time came when she would change her mind.