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Title: A Letter of Credit
Author: Warner, Susan, 1819-1885
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A Letter of Credit" ***
Susan Warner (1819-1885), A letter of credit (1881), 1882 edition
Note from the transcriber: a very important text for the study of
Susan Warner's "Queechy".
THE LETTER OF CREDIT.
_BY THE AUTHOR OF "WILD, WILD WORLD_."
I. THE END OF A COIL. 12mo. $1.75.
"Miss Warner has added another pure and beautiful picture to the gallery
that has given so much pleasure to such great numbers. All her pictures
are bright and warm with the blessedness of true love and true religion.
We do not wonder that they receive so wide a welcome, and we wish
sincerely that only such stories were ever written."--_N. Y. Observer_.
II. MY DESIRE. 12mo. $1.75.
"Miss Warner possesses in a remarkable degree the power of vividly
describing New England village life, the power of making her village
people walk and talk for the benefit of her readers in all the freshness
of their clear-cut originality. She has an ample fund of humor, a keen
sense of the ridiculous, and a rare faculty of painting homely truths in
homely but singularly felicitous phrases."--_Philadelphia Times_.
III. THE LETTER OF CREDIT. 12mo. $1.75.
IV. PINE NEEDLES. A Tale. 12mo. $1.50.
V. THE OLD HELMET. A Tale. 12mo. $2.25.
VI. MELBOURNE HOUSE. A Tale. 12mo. $2.00.
VII. THE KING'S PEOPLE. 5 vols. $7.00.
VIII. THE SAY AND DO SERIES. 6 vols. $7.50.
IX. A STORY OF SMALL BEGINNINGS. 4 vols. $5.00.
_By Miss Anna Warner_.
THE BLUE FLAG AND THE CLOTH OF GOLD $1.25
STORIES OF VINEGAR HILL 3 vols. 3.00
ELLEN MONTGOMERY'S BOOKSHELF 5 vols. 5.00
LITTLE JACK'S FOUR LESSONS 2.50
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
NEW YORK.
THE
LETTER OF CREDIT.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."
...."The bewildering masquerade of life,
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers."
LONGFELLOW.
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
530 BROADWAY.
1882.
Copyright, 1881,
BY ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS.
CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON.
ST. JOHNLAND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY, SUFFOLK CO., N. Y.
_NOTE.
The following story, like its predecessors, "The End of a Coil," "My
Desire," and "Diana," is a record of facts. For the characters and the
coloring, of course, I am responsible; but the turns of the story, even
in detail, are almost all utterly true.
S. W.
Martlaer's Rock,
Sept. 12, 1881_.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. THE LETTER
II. MOVING
III. JANE STREET
IV. A VISITER
V. PRIVATE TUITION
VI. A LEGACY
VII. MENTAL PHILOSOPHY
VIII. STATEN ISLAND
IX. FORT WASHINGTON
X. L'HOMME PROPOSE
XI. MRS. BUSBY
XII. MRS. BUSBY'S HOUSE
XIII. NOT DRESSED
XIV. IN SECLUSION
XV. MRS. MOWBRAY
XVI. SCHOOL
XVII. BAGS AND BIBLES
XVIII. FLINT AND STEEL
XIX. A NEW DEPARTURE
XX. STOCKINGS
XXI. EDUCATION
XXII. A CHANGE
XXIII. TANFIELD
XXIV. THE PURCELLS
XXV. ROTHA'S REFUGE
XXVI. ROTHA'S WORK
XXVII. INQUIRIES
XXVIII. DISCOVERIES
XXIX. PERPLEXITIES
XXX. DOWN HILL
XXXI. DISCUSSIONS
XXXII. END OF SCHOOL TERM
THE LETTER OF CREDIT.
CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER.
"Mother, I wonder how people do, when they are going to write a book?"
"Do?" repeated her mother.
"Yes. I wonder how they begin."
"I suppose they have something to tell; and then they tell it," said
simple Mrs. Carpenter.
"No, no, but I mean a story."
"What story have you got there?"
The mother was shelling peas; the daughter, a girl of twelve years old
perhaps, was sitting on the floor at her feet, with an octavo volume in
her lap. The floor was clean enough to sit upon; clean enough almost to
eat off; it was the floor of the kitchen of a country farmhouse.
"This is the 'Talisman,'" the girl answered her mother's question. "O
mother, when I am old enough, I should like to write stories!"
"Why?"
"I should think it would be so nice. Why, mother, one could imagine
oneself anything."
"Could you?" said her mother. "I never imagined myself anything but what
I was."
"Ah, but perhaps you and I are different."
Which was undoubtedly the fact, as any stander by might have seen with
half an eye. Good types both of them, too. The mother fair, delicate
featured, with sweet womanly eyes, must have been exceedingly pretty in
her young days; she was pretty now; but the face shewed traces of care
and was worn with life-work. While she talked and now and then looked at
her daughter, her fingers were untiringly busy with the peas and peas
pods and never paused for a minute. The girl on the floor did not look
like her mother. She was dark eyed and dark haired; with a dark
complexion too, which at present was not fine; and the eyes, large and
handsome eyes, revealed a fire and intensity and mobility of nature which
was very diverse from the woman's gentle strength. Mrs. Carpenter might
be intense too, after her fashion; but it was the fashion of the
proverbial still waters that run deep. And I do not mean that there was
any shallowness about the girl's nature; though assuredly the placidity
would be wanting.
"I wish your father would forbid you to read stories," Mrs. Carpenter
went on.
"Why, mother?"
"I don't believe they are good for you."
"But what harm should they do me?"
"Life is not a story. I don't want you to think it is."
"Why shouldn't it be? Perhaps my life will be a story, mother. I think it
will," said the girl slowly. "I shouldn't want my life to be always like
this."
"Are you not happy?"
"O yes, mother! But then, by and by, I should like to be a princess, or
to have adventures, and see things; like the people in stories."
"You will never be a princess, my child. You are a poor farmer's
daughter. You had better make up your mind to it, and try to be the best
thing you can in the circumstances."
"You mean, do my duty and shell peas?" asked the girl somewhat
doubtfully, looking at her mother's fingers and the quick stripped pea
pods passing through them. "Is father poor, mother?"
"Yes."
"He has a good farm, he says."
"Yes, but it is encumbered heavily." And Mrs. Carpenter sighed. Rotha had
often heard her mother sigh so. It was a breath with a burden.
"I don't know what you mean by 'encumbered.'"
"It is not needful you should know, just yet."
"But I should like to know, mother. Won't you tell me?"
"It is heavily mortgaged. And _that_ you do not understand. Never mind. He
has a great deal of money to pay out for it every year the interest on
the mortgages and that keeps us poor."
"Why must he pay it?"
"Because the farm is pledged for the debt; and if the interest, this
yearly money, were not paid, the farm itself would go."
"Go? How?"
"Be sold. For the money due on it."
There was silence awhile, during which only the pea pods rustled and
fell; then the girl asked,
"What should we do then, mother, if the farm was sold?"
"I do not know." The words came faint.
"Does it trouble you, mother?"
"It need not trouble you, Rotha. It cannot happen unless the Lord will;
and that is enough. Now you may carry these pea pods out and give them to
the pigs."
"Mother," said Rotha as she slowly rose and laid away her book, "all you
say makes me wish more than ever that I were a princess, or something."
"You may be _something_," said Mrs. Carpenter laughing slightly, but with
a very sweet merriment. "Now take away this basket."
Rotha stooped for the basket, and then stood still, looking out of the
window. Across the intervening piece of kitchen garden, rows of peas and
tufts of asparagus greenery, her eye went to the road, where a buggy had
just stopped.
"Maybe something is going to happen now," she said. "Who is that, mother?
There is somebody getting out of a wagon and tying his horse;--now he is
coming in. It is 'Siah Barker, mother."
Mrs. Carpenter paused to look out of the window, and then hastily
throwing her peas into the pot of boiling water, went herself to the
door. A young countryman met her there, with a whip in his hand.
"Mornin', Mis' Carpenter. Kin you help the distressed?"
"What's the matter, 'Siah?"
"Shot if I know; but he's took pretty bad."
"Who, pray?"
"Wall, I skurce can tell that. He's an Englisher--come to our place this
mornin' and axed fur a horse and wagon to carry him to Rochester; and
he's got so fur,--that's two miles o' the way,--and he can't go no furder,
I guess. He's took powerful bad."
"Ill, is he?"
"Says so. And he looks it."
"Cannot go on to Rochester?
"It's fifteen mile, Mis' Carpenter. I wouldn't like to be the man to
drive him. He can't go another foot, he says. He was took quite sudden."
"Cannot you turn about and carry him back to Medwayville?"
"Now, Mis' Carpenter, you're a Christian, and a soft-hearted one, we all
know. Can't you let him come in and rest a bit? Mebbe you could give him
sunthin' that would set him up. You understand doctorin', fust-rate."
Mrs. Carpenter looked grave, considered.
"Is this your idea, or the stranger's, 'Siah?"
"It's his'n, ef it's anybody's in partickler. He told me to set him down
some'eres, for he couldn't hold out to go on nohow; and then he seed this
house, and he made me stop. He's a sick man, I tell you."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Wall, it's sunthin' in his insides, I guess. He don't say nothin', but
he gits as white as a piece o' chalk, and then purple arter it."
Mrs. Carpenter made no more delay, but bade 'Siah fetch the sick man in;
and herself hastily threw open the windows of the "spare room" and put
sheets on the bed. She had time for all her preparations, for the
bringing the stranger to the house was a work of some difficulty, and not
accomplished without the help of one of the hired men about the farm.
When he came, he was far too ill to give any account of himself; his
dress proclaimed him a well-to-do man, and belonging to the better
classes; that was all they knew.
As Mrs. Carpenter came out from seeing the stranger put to bed in the
spare room, her husband came in from the field. An intellectual looking
man, in spite of his farmer's dress, and handsome; but thin, worn, with
an undue flush on his cheek, and a cough that sounded hollow. He was very
like his little daughter, who instantly laid hold of him.
"Father, father! something has happened. Guess what. There's a sick man
stopped here, and he is in the spare room, and we don't know the least
bit who he is; only 'Siah Barker said he was English, or an 'Englisher,'
he said. We don't know a bit who he is; and his clothes are very nice,
like a gentleman, and his valise is a beautiful, handsome leather one."
"You use rather more adjectives than necessary, Rotha."
"But, father, that is something to happen, isn't it?"
"You speak as if you were glad of it."
"I am not glad the man is sick. I am just glad to have something happen.
Things never do happen here."
"I am afraid your mother will hardly feel as much pleased as you do. Is
the man very ill, Eunice?"
"I think so. He is too ill to tell how he feels."
"He may be on your hands then for a day or two."
"He may for more than that."
"How can you manage?" said Mr. Carpenter, looking anxiously at the sweet
face which already bore such lines of care, and was so work-worn.
"I don't know. I shall find out," Mrs. Carpenter answered as she was
dishing the dinner. "The Lord seems to have given me this to do; and he
knows. I guess, what he gives me to do, I can do."
"I don't see how you can say that, mother," Rotha put in here.
"What?"
"This man was taken sick on the road, and happened to come in here. How
can you say, the Lord gave him to you to take care of?"
"Nothing 'happens,' Rotha. Suppose his sickness had come on a little
sooner, or a little later? why was it just here that he found he could go
no further?"
"Do you suppose there was any 'why' about it?"
Father and mother both smiled; the father answered.
"Do you suppose I would plough a field, without meaning to get any fruit
from it."
"No, father."
"Neither does the Lord, my child."
Rotha pondered the subject, and had occasion to ponder it more as the
days went on. She found she had some share in the consequences of this
"happening"; more dishes to wash, and more sweeping and dusting, and
churning, and setting of tables, and cleaning of vegetables; and she
quite ceased to be glad that something had come to them out of the common
run of affairs. For several days her mother was much engaged in the care
of the sick man, and put all she could of the housework upon Rotha's
hands; the nursing kept herself very busy. The sickness was at first
severe; and then the mending was gradual; so that it was full two weeks
before the stranger could leave his room. Mrs. Carpenter had no servant
in the house; she did everything for him with her own hands; and with as
much care and tenderness and exactness it was done as if the sick man had
been a dear friend. By day and by night; nothing failed him; and so, in
about two weeks, he was healed and had only his weakness to recover from.
Mrs. Carpenter often looked tired and pale during those weeks, but
cheerfulness and courage never gave out.
"I have learned something," she said one day at dinner, as the two weeks
were ended.
"What is that?" her husband asked.
"The name of our guest."
"Well who is he?"
"He is English; his name is Southwode. He came to America on business two
months ago; to New York; then found it was needful for him to see some
people in Rochester; and was on his way when he was taken ill at our
door."
"That's all?"
"Pretty much all. He is not much of a talker. I never found out so much
till to-day."
"It is quite enough. I suppose he will go on to Rochester now?"
"Not for two or three days yet, Liph; he is very weak; but I guess we
will have him out to supper with us this evening. You may put a glass of
roses on the table, Rotha, and make it look very nice. And set the table
in the hall."
Unlike most of its kind, this farmhouse had a wide hall running through
the middle of it. Probably it had been built originally for somewhat
different occupation. At any rate, the hall served as a great comfort to
Mrs. Carpenter in the summer season, enabling her to get out of the hot
kitchen, without opening her best room, the "parlour."
It was a pretty enough view that greeted the stranger here, when he was
called to supper and crept out of his sick room. Doors stood open at
front and rear of the house, letting the breeze play through. It brought
the odours of the new hay and the shorn grass, mingled with the breath of
roses. Roses were on the table too; a great glass full of them; not
skilfully arranged, certainly, but heavy with sweetness and lovely in
various hues of red and blush white. A special comfortable chair was
placed for him, and a supper served with which an epicure could have
found no fault. Mrs. Carpenter's bread was of the lightest and whitest;
the butter was as if the cows had been eating roses; the cold ham was
cured after an old receipt, and tender and juicy and savoury to suit any
fastidious appetite; and there were big golden raspberries, and cream
almost as golden. Out of doors, the eye saw green fields, with an elm
standing here and there; and on one side, a bit of the kitchen garden.
Mr. Southwode was a silent man, at least he was certainly silent here;
but he was observant; and his looks went quietly from one thing to
another, taking it all in. Perhaps the combination was strange to him and
gave him matter for study. There was conversation too, as the meal went
on, which occupied his ears, though he could hardly be said to take an
active part in it. His host made kind efforts for his entertainment; and
Rotha and her father had always something to discuss. Mr. Southwode
listened. It was not the sort of talk he expected to hear in a farmhouse.
The girl was full of intelligence, the father quite able to meet her, and
evidently doing it with delight; the questions they talked about were
worthy the trouble; and while on the one hand there was keen
inquisitiveness and natural acumen, on the other there was knowledge and
the habit of thought and ease of expression. Mr. Southwode listened, and
now and then let his eye go over to the fair, placid, matronly face at
the head of the table. Mrs. Carpenter did not talk much; yet he saw that
she understood. And more; he saw that in both father and mother there was
culture and literary taste and literary knowledge. Yet she did her own
work, and he came in to-day in his shirt sleeves from the mowing of his
own fields. Mr. Southwode drew conclusions, partly false perhaps, but
partly true. He thought these people had seen what are called better
days; he was sure that they were going through more or less of a struggle
now. Moreover, he saw that the farmer was not strong in body or sound in
health, and he perceived that the farmer's wife knew it.
The supper ended, a new scene opened for his consideration. With quick
and skilful hands the mother and daughter cleared the table, carrying the
things into the kitchen. Rotha brought a Bible and laid it before her
father; and mother and daughter resumed their seats. Mr. Carpenter read a
chapter, like a man who both knew and loved it; and then, a book being
given to the stranger, the other three set up a hymn. There was neither
formality nor difficulty; as the one had read, so they all sang, as if
they loved it. The voices were not remarkable; what was remarkable, to
the guest, was the sweet intonations and the peculiar _appropriation_ with
which the song was sung. It was a very common hymn,
"Jesus, I love thy charming name,
'Tis music to my ear;"--
And Mr. Southwode noticed a thing which greatly stirred his curiosity. As
the singing went on, the lines of those careworn faces relaxed; Mrs.
Carpenter's brow lost its shadow, her husband's face wore an incipient
smile; it was quite plain that both of them had laid down for the moment
the burden which it was also quite plain they carried at other times.
What had become of it? and what power had unloosed them from it? Not the
abstract love of music, certainly; though the melody which they sang was
sweet, and the notes floated out upon the evening air with a kind of
grave joy. So as the summer breeze was wafted in. There was a harmony,
somehow, between the outer world and this little inner world, for the
time, which moved Mr. Southwode strangely, though he could not at all
understand it. He made no remark when the service was over, either upon
that or upon any other subject. Of course the service ended with a
prayer. Not a long one; and as it was in the reading and singing, so in
this; every word was simply said and meant. So evidently, that the
stranger was singularly impressed with the reality of the whole thing, as
contradistinguished from all formal or merely duty work, and as being a
matter of enjoyment to those engaged in it.
He had several occasions for renewing his observations; for Mr.
Southwode's condition of weakness detained him yet several days at the
farm-house. He established for himself during this interval the character
he had gained of a silent man; however, one afternoon he broke through
his habit and spoke. It was the day before he intended to continue his
journey. Rotha had gone to the field with her father, to have some fun in
the hay; Mr. Southwode and Mrs. Carpenter sat together in the wide
farmhouse hall. The day being very warm, they had come to the coolest
place they could find. Mrs. Carpenter was busy with mending clothes; her
guest for some time sat idly watching her; admiring, as he had done often
already, the calm, sweet strength of this woman's face. What a beauty she
must have been once, he thought; all the lines were finely drawn and
delicate; and the soul that looked forth of them was refined by nature
and purified by patience. Mr. Southwode had something to say to her this
afternoon, and did not know how to begin.
"Your husband seems to have a fine farm here," he remarked.
"It is, I believe," Mrs. Carpenter answered, without lifting her eyes
from her darning.
"He took me over some of his ground this morning. He knows what to do
with it, too. It is in good order."
"It would be in good order, if my husband had his full strength."
"Yes. I am sorry to see he has not."
"Did he say anything to you about it?" the wife enquired presently, with
a smothered apprehensiveness which touched her companion. He answered
however indifferently in the negative.
"I don't like his cough, though," he went on after a little interval.
"Have you had advice for him?"
There was a startled look of pain in the eyes which again met him, and
the lips closed upon one another a little more firmly. They always had a
firm though soft set, and the corners of the mouth told of long and
patient endurance. Now the face told of another stab of pain, met and
borne.
"He would not call in anybody," she said faintly.
That was not what Mr. Southwode had meant to talk about, though closely
connected with the subject of his thoughts. He would try again.
"I owe you a great debt of gratitude, Mrs. Carpenter," he said after a
long enough pause had ensued, and beginning on another side. "I presume
you have saved my life."
"I am very glad we have been able to do anything," she said quietly.
"There is no need of thanks."
"But I must speak them, or I should not deserve to live. It astonishes
me, how you should be so kind to an entire stranger."
"That's why you needed it," she said with a pleasant smile.
"Yes, yes, my need is one thing; that was plain enough; but if everybody
took care of other people's needs--Why, you have done everything for me,
night and day, Mrs. Carpenter. You have not spared yourself in the least;
and I have given a deal of trouble."
"I did not think it trouble," she said in the same way. "There is no need
to say anything about it."
"Excuse me; I must say something, or earn my own contempt. But what made
you do all that for a person who was nothing to you? I do not understand
that sort of thing, in such a degree."
"Perhaps you do not put it the right way," she returned. "Anybody who is
in trouble is something to me."
"What, pray?" said he quickly.
"My neighbour,"--she said with that slight, pleasant smile again. "Don't
you know the gospel rule is, to do to others what you would wish them to
do to you?"
"I never saw anybody before who observed that rule."
"Didn't you? I am sorry for that. It is a pleasant rule to follow."
"Pleasant!" her guest echoed. "Excuse me; you cannot mean that?"
"I mean it, yes, certainly. And there is another thing, Mr. Southwode; I
like to do whatever my Master gives me to do; and he gave you to me to
take care of."
"Did he?"
"I think so."
"You did it," said the stranger slowly. "Mrs. Carpenter, I am under very
great obligations to you."
"You are very welcome," she said simply.
"You have done more for me than you know. I never saw what religion can
be--what religion is--until I saw it in your house."
She was silent now, and he was silent also, for some minutes; not knowing
exactly how to go on. He felt instinctively that he must not offer money
here. The people were poor unquestionably; at the same time they did not
belong to the class that can take that sort of pay for service. He never
thought of offering it. They were quite his equals.
"Mr. Carpenter was so good as to tell me something of his affairs as we
walked this morning," he began again. "I am sorry to hear that his land
is heavily encumbered."
"Yes!" Mrs. Carpenter said with a sigh, and a shadow crossing her face.
"That sort of thing cannot be helped sometimes, but it is a bother, and
it leads to more bother. Well! I should like to be looked upon as a
friend, by you and your husband; but I shall be a friend a good way off.
Mrs. Carpenter, do not be offended at my plain speaking;--I would say,
that if ever you find yourself in difficulties and need a friend's help,
I would like you to remember me, and deliver that letter according to the
address."
He handed her as he spoke a letter, sealed, and addressed to "Messrs.
Bell & Buckingham, 46 Barclay St., New York." Mrs. Carpenter turned the
letter over, in silent surprise; looked at the great red seal and read
the direction.
"Keep it safe," Mr. Southwode went on, "and use it if ever you have'
occasion. Do not open it; for I shall not be at the place where it is to
be delivered, and an open letter would not carry the same credit. With
the letter, if ever you have occasion to make use of it, enclose a card
with your address; that my agent may know where to find you."
"You are very kind!" Mrs. Carpenter said in a little bewilderment; "but
nothing of this kind is necessary."
"I hope it may not be needed; however, I shall feel better, if you will
promise me to do as I have said, if ever you do need it."
Mrs. Carpenter gave the promise, and looked at the letter curiously as
she put it away. Would the time ever come when she would be driven to use
it? Such a time could not come, unless after the wreck of her home and
her life happiness; never could come while her husband lived. If it came,
what would matter then? But there was the letter; almost something
uncanny; it looked like a messenger out of the unknown future.
CHAPTER II.
MOVING.
Mr. Southwode went away, his letter was locked up in a drawer, and both
were soon forgotten. The little family he left had enough else to think
of.
As the warm weather turned to cold, it became more and more evident that
the head of the family was not to be with it long. Mr. Carpenter was ill.
Nevertheless, with failing strength, he continued to carry the burden
that had been too much for him when well. He would not spare himself. The
work must be done, he said, or the interest on the mortgages could not be
paid. He wrought early and late, and saw to it that his hired people did
their part; he wore himself out the quicker; but the interest on the
mortgages was not paid, even so. Mrs. Carpenter saw just how things were
going, saw it step by step, and was powerless to hinder.
"They will foreclose!" Mr. Carpenter said with a half groan. It was late
in the winter; towards spring; his health had failed rapidly of late; and
it was no secret either to him or his wile that his weeks were numbered.
They were sitting together one evening before the fire; he in his easy
chair, and she beside him; but not holding each other's hands, not
touching, nor looking at one another. Their blood was of a genuine New
England course; and people of that kind, though they would die for one
another, rarely exchange kisses. And besides, there are times when
caresses cannot be borne; they mean too much. Perhaps this was such a
time. Mrs. Carpenter sat staring into the fire, her brow drawn into fine
wrinkles, which was with her a sign of uncommon perturbation. It was
after a time of silence that her husband came out with that word about
foreclosing.
"If I had been stronger," he went on, "I could have taken in that twenty
acre lot and planted it with wheat; and that would have made some
difference. Now I am behindhand--and I could not help it--and they will
foreclose."
"They cannot do it till next fall," said Mrs. Carpenter; and her secret
thought was, By that time, nothing will matter!
"No," said her husband,--"not until fall. But then they will. Eunice,
what will you do?"
"I will find something to do."
"What? Tell me now, while I can counsel you."
"I don't know anything I could do, but take in sewing." She spoke calmly,
all the while a tear started which she did not suffer to be seen.
"Sewing?" said Mr. Carpenter. "There are too many in the village already
that do sewing--more than can live by it."
"If I cannot here," his wife said after a pause, overcoming herself,--"I
might go to New York. Serena would help me to get some work."
"Would she?" asked her husband.
"I think she would."
"Your charity always goes ahead of mine, Eunice."
"You think she would not?"
"I wouldn't like to have you dependent on her.--This is what you get for
marrying a poor man, Eunice!"
He smiled and stretched out his hand to take the hand of his wife.
"Hush!" she said. "I married a richer man than she did. And I have wanted
for nothing. We have not been poor."
"No," he said. "Except in this world's goods--which are unimportant.
Until one is leaving one's wife and child alone!"
I suppose she could not speak, for she answered nothing. The fingers
clasped fingers fast and hard; wrung them a little. Yet both faces were
steady. Mrs. Carpenter's eyes looked somewhat rigidly into the fire, and
her husband's brow wore a shadow.
"I wish your father had left you at least the old place at Tanfield. It
would have been no more than justice. Serena might have had all the rest,
but that would have given you and Rotha a home."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Carpenter gently. "I am content with my share."
"Meaning me!" And he sighed.
"The best share of this world's goods any woman could have, Liph."
"We have been happy," he said, "in spite of all. We have had happy years;
happier I could not wish for, but for this money trouble. And we shall
have happy years again, Eunice; where the time is not counted by years,
but flows on forever, and people are not poor, nor anxious, nor
disappointed."
She struggled with tears again, and then answered, "I have not been
disappointed. And you have no need to be anxious."
"No, I know," he said. "But at times it is hard for faith to get above
sense. And I am not anxious; only I would like to know how you are going
to do."
There was a silence then of some length.
"Things are pretty unequal in this world," Mr. Carpenter began again.
"Look at Serena and you. One sister with more than she can use; the other
talking of sewing for a livelihood! And all because you would marry a
poor man. A poor reason!"
"Liph, I had my choice," his wife said, with a shadow of a smile. "She is
the one to be pitied."
"Well, I think so," he said. "For if her heart were as roomy as her
purse, she would have shewn it before now. My dear, do not expect
anything from Serena. Till next fall you will have the shelter of this
house; and that will give you time to look about you."
"Liph, you must not talk so!" his wife cried; and her voice broke. She
threw herself upon her husband's breast, and they held each other in a
very long, still, close embrace.
Mr. Carpenter was quite right in some at least of his expectations. His
own life was not prolonged to the summer. In one of the last days of a
rough spring, the time came he had spoken of, when his wife and child
were left alone.
She had till fall to look about her. But perhaps, in the bitterness of
her loneliness, she had not heart to push her search after work with
sufficient energy. Yet Mrs. Carpenter never lacked energy, and indulged
herself selfishly no more in grief than she did in joy. More likely it is
that in the simple region of country she inhabited there was not call
enough for the work she could do. Work did not come, at any rate. The
only real opening for her to earn her livelihood, was in the shape of a
housekeeper's situation with an old bachelor farmer, who was well off and
had nobody to take care of him. In her destitution, I do not know but
Mrs. Carpenter might have put up with even this plan; but what was she to
do with Rotha? So by degrees the thought forced itself upon her that she
must take up her old notion and go to the great city, where there were
always people enough to want everything. How to get there, and what to do
on first arriving there, remained questions. Both were answered.
As Mr. Carpenter had foreseen, the mortgages came in the fall to
foreclosure. The sale of the land, however, what he had not foreseen,
brought in a trifle more than the mortgage amount. To this little sum the
sale of household goods and furniture and stock, added another somewhat
larger; so that altogether a few hundreds stood at Mrs. Carpenter's
disposal. This precisely made her undertaking possible. It was a very
doubtful undertaking; but what alternative was there? One relation she
would find, at the least; and another Mrs. Carpenter had not in the wide
world. She made her preparations very quietly, as she did everything; her
own child never knew how much heart-break was in them.
"Shall we go first to aunt Serena's, mother?" Rotha asked one day.
"No."
The "no" was short and dry. Rotha's instinct told her she must not ask
why, but she was disappointed. From a word now and then she had got the
impression that this relation of theirs was a very rich woman and lived
accordingly; and fancy had been busy with possibilities.
"Where then, mother?"
"Mr. Forbes," he was the storekeeper at the village, "has told me of the
boarding house he goes to when he goes to New York. We can put up there
for a night or two, and look out a quiet lodging."
"What is New York like, mother?"
"I have never been there, Rotha, and do not know. O it is a city, my
child; of course; it is not like anything here."
"How different?"
"In every possible way."
"_Every_ way, mother? Aren't the houses like?"
"Not at all. And the houses there stand close together."
"There must be room to get about, I suppose?"
"Those are the streets."
"No green grass, or trees?"
"Little patches of grass in the yards."
"No trees?"
"No. In some of the fine streets I believe there are shade trees."
"No _gardens_, mother?"
"No."
"But what do people do for vegetables and things?"
"They are brought out of the country, and sold in the markets. Don't you
know Mr. Jones sends his potatoes and his fruit to the city?"
"Then if you want a potato, you must go to the market and buy it?"
"Yes."
"Or an apple, mother?"
"Yes, or anything."
"Well I suppose that will do," said Rotha slowly, "if you have money
enough. I shouldn't think it was pleasant. Do the houses stand _close_
together?"
"So close, that you cannot lay a pin between them."
"I should want to have very good neighbours, then."
Rotha was innocently touching point after point of doubt and dread in her
mother's mind. Presently she touched another.
"I don't think it sounds pleasant, mother. Suppose we should not like it
after we get there?"
Mrs. Carpenter did not answer.
"What then, mother? Would you come back again, if we did not like it
there?"
"There would be no place to come to, here, any more, my child. I hope we
shall find it comfortable where we are going."
"Then you don't know?" said Rotha. "And perhaps we shall not! But,
mother, that would be dreadful, if we did not like it!"
"I hope you would help me to bear it."
"I!" said Rotha. "You don't want help to bear anything; do you, mother?"
An involuntary gush of tears came at this appeal; they were not suffered
to overflow.
"I should not be able to bear much without help, Rotha. Want help? yes, I
want it--and I have it. God sends nothing to his children but he sends
help too; else," said Mrs. Carpenter, brushing her hand across her eyes,
"they would not last long! But, Rotha, lie means that we should help each
other too."
"I help you?"
"Yes, certainly. You can, a great deal."
"That seems very funny. Mother, what is wrong about aunt Serena?" said
Rotha, following a very direct chain of ideas.
"I hope nothing is wrong about her."
And Mrs. Carpenter, in her gentle, unselfish charity, meant it honestly;
her little daughter was less gentle and perhaps more logical.
"Why, mother, does she ever do anything to help you?"
"Her life is quite separate from mine," Mrs. Carpenter replied evasively.
"Well, it would be right in her to help you. And when people are not
right, they are wrong."
"Let us take care of our own right and wrong, Rotha. We shall have enough
to do with that."
"But, mother, what _is_ the matter with aunt Serena? Why doesn't she help
you? She can."
"Our lives went different ways, a long time ago, my child. We have never
been near each other since."
"But now you are going to be where she is, mother?"
"Rotha, did you rip up your brown merino?"
"Not yet."
"Then go and do it now. I want it to make over for you."
"You'll never make much of that," said the girl discontentedly. But she
obeyed. She saw a certain trait in the lines of her mother's lips; it
might be reserve, it might be determination, or both; and she knew no
more was to be got from her at that time.
The brown merino disappointed her expectation; for when cleaned and made
over it proved to be a very respectable dress. Rotha was well satisfied
with it. The rest of Mrs. Carpenter's preparations were soon
accomplished; and one day in November she and her little daughter left
what had been home, and set out upon their journey to seek another in the
misty distance. The journey itself was full of wonder and delight to
Rotha. It was a very remarkable thing, in the first place, to find the
world so large; then another remarkable thing was the variety of the
people in it. Rotha had known only one kind, speaking broadly; the plain,
quiet, respectable, and generally comfortable in habitants of the village
and of the farms around the village. They were not elegant specimens, but
they were solid, and kindly. She saw many people now that astonished her
by their elegance; few that awakened any feeling of confidence. Rotha's
eyes were very busy, her tongue very silent. She was taking her first
sips at the bitter-sweet cup of life knowledge.
The third-class hotel at which they put up in New York received her
unqualified disapprobation. None of its arrangements or accommodations
suited her; with the single exception of gas burners.
Close, stuffy, confined, gloomy, and dirty, she declared it to be.
"Mother," she said half crying, "I hope our house will not be like this?"
"We shall not have a house, Rotha; only a few rooms."
"They'll be rooms in a house, I suppose," said the girl petulantly; "and
I hope it will be very different from this."
"We will have our part of it clean, at any rate," answered her mother.
"And the rest too, won't you? You would not have rooms in a house that
was not all clean, would you, mother?"
"Not if I could help it."
"Cannot you help it?"
"I hope so. But you must not expect that things here in a big city can
ever be bright and sweet like the fields at home. That can hardly be."
Rotha sighed. A vision of dandelions came up before her, and waving grass
bent by summer wind. But there was hope that the morrow's search would
unfold to her some less unpromising phases of city life, and she
suspended judgment.
Next day, wonder and amusement for a time superseded everything else. The
multitude of busy people coming and going, the laden carts and light
passing carriages, the gay shops, and the shops that were not gay, filled
Rotha's eye and mind. Even the vegetables exposed at a corner shop were a
matter of lively interest.
"O mother," she cried, "is this a market?"
"No. It is a store for groceries."
"Well, they have got some other things here. Mother, the cabbages don't
look nice." Then soon after coming to a small market store, Rotha must
stand still to look.
"They are a little better here," she judged. "Mother, mother! they have
got everything at this market. Do see! there are fish, and oysters, and
clams; and eggs; and what are those queer things?"
"Lobsters."
"What are they good for?"
"To eat."
"They don't look as if they were good for anything. Mother, one could get
a very good dinner here."
"With plenty of money."
"Does it take much?--to get one dinner?"
"Are you hungry?" said her mother, smiling faintly. "It takes a good deal
of money to get anything in New York, Rotha."
"Then I am afraid we ought to have staid at Medwayville."
A conclusion which almost forced itself upon Mrs. Carpenter's mind. For
the business of finding a lodging that would suit her and that she could
pay for, soon turned out to be one of difficulty. She and Rotha grew
weary of walking, and more weary of looking at rooms that would suit them
which they could not pay for, and other rooms which they could pay for
and that would not do. All the houses in New York seemed to come under
one or the other category. From one house agency to another, and from
these to countless places referred to, advertised for hire, the mother
and daughter wandered; in vain. One or the other difficulty met them in
every case.
"What will you do, mother, if you cannot find a place?" Rotha asked, the
evening of the first day. "Go back to Medwayville?"
"We cannot go back."
"Then we must find a place," said Rotha.
And driven by this necessity, so they did. The third day, well tired in
body and much more in mind, they did at last find what would do. It was a
long walk from their hotel, and seemed endless. No doubt, in the country,
with grass under their feet, or even the well beaten foot track beside
the highway, neither mother nor daughter would have thought anything of
the distance; but here the hard pavement wearied them, and the way
measured off by so many turns and crossings and beset with houses and
human beings, seemed a forlorn pilgrimage into remote regions. Besides,
it left the pleasanter part of the city and went, as Rotha remarked,
among poor folks. Down Bleecker St. till it turned, then following the
new stretch of straight pavement across Carmine St., and on and on into
the parts then called Chelsea. On till they came to an irregular open
space.
"This must be Abingdon Square," said the mother.
"It isn't square at all," Rotha objected.
"But this must be it. Then it's only one street more, Rotha. Look for
Jane Street."
Beyond Abingdon Square Jane Street was found to be the next crossing.
They turned the corner and were at the place they sought.
The region was not one of miserable poverty and tenant houses. Better
than that; and the buildings being low and small did not darken the
streets, as Mrs. Carpenter had found in some parts of the city. A decent
woman, a mantua-maker, had the house and offered Mrs. Carpenter the
second floor; two little rooms and a closet off them. The rooms were
furnished after a sort; but Mrs. Marble could give no board with them;
only lodging. She was a bright, sharp little woman.
"Yes, I couldn't," she said. "It wouldn't pay. I couldn't mind my
business. I take _my_ meals in a corner; for I couldn't have grease and
crumbs round; but where one person can stand, three can't sit. You'll
have to manage that part yourself. It'll be cheaper for you, too."
"Is anything cheap here?" Mrs. Carpenter asked wearily. She had sat down
to rest and consider.
"That's how you manage it," said the other, shewing a full and rather
arch smile. She was a little woman, quick and alert in all her ways and
looks. "My rooms aint dear, to begin with; and you needn't ruin yourself
eating; if you know how."
"I knew how in the country," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Here it is different."
"Aint it! I guess it is. Rents, you see; and folks must live, landlords
and all. Some of 'em do a good deal more; but that aint my lookout. I'd
eat bread and salt sooner than I'd be in debt; and I never do be that. Is
it only you two?"
"That is all."
"Then you needn't to worry. I guess you'll get along."
For Mrs. Marble noticed the quiet respectability of her caller, and
honestly thought what she said. Mrs. Carpenter reflected. The rooms were
not high; she could save a good deal by the extra trouble of providing
herself; she would be more private, and probably have things better to
her liking. Besides, her very soul sickened at the thought of looking for
any more rooms. She decided, and took these. Then she asked about the
possibilities of getting work. Mrs. Marble's countenance grew more
doubtful.
"Plain sewing?" she said. "Well, there's a good many folks doing that,
you see."
"I thought, perhaps, you could put me in the way of some."
"Well, perhaps I can. I'll see what I can think of. But there's a many
doing that sort o' thing. They're in every other house, almost. Now, when
will you come?"
"To-morrow. I suppose I cannot tell what I want to get till I do come."
"I can tell you some things right off. You'd better do part of it to-day,
or you'll want everything at once. First of all, you'd better order in
some coal. You can get that just a block or two off; Jones & Sanford;
they have a coal yard. It is very convenient."
"Where can it be put?"
"In the cellar. There's room enough. And if I was you, I wouldn't get
less than half a ton. They make awful profits when they sell by the
basket. You will want a little kindling too. Hadn't you better get a
little bit of a stove? one with two places for cooking; or one place. It
will save itself six times over in the course of the winter."
"Where can I get it?"
"I guess you're pretty much of a stranger here, aint you?"
"Entirely a stranger."
"I thought so. Folks get a look according to the place they live. You
aint bad enough for New York," she added with a merry and acute smile.
"I hope there are some good people here," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"I hope so. I haven't passed 'em all through my sieve; got something else
to do; and it aint my business neither. Well--only don't you think there
aint some bad ones in the lot, that's all. There's plenty of places where
you can get your stove, if you want to. Elwall's in Abingdon Square, is a
very good place. Some things goes with the stove. I guess you know what
you want as well as I do," she said, breaking off and smiling again.
"I shall need bedding too," said Mrs. Carpenter, with a look at the empty
bedstead.
"You can't do everything at once, if you're to come in to-morrow. I'll
tell you--I've a bed you can have, that I aint using. It'll cost you
less, and do just as well. I aint one of the bad ones," she said, again
with a gleam of a smile. "I shan't cheat you."
The arrangement was made at last, and Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha set out on
their way back. They stopped in Abingdon Square and bought a stove, a
little tea-kettle, a saucepan and frying pan; half a dozen knives and
forks, spoons, etc., a lamp, and sundry other little indispensable
conveniences for people who would set up housekeeping. Rotha was glad to
be quit of the hotel, and yet in a divided state of mind. Too tired to
talk, however, that night; which was a happiness for her mother.
The next day was one of delightful bustle; all filled with efforts to get
in order in the new quarters. And by evening a great deal was done. The
bed was made; the washstand garnished; the little stove put up, fire made
in it, and the kettle boiled; and at night mother and daughter sat down
to supper together, taking breath for the first time that day. Mrs.
Carpenter had been to a neighbouring grocery and bought a ham and bread;
eggs were so dear that they scared her; she had cooked a slice and made
tea, and Rotha declared that it tasted good.
"But this is funny bread, mother."
"It is baker's bread."
"It is nice, a little, but it isn't sweet."
"Let us be thankful we have got it, Rotha."
"Yes; but, mother, I think I should be _more_ thankful for better bread."
"I will try and make you some better," Mrs. Carpenter said laughing.
"This is not economical, I am sure."
"Mother," said Rotha, "do you suppose aunt Serena takes in sewing?"
"She? no. She gives it out."
"You would not like to do _her_ sewing?"
"I shall not ask for it," said the mother calmly.
"Does she do her own cooking, as you do?"
"No, my child. She has no need."
"Do you think she is a better woman than you are, mother?"
"That's not a wise question, I should say," Mrs. Carpenter returned. But
something about it flushed her cheek and even brought an odd moisture to
her eyes.
"Because," said Rotha, wholly disregarding the animadversion, "_if she
isn't_, I should say that things are queer."
"That's what Job thought, when his troubles came on him."
"And weren't they?" asked Rotha.
"No. He did not understand; that was all."
"I should like to understand, though, mother. Not understanding makes me
uneasy."
"You may be uneasy then all your life, for there will be a great many
things you cannot understand. The better way is to trust and be easy."
"Trust what?" Rotha asked quickly.
"Trust God. He knows."
"Trust him for what?" Rotha insisted.
"For everything. Trust him that he will take care of you, if you are his
child; and let no harm come to you; and do all things right for you, and
in the best way."
"Mother, that is trusting a good deal."
"The Lord likes to have us trust him."
"But you are his child, and he has let harm come to you?"
"You think so, because you know nothing about it. No harm can come to his
children."
"I don't know what you call harm, then," said Rotha half sullenly.
"Harm is what would hurt me. You know very well that pain does not always
do that."
"And can you trust him, mother, so as to be easy? Now?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Most days."
Rotha knew from the external signs that this must be true.
"Are you going to see aunt Serena, mother?"
"Not now."
"When?"
"I do not know."
"Where does she live?"
"Rotha, you may wash up these dishes, while I put things a little to
rights in the other room."
The next day Mrs. Carpenter set about finding some work. Alas, if there
were many that had it to give, there seemed to be many more that wanted
it. It was worse than looking for rooms. At last some tailoring was
procured from a master tailor; and Mrs. Carpenter sat all day over her
sewing, giving directions to Rotha about the affairs of the small
housekeeping. Rotha swept and dusted and washed dishes and set the table,
and prepared vegetables. Not much of that, for their meals were simple
and small; however, with one thing and another the time was partly filled
up. Mrs. Carpenter stitched. It was a new thing, and disagreeable to the
one looker-on, to see her mother from morning to night bent over work
which was not for herself. At home, though life was busy it was not
slaving. There were intervals, and often, of rest and pleasure taking.
She and Rotha used to go into the garden to gather vegetables and to pick
fruit; and at other times to weed and dress the beds and sow flower
seeds. And at evening the whole little family were wont to enjoy the air
and the sunsets and the roses from the hall door; and to have sweet and
various discourse together about a great variety of subjects. Those
delights, it is true, ceased a good while ago; the talks especially. Mrs.
Carpenter was not much of a talker even then, though her words were good
when they came. Now she said little indeed; and Rotha missed her father.
An uneasy feeling of want and longing took possession of the child's
mind. I suppose she felt mentally what people feel physically when they
are slowly starving to death. It had not come to that yet with Rotha; but
the initial fret and irritation began to be strong. Her mother seemed to
be turned into a sewing machine; a thinking one, she had no doubt,
nevertheless the thoughts that were never spoken did not practically
exist for her. She was left to her own; and Rotha's thoughts began to
seethe and boil. Another child would have found food enough and amusement
enough in the varied sights and experiences of life in the great city.
They made Rotha draw in to herself.
CHAPTER III.
JANE STREET.
Mrs. Carpenter's patient face, as she sat by the window from morning till
night, and her restless busy hands, by degrees became a burden to Rotha.
"Mother," she said one day, when her own work for the time was done up
and she had leisure to make trouble,--"I do not like to see you doing
other people's sewing."
"It is my sewing," Mrs. Carpenter said.
"It oughtn't to be."
"I am very thankful to have it."
"It takes very little to make you thankful, seems to me. It makes _me_
feel angry."
"I am sorry for that."
"Well, if you would be angry, I wouldn't be; but you take it so quietly.
Mother, it's wrong!"
"What?"
"For you to be doing that work, which somebody else ought to do."
"If somebody else did it, somebody else would get the pay; and what would
become of us then?"
"I don't see what's to become of us now. Mother, you said I was to go to
school."
"Yes,"--and Mrs. Carpenter sighed here. "I have not had time yet to find
the right school for you."
"When will you find time? Mother, I think it was a great deal better at
Medwayville."
Mrs. Carpenter sighed again, her patient sigh, which aggravated Rotha.
"I don't like New York!" the latter went on, emphasizing every word.
"There is not one single thing here I do like."
"I am sorry, my child. It is not our choice that has brought us here."
"Couldn't our choice take us away again, mother?"
"I am afraid not."
Rotha looked on at the busy needle for a few minutes, and then burst out
again.
"I think things are queer! That you should be working so, and other
people have nothing to do."
"Hush, Rotha. Nobody in this world has nothing to do."
"Nothing they need do, then. You are better than they are."
"You speak foolishly. God gives everybody something to do, and his hands
full; and the work that God gives we need to do, Rotha. He has given me
this; and as long as he gives me his love with it, I think it is good. He
has given you your work too; and complaining is not a part of it. I hope
to send you to school, as soon as ever I can."
Before Rotha had got up her ammunition for another attack, there was a
tap at the door, and Mrs. Marble came in. She always seemed to bring life
with her.
"What do you get for that?" she asked, after she had chatted awhile,
watching her lodger. Mrs. Carpenter was making buttonholes.
"A shilling a dozen."
Mrs. Marble inspected the work.
"And how many can you make in that style in a day? I should like to
know."
"I cannot do this all day," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I get blind, and I get
nervous. I can make about two dozen and a half in five hours."
"Twenty five cents' worth: I declare!" said the little woman. "I wonder
if such folks will get to heaven?"
"What folks, Mrs. Marble?" enquired Rotha, to whom this saying sounded
doubtful.
"The folks that want to get so much for so little. They wouldn't be
satisfied with any heaven where they couldn't get a hundred per cent."
"The Lord gives more than that," said Mrs. Carpenter quietly. "A
hundredfold in this present world; and in the world to come, eternal
life."
"I never could get right hold of that doctrine," said Mrs. Marble. "Folks
talk about it,--but I never could find out it was much more than talk."
"Try it," said Mrs. Carpenter. "Then you'll know."
"Maybe I shall, if you stay with me long enough. I wisht I was rich, and
I'd do better for you than those buttonholes. I think I can do better
anyhow," said the little woman, brimming over with good will. "Ha' you
got no friends at all here?"
Mrs. Carpenter hesitated; and then said "no." "What schools are there in
this neighbourhood?" she asked then immediately.
"Schools? There's the public school, not far off."
"The public school? That is where everybody goes?"
"Everybody that aint rich, and some that be. I don't think they had ought
to. There's enough without 'em. Twelve hundred and fifty in this school."
"Twelve hundred and fifty children!"
"All that. Enough, aint it? But they say the teaching's first rate. You
want to send Rotha? You can't get along without her at home, can you? Not
unless you can get somethin' better than them buttonholes."
"Mother," said Rotha when Mrs. Marble had gone, "you wouldn't send me to
that school, would you? That's where all the poor children go. I don't
think anybody but poor people live all about here."
"Then it is a proper place for us. What are we but poor people, Rotha?"
"But mother, we were not poor people at Medwayville? And losing our farm
and our home and all, don't make any difference."
"Don't it?"
"No, mother, not in us. We are not that sort of people. You wouldn't send
me to such a school?"
"Take care, my child. 'The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich;' and one is
not better than the other."
"One is better off than the other," said Rotha. "Mother, how comes aunt
Serena to be rich and you to be poor?"
Mrs. Carpenter hesitated and seemed to choose her words.
"It was because of the way she married," she answered at last. "I married
a poor man, and her marriage brought her into riches. I would not
exchange with her for all the world, Rotha. I have had much the best of
it. You see your judgment is not worth much."
Rotha was not satisfied by this statement, and as time wore on she
thought she had less and less reason. Mrs. Marble did succeed in finding
some different work with better pay for her lodger; that is, she got her
the private sewing of a family that paid her at the rate of seventy five
cents for a gentleman's shirt, with stitched linen bosom and cuffs. It
was better than the buttonhole making; yet even so, Mrs. Carpenter found
that very close and diligent application was necessary, if she would pay
her rent and pay her way. She could hardly do without Rotha's assistance.
If she tried, with natural motherly feeling, to spare her child, she made
her fingers rough and unfit for delicate work. It would not do. Rotha's
hands must go into the hot water, and handle the saucepan, and the broom,
and the box-iron. Ironing made Mrs. Carpenter's hands tremble; and she
must not be hindered in her work or made to do it slowly, if she and her
child were to live. And by degrees Rotha came thus to be very busy and
her days well filled up. All errands were done by her; purchases at the
market and the grocery shop and the thread and needle store. The care of
the two little rooms was hers; the preparation of meals, the clearing of
tables. It was better than to be idle, but Rotha sighed over it and Mrs.
Carpenter sometimes did the same. If she had known just what a public
school is, at all hazards she would not have kept her child at home;
Rotha should have had so much education as she could get there. But Mrs.
Carpenter had a vague horror of evil contact for her daughter, who had
lived until now in so pure an atmosphere bodily and mentally. Better
anything than such contact, she thought; and she had no time to examine
or make inquiries.
So days slipped by, as days do where people are overwhelmingly busy; the
hope and intention of making a change kept in the background and
virtually nullified by the daily and instant pressure. Rotha became
accustomed to the new part she was playing in life; and to her turn of
mind, there was a certain satisfaction in the activity of it. Mrs.
Carpenter sat by the window and sewed, from morning to night. Both of
them began to grow pale over their confined life; but they were caught in
the machinery of this great, restless, evil world, and must needs go on
with it; no extrication was possible. One needleful of thread after
another, one seam after another, one garment finished and another begun;
that was the routine of Mrs. Carpenter's life, as of so many others; and
Rotha found an incessant recurrence of meal-times, and of the necessary
arrangements before and after. The only break and change was on Sunday.
Mrs. Carpenter suddenly awoke to the conviction, that Rotha's going to
any sort of school was not a thing at present within the range of vision.
What was to be done? She thought a great deal about it.
On their way to and from church she had noticed a small bookstall, closed
then of course, which from its general appearance and its situation
promised a tariff of prices fitted for very shallow pockets. One
afternoon she resolutely laid down her work and took time to go and
inspect it. The stock was small enough, and poor; in the whole she found
nothing that could serve her purpose, save two volumes of a broken set of
Rollin's Ancient History. Being a broken set, the volumes were prized at
a mere trifle, and Mrs. Carpenter bought them. Rotha had been with her,
and as soon as they reached home subjected the purchase to a narrow and
thorough inspection.
"Mother, these are only Vol. I. and Vol. V."
"Yes, I know it."
"And they are not very clean."
"I know that too. I will cover them."
"And then, what are you going to do with them? Read them? You have no
time."
"I am going to make you read them."
"Well, I would like to read anything new," said Rotha; "but what shall we
do for all that goes between No. I. and No. V.?"
"We will see. Perhaps we can pick them up too, some time."
The reading, Rotha found, she was to do aloud, while her mother sewed. It
became a regular thing every afternoon, all the time there was to give to
it; and Rotha was not aware what schooling her mother managed to get out
of the reading. Mrs. Carpenter herself had been well educated; and so was
able to do for Rotha what was possible in the circumstances. It is
astonishing how much may be accomplished with small means, if there is
sufficient power of will at work. Not a fact and not a name in their
reading, but it was made the nucleus of a discussion, of which Rotha only
knew that it was very interesting; Mrs. Carpenter knew that she was
teaching her daughter history and chronology. Not the history merely of
the people immediately in question, but the history of the world and of
humanity. For without being a scholar or having dead languages at her
command, Mrs. Carpenter had another knowledge, which gives the very best
key to the solution of many human questions, leads to the most clear and
comprehensive view of the whole human drama of life and gives the only
one clue to guide one amidst the confusions of history and to its
ultimate goal and termination. Namely, the knowledge of the Bible. It is
marvellous, how that knowledge supplies and supplements other sorts. So
Rotha and her mother, at every step they made in their reading, stopped
to study the ground; looked back and forward, traced connections of
things, and without any parade of learning got deep into the philosophy
of them.
History was only one branch of the studies for which Rollin was made a
text-book. Mrs. Carpenter had an atlas in her possession; and she and
Rotha studied geography. Studied it thoroughly, too; traced and fixed the
relations of ancient and modern; learned by heart and not by head, which
is always the best way. And Mrs. Carpenter taxed her memory to enable her
as far as practicable to indoctrinate Rotha in the mysteries and delights
of physical geography, which the girl took as she would the details of a
story. Culture and the arts and industries came in for a share of
attention; but here Mrs. Carpenter's knowledge reached not far. Far
enough to excite Rotha's curiosity very much, which of itself was one
good thing. That indeed may be said to have been one general result and
fruit of this peculiar method of instruction.
A grammar was not among Mrs. Carpenter's few possessions, nor found on
the shelves of the book-stall above-mentioned. Here too she sought to
make memory supply the place of printed words. Rollin served as a text-
book again. Rotha learned the parts of speech, and their distinctions and
inflexions; also, as far as her mother could recollect them, the rules of
syntax. Against all this branch of study she revolted, as unintelligible.
Writing compositions went better; but for the mechanical part of this
exercise Mrs. Carpenter had no leisure. She did set Rotha a copy now and
then; but writing and arithmetic for the most part got the go-by. What
Mrs. Carpenter did she must do with her fingers plying the needle and her
eyes on her work.
It helped them both, all this learning and teaching; reading and talking.
It saved their life from being a dead monotony, and their minds from
vegetating; and diverted them from sorrowful regrets and recollections.
Life was quite active and stirring in the little rooms where they lived.
Nevertheless, their physical nature did not thrive so well as the mental.
Rotha was growing fast, and shooting up slender and pale, living too
housed a life; and her mother began to lose freshness and to grow thin
with too constant application. As the winter passed away, and warm
weather opened the buds of the trees which in some places graced the
city, these human plants seemed to wither more and more.
"O mother," said Rotha, standing at the window one day in the late
spring, "I think the city is just horrid!"
"Never mind, my child. We have a comfortable home, and a great deal to be
thankful for."
"If I could only see the butterflies in the fields again!" sighed Rotha.
Her mother echoed the sigh, but this time said nothing.
"And I would like a good big tumbler of real milk, and some strawberries,
and some of your bread and butter, mother."
"Yes, my child."
"Mother, how comes it that aunt Serena is rich, and you and I are so
poor?"
"You have asked me that before."
"But you didn't tell me."
"I told you, it was in consequence of the different marriages we made."
"Yes, I know. But you were not poor before you married father, were you?"
"No."
"Then that is what I mean. What is become of it? Where is your part?"
"Nowhere, dear."
"What became of it then, mother?"
"I never had it, Rotha. You had better get your book and read. That would
be wiser than asking useless questions."
"But why didn't you have it, mother? Did aunt Serena--did your sister--
get it all?"
"Get your book, Rotha."
"Mother, please tell me. I shall know the answer if you do not tell me."
"Your aunt had it all," Mrs. Carpenter said very quietly.
"Why?"
"Your grandfather thought there were good reasons."
"_Were_ there, mother?"
"I do not think so. But let it be, Rotha, and never mention this subject
to me again. Different people have different ways of looking at the same
thing; and people are often very honestly mistaken. You must not judge
others by yourself."
"Mother, I think that was very unjust," said Rotha, in immediate
disregard of this precept.
"You must not think it was meant so."
"But, mother, if a wrong thing is honestly meant, does that make it
right?"
"There is but one rule of right and wrong; it is God's rule."
"Then what difference does it make, whether it was 'honestly meant' or
no?"
"A good deal, I should say. Don't you think it does?"
"I do not believe aunt Serena means it honestly, though. If she was a
good woman, she wouldn't keep what belongs to you. She must _know_ it is
wrong!"
"Rotha, you are paining me," said Mrs. Carpenter, the tears springing to
her eyes. "This is very foolish talk, and very improper. Get your book."
"I don't wonder you don't want to go and see her!" said Rotha indignantly
as she obeyed the order. "O mother! if I could just once roll in the
grass again!"
At this moment came a cry from the street--
"Straw--berr_ees!_"
"What's that?" exclaimed Rotha springing to the window. "Mother, it's a
woman with a basket full of something red. Strawberries! it's
strawberries!"
The accent of this word went to the mother's heart.
"It's early yet," she said. "They will be very dear. By and by they will
be plenty and cheaper."
"Strawberries!" repeated Rotha, following the woman with her eyes.
"Mother, I think I do hate New York. The sight of those strawberries
makes me wild. I want Carlo, and the ducks, and my old pussy cat, and the
garden; and--Oh, I want father!"
The natural conclusion to this burst was a passion of weeping. Mrs.
Carpenter was fain to lay down her work, and put her arms round the
child, and shed some tears with her; though even as they fell she was
trying to soothe Rotha into patience and self-command. Two virtues of
which as yet the girl knew nothing, except that her mother was a very
lovely and constant exemplification of them. Nobody ever expected either
from Rotha; although this was the first violent expression of grief and
longing that her mother had seen since their removal to New York, and it
took her by surprise. Rotha had seemed to acquiesce with tolerable ease
in the new conditions of things; and this was Mrs. Carpenter's first
notification that under all the outside calm there lay a power of wish
and pain. They wept together for a while, the mother and child, which was
a sort of relief to both of them.
"Mother," said Rotha, as she dried her tears and struggled to prevent
more coming,--"I could bear it, only that I don't see any end to it."
"Well, my child? what then?" said the mother tenderly.
"I don't feel as if I could bear this always."
"There might be much worse, Rotha."
"That don't make this one bit better, mother. It makes it harder."
"We must trust God."
"For what? I don't see."
"Trust him, that he will keep his promises. I do."
"What promises?"
"He has said, that none of them that trust in him shall be desolate."
"But 'not desolate'! That is not enough," said. Rotha. "I want more than
that. I want to be happy; and I want to be comfortable."
"Are you not comfortable, my child?"
"No, mother," Rotha said with a sob.
"What do you want?" Mrs. Carpenter spoke with a gentle soft accent, which
half soothed, half reproached Rotha, though she did not mean any
reproach. Rotha, nevertheless went on.
"I want nearly everything, mother! everything that we haven't got."
"It would not make you happy, if you had it."
"Why not? Why wouldn't it?"
"Because nothing of that sort can. There is only one thing that makes
people happy."
"I know; you mean religion. But I am not religious. And if I _was_ happy,
mother, I should want those other things too."
"If you were happy--you would be happy," Mrs. Carpenter said with a
slight smile.
"That would not hinder my wanting other things. I should want, as I do
now, nice dresses, and a nice house, and books, and not to have to cook
and wash dishes, and to take a ride sometimes and a walk sometimes--not a
walk to market--I want all that, mother."
"I would give it you if I could, Rotha. If I had it and did not give it
to you, you would know that I had some very good reason."
"I might think you were mistaken," said Rotha.
"We cannot think that of the only wise God," Mrs. Carpenter said with
that same faint, sweet smile again; "so we must fall back upon the
other alternative."
Rotha was silenced.
"We know that he loves us, dear; and 'they that trust in the Lord shall
not want any good thing.' As soon as it would be good for us, if that
time ever comes, we shall have it. As for me, if you were only one of
those that trust in him, I should hardly have a wish left."
Rotha dried her tears and went at her work. But the summer, as the days
passed, was a trial to both of them. Accustomed to sweet country air and
free motion about the farm, the closeness, the heat, the impurities, and
the confinement of the city were extremely hard to bear. They made it
also very difficult to work. Often it seemed to Mrs. Carpenter, unused to
such a sedentary life and close bending over her needle, that she must
stop and wait till it grew cooler, or till she herself felt a little
refreshed. But the necessities of living drove her on, as they drive so
many, pitilessly. She could not intermit her work. Rents were due just
the same in summer as in winter, and meat and bread were no cheaper. She
grew very thin and pale; and Rotha too, though in a far less degree,
shewed the wilting and withering effect of the life they led. Rarely a
walk could be had; the streets were hot and disagreeable; and Mrs.
Carpenter could but now and then dare to spend twenty cents for car hire
to take her and Rotha to the Park and back again. The heats of July were
very hard to bear; the heats of August were more oppressive still; and
when September came with its enervating moist, muggy, warm days, Mrs.
Carpenter could scarcely keep her place and her work at her window. All
day she could not. She was obliged to stop and lie by. Appetite failed,
meals were not enticing; and on the whole, Mrs. Marble was not at all
satisfied with the condition of either of her lodgers.
The cooler weather and then the frosts wrought some amendment. Yet all
the autumn did not put them back where the spring had found them; and
late in November Mrs. Carpenter took a cold which she could not
immediately get rid of. A bad cough set in; strength rather failed than
grew; and the thin hands which were so unceasingly busy with their work,
became more and more transparently thin. Mrs. Carpenter needed rest; she
knew it; and the thought came to her that it might be duty, and even it
might be necessity, to apply to her sister for help. Surely it could not
be refused?
She was often busy with this thought.
One day she had undertaken a longer walk than usual, to carry home some
articles of fine sewing that she had finished. She would not send Rotha
so far alone, but she took her along for company and for the air and
exercise. Her way led her into the finer built part of the city. Coming
down Broadway, she was stopped a minute by a little crowd on the
sidewalk, just as a carriage drew up and a lady with a young girl stepped
out of it and went into Tiffany's; crossing the path of Mrs. Carpenter
and Rotha. The lady she recognized as her own sister.
"Mother," said Rotha, as they presently went on their way again, "isn't
that a handsome carriage?"
"Very."
"What is the coachman dressed so for?"
"That is what they call a livery."
"Well, what _is_ it? He has top boots and a gold band round his hat. What
for? I see a great many coachmen and footmen dressed up so or some other
way. What is the use of it?"
"No use, that I know."
"Then what is it for?"
"I suppose they think it looks well."
"So it does. But how rich people must be, mother, when their servants can
dress handsomer than we ever could. And their own dresses! Did you see
the train of that lady's dress?"
"Yes."
"Beautiful black silk, ever so much of it, sweeping over the sidewalk.
She did not even lift it up, as if she cared whether it went into the
dirt or not."
"I suppose she did not care," said Mrs. Carpenter mechanically, like a
person who is not giving much thought to her answers.
"Then she must be _very_ rich indeed. I suppose, mother, her train would
make you a whole nice dress."
"Hardly so much of it as that," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"No, no; I mean the cost of it. Mother, I wonder if it is _right_, for
that woman to trail so much silk on the ground, and you not to be able to
get yourself one good dress?"
"It makes no difference in my finances, whether she trails it or not."
"No, but it ought."
"How should it?"
Rotha worked awhile at this problem in silence.
"Mother, if nobody used what he didn't want, don't you think there would
be enough for the people who do want? You know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean. But how should the surplus get to the people who
want it?"
"Why!--that's very simple."
"Not so simple as you think."
"Mother, that is the way people did in the second chapter of Acts, that
we were reading yesterday. Nobody said that anything he had was his own."
"That was when everybody was full of the love of Christ. I grant you,
Rotha, that makes things easy. My child, let us take care we act on that
principle."
"We have nothing to give," said Rotha. "Mother, how that girl was dressed
too, that came out of that same carriage. Did you see her?"
"Hardly."
"She was about as old as I am, I guess. Mother, she had a feather in her
hat and a beautiful little muff, and a silk frock too, though there was
no train to it. Her silk was red--dark red," Rotha added with a sigh.
Mrs. Carpenter had been struck and moved, as well as her daughter, by the
appearance of the figures in question, though, as she said, she had
scarce seen more than one of them. But her thoughts were in a different
channel.
When she got home, contrary to all her wont, Mrs. Carpenter sat down and
put her head in her hands, instead of going to work. She said she was a
little tired, which was very true; but the real reason was a depression
and at the same time a perturbation of mind which would not let her work.
She had been several times lately engaged with the thought, that it might
be better, that it might be her duty, to make herself known to her
sister. She felt that her strength lately had been decreasing; it had
been with much difficulty that she accomplished her full tale of work;
help, even a little, would be very grateful, and a friend for Rotha might
be of the greatest importance. It was over with those thoughts. That one
glimpse of her sister as she swept past, had shewn her the utter futility
of such an appeal as she had thought of making. There was something in
the whole air and style of the rich woman which convinced Mrs. Carpenter
that she would not patiently hear of poor relations in her neighbourhood;
and that help given, even if she gave it, would be so given that it would
be easier to do without it than to accept it. She was thrown back upon
herself; and the check and the disappointment shewed how much, secretly
she had been staying herself upon this hope which had failed her.
She said nothing to her daughter, and Rotha never knew what that
encounter had been. But a few days later, finding herself still not
gaining strength, and catching at any thread of hope or help, Mrs.
Carpenter took another long walk and delivered at its place of address
the letter which her English guest had left her. She hardly expected ever
to hear anything from it again; and in fact it was long before she did
hear either of the letter or of its writer.
The months of winter went somewhat painfully along. Mrs. Carpenter's
health did not mend, and the constant sewing became more and more
difficult to bear. Mrs. Carpenter now more frequently went out with her
work herself; leaving Rotha to make up the lost time by doing some of the
plainer seams, for which she was quite competent.
CHAPTER IV.
A VISITER.
One cold afternoon in the latter part of January, a stranger came to Mrs.
Marble's door and begged for a few minutes' interview. He did not make it
longer; but after a very brief conversation on religious matters, and
giving her a tract or two, inquired if there was anybody else in the
house?
"Lodgers," said Mrs. Marble. "They've got the second floor. A woman and a
girl."
"What sort of people?"
"Well, I should say they were an uncommon sort. Your sort, I guess.
Religious. I mean the mother is. I reckon the little one haint anything
o' that kind about her."
"Then they pay their rent, I suppose?"
"As regular as clockwork. 'Taint always easy, I know; but it comes up to
the day. I don't believe much in the sort o' religion that don't pay
debts."
"Nor I; but sometimes, you know, the paying is not only difficult but
impossible. Why is it difficult in this case?"
"Don't ask _me!_ Because another sort of religious folk, that go to church
regular enough and say their prayers, won't pay honest wages for honest
work. How is a woman to live, that can't get more than a third or a
quarter the value o' what she does? So they _don't_ live; they die; and
that's how it's goin' to be here."
A tear was glittering in Mrs. Marble's honest eyes, while at the same
time she bit off her words as if they had been snap gingerbread.
"Is it so bad as that?" asked the visiter.
"Well, I don' know if you ought to call it, 'bad,'" said Mrs. Marble with
a compound expression. "When livin' aint livin' no longer, then dyin'
aint exactly dyin'. 'Taint the worst thing, anyhow; if it warnt for the
folk left behind. If I was as ready as she is, I wouldn't mind goin', I
guess. I s'pose she thinks of her child some."
"Would they receive a visit from me?"
"I don' know; but they don't have many. So long as they've been here, and
that's more'n a year now, there aint a livin' soul as has called to ask
after 'em. I guess they'd receive most anybody that come with a friend's
face. Shall I ask 'em?"
"Not _that_, but if they will see me. I shall be much obliged."
Mrs. Marble laid down her work and tripped up stairs.
"Rotha," she said putting her head inside the door, "here's somebody to
see you."
The girl started up and a colour came into her face, as she eagerly
asked, "Who?"
"I don't know him from Adam. He's a sort of a missionary; they come round
once in a while; and he wants to see you."
"Mother's gone out," said Rotha, her colour fading as quick as it had
risen.
"May he come and see you? He's a nice lookin' feller."
"I don't care," said Rotha. "I don't want to see any missionary."
"O well! it won't hurt you to see this one, I guess."
A few minutes after came a tap at the door, and Rotha with a mingling of
unwillingness and curiosity, opened it. What she saw was not exactly what
she had expected; curiosity grew and unwillingness abated. She asked the
stranger in with tolerable civility. He _was_ nice looking, she confessed
to herself, and very nicely dressed! not at all the rubbishy exterior
which Rotha somehow associated with her idea of missionaries. He came in
and sat down, quite like an ordinary man; which was soothing.
"Mother is out," Rotha announced shortly.
"It is so much the kinder of you to let me come in."
"I was not thinking of kindness," said Rotha.
"No? Of what then?
"Nothing in particular. You do not want kindness."
"I beg your pardon. Everybody wants it."
"Not kindness _from_ everybody then."
"I do."
"But some people can do without it."
"Can they? What sort of people?"
"Why, a great many people. Those that have all they want already."
"I never saw any of that sort of people," said the stranger gravely.
"Pray, did you?"
"I thought I had."
"And you thought I was one of them?"
"I believe so."
"You were mistaken in me. Probably you were mistaken also in the other
instances. Perhaps you were thinking of the people who have all that
money can buy?"
"Perhaps," Rotha assented.
"Do you think money can buy all things?"
"No," said Rotha, beginning to recover her usual composure; "but the
people who have all that money can buy, can do without the other things."
"What do you mean by the 'other things'?"
Rotha did not answer.
"I suppose kindness is one of them, as we started from that."
Rotha was still silent.
"Do you think you could afford to do without kindness?"
"If I had money enough," Rotha said bluntly.
"And what would you buy with money, that would be better?"
"O plenty!" said Rotha. "Yes, indeed! I would stop mother's working; and
I would buy our old home, and we would go away from this place and never
come back to it. I would have somebody to do the work that I do, too; and
I would have a garden, and plenty of flowers, and plenty of everything."
"And live without friends?"
"We always did," said Rotha. "We never had friends. O friends!--everybody
in the village and in the country was a friend; but you know what I mean;
nobody that we cared for."
"Then you have no friends here in New York?"
"No."
"I should think you would have stayed where, as you say, everybody was a
friend."
"Yes, but we couldn't."
"You said, you would if you could stop your mother's working. Do you
think she would like that?"
"O she's tired to death!" said Rotha; and her eyes reddened in a way that
shewed there were at least two sides to her character. "She is not strong
at all, and she wants rest. Of course she would like it. Not to have to
do any more than she likes, I mean."
"Then perhaps she would not choose to take some work I was thinking to
offer her. Or perhaps you would not take it?" he added smiling.
"We _must_ take it," said Rotha, "if we can get it. What is it?"
"A set of shirts. A dozen."
"Mother gets seventy five cents a piece, if they are tucked and
stitched."
"That is not my price, however. I like my work particularly done, and I
give two dollars a piece."
"Two dollars for one shirt?" inquired Rotha.
"That is my meaning. Do you think your mother will take them?"
For all answer the girl clapped her two hands together.
"Then you are not a master tailor?" she asked.
"No."
"I thought maybe you were. I don't like them. What are you, please?"
"If I should propose myself as a friend, would you allow it?"
Is this a "kindness"? was the suspicion that instantly darted into
Rotha's mind. The visiter saw it in her face, and could have smiled; took
care to do no such thing.
"That is a question for mother to answer," she said coolly.
"When it is put to her. I put the question to you."
"Do you mean, that you are talking of being a friend to _me?_"
"Is that too bold a proposition?"
"No--but it cannot be true."
"Why not?"
"You cannot want me for a friend. You do not know me a bit."
"Pardon me. And my proposal was, that I should be a friend to _you_."
"I always thought there were two sides to a friendship."
"True; and in time, perhaps, when you come to know me as well as I know
you, perhaps you will be my friend as well."
"How should you know me?" said Rotha quickly.
"People's thoughts and habits of feeling have a way of writing themselves
somehow in their faces, and voices, and movements. Did you know that?"
"No--" Rotha said doubtfully.
"They do."
"But you don't know me."
"Will you put it to the proof? But do you like to hear the truth spoken
about yourself?"
"I don't know. I never tried."
"Shall I try you? I think I see before me a person who likes to have her
own way--and has it."
"You are wrong there," said Rotha. "If I had my own way, I should not be
doing what I am doing; no indeed! I should be going to school."
"I did not mean that your will could get the better of all circumstances;
only of the will of other people. How is that?"
"I suppose everybody likes to have his own way," said Rotha in defence.
"Probably; but not every one gets it. Then, when upon occasion your will
is crossed, whether by persons or circumstances, you do not take it very
patiently."
"Does anybody?"
"Some people. But on these occasions you are apt to shew your displeasure
impatiently--sometimes violently."
"How do you know?" said Rotha wonderingly. "You cannot see that in my
face _now?_"
And she began curiously to examine the face opposite to her, to see if it
too had any disclosures to make. He smiled.
"Another thing,--" he went on. "You have never yet learned to care for
others more than for yourself."
"Does anybody?" said Rotha.
"How is it with your mother?"
"Mother?-- But then, mother and I are very different"
"Did I not intimate that?"
"But I mean I am naturally different from her. It is not only because she
is a Christian."
"Why are you not a Christian too?"
Rotha hesitated. Her interlocutor was certainly a great stranger; and as
certainly she had not found it possible to read his face;
notwithstanding, two effects had resulted from the interview thus far;
she believed in him, and he was somewhat imposing to her. Dress and
manner might have a little to do with this; poor Rotha had rarely in her
short life spoken to any one who had the polish of manner that belongs to
good breeding and the habit of society; but that was not the whole. She
felt the security and the grace with which every word was said, and she
trusted his face. At the same time she rebelled against the slight awe he
inspired, and was a little afraid of some lurking "kindness" under all
this extraordinary interest and affability. Her answer was delayed and
then came somewhat defiantly.
"I never wanted to be a Christian."
"That answer has the merit of truth," said her visiter calmly. "You have
mentioned the precise reason that keeps people out of the kingdom of
heaven. 'Ye will not come unto me, that ye might have life,' the Lord
said to some of them when he was upon earth. 'When they shall see him,
there is no beauty that they should desire him.'"
"Well, I cannot help that," said Rotha.
"No,--" said her visiter slowly, "you cannot help that; but it does not
excuse you."
"Why, how can I be a Christian, when I _dont want to?_"
"How can you do anything else that you do not want to do? Duty remains
duty, does it not?"
"But religion is not outside work."
"No."
"Mother says, it is the love of God. How can I make myself love him?"
"Poor child!" said her visiter. "When you are in earnest about that
question it will not be difficult to find the answer." He rose up. "Then
I may send the shirts I spoke of?"
"Yes," said Rotha; "but I don't know about the price. Mother does not
want anything but the proper pay; and she does all her work
particularly."
"Are you afraid I shall give her too much?"
"She does not want too much."
"I will arrange that with her. Stay,--we have not been introduced to each
other. You may call me Mr. Digby; what may I call you?"
"Rotha Carpenter."
"Good morning, Rotha," said the gentleman, offering his hand. Rotha shyly
took it, and he went away.
Half an hour afterwards, Mrs. Carpenter came home. She came slowly up the
short flight of stairs, and sat down by her fireside as if she was tired.
She was pale, and she coughed now and then.
"Mother," began Rotha, full of the new event, "somebody has been here
since you have been away."
"A messenger from Mr. Farquharson? I shall have the things done to-
morrow, I hope."
"No messenger at all, and no tailor, nor any such horrid person. Mother,
what is a 'gentleman'?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Because Mrs. Marble said this man was a gentleman. He's a missionary. Do
you know what a 'city missionary' means, mother?"
"Yes, in general."
"The same as a foreign missionary, only he does not go out of the
country?"
"He does his work in the city."
"But there are no heathen in New York."
"There are worse."
"Worse? what can be worse?"
"It is worse to see the light and refuse it, than never to have had the
choice."
"Then I should think it would be better not to send missionaries to the
heathen."
"Rotha, take my bonnet and cloak, dear, and put them away; and make me
some tea, will you?"
"Why mother, it is not tea-time yet."
"No matter; I am tired, and cold."
"But you didn't tell me what a gentleman is?" pursued Rotha, beginning
now to bustle about and do as she was told.
"Wait till I have had some tea. How much tea is left, Rotha?"
"Well, I guess, enough to last almost a week," said the girl, peering
into the box which did duty for a tea-caddy.
"I must manage to get some more," said the mother. "I could hardly get
along without my cup of tea."
"Mother, here has been somebody who wants you to make shirts for him at
two dollars a piece."
"Two dollars a piece!" Mrs. Carpenter echoed. "I could afford to get tea
then. Who was that, Rotha? and what sort of shirts does he want made for
such a price?"
"I don't know! he said he wanted them very particularly made, and I told
him that was the way you did everything. Now mother dear, the kettle will
boil in two minutes."
"Who is this person?"
"I told you, he is a city missionary. His name is Mr. Digby."
"Digby,"--said Mrs. Carpenter. "I do not know him."
"Of course you don't. But you will be glad of the shirts, won't you?"
"Very glad, and thankful."
"But is two dollars a proper price?" inquired Rotha a little jealously.
"It is an uncommon price."
"What could make him offer an uncommon price?"
"I don't know. It is not the way of the world, so perhaps he is not one
of the world."
"He's a Christian, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Do Christians always do the right thing?"
"Real Christians do, when they know what the right thing is. I am too
tired to talk, Rotha."
Rotha bestirred herself and set the little table. Not very much went on
it, besides the cups and plates; but there was a loaf of bread, and Rotha
made a slice of toast; and Mrs. Carpenter sipped her tea as if she found
it refreshing.
"I wish I had a good tumbler of milk," sighed Rotha; "real milk, not like
this. And I wish you had some Medwayville cream, mother. I think, if I
ever get back into the country again, I shall go wild."
"I sometimes think you are a little of that here," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"Not wild with joy, mother."
Mrs. Carpenter sipped her tea, and stretched out her feet towards the
small stove, and seemed to be taking some comfort. But her face was thin
and worn, the hands were very thin; a person with more experience than
her young daughter would have been ill content with her appearance.
"Mother, now can you tell me my question? What do you mean by a
'gentleman.'"
"Perhaps not just what Mrs. Marble means by it."
"Well, I'll tell you. This person was very well dressed, but clothes do
not make it, do they, mother?"
"Certainly not."
"He has got a nice face, and he seemed to know always just what to do and
to say; I can't tell you what I mean exactly; but I should think, to look
at him and hear him, that he knew everything and had seen all the world.
Of course he hasn't and doesn't; but that is the sort of feeling I have
when I look at him."
Mrs. Carpenter smiled.
"Did you never see anybody before of whom you thought so?"
"Never. I never did," said Rotha. "The people who come here on business,
don't know the least bit how to behave; and the people at dear old
Medwayville did not. O they were kind and good as they could be, some of
them; but mother, they could not make a bow to save their lives, and they
would stand and sit all sorts of ways; and they wouldn't know when they
had done talking, nor how to do anything nicely."
"Perhaps this man was stiff," said Mrs. Carpenter amused.
"He was not stiff in the least; but mother, what is a gentleman?"
"I do not know how to tell you, Rotha. Your description sounds very much
like one."
A day or two after, Mr. Digby came again, and had an interview with Mrs.
Carpenter. This time he paid no attention to Rotha, and I think the
little girl was somewhat disappointed. The next day he came again and
brought with him the bundle of shirts. He inquired now very kindly into
Mrs. Carpenter's state of health, and offered to send his own physician
to see her. But she refused; and the manner of her refusal persuaded Mr.
Digby that she was aware of her own condition and believed no medicine
would be of avail. He was much of the same opinion himself; and indeed
was inclined to suspect that there was more need of good food than of
drugs in this case. More difficult at the same time to administer.
A few days passed, and Mr. Digby again came.
He found Mrs. Carpenter steady at her work, but looking very worn and
pale. Rotha was just putting on the small tea kettle. Mr. Digby sat down
and made kind inquiries. The answers were with the sweet patient
composure which he saw was habitual with Mrs. Carpenter.
"How is your appetite?" he asked.
"I suppose I am not enough in the open air and stirring about, to have it
very good."
"Have you much strength for 'stirring about'?"
"Not much."
"People cannot have strength without eating. Rotha, what time do you give
your mother her dinner?"
"Now," said Rotha. "I put the kettle on just as you came in."
"I saw you did. But what is the connection, may I ask, between dinner and
the tea kettle?"
"Rotha makes me a cup of tea," said Mrs. Carpenter smiling. "I can hardly
get along without that."
"Ah!--Mrs. Carpenter, I have had a busy morning and am--which I am sorry
you are not--_hungry_. May I take a cup of tea with you?"
"Certainly!--I should be very glad. Rotha, set a cup for Mr. Digby, dear.
But tea is not much to a hungry man," she went on; "and I am afraid there
is little in the house but bread and butter."
"That will do capitally. If you'll furnish the bread and butter, I will
see what I can get for my part. If you'll excuse the liberty, Mrs.
Carpenter?"
Mrs. Carpenter would excuse, I think, whatever he might take a fancy to
do. She had seen him now several times, and he had quite won her heart.
"Mother," said Rotha, as soon as their visiter had gone out, "what is he
going to do?"
"I do not know. Get something for dinner, he said."
"Do you like him to do that?"
"Do what?"
"Bring us dinner."
"Don't be foolish, Rotha."
"Mother, I think he is doing what he calls a 'kindness.'"
"Have you any objection?"
"Not to his doing it for other people; but for you and me-- Mother, we
have not come to receiving charity yet."
"Rotha!" exclaimed her mother. "My child, what are you thinking of?"
"Having kindnesses done to us, mother; and I don't like it. It is not Mr.
Digby's business, what we have for dinner!"
"I told him we had not much but bread."
"Why did you tell him?"
"He would have found it out, Rotha, when he came to sit down to the
table."
"He had no business to ask to do that."
"I think you are ungrateful."
"Mother, I don't want to be grateful. Not to him."
"Why not to him, or to anybody, my child, that deserves it of you?"
"_He_ don't!"--said Rotha, as she finished setting the table, rather in
dudgeon. "What do you suppose he is going to bring?"
"Rotha, what will ever become of you in this world, with that spirit?"
"What spirit?"
"Pride, I should say."
"Isn't pride a good thing?"
"Not that ever I heard of, or you either," Mrs. Carpenter said with a
sigh.
"Mother, I don't think you have enough pride."
"A little is too much. It makes people fall into the condemnation of the
devil. And you are mistaken in thinking there is anything fine in it.
Don't shew that feeling to Mr. Digby, I beg of you."
Rotha did not exactly pout, for that was not her way; but she looked
dissatisfied. Presently she heard a sound below, and opened the door.
"He's coming up stairs," she said softly, "and a boy with him bringing
something. Mother!--"
She had no chance to say more. Mr. Digby came in, followed by a boy with
a basket. The basket was set down and the boy disappeared.
"Mrs. Carpenter," said the gentleman, "I could not find anything in this
neighbourhood better than oysters. Do you like them?"
"Oysters!" said Mrs. Carpenter. "It is very long since I have seen any.
Yes, I like them."
"Then the next question is, how do you like them? Saw? or roasted? We can
roast them here, cannot we?"
"I have not seen a roast oyster since I was a girl," said Mrs. Carpenter.
Her visiter could hear in the tone of her voice that the sight would be
very welcome. As for Rotha, displeasure was lost in curiosity. The
oysters were already nicely washed; that Mr. Digby had had done by the
same boy that brought the basket; it only remained to put them on the
fire and take them off; and both operations he was quite equal to. Rotha
looked on in silent astonishment, seeing the oyster shells open, and the
juice sputter on the hot iron, and perceiving the very acceptable
fragrance that came from them. Mr. Digby admonished her presently to make
the tea; and then they had a merry meal. Absolutely merry; for their
visitor, he could hardly be called their guest, spiced his ministrations
with so pleasant a manner that nothing but cheerfulness could keep its
ground before him. At the first taste of the oysters, it is true, some
associations seemed to come over Mrs. Carpenter which threatened to make
a sudden stop to her dinner. She sat back in her chair, and perhaps was
swallowing old troubles and heartburnings over again, or perhaps
recalling involuntarily a time before troubles began. The oysters seemed
to choke her; and she said she wanted no more. But Mr. Digby guessed what
was the matter; and was so tenderly kind and judiciously persuasive, that
Mrs. Carpenter could not withstand him; and then, Rotha looked on in new
amazement to see how the oysters went down and how manifestly they were
enjoyed. She herself declined to touch them; they did not look attractive
to her.
"Rotha," said Mr. Digby, as he opened a fine, fat oyster, "the only way
to know things is, to submit to learn."
"I needn't learn to like oysters, I suppose, need I?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It might be useful some day."
"I don't see how it should. We never had oysters before, and perhaps we
never shall again."
"You might go a missionary to some South Sea island, and be obliged at
times to live upon oysters."
"I am not going to be a missionary."
"That is more than you know."
"But I know what I like, and what I think."
"At present. Perhaps you do. You do not know whether you like oysters,
however, for you have not tried."
"Your sphere of knowledge will be small, Rotha," said her mother, "if you
refuse to enlarge it."
Stung a little, Rotha made up her mind to try an oyster, to which her
objections were twofold. Nevertheless, she was obliged to confess, she
liked it; and the meal, as I said, went merrily on; Rotha from that time
doing her fall share. Mrs. Carpenter was plainly refreshed and comforted,
by the social as well as the material food she received.
"How good he is!" she exclaimed when their friend was gone.
"So are the oysters," said Rotha; "but I don't like him to bring them. I
do not think I like Mr. Digby much, anyhow."
"You surprise me. And it is not a little ungrateful."
"I don't want to be grateful to him. And mother, I _don't_ like him to
bring oysters here!"
"Why shouldn't he, if he likes? I am sorry to see such pride in you,
Rotha. It is _very_ foolish, my child."
"Mother, it looks as if he knew we were poor."
"He knows it, of course. Am I not making his shirts?"
Rotha was silent, clearing away the dishes and oyster shells with a good
deal of decision and dissatisfaction revealed in her movements.
"Everybody knows it, my child."
"I do not mind everybody. I just mind him. He is different. Why is he
different, mother?"
"I suppose the difference you mean is, that he is a gentleman."
"And what are we?" said Rotha, suddenly standing still to put the
question.
"We are respectable people," said her mother smiling.
"Not gentlemen, of course; but what do you call us?"
"If I could call you a Christian, Rotha, I should not care for anything
else; at least I should not be concerned about it. Everything else would
be right."
"Being a Christian would not make any difference in what I am talking
about."
"I think it would; but I cannot talk to you about it, Ask Mr. Digby the
next time he comes."
"Ask _him!_" cried Rotha. "I guess I will! What makes you think he is
coming again, mother?"
"It would be like him."
CHAPTER V.
PRIVATE TUITION.
More days passed however, than either of them expected, before Mr. Digby
came again. They were days of stern cold winter weather, in which it was
sometimes difficult to keep their little rooms comfortable without
burning more coal than Mrs. Carpenter thought she could afford. Rotha ran
along the streets to the corner shop where she bought tea and sugar, not
quite so well wrapped up but that she found a quick pace useful to
protect her from the cold; and Mrs. Carpenter wrought at her sewing
sometimes with stiffened fingers.
"Mother," said Rotha, one day, "_I_ think it would be better to do without
tea and have a little more fire."
"I do not know how to get along without tea," Mrs. Carpenter said with a
sigh.
"But you are getting along without almost everything else."
"We do very well yet," answered the mother patiently.
"Do we?" said Rotha. "If this is what you call very well-- Mother, you
cannot live upon tea."
"I feel as if I could not live without it."
"Has Mr. Digby given you any money yet?"
"The shirts are only just finished."
"And what are you going to do now? But he'll pay you a good many dollars,
won't he, mother? Twenty four, for twelve shirts. But there is eight to
be paid for rent, I know, and that leaves only sixteen. And he can afford
to pay the whole twenty four, just for a dozen shirts! Mother, I don't
think some people have a _right_ to be so rich, while others are so poor."
"'The Lord maketh poor and maketh rich,'"--Mrs. Carpenter answered.
"Why does he?"
"Sometimes, I think, he wishes to teach his children to depend on him."
"Couldn't they do it if they were rich?"
"There is great danger they would not."
"You would, mother."
"Perhaps not. But I have always enough, Rotha."
"Enough!" echoed Rotha. "Enough! when you haven't had a good dinner
since-- Mother, there he is again, I do believe!"
And she had hardly time to remove the empty tea cup and, alas! empty
plates, which testified to their meagre fare, when the knock came and Mr.
Digby shewed himself. He explained that he had been out of town; made
careful inquiries as to Mrs. Carpenter's health; paid for the shirts; and
finally turned to Rotha.
"How is my friend here doing?"
"We always go on just the same way," said Rotha. But he could see that
the girl was thin, and pale; and that just at an age when she was growing
fast and needing abundant food, she was not getting it.
"Ask Mr. Digby your question, Rotha," her mother said.
"I do not want to ask him any questions," the girl answered defiantly.
But Mrs. Carpenter went on.
"Rotha wants to know what a gentleman is; and I was not able to discuss
the point satisfactorily with her. I told her to ask you."
Rotha did not ask, however, and there was silence.
"Rotha is fond of asking questions," Mr. Digby observed.
"What makes you think so?" she retorted.
He smiled. "It is a very good habit--provided of course that the
questions are properly put."
"I like to ask mother questions," Rotha said, drawing in a little.
"I have no doubt you would like to ask me questions, if you once got into
the way of it. Habit is everything."
"Not quite everything, in this," said Rotha. "There must be something
before the habit."
"Yes. There must be a beginning."
"I meant something else."
"Did you? May I ask, what did you mean?"
"I mean a good deal," said Rotha. "Before one could get a habit like
that, one must know that the person could answer the questions; and
besides, that he would like to have them asked."
"In my case I will pledge myself for the second qualification; about the
first you must learn by experience. Suppose you try."
His manner was so pleasant and well bred, and Rotha felt that she had
gone so near the edge of politeness, she found it best for this time to
comply.
"I asked mother one day what is the meaning of a 'gentleman'; and I
suppose she was too tired to talk to me, for she said I had better ask
you."
"O he did me honour."
"Well, what is it then, Mr. Digby."
"I should say, it is the counterpart to a 'lady.'"
"But isn't everybody that is grown up, a 'lady'?--every woman, I mean?"
"No more than every grown up man is a gentleman."
Rotha stood looking at him, and the young man on his part regarded her
with more attention than usual. He was suddenly touched with compassion
for the girl. She stood, half doubtful, half proud, dimly conscious of
her enormous ignorance, and with an inward monition of a whole world of
knowledge to be acquired, yet beyond her reach; at the same time her look
shewed capacity enough both to understand and to feel. Rotha was now
nearly fourteen, with mental powers just opening and personal gifts just
beginning to dawn. The child's complexion told of poor feeding and want
of air and exercise; it was sallow, and her features were sharp; but her
hair was beautiful in its lustrous, dark abundance; the eyes shewed the
fire of native passion and intelligence; the mouth was finely cut and
expressed half a dozen things in as many minutes. "Poor child!" thought
the visiter; "what is to become of her, with all this latent power and
possibility?"
"A gentleman, Rotha," he said aloud, "may be defined as a person who in
all manner of little things keeps the golden rule--does to everybody as
he would be done by; and knows how."
"In little things? Not in great things?"
"One may do it in great things, and not be a gentleman in manner; though
certainly in heart."
"Then it is manner?"
"Very much."
"And a lady the same way?"
"Of course."
"What sort of little things?" said Rotha curiously.
"A lady in the first place will be always careful and delicate about her
own person and dress; it does not depend upon what she wears, but how she
wears it; a lady might wear patches, but never could be untidy. Then, in
all her moving, speaking, and acting, she will be gentle, quiet, and
polite. And in her behaviour to others, she will give everybody the
respect that is due, and never put herself forward. 'In honour preferring
one another,' is the Bible rule, and it is the law of good breeding. And
the Bible says, 'Honour all men;' and, 'Be courteous.'--Have I spoken
according to your mind, Mrs. Carpenter?"
"Beautifully," said the silent, pale seamstress, never stopping her
needle. "Better than I could have done it. Now you know, Rotha."
Rotha stood considering, uneasy.
"What is the next question?" said Mr. Digby smiling.
"I was thinking--" said Rotha. "Mustn't one know a good deal, to do all
that?"
"To do what, for instance?"
"To give everybody the respect that is due; it is not the same to
everybody, is it?"
"No, certainly."
"How can one know?"
"There _is_ a good deal to be learned in this world, before one can hold
the balance scales to weigh out to each one exactly what belongs to him,"
Mr. Digby admitted.
"That is one of my troubles," said Mrs. Carpenter looking up. "I cannot
give my child an education. I do a little at home; it is better than
nothing; but I feel that my power grows less and less; and Rotha's needs
are more and more."
"What do you know, Rotha?" said Mr. Digby.
"I don't know much of anything!" said the girl, an eloquent flush coming
into her pale face. It touched him.
"A little of what, then?" said their visiter kindly.
"You would not say it was anything."
"She knows a little history," Mrs. Carpenter put in.
"Have you any acquaintance with Alexander of Macedon, Rotha?"
"The Great? asked Rotha.
"He is called so."
"Yes, I know about him."
"Think he deserved the title?"
"Yes, I suppose he did."
"What for?"
"He was such a clever man."
"Well, I have no doubt he was," Mr. Digby returned, keeping a perfectly
grave face with some difficulty; "a clever man; but how did he shew it?"
Rotha paused, and a faint tinge, of excitement this time, rose again in
her cheeks, and her eye waked up with the mental stir. "He had such grand
plans," she answered.
"Ah? yes. Which do you mean?"
"For civilizing people; for bringing the different nations to know each
other and be friends with each other; so that trade could be carried on,
and knowledge and arts and civilization could spread to all; that his
empire could be one great whole."
"On the whole you approve of Alexander. After all, what use was he to the
world?"
"Why a good deal," said Rotha. "Don't you think so? His successors
carried on his plans; at least some of them did; and the Greek language
was spread through Asia, and the Jews encouraged to settle in Egyptian
and Greek cities; and so the way was prepared for the spread of the
gospel when it came."
"Mrs. Carpenter," said Mr. Digby, "your manner of teaching history is
very satisfactory!"
"I have done what I could," said the mother, "but we had very few books
to work with."
"We had none," said Rotha, "except Rollin's Ancient History, and
Plutarch's Lives."
"One good book, well used, is worth a hundred under other circumstances.
Then you do not know much of modern history, Rotha?"
"Nothing at all; except what mother has told me."
"How about grammar?"
"I have taught her grammar," said Mrs. Carpenter; "and geography. She
knows both pretty well. But I found, with my work, I could not teach her
arithmetic; and I had not a good book for it. Rotha can do nothing with
numbers."
Mr. Digby gave the girl a simple question in mental arithmetic; and then
another, and another. Rotha's brow grew intent; the colour in her cheeks
brightened; she was grappling, it was plain, with the difficulties
suggested to her, wrestling with them, conquering them, with the sort of
zeal which conquers all difficulties not insurmountable.
"May I give Rotha lessons in Latin?" Mr. Digby asked, turning quietly to
Rotha's mother.
"Latin!" Mrs. Carpenter exclaimed, and her cheeks too flushed slightly.
"I should enjoy it. It is likely that important business will bring me
frequently into this part of the city; so I could do it as well as not."
"But it would be so much trouble--unless you are fond of teaching--"
"I am fond of teaching--when I find somebody that can learn."
"You are very kind!--I should be very glad--Poor Rotha, I have been
unable to do for her what I wished--"
"I think you have done admirably, from the slight specimen I have had.
How much time can she give to study?"
"O she has time enough. She is much more idle than I like to have her."
"Then that is arranged. I am going to send you a few raw oysters, Mrs.
Carpenter; and I wish you would eat them at all times of day, whenever
you feel like it. I knew a very slender lady once, who grew to very ample
proportions by following such a regimen. Try what they will do for you."
A grateful, silent look thanked him, and he took his departure. Rotha,
who had been standing silent and cloudy, now burst forth.
"Mother!--I do not want him to teach me!"
"Why not, my child? I think he is very kind.'
"Kind! I don't want to be taught out of kindness; and I _don't_ want
_him_ to teach me, mother!"
"What's the matter?" for Rotha was flushed and fierce.
"I can learn without him. It is none of his business, whether I learn or
not. And if I shouldn't say something just right, and he should find
fault, I should be so angry I shouldn't know what to do!"
"You talk as if you were angry now."
"Well I am! Why did you say yes, mother?"
"Would you have had me say no?"
"Yes! I don't want to learn Latin anyhow. What's the use of my learning
Latin? And of him,--O mother, mother!"
And Rotha burst into impatient and impotent tears.
"Why not of Mr. Digby?" said her mother soothingly.
"O he is so--I can't tell!--he's so uppish."
"He is not _uppish_ at all. I am ashamed of you, Rotha."
"Well, nothing puts him out. He is just always the same; and he thinks
everything must be as he says. I don't like him to come here teaching
me."
"What folly is this? He is a gentleman, that's all. Do you dislike him
for being a gentleman?"
"I'm not a lady"--sobbed Rotha.
"What has that to do with it?"
"Mother, I wish I could be a lady!"
"My child, Mr. Digby told you how."
"No, he didn't. He told me _what_ it was; he didn't tell me how I could
get all that."
"You can follow the Bible roles, at any rate, Rotha; and they go a good
way."
"No, I can't, mother. I could if I were a Christian, I suppose; but I am
not I can't 'honour all men'; I don't know how; and I can't prefer others
before myself I prefer myself But if I could, that wouldn't make me a
lady."
Mrs. Carpenter did not know what to do with this passion, the cause of
which she was at a loss to understand. It was very real; Rotha sobbed;
and her mother was at a loss how to comfort her. What dim, far-off
recognition was this, of powers and possibilities in life--or in herself
--of which the girl had hitherto no experience and no knowledge? It was
quite just Mrs. Carpenter, herself refined and essentially lady-like,
knew very well that her little girl was not growing up to be a lady; she
had laid that off, along with several other subjects of care, as beyond
her reach to deal with; but Rotha's appeal smote a tender spot in her
heart, and she was puzzled how to answer her. Perhaps it was just as well
that she took refuge in her usual silence and did not try any further.
As Mr. Digby was going through the little passage way to the front door,
another door opened and Mrs. Marble's head was put out.
"Good morning!" she said. "You're a friend of those folks up stairs, aint
you?"
"Yes, certainly."
"Well, what do you think of her?" she said, lowering her voice.
"I think you are a happy woman, to have such lodgers, Mrs. Marble."
"I guess I know as much as that," said the mantua-maker, with her
pleasant, arch smile. "I meant something else. _I_ think, she's a sick
woman."
Mr. Digby did not commit himself.
"I'm worried to death about her," Mrs. Marble went on. "Her cough's bad,
and it's growin' worse; and she aint fit to be workin' this minute. And
what's goin' to become of her?"
"The Lord takes care of his children; and she is one."
"If there is such a thing!" said the mantua-maker, a quick tear dimming
her eye. "But you see, I have my own work, and I can't leave it to do
much for her; and she won't let me, neither; and I am thinkin' about it
day and night. She aint fit to work, this minute. And there's the child;
and they haven't a living soul to care for them, as I see, in all the
world. They never have a letter, and they never get a visit, except
your'n."
"Rent paid?" asked the gentleman low.
"Always! never miss. But I'm thinkin'--how do they live? That child's
grown thin--she's like a piece o' wiggin'; she'll hold up when there's
nothin' to her."
Mr. Digby could not help laughing.
"I thought, if you can't help, nobody can. What's to become of them if
she gets worse? That child can't do for her."
"Thank you, Mrs. Marble; you are but touching what I have thought of
myself. I will see what can be done."
"And don't be long about it," said the mantua-maker with a nod of her
head as she closed the door.
Perhaps it was owing to Mrs. Marble's suggestions that Mr. Digby made his
next visit the day but one next after; perhaps they were the cause that
he did not come sooner! At any rate, in two days he came again; and
brought with him not only a Latin grammar, but a paper of grapes for Mrs.
Carpenter. At the grammar Rotha's soul rebelled; but what displeasure
could stand against those beautiful grapes and the sight of her mother
eating them? They were not very good, Mr. Digby said; he would bring
better next time; though to the sick woman they were ambrosia, and to
Rotha an unknown, most exquisite dainty. Seeing her delighted, wondering
eyes, Mr. Digby with a smile broke off part of a bunch and gave to her.
"It shall not rob your mother," he said observing that she hesitated. "I
will bring her some more."
Rotha tasted.
"O mother!" she exclaimed in ecstasy,--"I should think these would make
you well right off!"
Mr. Digby opened the Latin grammar. I think he wanted an excuse for
veiling his eyes just then. And Rotha, mollified, when she had finished
her grapes, submitted patiently to receive her first lesson and to be
told what her teacher expected her to do before he came again.
"By the way," said he as he was about going,--"have you any more room
than you need, Mrs. Carpenter?"
"Room? no. We have this floor--" said Mrs. Carpenter bewilderedly.
"You have not one room that you could let? I know a very respectable
person, an elderly woman, who I think would be comfortable here, if you
would allow her to come. She could pay well for the accommodation."
"What would be 'well'?" said Mrs. Carpenter, looking up.
"According to the arrangement, of course. For a room without a fire, she
would pay four dollars a month; with fire, I should say, twelve."
"That would be a great help to me," said Mrs. Carpenter, considering.
"I know the person, I have known her a great while. I think I can promise
that she would not in any way annoy you."
"She brings her own furniture?"
"Of course."
After a little more turning the matter over in her mind, Mrs. Carpenter
gave an unqualified assent to the proposal; and her visiter took his
leave.
"Mother," said Rotha, "what room are you going to give her?"
"There is but one; our bed-room."
"Then where shall we sleep?"
"Here."
"Here! Where we do everything!--"
"It is not so pleasant; but it will pay our rent, Rotha. And I should
like a little more warmth at night, now the weather is so severe."
"O mother, mother! We have got down to two rooms, and now we are come
down to one!"
"Hush, my child. I am thankful."
"Thankful!"
"Yes, for the means to pay my rent."
"You might have had means to pay your rent, and kept your two rooms,"
said Rotha; thinking, like a great many other people, that she could
improve upon Providence.
"How do you like Latin?"
"If you mean, how I like _Sermo Sermonis_, I don't like it at all. And it
is just ridiculous for Mr. Digby to be giving me lessons."
The new lodger moved in the very next week. She was a portly,
comfortable-looking, kindly-natured woman, whom Mrs. Carpenter liked from
the first. She established herself quietly in her quarters and almost as
soon began to shew herself neighbourly and helpful. One day Mrs.
Carpenter's cough was particularly troublesome. Mrs. Cord came in and
suggested a palliative which she had known often to work comfortingly.
She procured it and prepared it herself, and then administered it, and
begged permission to cook Mrs. Carpenter's dinner; and shook up the
pillow at her back, and set the rocking chair at an inclined angle which
gave support and relief. When she had done all she could, she went away;
but she came in again as soon as there was fresh occasion for her
services, and rendered them with a hearty good will which made them
doubly acceptable, and with a ready skill and power of resources which
would have roused in any sophisticated mind the suspicion that Mrs. Cord
was a trained nurse. Mrs. Carpenter suspected no such thing; she only
felt the blessed benefit, and told Mr. Digby what a boon the new lodger
had become to her.
So the winter, the latter part of it, passed in rather more comfort to
the invalid. She did not work quite so steadily, and in good truth she
would have been unable; she was free of anxieties about debt, for the
rent was sure; and of other things they bought only what they could pay
for. The fare might so have been meagre sometimes; were it not that
supplies seemed to come in, irregularly but opportunely, in such very
pertinent and apt ways that all sorts of gaps in the housekeeping were
filled up. Mr. Digby kept their larder stocked with oysters, for one
thing. Then he would bring a bit of particularly nice salmon he had
found; or fresh eggs that he got from an old woman down town near one of
the ferries, whom he said he could trust. Or he brought some new tea for
Mrs. Carpenter to try; sometimes a sweetbread, or a fresh lobster, from
the market. Then it was remarkable how often Mr. Digby was tempted by the
sight of game; and came with prairie chickens, quails, partridges and
ducks, to tempt, as he said, Mrs. Carpenter's appetite. And at last he
brought her wine. There had grown up between the two, by this time, a
relation of great kindness and even affection. Ever since one day Mrs.
Carpenter had been attacked by a terrible fit of coughing when he was
there; and the young man had waited upon her and ministered to her in a
way that Rotha had neither strength for nor skill, and also with a
tenderness which she could not have surpassed. And Rotha could be tender
where her mother was concerned. Ever since that day Mr. Digby had
assumed, and been allowed, something like a son's place in the little
family; and Mrs. Carpenter only smiled at him when he appeared with new
tokens of his thoughtfulness and care.
Rotha did not accept him quite so easily. She was somewhat jealous of his
favour and of the authority he exercised; for without making the fact in
any way obtrusive, a fact it was, that Mr. Digby did what he pleased. It
pleased Mrs. Carpenter too; it did not quite please Rotha.
Yet in the matter of the lessons it was as much a fact as anywhere else.
Mr. Digby had it quite his own way. To Mrs. Carpenter this 'way' seemed a
marvel of kindness, and her gratitude was unbounded. A feeling which
Rotha's heart did not at all share. She got her lessons, it is true; she
did what was required of her; it soon amused Mrs. Carpenter to see with
what punctilious care she did it; for in the abstract Rotha was not fond
of application. She was one of those who love to walk in at the doors of
knowledge, but do not at all enjoy forging the keys with which the locks
must be opened. And forging keys was the work at which she was now kept
busy. Rotha always knew her tasks, but she came to her recitations with a
sort of reserved coldness, as if inwardly resenting or rebelling, which
there is no doubt she did.
"Mr. Digby, what is the good of my knowing Latin?" she ventured to ask
one day.
"You know a little about farming, do you not, Rotha?" was the counter
question.
"More than a little bit, I guess."
"Do you? Then you know perhaps what is the use of ploughing the ground?"
"To make it soft. What ground are you ploughing with Latin, Mr. Digby?"
"The ground of your mind; to get it into working order."
This intimation incensed Rotha. She was too vexed to speak. All this
trouble just to get her mind into working order?
"Is that all Latin is good for?" she asked at length.
"By no means. But if it were--that is no small benefit. Not only to get
the ground in working order, but to develope the good qualities of it; as
for instance, the power of concentration, the power of attention, the
power of discernment."
"I can concentrate my attention when I have a mind to," said Rotha.
"That is well. I am going to give you something else to do which will
practise you in that."
"What, Mr. Digby?" With all her impatience Rotha was careful to observe
the forms of politeness with her teacher. He silently handed her an
arithmetic.
"Oh!--" said the girl, drawing out the word"--I have done sums, Mr.
Digby."
"How far?"
It turned out that Rotha's progress in that walk of learning had been
limited to a very few steps. And even in those few steps, Mr. Digby's
tests and questions gave her a half hour of sharp work; so sharp as to
bar other thoughts for the time. Rotha shewed in this half hour
uumistakeable capacity for the science of numbers; nevertheless, when her
teacher went away leaving her a good lesson in arithmetic to study along
with her Latin grammar, Rotha spoke herself dissatisfied.
"Am I to learn just whatever Mr. Digby chooses to give me?" she asked.
"I thought you liked learning, Rotha?"
"Yes, mother; so I do. I like learning well enough; I don't like him to
say what I shall learn."
"Why not? Mr. Digby is very kind, Rotha!"
"He may mean it for kindness. I don't know what he means it for."
"It is nothing but pure goodness," said the mother with a grateful sigh.
"Well, is he to give me everything to learn that he takes into his head?"
"Rotha, a teacher could not be kinder or more patient than Mr. Digby is
with you."
"I don't try his patience, mother."
It was true enough; she did not. She had often tried her mother's; with
Mr. Digby Rotha was punctual, thorough, prompt and docile. Whether it
were pride or a mingling of something better,--and Rotha did love
learning,--she never gave occasion for a point of blame. It was not
certainly that Mr. Digby was harsh or stern, or used a manner calculated
to make anybody fear him; unless indeed it were the perfectness of good
breeding which he always shewed, here in the poor sempstress's room, and
in his lessons to the sempstress's child. Rotha had never seen the like
in anybody before; and that more than ought else probably wrought in her
such a practical awe of him. Mrs. Carpenter was even half amused to
observe how Rotha unconsciously in his presence was adopting certain
points of his manner; she was quiet; she moved with moderate steps; she
spoke in low tones; she did not fly out in impatient or angular words or
gestures, as was her way often enough at other times. Yet her mother
knew, and wondered why, Rotha rebelled in secret against the whole thing.
For herself, she was growing into a love for Mr. Digby which was almost
like that of a mother for a son; as indeed his manner towards her was
much like that of a son towards his mother. It was not the benefits
conferred and received; it was a closer bond which drew them together,
and a deeper relation. They looked into each other's faces, and saw
there, each in the other, what each recognized as the signature of a
handwriting that they loved; the stamp of a likeness that was to them
both the fairest of all earthly things. Then came the good offices
rendered and accepted; the frequent familiar intercourse; the purely
human conditions of acquaintanceship and friendship; and it was no matter
of surprise if by and by the care on the one part and the dependence on
the other grew to be a thing most natural and most sweet.
So it came about, that by degrees the look of things changed in Mrs.
Carpenter's small dwelling place. As the cold of the winter began to give
way to the harshness of spring, and March winds blew high, the gaseous
fumes from the little anthracite coal stove provoked Mrs. Carpenter's
cough sadly. "She was coughing all day," Mrs. Cord told their friend in
private; "whenever the wind blew and the gas came into the room." Mr.
Digby took his measures. The little cooking stove was removed; a little
disused grate behind it was opened; and presently a gentle fire of
Liverpool coal was burning there. The atmosphere of the room as well as
the physiognomy of it was entirely changed; and Mrs. Carpenter hung over
the fire and spread out her hands to it with an expression of delight on
her wasted face which it was touching to see. Mr. Digby saw it, and
perhaps to divert the feeling which rose in him, began to find fault with
something else.
"That's a very uncomfortable chair you are sitting in!" he said with a
strong expression of disapproval.
"O it does very well indeed," answered Mrs. Carpenter. "I want nothing, I
think, having this delightful fire."
"How do you rest when you are tired?"
"I lean back. Or I lie down sometimes."
"Humph! Beds are very well at night. I do not think they are at all
satisfactory by day."
"Why what would you have?" said Mrs. Carpenter, smiling at him.
"I'll see."
It was the next day only after this that Rotha, having finished her work
for her teacher and nothing else at the moment calling for attention, was
standing at the window looking out into the narrow street. The region was
poor, but not squalid; nevertheless it greatly stirred Rotha's disgust.
If New York is ever specially disagreeable, it finds the occasion in a
certain description of March weather; and this was such an occasion. It
was very cold; the fire in the grate was well made up and burning
beautifully and the room was pleasant enough; but outside there were
gusts that were almost little whirlwinds coursing up and down every
street, carrying with them columns and clouds of dust. The dust
accordingly lay piled up on one side of the way, swept off from the rest
of the street; not lying there peacefully, but caught up again from time
to time, whirled through the air, shaken out upon everybody and
everything in its way, and finally swept to one side and deposited again.
"It's the most horrid weather, mother, you can think of!" Rotha reported
from her post of observation. "I shouldn't think anybody would be out;
but I suppose they can't help it. A good many people are going about,
anyhow. Some of them are so poorly dressed, mother! there was a woman
went by just now, carrying a basket; I should say she had very little on
indeed under her gown; the wind just took it and wrapped it round her,
and she looked as slim as a post."
"Poor creature!" said Mrs. Carpenter.
"Mother, we never saw people like that in Medwayville."
"No."
"Why are they here, and not there?"
"You must ask Mr. Digby."
"I don't want to ask Mr. Digby!--There are two boys; ragged;--and
barefooted. I don't know what they are out for; they have nothing to do;
they are just playing round an ash-barrel. I should think they'd be at
home."
"Such people's home is often worse than the streets."
"But you don't know how it blows to-day. I should think, mother," said
Rotha slowly, "New York must want a great many good people in it."
"There are a great many good people in it."
"What are they doing, then?"
"Looking out for Number One, mostly," Mrs. Cord answered, who happened to
be in the room.
"But it wants people rich enough to look out for Number One, and for
Number Two as well."
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. She knew there were more sides to the problem than
the simple "one and two" which appeared to Rotha.
"There comes a coal cart, mother; that has to go, I suppose, for somebody
wants it. I should hate to drive a coal cart! Mother, who wants it here?
It is backing down upon our sidewalk."
"Mrs. Marble, I suppose."
"No, she don't; she has got her coal all in; and this isn't her coal at
all; it is in big lumps some of it, like what came for the grate, and it
isn't shiny like the stove coal. It must be for you, I guess."
Rotha ran down to see, and came back with the receipt for her mother to
sign. Mrs. Carpenter signed with a trembling hand, and Rotha flew away
again.
"It is a whole cart-load, mother," she said coming back.
"There is one good rich man in New York," said Mrs. Carpenter
tremulously.
"Do you think he is rich?"
"I fancy so."
"He hasn't spent so very much on us, has he?" asked Rotha consideringly.
"It seems much to me. More than our share, I am afraid."
"Our share of what?"
"His kindness."
"Who has the other shares?"
"I cannot tell. Other people he knows, that are in need of it."
"Mother, we are not in _need_ of it, are we? We could get along without
oysters, I suppose. But what I am thinking of is, if he gives other
people as good a share of his time as he gives us, he cannot live at home
much. Where _does_ Mr. Digby live, Mrs. Cord?"
"I don't know as I can say, Rotha. It is a hotel somewheres, I believe."
"I should not think anybody would live in a hotel," said Rotha,
remembering her own and her mother's experience of the "North River."
"Now here comes another cart the carts have to go in all sorts of times;
but O how the dust blows about! This cart is carrying something--I can't
see what it's all wrapped up."
"My dear Rotha," said her mother, "I am not interested to know what the
carts in the street are doing. Are you?"
"This one is stopping, mother. It is stopping _here!_"
"Well, my dear, what if it is. It is no business of ours."
"The other cart was our business, though; how do you know, mother? It has
stopped here, and the man is taking the thing off."
Mrs. Cord came to the window to look, and then went down stairs. Rotha,
seeing that the object of her interest, whatever it were, had disappeared
within doors, presently followed her. In the little bit of a hall below
stood a large something which completely filled it up; and on one side
and on the other, Mrs. Marble and Mrs. Cord were taking off the wrappings
in which it was enfolded.
"Well, I declare!" said the former, when they had done. "Aint that
elegant!"
"Just like him," said Mrs. Cord. "I guessed this was coming, or something
like it."
"What is it?" asked Rotha.
"How much does a thing like that cost, now?" Mrs. Marble went on. "Oh see
the dust on it! There's a half bushel or less. Here--wait till I get my
brush.--How is it ever to go up stairs? that's what I'm lookin' at."
Help had to be called in; and meantime Rotha rushed up stairs and
informed her mother that a chair was come for her that was like nothing
she had ever seen in her life; "soft all over," as Rotha expressed it;
"back and sides and all soft as a pillow, and yet harder than a pillow;
like as if it were on springs everywhere;" which was no doubt the truth
of the case. "It's like getting into a nest, mother; I sat down in it;
there's no hard place anywhere; there's no wood to it, that you can see."
When a little later the chair made its appearance, and Mrs. Carpenter
sank down into its springy depths, it is a pity that Mr. Digby could not
have heard the low long-drawn 'Oh!--' of satisfaction and relief and
wonder together, which came from her lips. Rotha stood and looked at her.
Mrs. Carpenter was resting, in a very abandonment of rest; but in the
abandonment of the moment shewing, as she did not use to shew it, the
great enervation and prostration of her system. Her head, leaning back on
the soft support it found, her hands laid exhaustedly on one side and on
the other, the motionless pose of her whole person, struck Rotha with
some strange new consciousness.
"Is it good?" she asked shortly.
"Very!" The word was almost a sigh.
"What makes you so weak to-day?"
"I am not weaker than usual."
"You don't always look like that."
"She's never had anything like that to rest in before," Mrs. Cord
suggested. "A bed aint like one o' them chairs, for supportin' one
everywhere alike. You let her rest, Rotha. Will you have an oyster,
dear?"
Rotha sat down at the corner of the fireplace and stared at her mother;
taking the oyster, and yet not relinquishing that air of helpless
lassitude. She was not sewing either; and had not been sewing, Rotha
remembered, except by snatches, for several days past. Rotha sat and
gazed at her, an anxious shadow falling upon her features.
"You needn't look like that at her," said the good woman who was
preparing Mrs. Carpenter's glass of wine; "she'll be rested now in a
little, and feel nicely. She's been a wantin' this, or something o' this
sort; but there aint nothing better than one o' them spring chairs, for
resting your back and your head and every inch of you at once. Now she's
got her oyster and somethin' else, and she'll pick up, you'll see."
"How good it is you came to live here," said the sick woman. "I do not
know what we should do without you. You seem to understand just how
everything ought to be done."
"Mother," said Rotha, "do you think I couldn't take care of you just as
well? Didn't I, before Mrs. Cord came?"
"You haven't had quite so much experience, you see," put in the latter.
"Didn't I, mother?" the girl said passionately.
Mrs. Carpenter answered only by opening her arms; and Rotha coming into
them, sat down lightly upon her mother's lap and hid her head on her
bosom. A shadow of, she knew not what, had fallen across her, and she was
very still. Mrs. Carpenter folded her arms close about her child; and so
they sat for a good while. Mother and daughter, each had her own
thoughts; but those of the one were dim and confused as ever thoughts
could be. The other's were sharp and clear. Rotha had an uneasy sense
that her mother's strength was not gaining but losing; an uneasy
impatience of her lassitude and powerlessness, which yet she could not at
all read. Mrs. Carpenter read it well.
She knew of a surety that her days were numbered; and not only so, but
that the number of them was running out. Many cares she had not, in view
of this fact; but one importunate, overwhelming, intolerable, were it not
that the mother's faith was fixed where faith is never disappointed. Even
so, she was human; and the question, what would be the fate of her little
daughter when she herself was gone, pressed hard and pressed constantly,
and found no solution. So the two were sitting, in each other's arms,
mute and thoughtful, when Mr. Digby came in.
Rotha did not stir, and he came up to them, bent down by the side of the
chair and took Mrs. Carpenter's hand. If he put the usual question, Mrs.
Carpenter did not answer it; her eyes met his silently. There was a power
of grateful love and also of grave foreboding in her quiet face; one of
those looks which from an habitually self-contained spirit come with so
much power on any one capable of understanding them. The young man's eyes
fell from her to Rotha; the two faces were very near each other; and for
the first time Rotha's defiance gave place to a little bit of liking. She
had not seen her mother's look; but she had watched Mr. Digby's eyes as
they answered it, in their ear nest, intent expression, and then as the
eyes came to her she felt the warm ray of kindness and sympathy which
beamed from them. A moment it was, but Rotha was Mr. Digby's opponent no
more from that time.
"You seem to be having a pleasant rest," he remarked in his usual calm
way. "I hope you have got all your work done for me?"
"I never do rest till my work is done," said the girl.
"That is a very good plan. Will you prove the fact on the present
occasion?"
Rotha unwillingly left her place.
"Mr. Digby, what sort of a chair is this?"
"A spring chair."
"It is a very good thing."
"I am glad it meets your approbation."
"It meets mother's too. Do you see how she rests in it?"
"Does she rest?" asked the young man, rather of Mrs. Carpenter than of
her daughter.
"All the body can," she answered with a faint smile.
"'Underneath are the everlasting arms'--" he said.
But that word caused a sudden gush of tears on the sick woman's part; she
hid her face; and Mr. Digby called off Rotha at once to her recitations.
He kept her very busy at them for some time; Latin and arithmetic and
grammar came under review; and then he proceeded to put a pen in her hand
and give her a dictation lesson; criticised her handwriting, set her a
copy, and fully engrossed Rotha's eyes and mind.
CHAPTER VI.
A LEGACY.
"Mother," said Rotha, when their visiter was again gone and her copy was
done and she had returned to her mother's side, "I never knew before to-
day that Mr. Digby has handsome eyes."
"How did you find it out to-day?"
"I had a good look at them, and they looked at me so."
"How?"
"I don't know--as if they meant a good deal, and good. Don't you think he
has handsome eyes, mother?"
"I always knew that. He is a very fine-looking man altogether."
"Is he? I suppose he is. Only he likes to have his own way."
"I wonder if somebody else doesn't, that I know?"
"That's the very thing, mother. If I didn't, I suppose I shouldn't care.
But when Mr. Digby says anything, he always looks as if he expected it to
be just so, and everybody to mind him."
Mrs. Carpenter could not help laughing, albeit she was by no means in a
laughing mood. Her laugh was followed by a sigh.
"What makes you draw a long breath, mother?"
"I wish you could govern that temper of yours, my child."
"Why, mother? Haven't I as good a right to my own way as Mr. Digby, or
anybody?"
"Few people can have their own way in the world; and a woman least of
all."
"Why?"
"She generally has to mind the will of somebody else."
"But that isn't fair."
"It is the way things are."
"Mother, it may be the way with some people; but _I_ have got nobody to
mind?"
"Your mother?--"
"O yes; but that isn't it. You are a woman. There is no man I must mind."
"If you ever grow up and marry somebody, there will be."
"I would _never_ marry anybody I had to mind!" said the girl
energetically.
"You are the very person that would do it," said the mother; putting her
hand fondly upon Rotha's cheek. "My little daughter!--If only I knew that
you were willing to obey the Lord Jesus Christ, I could be easy about
you."
"And aren't, you easy about me?"
"No," said the mother sadly.
"Would you be easy if I was a Christian?"
Mrs. Carpenter nodded. There was a pause.
"I would like to be a Christian, mother, if it would make you feel easy;
but--somehow--I don't want to."
"I know that."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you hold off. If you were once willing, the thing would be
done."
There was silence again; till Rotha suddenly broke it by asking,
"Mother, can I help my will?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why! If I don't want to be a Christian, can I make myself want to?"
"That seems to me a foolish question," said her mother. "Suppose you do
not want to do something I tell you to do; need that hinder your
obeying?"
"But this is different."
"I do not see how it is different."
"What is being a Christian, then?"
"You know, Rotha."
"But tell me, mother. I don't know if I know."
"You ought to know. A Christian is one who loves and serves the Lord
Jesus."
"And then he can't do what he has a mind to," said Rotha.
"Yes, he can; unless it is something wrong."
"Well, he can't do _what he has a mind to;_ he must always be asking."
"That is not hard, if one loves the Lord."
"But I don't love him, mother."
"No," said Mrs. Carpenter sadly.
"Can I make myself love him?"
"No; but that is foolish talk."
"I don't see why it is foolish, I am sure. I wish I did love him, if it
would make you feel better."
"I should not have a care left!" said Mrs. Carpenter, with a sort of
breath of longing.
"Why not, mother?"
"Get the Bible and read the 121st psalm,--slowly."
Rotha obeyed.
"'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My
help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth'"--
"There! if you were one of the Lord's dear children, you would say that;
that would be true of you. Now go on, and see what the Lord says to it;
see what would follow."
Rotha went on.
"'He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not
slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor
sleep.'--_Israel_, mother."
"The true Israel are the Lord's true children, of any nation."
"Are they? Well--'The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy
right hand; the sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul.
The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time
forth, and even for evermore. Praise ye the Lord.'"
"Would anybody be well kept that was kept so?" Mrs. Carpenter broke
forth, with the tears running down her face. "O my little Rotha! my
little daughter! if I knew you in that care, how blessed I should be!"
The tears streamed, and Mrs. Carpenter in vain tried to wipe them dry.
Rotha looked on, troubled, and a little conscience-stricken.
"Mother," she began, "don't he take care of anybody except Christians?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter; "he takes care of the children of Christians;
and so I have faith that he will take care of you; but it is not just so.
If you will not come to him now, he may take painful ways to bring you;
if you will not trust him now, he may cut away everything else you trust
to, till you flee to him for help. But I wish you would take the easier
way."
"But can I help my will?" said Rotha again, holding fast to that tough
argument. "What can I do?"
"I cannot tell. You had better ask Mr. Digby. I am not able for any more
questions just now."
"Mother. I'll bring you your milk," said Rotha, rather glad of a
diversion. "Mother, do you think Mr. Digby can answer all sorts of
questions?"
"Better than I can."
She brought her mother the glass of milk and the biscuit and sat watching
her while she took them. She noticed the thin hands, the exhausted look,
the weary attitude, the pale face. What state of things was this? Her
mother eating biscuit and oysters got with another person's money; doing
no work, or next to none; living in lodgings, but apparently without the
prospect of earning the means to pay her rent; too feeble to do much but
rest in that spring chair.
"Mother," Rotha began, with a lurking, unrecognized feeling of anxiety--
"I wish you would make haste and get well!"
Mrs. Carpenter was eating biscuit, and made no reply.
"Don't you think you _are_ a little better?"
"Not exactly to-day."
"What _would_ do you good?"
"Nothing that you could give me, darling. I am very comfortable. I wonder
to see myself so supplied with everything I can possibly want. Look at
this chair! It is almost better than all the rest."
"That and the fire."
"Yes; the blessed fire! It is so good!"
"But I wish you'd get well, mother!" Rotha said with a half sigh.
Mrs. Carpenter made no answer.
"I don't see how we are going to do, if you don't get well soon," Rotha
went on with a kind of impatient uneasiness. "What shall we do for money,
mother? there's the rent and everything."
"You forget what you have just been reading, my child. Do you think the
words mean nothing?--'The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon
thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by
night.'"
"But that don't pay rent," said Rotha.
"You think the Lord can do great things, and cannot do little things. I
can trust him for all."
"Then why cannot you trust him for me?"
"I do."
"Then why are you troubled?"
"Because here your self-will comes in; and you may have to go through
hard times before it is broken."
"Broken? My self-will broken?"
"Yes."
"I do not want to be a creature without a will. I do not like such
creatures."
"You must talk to Mr. Digby, Rotha. I am too tired."
"I won't tire you any more, mother dear! But I don't see why I should
talk to Mr. Digby."
And for a few moments Rotha was silent. Then she broke out again.
"Mother, don't you think if you could get back to Medwayville you would
be well again?"
"I shall never go back to Medwayville," the sick woman said faintly.
"But if you could get into the country somewhere? out of this horrid dust
and these mean little streets. O mother, think of the great fields of
grass, and the trees, and the flowers!"
"Darling, I am very well here. Suppose you take the poker and punch that
lump of coal, so that it may blaze up a little."
Rotha punched the lump of coal, and sat watching the brilliant jets of
flame that leapt from it, sending a gentle illumination all through the
room; revolving in her mind whether it might be possible by and by to get
her mother among the sights and sounds of the country again.
As the spring advanced however, though the desirableness of such a move
might be more apparent, the difficulty of it as evidently increased. The
close, stifling air of the city, when the warm days came, was hard to
bear for the sick woman, and hard in two ways for Rotha. But Mrs.
Carpenter's strength failed more and more. There was no question now of
her sewing; she did not attempt it. She sat all day in her spring easy
chair, by the window or before the fire as the day happened to be, now
and then turning over the leaves of her Bible which always lay open
before her. And now Mr. Digby when he came would often take the book and
read to her; and even talks of some length would grow up out of the
reading; talks that seemed delightful to both the parties concerned,
though Rotha could not understand much of it. Little by little the room
had entirely changed its character, and no longer seemed to be a part of
Mrs. Marble's domain. A fluffy rug lay under Mrs. Carpenter's feet; a
pretty lamp stood on the table; a screen of Japanese manufacture,
endlessly interesting to Rotha, stood between the weary eyes and the
fire, when there was a fire; and Mrs. Carpenter herself was enveloped in
a warm, soft fleecy shawl. As the warm weather came on indeed, this had
to give place to something lighter. Then Mr. Digby brought fruit; early
fruit, and foreign fruit; then a little India tea caddy of very nice tea
stood on the table; tea such as in all her life Mrs. Carpenter had never
drunk till now. She had long ceased to make any objection to whatever Mr.
Digby pleased to do; taking it all as simply and as graciously as a
child. Much more than her own child. However, Rotha was mollified towards
their benefactor from that day above mentioned; and if she looked on
wonderingly, and even a little jealously, at his unresisted assuming of
the direction of their affairs, she no more openly rebelled.
Mr. Digby, it may be remarked, kept her so persistently busy, that she
had small time to disturb herself with any sort of speculations. Lessons
were lively. History was added to Latin and arithmetic; Rotha had a good
deal to read, and troublesome sums to manage; and finally every remnant
of spare leisure was filled up by a demand for writing. Mr. Digby did not
frighten her by talking of compositions, but he desired her to prepare
now an abstract of the history of the crusades, now of the Stuart
dynasty, now of the American revolution; and now again of the rise of the
art of printing, or the use and manufacture of gunpowder.
Studying out these subjects, pondering them, writing and writing over her
sketches, Rotha was both very busy and very happy; and then the handing
over her papers to Mr. Digby, and his reading them, and his strictures
upon them, were a matter of intense interest and delight; for though
Rotha trembled with excitement she was still more thrilled with pleasure.
For she was just at the age when the mind begins to open to a rapturous
consciousness of its powers, and at the same time of the wonderful riches
of the fields open to the exercise of them. In her happy ignorance, in
her blessed inexperience, Rotha did not see what the days were doing with
her mother; and if occasionally a flash of unwelcome perception would
invade her mind, with the unbounded presumption of her young years she
shut her eyes and refused to believe in it. But all the while Mrs.
Carpenter was growing feebler and wasting to more of a shadow. Rotha
still comforted herself that she had "a nice colour in her cheeks."
It came to be the latter end of June. Windows were open; what would have
been delicious summer air came in laden with the mingled odours of street
mud and street dust, garbage, the scents of butcher stalls and grocery
shops, and far worse, the indefinable atmospheric tokens of poor living
and uncleanness. Now and then a whiff of more energy brought a reminder
not quite perverted of the places where flowers grow and cows pasture and
birds sing. It only served to make the next breath more heavy and
disappointing. Mrs. Carpenter sat by the window to get all the freshness
she could; albeit with the air came also the sounds from without; the
creak or the rattle of wheels on the pavement, the undistinguishable
words of a rough voice here and there, the shrill cry of the strawberry
seller, the confused, mixed, inarticulate din of the great city all
around. A sultry heaviness seemed to rest upon everything, disheartening
and depressing to anybody whose physical powers were not strong or his
nerves not well strung for the work and struggle of life. There was a
pump over the way; and from time to time the creak of its handle was to
be heard, and then the helpless drip and splash of the last runnings of
the water falling into the gutter, after the applicant had gone away with
his or her pail. It mocked Mrs. Carpenter's ear with the recollection of
running brooks, and of a certain cool deep well into which the bucket
used to go down from the end of a long pole and come up sparkling with
drops of the clear water.----
"Well, how do you do?" said the alert voice of Mrs. Marble by her side.
"Sort o' close, aint it?"
"Rather."
"The city aint a place for Christians to live in, when it gets to this
time; anyhow, not for Christians that aint good and strong. I'd like to
put you out to pasture somewheres."
"She won't go," said Rotha longingly.
"I am, very comfortable here," said the invalid faintly.
"Comfortable! well, I feel as if you ought to be top of a mountain
somewheres; out o' this. _I'd_ like to; but I guess I'm a fixtur. Mr.
Digby I'd find ways and means, I'll engage," she said, eyeing the sick
woman with kindly interest and concern, who however only shook her head.
"Could you eat your strawberries?" she asked presently.
"A few of them. They were very nice."
"I never see such berries. They must have been raised somewhere in
Gulliver's Brobdignay; and Gulliver don't send 'em round in these parts.
I thought, maybe you'd pay 'em the compliment to eat 'em; but when
appetite's gone, it's no use to have big strawberries. That's what I
thought a breath of hilly air somewheres would do for you."
And Mrs. Marble presently went away, shaking her head, just as Mr. Digby
came in; exchanging a look with him as she passed. Mr. Digby came up to
the window, and greeted Mrs. Carpenter with the gentle affectionate
reverence he always shewed her.
"No stronger to-day?" said he.
"She won't go into the country, Mr. Digby," said Rotha.
"You may go and get a walk at least, my child," Mrs. Carpenter said. "Ask
Mrs. Cord to be so kind as to take you. Now while Mr. Digby is here, I
shall not be alone. Can you stay half an hour?" she asked him suddenly.
He gave ready assent; and Rotha, weary of her cooped-up life, eagerly
sought Mrs. Cord and went off for her walk. Mrs. Carpenter and Mr. Digby
were left alone.
"I am _not_ stronger," the former began as the house door closed. "I am
losing strength, I think, every day. I wanted to speak to you; and it had
better be done at once."
She paused, and he waited. The trickle of the water from the pump came to
her ear again, stirring memories oddly.
"You asked me the other day, whether I had no friends in the city. I told
you I had not. I told you the truth, but not the whole truth. Before
Rotha I could not say all I wished. I have a sister living in New York."
"A sister!" Mr. Digby echoed the word in great surprise. "She knows of
your being here?"
"She does not."
"Surely she ought to know."
"No, I think not. I told you the truth the other day. I have not a
friend, here or elsewhere. Not what you call a friend. Only you."
"But your _sister?_ How is that possible?"
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. "I had better tell you all about it, and then you
will know how to understand me. Perhaps. I can hardly understand it
myself."
There was a pause again. The sick woman was evidently looking back in
thought over days and years and the visions of what had been in them. Her
gentle, quiet eyes had grown intent, and over her brows there was a fold
in her forehead that Mr. Digby had never seen there before. But there was
no trembling of the mouth. That was steady and grave and firm.
"There were two of us," she said at last. "My father had but us two, how
long it is ago!--"
She was silent again with her thoughts, and Mr. Digby again waited. It
was a patient face he was looking at; a gentle face; not a face that
spoke of any experience that could be called bitter, yet the patient
lines told of something endured or something resigned; it might be both.
The last two years of experience, with a sister in the same city, must
needs furnish occasion. But Mrs. Carpenter's brow was quiet, except for
that one fold in it. Yet she seemed to have forgotten what she had meant
to say, and only after a while pulled herself up, as it were, and began
again.
"It is not so long as it seems, I suppose, for I am not very old; but it
seems long. We two were girls together at home, and my father was living;
and I knew nothing about the world."
"Was that here? in New York?" Mr. Digby asked, by way of helping her on.
"O no. I knew nothing about New York. I had never been here. No; our home
was not far from Tanfield; up in this state, near the Connecticut border.
We lived a little out of the town, and had a nice place. My father was
very well off indeed. I wanted for nothing in those days." She sighed.
"The world is a strange place, Mr. Digby! I cannot comprehend, even now,
how things should have gone as they did. We lived as happy as anybody;
until a gentleman, a young lawyer of New York, began to make visits at
our house. He paid particular attention to me at first; but it was of no
use; I had learned to know Mr. Carpenter, and nobody else could be
anything to me. He was a thriving lawyer; a rising young man, people
said; and my father would have had me marry him; but I could not. So then
he courted my sister. O the splash of that water from the pump over
there! it keeps me thinking to-day of the well behind our house--where it
stood on a smooth green plat of grass--and of the trickle of the water
from the buckets as they were drawn up. Just because the day is so warm,
I think of those buckets of well water. The well was sixty feet deep, and
the water was clear and cold and beautiful--I never saw such water
anywhere else; and when the bucket came slowly up, with the moss on its
sides glittering with the wet, there was refreshment in the very look of
it. Tanfield seems to me a hundred thousand miles away from Jane Street;
and those times about a thousand years ago. I wonder, how will all our
life seem when we look back upon it from the other side?"
"Very much as objects seen under a microscope, I fancy."
"Do you? Why?"
"In the clear understanding of details, and in the new perception of the
relative bearing and importance of parts."
"Yes, I suppose so. Things are very mixed and confused as we see them
here. Take what I am telling you, for instance; it is incredible, only
that it is true."
"You have not told me much yet," said her friend gently.
"No. The gentleman I spoke of, the lawyer, he married my sister. And
then, when I would have married Mr. Carpenter, my sister set herself
against it, and she talked over my father into her views, and they both
opposed it all they could."
"Did they give any reasons for their opposition?"
"O yes. Mr. Carpenter was only a farmer, they said; not my equal, and not
very well off. I am sure in all real qualities he was much my superior;
but just in the matter of society it was more or less true. He did not
mix in society much, and did not care for it; but he had education and
cultivation a great deal more than many that do; he had read and he had
thought, and he could talk too, and well, to one or two alone. But they
wanted me to marry a rich man. I think half the trouble in the world
comes about money."
"'The love of money is the root of all evil,' the Bible says."
"I believe it. There was nothing else to be said against Mr. Carpenter,
but that he had not money; if he had had it, nobody would have found out
that he wanted cultivation, or anything else. But he was a poor man. And
when I married him, my father cut me off from all share in the
inheritance of his property."
"It all fell to your sister?"
"Yes. All. The place, the old place, and all. She had everything."
"And kept it."
"O yes. Of course. She is a rich woman. Her husband has prospered in his
business; and they are _very_ well off now. They have only one child,
too."
Mrs. Carpenter was silent, and Mr. Digby paused a minute or two before he
spoke again.
"Still, my dear friend, do you not think your sister would shew herself
your sister, if she knew where you are and how you are? Do you not think
it would be right and kind to let her know?"
Mrs. Carpenter shook her head. "No," she said, "it would be no comfort to
me; and you are mistaken if you think it would be any satisfaction to
her. She is a rich woman. She keeps her carriage, and she has her
liveried servants, and she lives in style. She would not like to come
here to see me."
"I cannot conceive it," said Mr. Digby. "I think you must unconsciously
be doing her wrong."
"I tried her," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I will not try her again. When my
husband got into difficulties, and his health was giving way, and he was
driven a little too hard, I wrote to my sister in New York to ask her to
give us some help; knowing that she was abundantly able to do it, without
hurting herself. She sent me for answer--" Mrs. Carpenter stopped; the
words seemed to choke her; her lip quivered; and when she began to speak
again her voice was a little hoarse.
"She wrote me, that if my husband _died_, she would have no objection to
my going back to the old place, and getting along there as well as I
could; Rotha and I."
One or two sore, sorrowful tears forced their way out of the speaker's
eyes; but she said no more. And Mr. Digby did not know what further to
counsel, and was also silent. The silence lasted some little time, while
a strawberry seller was making the street ring with her cries of
"Straw....berr_ees_," and the hot air wafted in the odours from near and
far, and the water trickled from the pump nose again. At last Mrs.
Carpenter began again, with some difficulty and effort; not bodily
however, but mental.
"You have been so exceedingly kind to me, to us, Mr. Digby, I--"
"Hush," he said. "Do not speak of that. You have done far more for me
than I ever can do for you?"
"I? No. I have done nothing."
"You saved my father's life."
"Your father's life? You are under some mistake. I never knew a Mr. Digby
till I knew you I never even heard the name."
"You knew a Mr. Southwode," said he smiling.
"Southwode? Southwode! The English gentleman! But you are not his son?"
"I am his son. I am Digby-Southwode. I took my mother's name for certain
business reasons."
"And you are his son! How wonderful! That strange gentleman's son!--But I
did not do so much for your father, Mr. Southwode. You have done
_everything_ for me."
"I wish I could do more," said he shortly.
"I am ashamed to ask,--and yet, I was going to ask you to do something
more--a last service--for me. It is too much to ask."
"I am sure it is not that," he said with great gentleness. "Let me know
what you wish."
Mrs. Carpenter hesitated. "Rotha does not know,"--she said then. "She has
no idea--"
"Of what?"
"She has no idea that I am going to leave her."
"I am afraid that is true."
"And it will be soon Mr. Digby."
"Perhaps not; but what is it you wish of me?"
"Tell her--" whispered Mrs. Carpenter.
The young man might feel startled, or possibly an inevitable strong
objection to the service demanded of him. He made no answer; and Mrs.
Carpenter soon went on.
"It is wrong to ask it, and yet whom shall I ask? I would not have her
learn it from any of the people in the house; though they are kind, they
are not discreet; and Rotha would in any case come straight to me; and
I--cannot bear it. She is a passionate child; violent in her feelings
and in the expression of them. I have been thinking about it day and
night lately, and I _cannot_ get my courage up to face the first storm of
her distress. My poor child! she is not very fitted to go through the
world alone."
"What are your plans for her?"
"I am unable to form any."
"But you must tell me what steps you wish me to take in her behalf--if
there is no one whom you could better trust."
"There is no one whom I can trust at all. Except only my Father in
heaven. I trust him, or I should die before my time. I thought my heart
_would_ break, a while ago; now I have got over that. Do you know He has
said, 'Leave thy fatherless children to me'?"
Yet now the mother's tears were falling like rain.
"I will do the very best I can," said the young man at her side; "but I
wish you would give me some hints, or directions, at least."
"How can I? There lie but two things before me;--that Mrs. Cord should
bring her up and make a sempstress of her; or that Mrs. Marble should
teach her to be a mantua-maker; and I am so foolish, I cannot bear the
thought of either thing; even if they would do it, which I do not know."
"Make your mind easy. She shall be neither the one thing nor the other.
Rotha has far too good abilities for that. I will not give her to Mrs.
Cord's or Mrs. Marble's oversight. But what _would_ you wish?"
"I do not know. I must leave you to judge. You can judge much better than
I. I have no knowledge of the world, or of what is possible. Mrs. Marble
tells me there are free schools here--"
"Of course she shall go to school. I will see that she does. And I will
see that she is under some woman's care who can take proper care of her.
Do not let yourself be troubled on that score. I promise you, you need
not. I will take as good care of her as if she were a little sister of my
own."
There was silence at first, the silence of a heart too full to find
words. Mrs. Carpenter sat with her head a little bowed.
"You will lose nothing by it," she said huskily after a few minutes.
"There is a promise somewhere--"
But with that she broke down and cried.
"I don't know what you will do with her!" she said; "nor what anybody
will do with her, except her mother. She is a wayward child; passionate;
strong, and also weak, on the side of her affections. She has never
learned yet to submit her will, though for love she is capable of great
devotion. She has shewed it to me this past winter."
"Is there any other sort of devotion that is worth much?" asked the young
man.
"Duty?--"
"Surely the devotion of love is better."
"Yes--. But duty ought to be recognized for what it is."
"Nay, I think it ought to be recognized for a pleasure. Here she comes.--
Well, Rotha, was the walk pleasant?"
"No."
"Indeed? Why not?"
"How could it be, Mr. Digby? Not a bit of good air, nor anything pleasant
to see; just all hot and dirty."
"I thought you said there were some flowers in front of some of the
shops?" her mother said.
"Yes, mother; but they looked melancholy."
"Did they?" said Mr. Digby smiling. "Suppose you go with me to-morrow,
and I will take you to the Park."
"O! will you?" said Rotha with suddenly opening eyes. "Can you?"
"If Mrs. Carpenter permits."
CHAPTER VII.
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
The next day being again warm, Mr. Digby did not come for Rotha till the
afternoon was far advanced. They took then one of the street cars, which
would bring them to the Park entrance. The way was long and the drive
slow. It was also silent, of necessity; and both parties had leisure for
thoughts, as well as material enough.
Rotha was at first divided between the pleasure of seeing things, and a
somewhat uneasy reflection upon her own appearance. She was not in
general a self-conscious child; very much the reverse; but to-day she was
with Mr. Digby, and she had an exalted idea of the requirements of
everything even remotely connected with him. She was going in his
company; under his charge; how did she look? She was not satisfied on
that point. Mr. Digby himself was always so nice and perfect in his
dress, she said to herself; she ought to be very nice to go with him.
Truly she had put on the best she had; a white cambrick frock; it was
clean and white; but Rotha had none but her everyday brown straw hat, and
she knew _that_ was not "smart"; and her dress, she pondered it as she
went along, she was sure it was very old-fashioned indeed. Certainly it
was not made like the dresses of other girls of her own age, whom she saw
in the car or on the sidewalk. Theirs were ruffled; hers was plain; theirs
generally stood out in an imposing manner; while her own clung in slim
folds around her slim little person. She concluded that she could not be
in any degree what Mrs. Marble called "stylish." The exact meaning of
that word indeed Rotha could not define; undefinedly she felt it to be
something vastly desirable. She decided in her own mind that Mr. Digby
was stylish; which it is true proved that the young girl had a nice
feeling for things; since the fact, which was undoubted, was entirely
unaccompanied by anything in matter or manner of wearing which could take
the vulgar eye. Would he dislike going in public, she wondered, with a
little figure like herself? She hoped not, she thought not; but thought
it with a curious independence, which I am afraid was really born of
pride though it took the semblance of good sense.
Gradually the interest of other figures made Rotha forget her own. They
came out from the poor part of the city where she dwelt; streets grew
wide and shops lofty and imposing; equipages drove along, outstripping
the slow-going car; and in them, what ladies, and what gentlemen, and
what little girls now and then! This was the wonderful New York, at which
she had now and then had a peep; this was something five hundred miles
removed from Jane Street. What sort of human beings were these? and what
sort of life did they live? and did money make all the difference, or was
there some more intrinsic and essential distinction between them and
their fellows in Abingdon Square? At any rate, how very, very much better
off they were!
Mr. Digby's musings had much less to do with the surface of things. I
doubt indeed if he saw ought that was before his eyes, all the way to the
Park. Not even Rotha herself; and yet she was the main subject of his
cogitations. He was feeling that his kindness to Mrs. Carpenter had
brought him into difficulties. The very occasion for this journey to the
Park was bad enough; so disagreeable in fact that he did not like to look
at it, and hardly had looked at it until now; he was going as a man goes
into battle; and a rain of bullets, he thought, would have been easier to
face. How he should accomplish his task he had as yet no idea. But
supposing it done; and supposing all the trouble past for which he had to
prepare Rotha; what then? What was he to do with the charge he had
assumed? He, a young man without a family, with no proper home in the
country of his abode, what was he to do with the care of a girl like
Rotha? how should he manage it? If she had been a little child it would
have been a more simple affair; but fourteen years old is not at all far
removed from seventeen, and eighteen. Where should _her_ home be? and her
future sphere of life? and where was the promised womanly protection
under which he was to place her? He gave a glance at the girl. She was
good material to work upon, that was one alleviation of his task; he had
had some practical proof of it, and now, more carefully than ever before,
he looked for the outward signs and tokens in feature and expression. And
as Rotha had once declared that Mr. Digby's eyes were handsome, he now
privately returned the compliment to hers. Yes, this child, who had an
awkward appearance as to her figure--he did not know then that the effect
was due to her dress--she had undoubtedly fine eyes. Poor complexion, he
said to himself after a second glance, but good eyes. And not merely in
shape and hue; they were full of speculation, full of thought, full of
the possibilities of passion and feeling. There was character in them;
and so there was in the well formed, well closed mouth. _There_ was
refinement too; the lines were not those of an uncultured, low-
conditioned nature; they were fine and beautiful. It had never occurred
to Mr. Digby before to think how Rotha promised to be in the matter of
looks; although he had many a time caught the gleam of intelligent fire
in the course of her recitations and his lesson giving, and once or twice
had seen that passion of one kind or another was at work. He read now
very plainly that his charge, to go back to the old philosophy of human
nature which reckoned man to be composed of the four elements, had a
great deal of the fire and the air in her composition, with little of the
heaviness of the earth, and as little as possible of the lymphatic
quality. It made his task the more interesting, and in so far lightened
it; but it made it at the same time vastly more difficult. Here was a
sensitive, quick, passionate, independent nature to deal with; how ever
should he deal with it? And how ever was he to execute his purpose to-
day? the purpose with which he had brought her, poor child, to this walk
in the Park. Was it not rather cruel, to begin a time of great pain with
a taste of exquisite pleasure? Mr. Digby hardly knew what he would do,
when he left the car with his charge and entered the Park.
They went in at the great Fifth Avenue entrance; and for a few minutes he
was engaged in piloting himself and her through the crowd of coming and
going carriages; but when they reached quiet going and a secure footpath,
he looked at her. It smote him. Such an expression of awakened delight
was in her face; such keen curiosity, such simplicity and fulness of
enjoyment. Rotha was at a self-conscious age, but she had forgotten
herself; two years old is not more free from self-recollection. They
walked along slowly, the girl reviewing everything in the lively show
before her; lips parting sometimes for a smile, but with no leisure for a
word. Her companion watched her. They walked on and on; turned now hither
and now thither; Rotha remained in a maze, only mechanically following
where she was led.
It was a fine afternoon, and all the world was out. Carriages, riders,
foot travellers; everywhere crowds of people. Where was Mr. Digby going
to make the communication he had come here to make? He doubted about it
now, but if he spoke, where should it be? Not in this crowd, where any
minute some acquaintance might see him and speak to him. With some
trouble he sought out a resting place for Rotha from whence she could
have a good view of one angle of a much travelled drive, and at the same
time both of them were in a sort hid away from observation. Here they sat
down; but if Rotha's feet might rest, her companion's mind was further
and further from any such point of comfort. They had exchanged hardly any
words since they set out; and now the difficulty of beginning what he had
to say seemed greater than ever. There was a long silence. Rotha broke
it; she did not know that it had been long.
"Mr. Digby--there are a great many things I do not understand."
"My case too, Rotha."
"Yes, but you understand a great many things that I don't."
"What is troubling you now, with a sense of ignorance?"
"I see in a great many carriages two gentlemen dressed just alike,
sitting together; they are on the back seat always, and they always have
their arms folded, just alike; what are they?"
"Not gentlemen, Rotha; they are footmen, or grooms."
"What's the difference?"
"Between footmen and grooms?"
"No, no; between a gentleman and a man that isn't a gentleman?"
"You asked me that once before, didn't you?"
"Yes; but I don't make it out."
"Why do you try?"
"Why Mr. Digby, I like to understand things."
"Quite right, too, Rotha. Well--the difference is more in the feelings
and manners than in anything else."
"Not in the dress?"
"Certainly not. Though it is not like a gentleman to be improperly
dressed."
"What is 'improperly dressed.'"
"Not nice and neat."
"Nice and neat--_clean_ and neat, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Then a gentleman may have poor clothes on?"
"Of course."
"Can anybody be _poor_ and be a gentleman?"
"Not _anybody_, but a gentleman may be poor, certainly, without ceasing
to be a gentleman."
"But if he was poor to begin with--could he be a gentleman then?"
"Yes, Rotha," said her friend smiling at her; "money has nothing to do
with the matter. Except only, that without money it is difficult for a
boy to be trained in the habits and education of a gentleman."
"Education?" said Rotha.
"Yes."
"You said, 'feeling and manners.'"
"Well, yes. But you can see for yourself, that without education it would
be hardly possible that manners should be exactly what they ought to be.
A gentleman should give to everybody just that sort of attention and
respect which is due; just the right words and the right tone and the
fitting manner; how can he, if he does not understand his own position in
the world and that of other people? and why the one and the other are
what they are."
"Then I don't see how poor people can be ladies and gentlemen," said
Rotha discontentedly.
"Being poor has nothing to do with it, except so far."
"But that's far enough, Mr. Digby."
He heard the disappointed ambition in the tone of the girl's words.
"Rotha," he said kindly, "whoever will follow the Bible rules of good
manners, will be sure to be right, as far as that goes."
"Can one follow them without being a Christian?"
"Well no, hardly. You see, the very root of them is love to one's
neighbour; and one cannot have that, truly and universally, without
loving Christ first."
"Then are all gentlemen Christians?"
The young man laughed a little at her pertinacity.
"What are you so much concerned about it, Rotha?"
"I was just thinking."--
And apparently she had a good deal of thinking to do; for she was quite
silent for some time. And Mr. Digby on his part went back to his problem,
how was he to tell Rotha what he had promised to tell her? From their
somewhat elevated and withdrawn position, the moving scene before them
was most bright and gay. An endless procession of equipages--beautiful
carriages, stately horses, pompous attendants, luxurious pleasure-takers;
one after another, and twos and threes following each other, a continuous
stream; carriages of all sorts, landaus, Victorias, clarences, phaetons,
barouches, close coaches, dog carts, carryalls, gigs, buggies. Now and
then a country affair, with occupants to match; now a plain wagon with a
family of children having a good time; now an old gentleman and his wife
taking a sober airing; then a couple of ladies half lost in the depths of
their cushions, and not having at all a good time, to judge by their
looks; and then a young man with nobody but himself and a pair of fast
trotting horses, which had, and needed, all his attention; and then a
whirl of the general thing, fine carriages, fine ladies, fine gentlemen,
fine servants and fine horses; in all varieties of combination. It was
very pretty; it was very gay; the young foliage of early summer was not
yet discouraged and dulled by the heat and the dust; the air was almost
country sweet, and flowers were brilliant in one of the plantations
within sight. How the world went by!--
Mr. Digby had half forgotten it and everything else, in his musings, when
he was aroused, and well nigh startled, by a question from Rotha.
"Mr. Digby--can I help my will?"
He looked down at her. "What do you mean, Rotha?"
"I mean, can I help my will? I asked mother one day, and she said I had
better ask you."
Rotha's eyes came up to his face with their query; and whatever it might
import, he saw that she was in earnest. Grave and intent the girl's fine
dark eyes were, and came up to his eyes with a kind of power of search.
"I do not think I understand you."
"Yes, you do. If I do not like something--do not want to be something--
can I help my will?"
"What do you not want to be?" said Mr. Digby, waiving this severe
question in mental philosophy.
"Must I tell you?"
"Not if you don't like; but I think it might help me to get at your
difficulty, and so to get at the answer you want."
"Mr. Digby, can a person want to do something, and yet not be willing?"
"Yes," said he, in growing surprise.
"Then, can he _help_ not being willing?"
"What is the case in hand, Rotha? I am wholly in the dark. I do not know
what you would be at."
To come nearer to the point was not Rotha's wish and had not been her
purpose; she hesitated. However, the subject was one which exercised her,
and the opportunity of discussing her difficulty with Mr. Digby was very
tempting. She hesitated, but she could not let the chance go.
"Mother wishes I would be a Christian," she said low and slowly. "And I
wish I could, to please her; but I do not want to. Can I help my will?
and I am not willing."
There was a mixture of defiance and desire in this speech which instantly
roused the somewhat careless attention of the young man beside her.
Anything that touched the decision of any mortal in the great question of
everlasting life, awoke his sympathies always to fullest exercise. It was
not his way, however, to shew what he felt; and he answered her with the
same deliberate calm as hitherto. Nobody would have guessed the quickened
pulses with which he spoke.
"Why do you not want to be a Christian, Rotha?"
"I do not know," she answered slowly. "I suppose, I want to be free."
"Go on a little bit, and tell me what you mean by being 'free.'"
"Why--I mean, I suppose,--I _know_ I mean, that I want to do what I like."
"You are taking the wrong way for that."
"Why, I could not do what I liked if I was a Christian, Mr. Digby?"
"A Christian, on the contrary, is the only person in this world, so far
as I know, who can do what he likes."
"Why, do you?" said Rotha, looking at him.
"Yes," said he smiling. "Always."
"But I thought--"
"You thought a Christian was a sort of a slave."
"Yes. Or a servant. A servant he is; and a servant is not free. He has
laws to mind."
"And you think, by refusing the service you get rid of the laws? That's a
mistake. The laws are over you and binding on you, just the same, whether
you accept them or not; and you have got to meet the consequences of not
obeying them. Did you never think of that?"
"But it is different if I _promised_ to obey them," said Rotha.
"How different?"
"If I promised, I must do it."
"If you do not promise you must take the consequences of not doing it.
You cannot get from under the law."
"But how can you do whatever you like, Mr. Digby?"
"There comes in your other mistake," said he. "I can, because I am free.
It is you who are the slave."
"I? How, Mr. Digby?"
"You said just now, you wished you could be a Christian, but you could
not. Are you free to do what you wish?"
"But can I help my will?"
The gentleman took out of his pocket a slim little New Testament which
always went about with him, and put it into Rotha's hands open at a
certain place, bidding her read.
"'Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in
my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free.'"
Rotha stopped and looked up at her companion.
"Go on," he bade her; and she read further.
"'They answered him, We be Abraham's seed, and were never in bondage to
any man: how sayest thou, Ye shall be made free?
"'Jesus answered them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whosoever
committeth sin is the servant of sin. And the servant abideth not in the
house forever: but the Son abideth ever. If the Son therefore shall make
you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha looked at the words, after she had done reading.
"Mr. Digby," she said then again, "can I help my will?"
"No," said he, "for you are a poor bond-slave. But see what is written
there. What you cannot do, Christ can."
"Why don't he do it, then?" she said defiantly.
"You have not asked him, or wished him to do it."
"But why shouldn't he do it without my asking, or wishing, if he can?"
"It is not his way. He says, 'Ask, and ye shall receive'; but he promises
nothing to those who do not apply to him. And the application must be in
good earnest too, Rotha; not the form of the thing, but the truth.
'Blessed are they that _hunger and thirst_ after righteousness; for they
shall be filled.'"
"Then, if I asked him, could he change my will?"
"He says, he can make you free. It was one thing he came to do; to
deliver people from the bondage of sin and the power of Satan."
"The power of Satan!" said Rotha. "I am not under _his_ power!"
"Certainly you are. There are only two parties in the world; two
kingdoms; those who do not belong to the one, belong to the other."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, now much exercised, "I hate the devil as
much as you do."
"Don't help, Rotha. 'From the power of Satan to God,' is the turn people
take when they become Christians."
"What makes you think I am under his power?"
"Because I see you are not under the rule of Christ. And because I see
you are doing precisely what Satan would have you do."
"What?" said Rotha.
"Refusing the Lord Jesus Christ, or putting off accepting him."
Rotha was silent. Her breast was heaving, her breath coming thick and
short. Mr. Digby's conclusions were very disagreeable to her; but what
could she say?
"I can't help my will," she said doggedly.
"You see you are not honest with yourself. You have just learned that
there is a remedy for that difficulty."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, "how is it that you can do what you like?"
He smiled down at her, a pleasant, frank smile, which witnessed to the
truth of his words and wrought more with Rotha than the words themselves;
while the eyes that she admired rested on her with grave penetration.
"There is an old promise the Lord gave his people a great while ago; that
in the new covenant which he would make with them in Christ, he would
write all his laws in their hearts. He has done that for me."
"You mean--" said Rotha.
"Yes, go on, and say what you think I mean."
"You mean,--that what you like to do, is just what God likes you to do."
"And never anything else, Rotha," he said gravely.
"Well, Mr. Digby," said Rotha slowly, "after all, you have given up
yourself."
"And very glad to be rid of that personage."
"But I don't want to give up myself."
"I see."
And there followed a long silence. Mr. Digby did not wish to add anything
to his words, and Rotha could not to hers; and they both sat in
meditation, until the girl's lighter humour got away from the troublesome
subject altogether. Watching her, Mr. Digby saw the pleased play of
feature which testified to her being again absorbed in the scene before
her; her eye was alive, her lip moved with a coming and going smile.
"It amuses you, does it not?" he said.
"O yes!" Rotha exclaimed with a long breath. "I wish mother could see
it."
"She can," said Mr. Digby. "We will have a carriage and take her out. I
don't know why I never thought, of it before."
"A carriage? For mother? And bring her here?" said Rotha breathless.
"Yes, to-morrow, if the day is good. It will refresh her. And meanwhile,
Rotha, I am afraid we must leave this scene of enchantment."
Rotha had changed colour with excitement and delight; now she rose up
with another deep sigh.
"There are more people than ever," she remarked; "more carriages. Mr.
Digby, I should think they would be perfectly happy?"
"What makes you think they are not?" said he amused.
"They don't look so."
"They are accustomed to it. They come every day or two."
"Does that make it less pleasant?"
"It takes off the novelty, you know. Most pleasures are less pleasant
when the novelty is gone."
"Why?"
Mr. Digby smiled again. "You never found it so?" he said.
"No. I remember when we were at Medwayville, everything I liked to do, I
liked it more the more I did it."
"You are of a happy temperament. What did you use to like to do there?"
"O a load of things!" said Rotha sighing. "I liked our old dog, and my
kittens; and riding about; and I liked very much going to the hay field
and getting into the cart with father and riding home. And then--"
But Rotha's words stopped suddenly, and her companion looking down at her
saw that her eyes were brimming full of tears, and her face flushed with
the emotion which almost mastered her. A little kind pressure of the hand
he held was all the answer he made; and then they made their way through
the crowd and got into the cars to go home.
He had not discharged his commission; how could he? Things had taken a
turn which made it almost impossible. It must be done another day. Poor
child! The young man's mind was filled with sympathy and compassion, as
he looked at Rotha sitting beside him and noted how her aspect had
changed and brightened; just with this afternoon's pleasure and the new
thoughts and mental stir and hope to which it had given rise. Poor child!
what lay before her, that she dreamed not of, yet must face and meet
inevitably. That in the near future; and beyond--what? No friend but
himself in all the world; and how was he to take care of her? The young
man felt a little pity for himself by the way. Truly, a girl of this
sort, brimfull of mental capacity and emotional sensitiveness, was a
troublesome legacy for a young man situated as he was. However, his own
trouble got not much regard on the present occasion; for his heart was
burdened with the sorrow and the tribulation coming upon these two, the
mother and daughter. And these were but two, in a world full of the like
and of far worse. He remembered how once, in the sight of the tears and
sorrowing hearts around him and in view of the great flood of human
miseries of which they were but instances and reminders, "Jesus wept;"
and the heart of his servant melted in like compassion. But he shewed
none of it, when he came with Rotha into her mother's presence again; he
was calm and composed as always.
"Mrs. Carpenter," he said, as he found himself for a moment alone with
her, Rotha having run off to change her dress,--"you did not tell me your
sister's name. I think I ought to know it."
"Her name?" said Mrs. Carpenter starting and hesitating. What did he want
to know her sister's name for? But Mr. Digby did not look as if he cared
about knowing it; he had asked the question indifferently, and his face
of careless calm reassured her. She answered him at last.
"Her name is Busby."
It was characteristic of Mr. Digby that his features revealed no
quickening of interest at this; for he was acquainted with a Mrs. Busby,
who was also the wife of a lawyer in the city. But he shewed neither
surprise nor curiosity; he merely said in the same unconcerned manner and
tone,
"There may be more Mrs. Busby's than one. What is her husband's name?"
"I forget--It begins with 'A.' I know; but I can't think of it. I can
think of nothing but the name of that old New York baker they used to
speak of--Arcularius."
"Will Archibald do?"
"That is it!"
Mr. Digby could hardly believe his ears. Mrs. Archibald Busby was very
well known to him, and he was a welcome and tolerably frequent visiter at
her house. Was it possible? he thought; was it possible? Could that woman
be the sister of this? and such a sister? Nothing in her or in her house
that he had seen, looked like it. He made neither remark nor suggestion
however, but took quiet leave, after his wont, and went away; after
arranging that a carriage should come the next day to take Mrs. Carpenter
to the Park.
CHAPTER VIII.
STATEN ISLAND.
Mr. Digby had a great many thoughts during the next few days; some of
which almost went to make Mrs. Carpenter in the wrong. The Mrs. Busby he
knew was so very unexceptionable a lady; how could she be the black sheep
of the story he had heard? Mrs. Carpenter might labour under a mistake,
might she not? Yet facts are said to be stubborn things, and some facts
were hard for the truth of the story. Mr. Digby was puzzled. He would
perhaps have gone promptly to Mrs. Busby's home, to make observations
with a keenness he had never thought worth while when there; but Mrs.
Busby and all her family were out of town, spending the hot months at a
watering place, or at several watering places. Meanwhile Mr. Digby had
his unfulfilled commission to attend to.
Mrs. Carpenter went driving to the Park now every pleasant day; to the
great admiration of Mrs. Marble, the wonderful refreshment of the sick
woman herself, and the extravagant delight and pride of Rotha. She said
she was sure her mother would get well now. But her mother's eye, as she
said it, went to Mr. Digby's, with a warning admonition that he must
neither be deceived nor lose time. He understood.
"I am going down to Staten Island to-morrow," he remarked. "Would you
like to go with me, Rotha?"
"Staten Island?" she repeated.
"Yes. It is about an hour's sail from New York, or nearly; across the
bay. You can become acquainted with the famous bay of New York."
"Is it famous?"
"For its beauty."
"Oh I should like to go very much, Mr. Digby, if it was as ugly as it
could be!"
"Then when your mother comes from the Park in the morning, we will go."
Rotha was full of delight. But her mother, she thought, was very sober
during that morning's drive; she tried in vain to brighten her up. Again
and again Mrs. Carpenter's eyes rested on her with a lingering, tender
sorrowfulness, which was not their wont.
"Mother, is anything the matter?" she asked at length.
"I am thinking of you, my child."
"Then don't think of me! What about me?"
"I am grieved that a shadow should ever come over your gay spirits. Yet I
am foolish."
"What makes you think of shadows? I am going to be always as gay as I am
to-day."
"That is impossible."
"Why?"
"It is not the way of this world."
"Does trouble come to everybody?"
"Yes. At some time."
"Well, mother dear, you can just wait till it comes. There is no shadow
over me now, at any rate. If you were only well, I should be happy
enough."
"I shall never be well, my child."
"O you say that just because a shadow has come over you. I wish I knew
where it comes from; I would scare it away. Mother, mother, look, look!--
see that little carriage with the little horses, and the children
driving! Oh--!"
Rotha's expression of intense admiration is not to be given on paper.
"Shetland ponies, those are," said her mother.
"What are Shetland ponies?"
"Ponies that come from Shetland."
"And do they never grow any bigger?"
"No."
"How jolly!"
"Rotha, that is a boy's word, I think."
"If it is good for a boy, why isn't it good for me?"
"I do not know that it is good for a boy. But a lady is bound to be more
particular in what she says and does."
"More than a gentleman?"
"In some ways, yes."
"I don't understand in what ways. Right is right, and wrong is wrong,
whether one is a boy or a girl."
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. What would bring just notions, who would teach
proper ways, to her inquisitive child when she should be left motherless?
Rotha perceived the deep concern which gathered in her mother's eyes
again; and anew endeavoured by lively talk to chase it away. In vain.
Mrs. Carpenter came home tired and exhausted.
"I think she was worrying about something," Rotha said, when soon after
she and her friend were on their way to Whitehall. "She does, now and
then."
Mr. Digby made no answer; and Rotha's next keen question was,
"You look as if you knew what she was worrying about, Mr. Digby?"
"I think I do."
"Couldn't I know what it was?"
"Perhaps. But you must wait."
It was easy to wait. Even the omnibus ride to Whitehall was charming to
Rotha's inexperienced eyes; and when she was on board the ferry boat and
away from the quays and the city, and the lively waters of the bay were
rolling up all around her, the girl's enjoyment grew intense. She had
never seen such an extent of water before, she had no idea of the real
look of the waves; a hundred thousand questions came crowding and surging
up in her mind, like the broken billows down below her. In her mind; they
got no further; merely to have them rise was a delight; she would find
the answer to them some day. For the present it was enough to watch the
changing forms and varying colours of the water, and to drink in the
fresh breeze which brought life and strength with it from the sea. Yet
now and then a question was too urgent and must be satisfied.
"Mr. Digby, nobody could paint water, could they?"
"Yes."
"How could they? It is all changing, every instant; it won't stand still
to be drawn."
"Most things can be done, if one is only in earnest enough."
"But how can this?"
"Not without a great deal of study and pains. A man must watch the play
of the waves and the shapes they take, and the colours of the different
parts in any given sort of weather, until he has got them by heart; and
then he can put the lines and the colours on the canvas. If he has the
gift to do it, that is."
"What has the weather to do with it? Different colours?"
"Certainly. The lights and shadows vary with every change of the sky; and
the colours vary."
"Then a person must be very much in earnest," said Rotha, "ever to get it
all."
"There is no doing great things in any line without being very much in
earnest. The start isn't the thing; it is the steady pull that tries."
"Can you draw, Mr. Digby?"
"Yes, a little."
Again Rotha was all absorbed in what lay before and around her; getting
unconscious education through her eyes, as they received for the first
time the images of so many new things. To the people on board she gave
scarcely any heed at all.
Arrived at Brighton, Mr. Digby's first care was to give his charge and
himself some refreshment. He took Rotha to a hotel and ordered a simple
dinner. Then he desired to have a little wagon harnessed up, and putting
the delighted girl into it, he drove to the sea shore and let her feast
her eyes on the incoming waves and breaking surf. He himself was full of
one thought, waiting for the moment when he could say to her what he had
to say; but he was forced to wait a good while. He had made a mistake, he
found, in choosing this precise direction for their drive. Rotha's
overwhelming pleasure and entranced absorption for some time could not be
broken in upon. She was too utterly happy to notice how different was her
friend's absorption from her own; unless with a vague, passing
perception, which she could not dwell upon.
At last her friend asked her if she would like a run upon the sand, the
tide being then out. He drove up to a straggling bit of fence, tied his
horse, and lifted Rotha out; who immediately ran down to the narrow beach
and as near to the water as she dared; there stood still and looked.
There was but a gentle surf that day, with the ebb tide; but to Rotha it
was a scene of unparalleled might and majesty. She was drinking in
pleasure, as one can at fourteen, with all the young susceptibilities
fully alive and strong. Mr. Digby could not interrupt her. He threw
himself down 011 a dry piece of sand, and waited; watching her, and
watching with a sad sort of pleasure the everlasting rise and breaking of
those curling billows. Things spiritual and material get very mixed up in
such a mood; and anon the ocean became to Mr. Digby somehow identified
with the sea of trouble the tides of which do overflow all this world.
The breaking waves were but the constantly occurring and recurring bursts
of misfortune and disaster which overtake everybody. Here it is, there it
is, it is here again, it is always somewhere; ay, far as the eye can
reach. Here is this child, now,--
"Mr. Digby, you are tired--you don't like it--you are just waiting for
me," Rotha said suddenly, with delicate good feeling, coming to his side.
"I do like it, always. I am not tired, thank you, Rotha."
"But you are not taking pleasure in it now," she said gently.
"No. I was thinking, how full the world is of trouble."
"Why should you think that just now? You had better think, how full it is
of pleasure. It's as full--it seems to me as full--as the very sea
itself."
"Does your life have so much pleasure?"
"To-day--" said the girl, with a rapt look out to sea.
"And yet Rotha, it is for you I am troubled."
"For me!" she said with a surprised look at him.
"Yes. Suppose you sit down here for a few minutes, and let me talk to
you."
"I don't want to talk about trouble just now," she said; sitting down
however as he bade her.
"I am very sorry to talk about it now, or at any time; but I must. Can
you bear trouble, Rotha?"
There was something tender and grave and sympathizing in his look and
tone, which somehow made the girl's heart beat quicker. That there was
real gravity of tidings beneath such a manner, she felt intuitively;
though she strove not to believe it.
"I don't know,--" she said in answer to his question. "I _have_ borne it."
"This is more than you have borne yet."
"I had a father, once, Mr. Digby,--" she said with a curious self-
restraint that did not lack dignity.
How could he answer her? He did not find words. And instead, there came
over him such a rush of tenderness in view of what was surely to fall
upon the girl, in the present and in the future, that for a moment he was
unmanned. To hide the corresponding rush of water to his eyes, Mr. Digby
was fain to bow his face in the hand which rested on his knees. Neither
the action nor the cause of it escaped Rotha's shrewdness and awakened
sense of fear, but it silenced her at the same time; and it was not till
a little interval had passed, though before Mr. Digby had lifted up his
head, that the silence became intolerable to her. She heard the sea and
saw the breakers no more, or only with a feeling of impatience.
"Well," she said at last, in a changed voice, hard, and dry,--"why don't
you tell me what it is?" If she was impolite, she did not mean it, and
her friend knew she did not mean it.
"I hardly can, Rotha," he answered sorrowfully.
"I know what you mean," she said, "but it isn't true. You think so, but
it isn't true."
"What are you speaking of?"
"You know. I know what you mean; you are speaking of--mother!" The word
came out with difficulty and only by stern determination. "It is not
true, Mr. Digby."
"What is not true, Rotha?"
"You know. It is not true!" she repeated vehemently.
"But Rotha, my child, what if it were true?"
"You know it couldn't be true," she said, fixing on him a pair of eyes
almost wild in their intensity. "It couldn't be true. What would become
of me?"
"I will take care of you, always."
"You!" she retorted, with a scorn supreme and only matched by the pain
with which she spoke. "What are you? It _couldn't_ be, Mr. Digby."
"Listen to me, child. Rotha, I have come here to talk to you about it."
He saw how full the girl's eyes were growing, of tears just swelling and
ready to burst forth; and he stopped. But she impatiently dashed them
right and left.
"I don't want to talk about it. It's no use, here or anywhere else. I
would like to go home."
"Not yet. Before you go home I want you to be quite composed, and to have
good command of yourself, so that you may not distress your mother. She
cannot bear it. Therefore she asked me to tell you, because she dreaded
to see your suffering. Can you bear it and hide it, Rotha, bravely, for
her sake?"
"_She_ asked you to tell me?" cried the girl; and Mr. Digby never forgot
the face of wild agony with which she looked at him. He answered quietly,
"Yes;" though his heart was bleeding for her.
"She thinks--"
"She knows how it must be. It is nothing new, or strange, or sorrowful,
to her,--except only for you. But in her love for you, she greatly dreads
to see your sorrow. Do you think, Rotha, for her sake, you can bear up
bravely, and be quiet, and not shew what you feel? For her sake?"
He doubted if the girl rightly heard him. She looked at him, indeed,
while he spoke, as if listening; but her face was white, or rather livid,
and her eyes seemed to be gazing into despair.
"I do not think it can be, Mr. Digby," she said. "She don't look like it.
And what would become of me?
"I will take faithful care of you, Rotha, as long as you live, and I
live."
"You are nothing!" she said contemptuously. But then followed a cry which
curdled Mr. Digby's blood. It was not a piercing shriek, yet it was a
prolonged cry, pointed and sharpened with pain and heavy with despair.
One such wail, and the girl dropped her face in her hands and sat
motionless. Her companion would rather have seen sobs and tears; he did
not know what to do with her. The soft beat and wash of the waves sounded
drearily in the silence. Mr. Digby waited. Nothing but time, he knew, can
cover the roughness of life's rough places with its moss and lichen of
patience and memory. Comfort was not to be spoken of, not here. He
comprehended now why Mrs. Carpenter had shrank from telling the tidings
herself. But the day was wearing away; they must go home; the burden,
however heavy, must be lifted and carried.----
"Rotha--my child--" he said after a long interval.
No answer.
"Rotha, my child, cannot you look up and speak to me? Rotha--my poor
little Rotha--it is very heavy for you! But won't you make it as light as
you can for your mother?"
The child writhed away from under the hand he had gently laid on her
shoulder; but uttered no sound.
"Rotha--we must go home presently. Do you know, your mother will be very
anxious to see you. She is expecting us now, I dare say."
It came then, the burst of tears which he had dreaded and yet half longed
for. The girl turned a little more from him and flung herself down on the
sand, and there wept as he had never seen anybody weep before. With all
the passion of an intense nature, and all the self abandonment of an
ungoverned nature, sobbing such sobs as shook her whole frame, and with
loud weeping which could not be restrained into silence. Better it should
not be, Mr. Digby thought; better she should be allowed to exhaust
herself so that very fatigue should induce quiet. But to the sitter-by it
was unspeakably painful; a scene never to be recalled without a profound
prayer, like Noah's, I fancy, after the deluge, that the like might never
come again.
And happily, nature did exhaust herself; and just because the passion of
sobs and tears was so violent, it did yield after a time, as strength
gave way. But it lasted fearfully long. However, at last Rotha grew
quieter, and then still; and not till then Mr. Digby spoke again. He
spoke as if all this had been an interlude not noticed by him.
"Rotha, my child, can you gather up your courage and be quiet and be
brave now?"
She hesitated, and then in a smothered voice said, "I'm not brave."
"I think you can be."
"I wish--I could die," she said slowly.
"But what we have to do, is to live and act for others. Yes, it would
often seem a great deal easier to die; but we have something to do in the
world. You have something to do. Your mother's comfort, and even the
prolonging of her stay with us, may depend on your quietness and self-
command. For love of her, can you be strong and do it?"
"I am not strong--" said Rotha, as she had spoken before.
"Love makes people strong. And Jesus will help the weak, if they trust
him, to do anything they have to do."
"You know I am not a Christian," Rotha answered in the same matter-of-
fact way.
"Suppose you do not let that be true after to-day."
There was another silence.
"I am ready to go, Mr. Digby," Rotha said.
"And you will be a woman, and wise, and quiet?"
"I don't know!"
Mr. Digby thought it was not best to press matters further. He put Rotha
into the wagon again and drove back to the hotel. Quiet she was, at any
rate, now; he did not even see any more tears; but alas, of all the
things in the world which she had been so glad to look at on the way
down, she saw nothing on the way back. Driving or sailing, it was all the
same; only when Mr. Digby put her into the omnibus at Whitehall he saw a
flash of something like terror which crossed her face and left it
blanched. But that was all.
He went into the invalid's room at Mrs. Marble's with trepidation. Rotha
however was merely less effusive and more hasty than usual in her
greetings to her mother, and after a kiss or two turned away "to get her
things off," as she said. And when Mrs. Cord unluckily asked her in
passing, if she had had a pleasant day? Rotha choked, but managed to get
out that it had been "as good as it could be." What she went through in
the little hall room which served for closet and wardrobe, no one knew;
but Mr. Digby, who stayed purposely till she came back again, was
reassured to see that she was perfectly quiet, and that she set about her
wonted duties in a grave, collected way, more grave than usual, but quite
as methodical. He went away sighing, at the same time with a relieved
heart. One of the hard things he had had to do in his life, was over.
Mr. Digby however, as he walked homeward to his hotel, saw the
difficulties yet in store for him. How in the world was he to perform his
promise of taking care of this wildfire girl? Her aunt surely, would be
the fittest person to be intrusted with her. If he only knew what sort of
person Mrs. Busby really was, and how much of Mrs. Carpenter's story
might have two sides to it? The lady was not in the city, or he would
have been tempted to go and see her at once, for the purpose of studying
her and gathering information. Nothing of the kind was possible at
present; and he could only hope that Mrs. Carpenter's frail life would be
prolonged until her sister's return to New York would lift, or might
lift, one difficulty out of his path.
CHAPTER IX.
FORT WASHINGTON.
No such hope was to be realized. With all that care and kindness could
do, the sick woman failed more and more. The great heats weakened her.
The drives in the Park were refreshing, but alas, fatiguing, and
sometimes had to be relinquished; and this happened again and again.
Rotha behaved unexceptionably; was devoted to the service of her mother;
untiring, and unselfish, and quiet; "another girl," Mrs. Cord said. Poor
child! she was another girl in more ways than one; her fiery brightness
of spirits was over, her cheeks grew thin, her eyes had dark rings round
them, and their brown depths were heavy with a shadow darker yet.
Energetic she was, as ever, but in a more staid and womanly way; the
gladness of her doings was gone. Still, Mrs. Carpenter never saw her
weep. In the evenings, or in the twilight, when there was nothing
particular to be done, the child would nestle close to her mother, lay
her head in her lap or rest it against her knee, and sit quiet. Still, at
least, if not quiet; Mrs. Carpenter did sometimes fancy that she felt the
drawing of a convulsive breath; but if she spoke then to Rotha, Rotha
would answer with a specially calm and clear voice; and her mother did
not get at her sorrow, if it were that which moved her. And Mrs.
Carpenter was too weak now to try.
Mr. Digby came as usual, constantly. It was known to none beside himself,
that he staid in town through the hot July and August days for this
purpose solely. He saw that his sick friend grew weaker every day, yet he
did not expect after all that the end would come so soon as it did. He
had yet a lingering notion of bringing the sisters together, when Mrs.
Busby should return. He was thinking of this one August afternoon as he
approached the house. Mrs. Marble met him in the hall.
"Well, Mr. Digby,--it's all up now!"
The gentleman paused on his way to the stairs and looked his inquiry.
"She aint there. Warn't she a good woman, though!" And Mrs. Marble's face
was all quivering, and some big tears fell from the full eyes.
"_Was?_" said Mr. Digby. "You do not mean--"
"She's gone. Yes, she's gone. And I guess she's gone to the good land;
and I guess she aint sorry to be free; but--_I_'m sorry!"
For a few minutes the kind little woman hid her face in her apron, and
sadly blotched with tears the apron was when she took it down.
"It's all over," she repeated. "At two o'clock last night, she just
slipped off, with no trouble at all. And the house does feel as lonely as
if fifty people had gone out of it. I never see the like o' the way I
miss her. I'd got to depend on her living up there, and it was good to
think of it; there warn't no _noise_, more'n if nobody had been up there;
but if I aint good myself and I don't think I be--I do love to have good
folks round. She _was_ good. I never see a better. It's been a blessin'
to the house ever since she come into it; and I always said so. An' she's
gone!"
"Where is Rotha?"
"Rotha! she's up there. I guess wild horses wouldn't get her away. I
tried; I tried to get her to come down and have some breakfast with me;
but la! she thinks she can live on air; or I suppose she don't think
about it."
"How is she?"
"Queer. She is always a queer child. I can't make her out. And I wanted
to consult you about her, sir; what's to be done with Rotha? who'll take
care of her? She's just an age to want care. She'll be as wild as a hawk
if she's let loose to manage herself."
"I thought she was very quiet."
"Maybe, up stairs. But just let anybody touch her down here, in a way she
don't like, and you'd see the sparks fly! If you want to know how, just
take and knock a firebrand against the chimney back."
"Who would touch her, here?" asked the gentleman.
"La! nobody, except with a question maybe, or a bit of advice. I
shouldn't like to take hold of her any other way. I never did see a more
masterful piece of human nature, of fourteen years old or any other age.
She aint a bad child at all; I'm not meaning that; but her mother let her
have her own way, and I guess she couldn't help it. It'll be worse for
Rotha now, for the world aint like that spring chair you had fetched for
her poor mother. You've been an angel of mercy in that room, sure
enough."
Mr. Digby passed the good woman and began to ascend the stairs.
"I wanted to ask you about Rotha," Mrs. Marble persisted, speaking up
over the bannisters, "because, if that was the best, I would take her
myself and bring her up to my business. I don't know who is to manage
things now, or settle anything."
"I will," said Mr. Digby. "Thank you, Mrs. Marble; I will see you again."
"'Thank you, Mrs. Marble, I don't want you,' that means," said the little
woman as she retreated to her own apartments. "There's somebody else a
little bit masterful, I expect. Well, it's all right for the men, I
s'pose, at least if they take a good turn; any way, we can't help it; but
for a girl that aint fifteen yet,--it aint so agreeable. And poor child!
who'll have patience with her now?"
Meanwhile Mr. Digby went up stairs and softly opened the door of the
sitting room. For some time ago, since Mrs. Carpenter became more feeble,
he had insisted on her having her old sleeping apartment again, other
quarters being found or made for Mrs. Cord in the house. Mrs. Cord had
naturally assumed the duties of her profession, which was that of a
nurse; for the sake of which, knowing that they would be needed, Mr.
Digby had first introduced her here.
At the window of the sitting room, looking out into the street, Rotha was
sitting listlessly. No one else was in the room. She turned her head when
she heard Mr. Digby's footsteps, and the face he saw then smote his
heart. It was such a changed face; wan and pale, with the rings round the
eyes that come of excessive weeping, and a blank, dull expression in the
eyes themselves which was worse yet. She did not move, nor give any
gesture of greeting, but looked at the young man entering as if neither
he nor anything else in the world concerned her.
Mr. Digby felt then, what everybody with a heart has felt at one time or
another, that the office of comforter is the most difficult in the world.
In one thing at least he imitated Job's friends; he was silent. He came
close up to the girl and stood there, looking down at her. But she turned
her wan face away from him and looked out of the window again. She
looked, but he was sure she saw nothing. He did not venture to touch her;
he saw that she was not open to the least token of tenderness; such a
token would surely turn her apathetic calm into irritation. Perhaps even
his standing there had some such effect; for after a little while, Rotha
said,
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Digby?"
He sat down, and waited. However, people do not live in these days to be
several hundred years old; and proportionately, seven days of silence
would be more of that sort of sympathy than can be shewn since Job's
time. Yet what to say, Mr. Digby was profoundly doubtful. Finding nothing
that would do, of his own, he took his little Testament from his pocket,
and turning the leaves aimlessly came upon the eleventh chapter of the
Gospel of John. He began at the beginning and read slowly and quietly on
till he came to the words,
'"Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother
had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God,
God will give it thee.
"'Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.'--"
"Please don't, Mr. Digby!" said Rotha, who after a few verses had buried
her face in her hands.
"Don't what?"
"Don't read any more."
"Why not?"
"I know how it goes on. I know what he did. But he will not do that--
here."
"Yes, he will. Not immediately, but by and by."
"I don't care for by and by."
"Yes you do, Rotha. By and by the Lord Jesus will come again; and when he
comes he will send his angels to gather up and bring to him all his
people who are then living, scattered about in the world, and at the same
time all his people who once lived and have died shall be raised up. Then
will come your dear mother, with the rest, in beauty and glory."
"But," said Rotha, bursting out into violent sobs, "I don't know where I
shall be!"--
The paroxysm of tears and sobs that followed, startled Mr. Digby; it was
so extreme in its passion beyond anything he had ever seen in his life;
even beyond her passion on the sea shore. It seemed as if the girl must
almost strangle in her convulsive oppression of breath. He tried soothing
words, and he tried authority; and both were as vain as the recoil of
waves from a rock. The passion spent itself by degrees, and was succeeded
by a more gentle, persistent rain of tears which fell quietly.
"Rotha," said Mr. Digby gravely, "that is not right."
"Very likely," she answered. "How are you going to help it?"
"I cannot; but you can."
"I _can't!_" she exclaimed, with almost a cry. "When it comes, I must."
"No, my child; you must learn self-command."
"How can I?" she said doggedly.
"By making it your rule, that you will always do what is _right_--not
what you like."
"It never was my rule."
"Perhaps. But do you mean that it never shall be?"
There followed a long silence, during which Rotha's tears gradually
stilled; but she said nothing, and Mr. Digby let her alone. After this
time, she rose and came to him and laid one hand half timidly, half
confidingly, upon his shoulder.
"Mr. Digby," she said softly, "because I am so wicked, will you get tired
and forsake me?"
"Never!" he answered heartily, putting his arm round the forlorn child
and drawing her a little nearer. And Rotha, in her forlornness and in the
gentle mood that had come over her, laid her head down on his shoulder,
or rather in his neck, nestling to him. It was an unconscious, mute
appeal to his kindness and _for_ his kindness; it was a very unconscious
testimony of Rotha's trust and dependence on him; it was very child-like,
but coming from this girl who was so nearly not a child, it moved the
young man strangely. He had no sisters; the feeling of Rotha's silky,
thick locks against the side of his face and the clinging appeal of her
hand and head on his shoulder, gave him an entirely new sensation. All
that was manly in him stirred to meet the appeal, and at the same time
Rotha took a suddenly different place in his thoughts and regards. He was
glad Mrs. Cord was not there to see; but if she had been, I think he
would have done just the same. He drew the girl close to him, and laid
his other hand tenderly upon those waving, thick, dark locks of hair.
"I will never forsake you, Rotha. I will never be tired. You shall be
like my own little sister; for your mother left you in my charge, and you
belong to me now, and to nobody else in the world."
She accepted it quietly, making no response at all; her violent passion
had been succeeded by a gentle, subdued mood. Favourable for saying
several things and making sundry arrangements; only that just then was
not the time that would do. Both of them remained still and silent, Mr.
Digby thinking this among other things; poor Rotha was hardly thinking at
all, any more than a shipwrecked man just flung ashore by the waves, and
clinging to the rock that has saved him from sweeping out to sea again,
lie blesses the rock, maybe, but it is no time for considering anything.
The one idea is to hold fast; and Rotha mentally did it, with an
intensity of trust and clinging that her protector never guessed at.
"Then I must do what you say, now?" she remarked after a while.
"I suppose so," he answered, much struck by this tone of docility.
"I will try, Mr. Digby."
"Will you trust me too, Rotha?"
"For what?"
"I mean, will you trust me that what I do for you, or want you to do, is
the best thing to be done?"
Rotha lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Nothing, to-day; by and by, perhaps many things. My question was
general."
"Whether I will trust that what you say is the best?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Digby, mightn't you be mistaken?"
"Rotha, might not you? And would it not be more likely?"
Rotha began to reflect that in her past life she had not been wont to
give such unbounded trust to anybody; not even to her father, and not
certainly to her mother. She had sometimes thought them mistaken; how
could she help that? and how could she help it in any other case, if
circumstances warranted it? But with the thought of her mother, tears
rose again, and she did not speak. Just then Mrs. Cord came in.
"O I am glad you are there, sir!" she began. "I wanted to speak to you,
if you please."
Mr. Digby unclosed his arm from about Rotha, and she withdrew quietly to
her former station by the window. The other two went into the adjoining
room, and there Mrs. Cord received instruction and information as to
various points of the arrangements for the next few days.
"And what will I do with Rotha, sir?" she asked finally.
"Do with her? In what respect?"
"She won't eat, sir."
"She will, I fancy, the next time it is proposed to her."
"She's very hard to manage," said Mrs. Cord, shaking her head. "She will
have her own way, always."
"Wel--let her have it."
"But other people won't, sir; and I think it's bad for her. She's had it,
pretty much, all along; but now--she don't care for what I say, no more'n
if I was a post! Nor Mrs. Marble, nor anybody. And is Mrs. Marble going
to take her, sir?"
"Not at all. Her mother left her in my care."
"Oh!--" said the good woman, with a rather prolonged accent of
mystification and disapprobation; wondering, no doubt, what disposal Mr.
Digby could make of her, better than with Mrs. Marble; but not venturing
to ask.
"Nothing can be done, till after the funeral," the young man went on.
"Take all the care of her you can until then. By the way, if you can give
me something to eat, I will lunch here. If you have nothing in the house,
I can get something in a few minutes."
Mrs. Cord was very much surprised; however, she assured Mr. Digby that
there was ample supply in the house, and went on, still with a mystified
and dissatisfied feeling, to prepare and produce it. She knew how, and
very nicely an impromptu meal was spread in a few minutes. Mr. Digby
meanwhile went out and got some fruit; and then he and Rotha sat down
together. Rotha was utterly gentle and docile; did what he bade her and
took what he gave her; indeed it was plain the poor child was in sore
need of food, which she had had thus far no heart to eat. Mr. Digby
prolonged the meal as much as he could, that he might spend the more time
with her; and when he went away, asked her to lie down and go to sleep.
Those must be heavy days, he knew, till the funeral was over. What then?
It was a question. Mrs. Busby would not be in town perhaps before the end
of September; and here it was the middle of August. Near two months of
hot weather to intervene. What should he do? He would willingly be out of
the city himself; and for Rotha, the spending all these weeks in her
mother's old rooms, in August weather, and with Mrs. Cord and Mrs. Marble
for companions, did not seem expedient. It would be good for neither body
nor mind. But he could not take her to any place of public resort; that
would not be expedient either. He pondered and pondered, and was very
busy for the next two or three days.
The result of which activity was, that he took rooms in a pleasant house
at Washington Heights, overlooking the river, and removed Rotha there,
with Mrs. Cord to look after her. But as he himself also took up his
abode in the house, Mrs. Cord's supervision was confined to strictly
secondary matters. He had his meals in company with Rotha, and was with
her most of the time, and was the sole authority to which she was obliged
to refer.
It was an infinite blessing to the child, whose heart was very sore, and
who stood in need of very judicious handling. And somewhat to Mr. Digby's
surprise, it was not a bore to himself. The pleasure of ministering is
always a pleasure, especially when the need is very great; it is also a
pleasure to excite and to receive affection; and he presently saw, with
some astonishment, that he was doing this also. Certainly it was not a
thing in the circumstances to be astonished at; and it moved Mr. Digby
so, simply because he was so far from thinking of himself in his present
plan of action. All the pleasanter perhaps it was, when he saw that the
forlorn girl was hanging upon him all the dependence of a very trusting
nature, and giving to him all the wealth of a passionate power of loving.
This came by degrees.
At first, in a strange place and with new surroundings and utterly
changed life, the girl was exceedingly forlorn. The days passed in
alternations of violent outbreaks of grief and fits of seeming apathy,
which I suppose were simply nature's reaction from overstrain and
exhaustion. The violence she rarely shewed in Mr. Digby's presence; Rotha
was taking her first lessons in self-command; nevertheless he saw the
work that was going on, knew it must be, for a time, and wisely abstained
from interference with it. "There is a time to weep"; and he knew it was
now; comfort would be mockery. He was satisfied that Rotha should have so
much diversion from her sorrow as his presence occasioned; that she
should be obliged to meet him at meals, and to behave then with a certain
degree of outward calm, and the necessary attention to little matters;
all useful in a sort of slow, unnoticed way. Otherwise for a few days he
let her alone. But then he began to give her things to do. Lessons were
taken up again, by degrees multiplied, until Rotha's time was well filled
with occupation. It went very hard at first. Rotha even ventured on a
little passive rebellion; even declared she could not study. Mr. Digby
shewed her that she could; helped her, led her on, and let her see
finally that he expected certain things of her, which she could not
neglect without coming to an open rupture with him. That was impossible.
Rotha bent her will to do what was required of her; and from that time
the difficulty of Mr. Digby's task was over. She began soon to be
interested again in what she was about and to make excellent progress.
Then Mr. Digby would put himself in a hammock on the piazza or out under
a great walnut-tree, and make Rotha read to him, and incite her to talk
of what she read; or he would give her lessons in drawing; both occasions
of the utmost gratification to Rotha; and when the scorching sun had got
low down over the Palisades, he would take her in an easy little vehicle
and go for a long drive. So one way and another they came to be together
all the time. And after the first miserable days were past, and Rotha had
been constrained to busy herself with something besides herself; her
mental powers called into vigorous exertion and furnished with an
abundant supply of new food; by degrees a sort of enjoyment began to
creep into her life again, and grew, and grew. It was a help, that
everything was so strange about her. Even her own dress.
"Mrs. Cord," Mr. Digby had said in the first week of this new life,--"how
is Rotha off for clothes?"
"Well, sir," said the nurse, "of course they were people not likely to
have much of that sort of thing; but Rotha has what will do her through
the warm season."
"But is she supplied as a young lady ought to be, with everything
needful?"
"As a young lady!--no, sir. It's what she never set up for, and don't
need, and knows nothing about. Her mother was a very good woman, and
didn't pretend to dress her as a young lady. But she's comfortable."
Mr. Digby half smiled at the collocation of things, however he went on
with full seriousness.
"She will go to school by and by, and she will go there as a young lady.
I wish, Mrs. Cord, you would see to it, as far as you know, that she has
a full supply of everything. Go to one of the best shops for outfits and
get plenty of every thing and of good quality, and send the bills to me.
And get Mrs. Marble to make her some dresses."
"Mourning, sir?"
"No. Simple things, but no black."
"I asked, because it's customary, sir."
"It's a bad custom; better broken."
"Then what shall I get, sir?" asked Mrs. Cord with unwonted stolidity.
"You need not get anything. I will see to it myself. Only the linen and
all that, Mrs. Cord, which I should not know how to get. The rest I will
take care of."
And he took such good care, that the good woman was filled with a
displeased surprise which was inexplicable. Why should she be displeased?
Yet Mrs. Cord was quite "put about," as she said, when the things came
home. They were simple things, indeed; a few muslins and ginghams and the
like. But the ginghams were fine and beautiful, and the muslins of
delicate patterns and excellent quality; and with them came a set of fine
cambrick handkerchiefs, and ruffles, and lace, and a little parasol, and
a light summer wrap; for Rotha had nothing to put on that made her fit to
go to drive with her guardian. He had taken her, all the same, dressed as
she was, but it seems he thought there must be a change in this state of
things. Mrs. Cord was full of dissatisfaction; and when she took the
dresses to Mrs. Marble to be made up, the two good women held a regular
pow wow over them.
"Muslin like that!" cried the little mantua-maker with an expression of
strong distaste. "Why that _never_ cost less than fifty cents, Mrs. Cord!
My word, it didn't."
"Just think of it! And for that girl, who never wore anything but
sixpenny calico if she could get it. Men are the stupidest!--"
"That ashes-of-roses lawn is the prettiest thing I've seen yet. Mrs.
Cord, she don't want all these?"
"So I say," returned the nurse; "but I wasn't consulted. That aint all;
you should have seen the ruffles, and the ribbands, and the
pockethandkerchiefs; and then he took her somewhere, Stewart's, I
shouldn't wonder, and got her gloves and gloves; and then a lovely
Leghorn hat, with a brim wide enough to swallow her up. And now you must
make up these muslins, and let us have one soon; for my master is in a
hurry."
The little mantua-maker contemplated the muslins, and things generally.
"There's not the first sign o' black among 'em all! Not a line, nor a
sprig, nor a dot."
"Maybe that's English ways," returned the nurse; "but if it is, I never
heerd so before."
"Well I like to see mournin' put on, if it's only respect," went on the
dress-maker; "and a girl hadn't ought to be learnt to forget her own
mother, before she's well out of sight. I'd ha' dressed her in black,
poor as I am, and not a sign o white about her, for one year at least. I
think it looks sort o' rebellious, to do without it. Why I've known folks
that would put on mourning if they hadn't enough to eat; and I admire
that sort o' sperit."
The nurse nodded.
"Just look here, now! What's he thinkin' about, Mrs. Cord?"
"Just that question I've been askin' myself, Mrs. Marble; and I can't get
no answer to it."
"What's he goin' to do with her?"
"He says, send her to school."
"These aint for school dresses."
"O no; these are to go ridin' about in, with him."
"Well _I_ think, somebody ought to take charge of her. A young man like
that, aint the person to do it Taint likely he's goin' to bring her up to
marry her, I suppose."
"She's too young for such thoughts," said the nurse.
"She's young, but she aint far from bein' older," Mrs. Marble went on
significantly. "When a girl's once got to fifteen, she's seventeen before
you can turn round."
"There'll have to be somebody else to wait upon her, I know, besides me,"
returned the nurse. "That aint my business. And it's all I'm wanted for
now. Nobody can say a word to my young lady if it isn't the gentleman
hisself; and she's with him all the while, and not with me. I aint goin'
to put up with it long, I can tell 'em."
Mr. Digby's pay was good however, and Mrs. Cord did not find it
convenient to give notice immediately; and also the muslin dresses were
made and well made, and sent home to the day.
All these her new possessions and equipments were regarded by Rotha
herself with a mixture of pleasure and mortification. The pleasure was
undeniable; the girl had a nice sense of the fitness of things, inborn
and natural and only needing cultivation. It was getting cultivation
fast. She had a subtle perception that the new style of living into which
she had come was superior to the old ways in which she had been brought
up; not merely in the vulgar item of costliness, but in the far higher
qualities of refinement and propriety and beauty. Her mother and father
had been indeed essentially refined people, of good sense and good taste
as far as their knowledge went. Rotha began to perceive that it had
stopped short a good deal below the desirable point. Also she felt
herself thoroughly in harmony with the new life, little as she had known
of it hitherto; and was keen to discern and quick to adopt every fresh
point of greater refinement in habits and manners. Mr. Digby now and then
at table would say quietly, "This is the better way, Rotha,"--or,
"Suppose you try it _so_."--He never had to give such a hint a second
time. He never had to tell her anything twice. What he did, Rotha held to
be "wisest, discreetest, best," the supreme model in everything; and she
longed with a kind of passion to be like him in these, and in all
matters. So it was with a gush of great satisfaction that the girl for
the first time saw herself well and nicely dressed. She knew the
difference between her old and her new garments, knew it correctly; did
not place the advantage of the latter in their colour or fineness; but
recognized quite well that now she looked as if she belonged to Mr.
Digby, while before, nobody could have thought so for a moment. The
pleasure was keen. Yet it mingled, as I said, with a sting of
mortification. Not simply that her new things were his gift and came to
her out of his bounty, though she felt that part of the whole business;
but it pained her to feel that her own father and mother had stood below
anybody in knowledge of the world and use of its elegant proprieties.
Rotha was perfectly clear-sighted, and knew it, from the very keen
delight with which she herself accepted and welcomed this new initiation.
The prevailing feeling however was the pleasure; though in Rotha's face
and manner I may say there was no trace of it, the first day she was what
Mr. Digby would have called "properly dressed," and met him in their
little sitting room. She came in gravely, (she was already trying to
imitate his quietness of manner) and came straight up to Mr. Digby where
he was standing in the window. Rotha waited a minute, and then looked up
at him, blushing.
"Do you like it?" she asked frankly.
His eye caught the new muslin, and he stepped back a step to take a view.
"Yes," he said smiling. "That's very well. Is it comfortable?"
"O yes."
"That's well," he said. "I always think it the prime question in a coat,
whether it is comfortable."
He came back to his place in the window, so making an end of the subject;
but Rotha had not said all that she wished to say.
"Mrs. Cord wanted me to put this on to-day, though it was not Sunday; was
she right?"
"Eight? certainly. Why should one be better dressed Sunday than any other
day?"
"I thought people did--" said Rotha, much confused in her ideas.
"And right enough," said Mr. Digby, recollecting himself, "in the cases
where the work to be done in the week would injure or soil a good dress.
But in other cases?--"
"On Sunday one goes to church," said Rotha.
"Well,--what then?"
"Oughtn't one to be better dressed to go to church?"
"Why should you?"
Rotha was so much confounded that she had nothing to say. This was
overturning all her traditions.
"What do you go to church for, Rotha?"
"I _ought_ to go--to think about God, I suppose."
"Well, and would much dressing help you?"
Rotha considered. "I don't think it helps much," she confessed.
"You say, you ought to go for such a reason;--what is your real reason?"
"For going? Because mother took me; or made me go without her."
"You are honest," said Mr. Digby smiling. "You will agree with me that
that is a poor reason; but I am glad you understand yourself, and are not
deceived about it."
"I don't think I understand myself, Mr. Digby."
"Why not?"
"Because, sometimes I am in great confusion, and can _not_ understand
myself."
"Let me help you when those times come."
"One of the times is to-day," said Rotha in a low tone.
"Ah? What's the matter?" said he looking down kindly at her. Rotha had
laid her forehead against the edge of the window frame, and was looking
out with an intent grave eye which amused him, and made him curious too.
"Because I want to tell you something of how feel, Mr. Digby, and I
cannot."--(He had told her not to say _can't_, and now she never did.)
"It's all mixed up, and I don't know what comes first; and you will think
I am--ungrateful."
"Never in the world!" said he heartily. "I shall never think that. I
think I know you pretty well, Rotha."
Yet he was hardly prepared for the look she gave him; a glance only, but
so intent, so warm, so laden with gratitude, ay, and so burdened with a
yet deeper feeling, that Mr. Digby was well nigh startled. It was not the
flash of brilliancy of which Rotha's eyes were quite capable; it was a
rarer thing, the dark glow of a hidden fire, true, and deep, and pure,
and unconscious of itself. It gave the young man something to think of.
CHAPTER X.
L'HOMME PROPOSE.
Mr. Digby thought of it a good deal. He was obliged to recognize the
fact, that this friendless child was pouring upon him all the affection
of a very passionate nature. Child, he called her in his thoughts, and
yet he knew quite well that the time was not distant when Rotha would be
a child no longer. And already she loved him with the intensity of a
concentrated power of loving. Certainly this was not what Mr. Digby
wished, or had in any wise contemplated as possible, and it seemed to him
both undesirable and inconvenient; and yet, it is sweet to be loved; and
he could not recall that intense look of devotion without a certain
thrill. Because of its beauty, he said to himself; but it was also
because of its significance. He read Rotha; he knew that she was one of
those natures which have a great tendency to concentration of affection;
with whom the flow of feeling is apt to be closed in to a narrow channel,
and in that channel to be proportionately sweeping and powerful. What
training could best be applied to correct this tendency, not happy for
the possessor, nor beneficent in its effects upon others? These are the
sort of natures that when untrained and ungoverned, use upon occasion the
dagger and the poison cup; or which even when not untrained are in
danger, in certain cases of shipwreck, of going to pieces altogether. In
danger at all times of unwise, inconsiderate acting; as when such a
stream meets with resistance and breaks its bounds, spreading waste and
desolation where it comes. Truly, he trusted that this little girl's
future might be so sheltered and cared for, that no such peril might
overtake her; but how could he know? What could he do? and what anyhow
was to be the outcome of all this? It was very pleasant to have her love
him, but he did not want her to love him too well. At any rate, _he_ could
not be her tutor permanently; he had something else to do, and if he had
not, the arrangement would be inadmissible. Mrs. Busby would return to
town in a few weeks, and then-- Yes, there was nothing else to do. Rotha
must go under her aunt's care, for the present. How would they agree? Mr.
Digby did not feel sure; he had an anticipation that the change would be
a sore trial to Rotha. But--it must be made.
He lay in his hammock one day, thinking all this over. Rotha was sitting
near him drawing. She was always near him when she could be so, though a
spaniel is not more unobtrusive. Nor indeed half as much so; for a pet
dog will sometimes try to attract attention, which Rotha never did. She
was content and happy if she could be near her one friend and glance at
him from time to time. And lately Rotha had become extremely fond of her
pencil; I might say, of all the studies Mr. Digby put before her.
Whatever he wished her to do, she did with a will. But drawing had grown
to be a passion with her, and naturally she was making capital progress.
She sat absorbed in her work, her eyes intently going from her model to
her paper and back again; nevertheless, every now and then one swift
glance went in Mr. Digby's direction. No model, living or dead, equalled
in her eyes the pleasantness of his face and figure. He caught one of
those glances; quick, wistful, watchful, and meeting his eye this time,
it softened with an inexplicable sort of content. The young man could
have smiled, but that the look somehow gave him a touch of pain. He
noticed Rotha more particularly, as she sat at her drawing. He noticed
how she had changed for the better, even in the few weeks since they came
to Fort Washington; how her face had refined, grown gentle and quiet, and
her manners correspondingly. He noticed what a good face it was, full of
intelligence and latent power, and present sensitiveness; and
furthermore, a rare thing anywhere, how free from self-consciousness.
Full of life and of eager susceptibility as Rotha was always, she seemed
to have the least recollection of herself and her own appearance. She did
not forget her new dresses, for instance, but she looked at them from her
own standpoint and not from that of an imaginary spectator. Mr. Digby
drew an involuntary sigh, and Rotha looked up again.
"You like that work, Rotha," he said.
"Very much, Mr. Digby!" He had once told her to be moderate in her
expressions, and to say always less than she felt, rather than more.
Rotha never forgot, and was sedulously reserved in her manner of making
known what she felt.
"But Mr. Digby, it is very difficult," she went on.
"What?"
"To make anything perfect."
He smiled. "Very difficult indeed. People that aim so high are never
satisfied with what they do."
"Then is it better to aim lower?"
"By no means! He that is satisfied with himself has come to a dead stand-
still; and will get no further."
"But must one be always dissatisfied with oneself?"
"Yes; if one is ever to grow to a richer growth and bring forth better
fruit. And anything that stops growing, begins to die."
Rotha gave him a peculiar, thoughtful look, and then went on with her
drawing.
"Understand me, Rotha," he said, catching the look. "I am talking of the
dissatisfaction of a person who is doing his best. The fact that one is
dissatisfied when not doing his best, proves simply that feeling is not
dead yet. There is no comfort to be drawn from that."
Rotha went on drawing and did not look up, this time. Mr. Digby
considered how he should say what he wanted to say.
"Rotha--" he began, "how is it with that question you were once concerned
about? Are you any nearer being a Christian?"
"I don't know, sir. I do not think I am."
"What hinders?"
"I suppose," said Rotha, playing with her pencil absently,--"the old
hindrance."
"You do not wish to be a Christian."
"Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I do. But I--cannot."
"I should feel happier about you, if that question were well settled."
"Why, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, answering rather something in his tone than
in his words, and looking up to get the reply.
"Because, Rotha, you take hold hard, where you take hold at all; and you
may take hold of something that will fail you."
Her eyes, and even a sudden change of colour, put a startled question to
him. He smiled as he answered, though again with a reminder of pain which
he did not stop to analyse. "No," he said, "I will never fail you, Rotha;
never voluntarily; but I have no command over my own life. I would like
you to have a trust that could never disappoint you; and there is only
One on whom such a trust can be lodged. He who is resting on Christ, is
resting on a rock."
"I know, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, in a subdued way. "I wish I was on such
a rock, too; but that don't change anything."
"Do you think you really wish to be a Christian, Rotha?"
"Because mother was,--and because you are," she said gravely; "but then,
_for myself_, I do not want it."
"What is likely to be the end?"
"_That_ don't change anything, either," said Rotha, not too lucidly.
"Most true!" said Mr. Digby. "Well, Rotha, I will tell you what I think.
I think you are your mother's child, and that you will not be left to
your own wilfulness. I am afraid, though, that you may have to go through
a bitter experience before the wilfulness is broken; and I want to give
you one or two things to remember when it comes."
"But why should it come?" said Rotha.
"Because I am afraid nothing else will bring you to seek the one Friend
that cannot be lost; and I think you are bound to find Him."
"But where will you be, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, now plainly much
disturbed.
"I do not know. I do not know anything about it."
"But I could not be so forlorn, if I had you."
"Then perhaps you will not have me."
At this, however, there came such flashes of changing feeling, of which
every change was a variety of pain, in the girl's face, that Mr. Digby's
heart was melted. He stretched out his hand and took hers, which lay limp
and unresponsive in his grasp, while distressed and startled eyes were
fixed upon him.
"I know nothing about it," he said kindly. "I have no foresight of any
such time. I shall never do anything to bring it about, Rotha. Only, if
it came by no doing of mine, I want you to have the knowledge of one or
two things which might be a help to you. Do you understand?"
She looked at him still silently, trying to read his face, as if her fate
were there. He met the look as steadily. On one side, a keen, searching,
suspicious, fearful inquiry; on the other a calm, frank, steadfastness;
till his face broke into a smile.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
"Then why do you speak so, Mr. Digby?" she said with a quiver in her lip.
"My child, this world is proverbially an uncertain and changing thing."
"I know it; but why should you make it more uncertain by talking in that
way?"
"I do not. I forestall nothing. I merely would like to have you provided
with one or two bits of knowledge; a sort of note of the way, if you
should need it. You are not superstitious, are you?"
"I do not know what is superstitious," said Rotha, her eyes still fixed
upon his face with an intentness which moved him, while yet at the same
time, he saw, she was swallowing down a great deal of disturbance.
"Well," he said, speaking very easily, "it is superstition, when people
think that anything beneath the Creator has power to govern the world he
has made--or to govern any part of it."
"I was not thinking of the government of the world," said Rotha,
"Only of a very small part of it,--the affairs of your little life. You
were afraid that being prepared for trouble might bring the trouble, in
some mysterious way?"
The girl was silent, and her eyes fell to the hand which held hers. What
would she do, if ever that hand ceased to be her protection? People of
Rotha's temperament receive impressions easily, and to her fancy that
hand was an epitome of the whole character to which it belonged.
Delicately membered, and yet nervously and muscularly strong; kept in a
perfection of care, and graceful as it was firm in movement; yet ready,
she knew, to plunge itself into anything where human want or human
trouble called for its help. Rotha loved the touch of it, obeyed every
sign of it, and admired every action of it; and now as she looked, two
big, hot tears fell down over her cheeks. The hand closed a little more
firmly upon her fingers.
"Rotha--you believe me?" he said.
"What, Mr. Digby?"
"You believe me when I tell you, that I am never going to leave you or
lose you by any will or doing of mine--"
"By whose then?" said Rotha quickly.
"By nobody's else, either, I promise you--unless by your own."
"By mine!" said Rotha, and a faint smile broke upon her troubled face.
"Well, you believe me? And now, my child, that is all you and I can do.
And nevertheless, a time might come when you might want help and comfort,
that is all I am saying; and I want to give you one or two things to
remember in case such a time ever does come, and I am not at hand to ask.
Get your Bible, and a pencil."
He let her hand loose, and Rotha obeyed immediately.
"Find the fourth chapter of John, and read to the fourteenth verse."
Rotha did so.
"What do you think the Lord meant?"
Rotha studied, and would have said she "did not know," only she had found
by experience that Mr. Digby never would take that answer from her in a
case like the present.
"I suppose," she said, speaking slowly, and vainly endeavouring to find
words that quite suited her,--"he meant--something like-- He meant, that
he could give her something good, that would last."
Mr. Digby smiled.
"That would last always, and never fail, nor change, nor wear out its
goodness."
"But, Mr. Digby, I should not want to stop being thirsty, because I
should lose the pleasure of drinking."
Mr. Digby smiled again. "Did you think _that_ was what the Lord promised?
What would be the use of that 'well of water, springing up into
everlasting life'? No, he meant only, that thirst and thirst and thirst
as you will, the supply should always be at hand and be sufficient."
Rotha gave one of her quick glances of comprehension, which it was always
pleasant to meet.
"Then go on, and tell me what is this living water which the Lord will
give?"
"I suppose--do you mean--religion?" she said, after another pause of
consideration.
"Religion is a rather vague term--people understand very different things
under it. But if by 'religion' you mean the knowledge, the loving
knowledge, of God,--you are right. Living water, in the Bible, constantly
typifies the work of the Holy Spirit in the heart; and what He does,
where he is received, is, to shew us Christ."
"Then how can people be thirsty, after they have got the knowledge?"
inquired Rotha.
But Mr. Digby's smile was very sweet this time, and awed her.
"After you have once come to know and love a friend," said he, turning
his eyes upon Rotha, "are you satisfied, and want to see and hear no more
of him?"
"Is religion like that?" said Rotha.
"Just like that. What the Lord Jesus offers to give us is himself. Now
suppose the time come when you greatly desire to receive this gift, what
are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Pray?"
"Certainly. But how? There are different ways of praying; and there is
just one way which the Lord promises shall never miss what it asks for."
"I don't know but one way," said Rotha.
"Are you sure you know _one?_ It takes more than words to make a prayer.
But turn to the second chapter of Proverbs. Read the third and fourth and
fifth verses."
Rotha read, and made no comment.
"You see? You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Digby."
"'If thou searchest for her as for hid treasures, _then_ shalt thou
understand, and find.'--You know how people search for hid treasures?"
"Yes."
"They leave no stone unturned, they work by night and by day, they think
of nothing else, until their object is gained. Mark those two places,
Rotha, and mark them in the fly leaf of your Bible, 1. and 2."
"Suppose," he went on when she had done this, "suppose you have sought in
this way, and the light does not come, and you are in danger of losing
heart. Then turn to Hosea, sixth chapter and third verse. There you have
an antidote against discouragement. You shall know, 'if you _follow on_
to know the Lord;' if you do not give over seeking and grow tired of
praying. 'His going forth is prepared as the morning.' Blessed
words!"----
"I do not know what they mean," said Rotha.
"Do you know how the morning is prepared?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know why the sun rises when morning comes?"
"It wouldn't be morning, if he didn't rise, would it?"
"No. Well, when the time comes," said Mr. Digby laughing. "Do you know
why the sun rises? and why does he not rise where he went down?"
"No--" said Rotha, her eyes kindling with intelligent curiosity.
Whereupon Mr. Digby turned himself out of his hammock, and coming to the
table gave Rotha her first lesson in astronomy; a lesson thoroughly
given, and received by her with an eagerness and a delight which shewed
that knowledge to her was like what the magnet is to the iron. She forgot
all about the religious bearing of the new subject till the subject
itself was for that time done with. Then Mr. Digby's questions returned
into the former channel.
"You see now, Rotha, how the morning is 'prepared,' do you?"
"Yes, Mr. Digby," she answered joyously.
"And sure to come. If the earth goes on turning round, it cannot help
coming. Even so: the Lord's coming is prepared and sure, for any one who
persistently seeks him. Keep on towards the east and you will certainly
see the sun rise."
"Yes," said Rotha, "I see. It is beautiful."
"Mark that No. 3 in the fly leaf! But Rotha, remember, anybody truly in
earnest and searching 'as for hid treasure,' will be willing to give up
whatever would render the search useless."
"Yes, of course. But what would?" said Rotha, though she was thinking
more of the improvised planetarium with which her imagination had just
been delighted.
"Turn once more to the fourteenth of John and read the 21st verse." But
Mr. Digby himself gave the words.
"'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me;
and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love him,
and will manifest myself to him.'"
"That is somebody who has found the treasure, I think, Mr. Digby; it is
'he that _loveth me_.'"
"Quite true; nevertheless, Rotha, it remains a fact that nobody who is
not willing to do the Lord's will, can come to the knowledge of him."
"Mr. Digby, why are wrong things so easy, and right things so hard?"
"They are not."
"I thought they were," said Rotha in surprise. "Am I worse than other
people?"
"It all depends upon where you stand, Rotha. Would you find it easy to do
something that would cause me great pain?"
"No, Mr. Digby,--impossible."
"I believe it," he said. "Then just put the case that you loved Christ
much better than you do me; which would be the hard and the easy things
then?"
Rotha was silent. But the whole conversation had rather given new food
for the meditations it had interrupted and which had occasioned it. Where
was all this to end?--the young man asked himself. And when should it
end, in so far as the immediate state of things was concerned? As soon as
possible! his judgment said. Rotha was already clinging to him with a
devotion that would make the parting a hard business, even now; every
week would make it harder. Besides, he had other work to do, and could
not permanently play tutor. As soon as Mrs. Busby came home he would go
to her and broach the matter. That would be, for the present, the best
plan he could hit upon. A week or two more--
Which calculations, like so many others of human framing, came to
nothing. A day or two later, driving in the Park one evening, a pair of
unruly horses coming at a run round a corner dashed into the little
phaeton which held Mr. Digby and Rotha, and threw them both out. The
phaeton was broken; Rotha was unhurt; Mr. Digby could not stand up. He
believed it was a sprain, he said; no more; but one foot was
unmanageable.
A carriage was procured, he was assisted into it, Rotha took her place
beside him, and the coachman was ordered to drive slowly.
A silent pair they were for some distance; and both faces very pale.
Rotha was the first one to speak.
"Mr. Digby--does it hurt much?"
"Rather, just now," he said forcing a smile. "Rotha, are you all right?"
"O yes. What can I do, Mr. Digby?"
"There is nothing to be done, till we get home."
For which now Rotha waited in an impatience which seemed to measure every
yard of the way. Arrived at last, Mr. Digby was assisted out of the
phaeton, and with much difficulty into the house. Here he himself
examined the hurt, and decided that it was only a sprain; no doctor need
be sent for.
"Is a sprain bad?" asked Rotha, when the assistants had withdrawn.
"Worse than a broken bone, sometimes."
Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cushions of the lounge; sweat
stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great
pain.
"Where is Mrs. Cord?"
"She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I
do for you, Mr. Digby?"
"You cannot--"
"O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr.
Digby!"--Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression.
"Salt and water is the thing,--but the boot must come off. You cannot get
it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife
that lies on my table over yonder."
Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the
leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident
suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and
foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen
foot had made the leather very tight.
"I cannot manage it," said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. "I cannot
get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve
this leather."
"Mr. Digby, may I try?"
"You cannot do it, child." But the answer was given in the exhaustion of
pain, and the young man lay back with closed eyes. Rotha did not hold
herself forbidden. She took the knife, and carefully, tenderly, and very
skilfully, she managed to free the suffering foot. It took time, but not
more, nor so much, as would have been needed to send for a doctor.
"Thank you!--that is great relief. Now the salt and water, Rotha."
With a beating heart, beating with joy, Rotha flew to get what was
wanted; flew only outside the door though, for in the room her motions
had no precipitation whatever. She came staidly and steadily, and
noiselessly. It was necessary to cut open also the stocking, to get that
off, but this was an easier matter; and then Rotha's fingers applied the
cold salt and water, bathing softly and patiently, with fingers that
almost trembled, they were so glad to be employed. For a long time this
went on.
"Rotha--"
"Yes, Mr. Digby," said the girl eagerly.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Seven, just."
"You have had no tea."
"Nor you, either. Will you have some now, Mr. Digby?"
"You will. The foot is a great deal easier now, Rotha. Lay a wet cloth
over the ankle and let it alone for a while; and have some tea, dear."
Rotha obeyed, moving with the utmost delicacy of soft and quiet
movements. She made the foot comfortable; rang the bell, and desired the
kettle to be brought; and noiselessly arranged the table when the servant
had set the tea things upon it She made the tea then; and had just cut a
slice of bread and put it upon the toasting fork, when the door opened
and in came Mrs. Cord, her arms full of cloths and vials and a basin of
water. Rotha dropped the toasting fork and sprang towards her.
"What do you want?" she said. "What are you going to do?"
Her accent and action were so striking, that the woman paused, startled.
"There's a sprained ankle here--I'm coming to see it."
"No, you are not," said Rotha with great decision. "I have done all that
is necessary, and I am going to do all that is necessary. I can do it as
well as anybody; and I do not want you. You may carry all those things
away, Mrs. Cord. Mr. Digby is asleep; he is better."
"_You_ don't want me, maybe, Rotha, but Mr. Digby does. I've got what he
wants here, and I knows my business. My business is to take care of him."
She would have passed on.
"Stand back!" said Rotha, barring her way. "I tell you, he don't want
you, and you are not coming. Stand back! Take your things away. I will
manage all that is done here myself. You may go!"--The tone and action
were utterly and superbly imperious.
The woman paused again, yielding before the slight girl, as matter always
does yield to mind.
"What new sort o' behaviour is this?" she said however in high offence.
"_You_ to tell _me_ what I'm to do and not do! You're takin' a good deal
upon you, my young lady!"
"I take it," said Rotha, supremely. "Go! and send the girl here, if you
please. I heard her go up stairs just now. I want her to make a piece of
toast."
Mrs. Cord greatly displeased, withdrew, after a glance at the closed
eyelids on the sofa. The eyelids however were not so fast closed as they
might be; Rotha's first words, spoken somewhat more emphatically than
usual, had roused Mr. Digby out of his light slumber, and he had seen and
heard all that passed. He had seen it with not a little amusement; at the
same time it had given him new matter for thought. This was Rotha in a
new character. He had known indeed before, in a measure, the intense
nature of the girl; yet in his presence her manner was always subdued,
except in the passion of grief that burst all bounds. But this was
passion of another sort, and in that concentration of force which draws
out a kind of spiritual electricity from its possessor. He saw how it had
magnetized Mrs. Cord, and rendered her bulkiness passive. He had been
intensely amused to see the large woman standing face to face with the
slim girl, checked and indeed awed by the subtle lightning fire which
darted from Rotha's eyes and seemed to play about her whole person. Mrs.
Cord was fairly cowed, and gave way. And Rotha's bearing; instead of a
poor, portionless little girl, she might have been a princess of the
house royal, if she were judged of by her mien and manner. There was
nothing assumed or affected about it; the demonstration was pure nature,
Mr. Digby saw well enough; but what sort of a creature was this, to whom
such a demonstration could be natural? There was force enough there, he
saw, to bring the whole machinery into disorder and ruin, if the force
were not well governed and well guided, and the machinery wisely managed.
Who was to do this? Mrs. Busby? Mr. Digby was not sure yet what manner of
person Mrs. Busby was; and he felt more than ever anxious to find out.
And now a sprained ankle!
Meanwhile, Rotha having driven her adversary from the field, was making
peaceful arrangements. She had sent the toast to be made; seeing that Mr.
Digby's eyes were open, she carefully renewed the salt water application
to his ankle; poured out a cup of tea, and brought it with the plate of
toast to his side; where she sat down, the cup in one hand, the plate in
the other.
"What now, Rotha?" said he.
"Your tea, Mr. Digby. I hope it is good."
She looked and spoke as gentle as a dove, albeit full of energetic
alertness.
"And do you propose to enact dumb waiter?"
"If you want me to be dumb," she said.
He laughed. "Rotha, Rotha! this is a bad piece of work!" he said; but he
did not explain what he meant.--"That won't do. Call Marianne and let her
shove the table up to the sofa here--one corner of it."
"I like to hold the things, Mr. Digby, if you will let me."
"I don't like it. Call Marianne, Rotha, and we will take our tea
together. I am not a South Sea Islander."
"Suppose you were,--what then?" asked Rotha as she rang the bell.
"Then I suppose I should think it proper for the ladies of the family to
take tea after I had done."
The tea time was an occasion of unmitigated delight to Rotha, because she
could wait upon her protector. He was suffering less now, and except that
he was a prisoner seemed just as usual. After tea, however, he lay still,
with closed eyes again; and Rotha had nothing to do but take care of his
ankle and look at him. She thought it had never struck her before, what a
beautiful person he was.
I use the word advisedly, and that I may justify it I will try, what I
believe I have not done before, to describe Mr. Digby. He was not at all
one of a class, or like what one sees every now and then; in fact the
combination of points in his appearance was very unusual. His features
were delicately regular and the colour of skin fair; but all thought of
weakness or womanishness was shut out by the very firm lines of the lips
and chin and the gravity of the brow. His hair was light and curly, and a
fair moustache graced the upper lip; not overhanging it, but trained into
long soft points right and left. He wore no English whiskers nor beard.
Again, his hands were small and delicate, and the whole person of rather
slight build, as far as outline and contour were concerned; but the
joints were well knit and supple, and all the muscles and sinews as if
made of steel. Rather slow and easy, generally, in movement, he could
shew the spring and power of a cat, when it was necessary; nature and
training having done their best. He was habitually a grave person; the
gravity was sweet, but very decided, and even when crossed by a smile it
was not lost. So at least Rotha had always seen him. There were several
reasons for this; one being the yet unhealed wound left by the death of
his mother, to whom he had been devotedly attached, and another the
sudden death a year or more ago of the lady he was to have married. The
world knew nothing of these things, and set Mr. Digby down as a
ridiculously sober man, for a man in his circumstances. They gave him
also largely the reputation of haughtiness; while no one had more gentle
and brotherly sympathy with every condition of humankind, or shewed it
more graciously. He got the reputation partly, perhaps, by his real
separateness from the mass of men, and his real carelessness about the
things in which they take concern; more, however, it came from the
feeling of inferiority in his presence, which most people find it hard to
forgive a man. He was a welcome guest wherever he appeared; but very few
were acquainted with his real tastes and powers and inner nature, even as
Rotha knew them.
She knew something of them. She did not misjudge him; but on the contrary
dwelt on everything that belonged to him with a kind of worshipping
admiration. So she sat and looked at him this evening, and thought she
had never known before how beautiful he was; and the evening was not slow
to her, nor long, though it was utterly silent.
By and by came in Mrs. Cord, again with her hands full.
"I beg your pardon--can I do anything for you, sir?"
"No, thank you. I have had all the care I needed."
Rotha's heart had beat fearfully, and now it swelled in triumph.
"I have some liniment here, sir, that is an excellent thing for a
sprain--if a sprain it is; I wasn't allowed to examine."
"Nothing so good as salt and water. Mrs. Cord, let them make up a bed in
the next room for me. I had better not go up stairs."
So the nurse was dismissed, and Rotha confirmed in her office, to her
great joy.
CHAPTER XI.
MRS. BUSBY.
The weeks that now followed were a time of happiness to Rotha, as perfect
as in her present circumstances it was possible for her to know. She was
allowed to minister to Mr. Digby, she was constantly with him, and
intercourse and lessons were tasted with redoubled zest. For she was kept
very busy at her old studies, and new ones were added; she read aloud a
good deal; Mr. Digby never shunned talk when she wanted information or
help in any puzzle; and the meal times, when ministry was varied and the
conversation ran upon lighter topics, were hours of unalloyed enjoyment.
I think these weeks were not disagreeable ones to the other party
concerned; however, he was constantly reminded of the need of making new
arrangements; and as soon as his ankle would permit his getting in and
out of a carriage, he was ready to go to Mrs. Busby's. But when at last
he was on the way, he thought to himself that he had another hard job on
his hands. How would Rotha bear uprooting again, and transplanting to
entirely different soil? she who took such terribly fast hold of any
ground that suited her. Would Mrs. Busby's family be such ground? If it
would not, if he saw cause to think it would not, Mr. Digby resolved she
should not be put there. But how was he to find out? He came into Mrs.
Busby's drawing room with the full measure of his usual gravity.
It was almost the end of October now, and the family had been long enough
returned from the country for the mistress of it to have her house put in
perfect winter order. Carpets were down, curtains were up; mirrors and
lamps were unswathed from their brown linen coverings; everything that
was metal shone with the polish put upon it, and everything that was
upholstery shewed soft and rich colours and draperies. It was all
harmonious, it was all very handsome; the fault was the fault of so many
rooms, a failure to shew cause why it should be at all. Nothing was done
there, nothing could be done; there was plush and satin and brocade and
gilding and lacquered wood; but no life. Even the fire, for there was a
fire, was a solid mass of firestones; a glowing grateful of hard coal; if
there was life in that, it was the life of mere existence.
Plenty of money! What else?
One of the great polished doors opened a little? softly, and the mistress
of the house came in. She was rather a contrast to it all. Perhaps she
had not yet made her toilette for the afternoon; she was in a very plain
dress, and came in drawing a shawl around her. Not a handsome shawl
either; the lady's whole appearance was most absolutely without
pretension, and so was her manner. But the manner was not artless; it
gave you the impression that she always knew what she was saying and had
a reason for saying it. And the face, which had once been handsome, and
might still have laid claim to some distinction, seemed likewise to lay
claim to nothing, beyond the possession of sense and discernment and
knowledge of the world.
"Mr. Southwode!" she said as she closed the door. "You are quite a
stranger."
She was far too acute to tell Mr. Digby how welcome a visiter he was. She
let the fact sufficiently appear in her smile and the tones of her
greeting.
"I think, you have been a stranger here too, Mrs. Busby. Were you not
late in returning to town?"
"Yes-- September was so warm! But I think eight months of the year is
sufficient to spend in the city. Soul and body want the cultivation of
nature for the other four; don't you think so? The ocean and the
mountains are better than books. There is enlargement of the faculties to
be sought, as well as stores for the memory."
"And what mountains, and what sea, have you been looking upon this
summer?"
"We have seen no mountains this year; we kept to the sea beach. Except
for a short interval. And you, Mr. Southwode? What have you done with
yourself?"
"My last achievement was to let somebody run into me, in the Park, and
sprain my ankle in consequence."
There followed of course inquiries and a full account of the affair. Mr.
Digby could not be let off with less; and then advice and recipes, in the
giving of which Mrs. Busby was quite motherly.
"And have you resolved at last to make your home in America?" she asked
after this.
"I make my home wherever I am," the young man replied, with his slight
grave smile.
"But surely you do not think it well for any ordinary mortal to imitate
the Wandering Jew, and have a settled home nowhere?" said Mrs. Busby,
shewing her white teeth, of which she had a good many and in good order.
"It may be best for some people," the young man said lightly. "But I came
to speak to you about a matter of business. Mrs. Busby, pardon me for
asking, had you once a sister?"
There was a change in the lady's face, marked enough, yet not so as to
strike any but a nice observer. The bland smile faded from her lips, the
lines about her mouth took a harder set, the eyes were more watchfully on
the alert.
"Yes," she said quietly, not shewing her surprise. "I have a sister."
"Have you heard from her lately?"
"No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little
dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she
added, "Do you know her?"
"I have known her."
"In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western
part of the state."
"I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York."
"In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me-- When did you
know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here."
"She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and
failing constantly; and in July--did you know nothing of it?--she left us
all, Mrs. Busby."
"My sister? Did she _die_ here? Do you mean that?"
Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes
from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as
if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was
determined this time he would not break.
"What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length
asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her
feet.
"I am afraid,--the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was."
"Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission
to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my
father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no
reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister
was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go
their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months,
then?"
"More than that"
"More? How much more?"
"She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her."
"Did she tell you anything of her story?"
"Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you
were her sister."
"Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and
such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they
charge the fault upon their family."
"Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody.
I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit."
Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together.
Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on.
"Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter--"
"I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?"
"Certainly."
"Pray, how old?"
"About--I believe, about fifteen."
"Where is she?"
"She is here."
"_Here!_ In whose care? and where is she?"
"She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you."
"In _your_ care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my
sister to leave her child in your care?"
"She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be
a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed
gravity.
"But was there nobody else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting
herself.
"Nobody else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as
trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile.
"Mr. Southwode, I cannot allow that for a moment," Mrs. Busby said with
energy. "_I_ am the proper person to take charge of my sister's child,
and if you please I will assume the charge immediately. Where is she? She
ought to be under my roof."
"It occurred to me, that if you were so inclined, your house would be the
safest place for her; for the present at least."
"For the present and for always," said the lady decidedly. "Who else
should take care of her? Where can I find her, Mr. Southwode?"
"Nowhere. I will bring her to you, if you will allow me."
"Do you know the girl? do you know much of her, I mean?"
"Something--" Mr. Digby easily assented.
"And what is she, if you can tell?"
"I do not know that I _can_ tell, what you will find her. Do you not
think, Mrs. Busby, that a human character of any richness shews different
sides of itself to different persons, as varying affinities call out
corresponding developments?"
"Then you call hers, a character of some richness?"
"I suppose I implied as much."
"And will you tell me what you have found her?"
"Pardon me; that would be an injustice to her. You would naturally look
to verify my impressions, and perhaps could not do it. It is unkind to
praise or blame anybody beforehand to third persons. You make it
impossible for the balance of judgment to swing clear."
"She ought to come here at once. Will you bring her to-morrow?"
"I think not to-morrow."
"Why not? When, then?"
"This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?"
"Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see
her."
"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, and
I am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday."
"Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and
raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my
niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you had
_reasons_ for being unwilling to put her out of your care."
The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was
habitual with him.
"I _have_ reasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my
care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in
the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign."
The lady shut her lips a little tight.
"What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on.
"I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going-- But
I am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be."
The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took
his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he
closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the
linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood
for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow
arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding
thought might be summed up thus:--"When she is under my care, my young
gentleman, I think she will _not_ be under yours. Preposterous!"
Mr. Digby had his thoughts too as he drove homeward. They will never get
on together, he said to himself. It will not be happy for Rotha, nor
easy. And yet--it is the best thing I can do for her just now. She must
have a woman's care; and whose could be so proper as her aunt's? Besides,
I shall see her frequently; I shall know all that concerns her, for Rotha
will tell me; and if things go wrong, I can at any time put in my hand
and set them straight. I am sorry--but this is the thing to do; and there
is no help for it.
In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward
with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her.
There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not
one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable.
The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the
lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was
looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent
over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and
refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby;
her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her aptitudes.----
"How would you like to go to school, Rotha?"
She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so
readily to her eye.
"I shouldn't like it as well as _this_, Mr. Digby,"--("this" meant the
present course and manner of her education;) "but I suppose you could not
go on teaching me always."
"I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many
respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too."
"When shall I go, Mr. Digby?" she asked in a subdued voice, without
looking up this time.
"The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some
weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could
not live out here at Fort Washington, and attend school in New York. I
shall be obliged to go back to the city, too."
"Then I would like to go," said Rotha simply.
"But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have
other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot
do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection."
Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now.
"My aunt?" she repeated.
"Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the
city?"
Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood
before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands
interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with
colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary
even currents of the blood.
"O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!"
"Why not?" he asked gently.
"She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear
the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her.
_Please_, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These
words came out in a stream.
"My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your
aunt?"
"Because she wasn't good to mother--she didn't love her--she wasn't kind
to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like her
_dreadfully_, Mr. Digby!"
The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.
"Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what
all this means."
"O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?"
"Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!--
Rotha!--"
She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a
chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of
absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is
with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age
knows better.
"Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike
your aunt so? You do not know her."
"O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to
give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up to _her?_"
"No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody.
Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me,
and we will talk this over. Come!"
Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and
brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the
change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her
place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a
terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took
hers kindly and held it.
"Rotha--my child--I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated
gravely.
Rotha thought it practically amounted to that, to place her in her aunt's
house; words were not at command. A sort of sob wrung from her breast.
"What do you know about your aunt?"
"Not much,--but too much," Rotha laconically answered.
"Tell me what you know."
"I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to
this unanswerable statement, she went on;--"She is a hard woman; she
didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were--She has everything in
the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her
beautiful carriage; and we--we were--you know!--we were--if it hadn't
been for you--"
Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered
passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the
incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they
could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The
girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr.
Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the
underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was
no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try
to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail
of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a
breaking heart.
Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed
presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In
the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal
of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock
without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would
such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft,
and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined
form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all?
And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go
back.
He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then
called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice
too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came
and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely
given place to an expression of helpless despair.
"Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her
hand again.
"You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very
gently.
"I could not help it. I tried--"
"I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it."
"I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before
you."
"It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but
because it is not right."
"Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly.
"Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself."
Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but
she said nothing.
"You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of
yourself, who takes it?"
Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose--nobody," she
said.
"Do you think we have such an enemy as we have, and that he will let such
an advantage go unimproved? No; when you lose command of yourself Satan
takes it,--and uses it."
"What does he do with it?" said Rotha in full astonishment.
"According to circumstances. To tempt you to wrong, or to tempt you to
folly; or if neither of those, to break down your mental and bodily
powers, so that you shall be weaker to resist him next time."
"Mr. Digby--do you _think_ so?"
"Certainly. And when people go on in a way like this, giving ground to
Satan, he takes all they give, until finally he has the whole rule of
them. Then they seem to their neighbours to be slaves of passion, or of
greed, or of drink; but really they are 'possessed of the devil,' and
those are the chains in which he holds them."
"Mr. Digby," said Rotha humbly, "do you think I have been losing ground?"
"I think you have been gaining ground, for a good while."
"I am sorry," she said simply. "But how can I help it, Mr. Digby?"
"You remember," he said. "You must be under one king or the other; there
is no middle ground. 'Whosoever committeth sin, is the servant of
sin';--but, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha drew a deep sigh, and one or two fresh tears fell.
"Now," said he very gently, "do not let us get excited again, but let us
talk quietly. What is all this about?"
"You are sending me away," said Rotha; "and you are all I have got."
"You are not going to lose me. That is settled. Now go on. What next?"
"But I shall not be with you?"
"Not every day, as here. But I hope to see you very often; and you can
always write to me if you have anything in particular upon your mind."
"Then," said Rotha, her voice several shades clearer, "you are sending me
to be with a person that I don't--respect."
"That is serious! Are you sure you are justified in such an opinion, with
no more grounds?"
"I cannot help it," said Rotha. "I do not think I have reason to respect
her."
"Then how are you going to get along together?"
"I am sure I do not know."
"Rotha, I may ask this of you. I ask of you to behave as a lady should,
in your aunt's house. I ask you to be well-bred and well-mannered always;
whatever you feel."
"Do you think I can, Mr. Digby?" said the girl looking earnestly at him.
"I am sure of it."
"But--do I know how?"
"I will give you an unfailing recipe," said Mr. Digby smiling.
"'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them';
and for details, study the 13th chapter of the first epistle to the
Corinthians."
"Is that the chapter about charity?"
"About love. The word means love, not charity."
"Mr. Digby, it is very hard to act as if you loved people, when you do
not."
"True," said he smiling. "That is what the world means by good manners.
But what Christians should mean by that term is the real thing."
"And I do not think I can," Rotha went on.
"Do not try to make believe anything. But the courtesy of good manners
you can give to everybody."
"If I do not lose command of myself," said Rotha. "I will try, Mr.
Digby."
"I think you can do, pretty nearly, Rotha, whatever you try."
This declaration was a source of great comfort to the girl, and a great
help towards its own justification; as Mr. Digby probably guessed.
Nevertheless Rotha grieved, deeply and silently, through the days that
followed. Her friend saw it, and with serious disquiet. That passion of
pain and dismay with which she had greeted the first news of what was
before her was no transient gust, leaving the air as clear as it had been
previously. True, the storm was over. Rotha obtruded her feelings in no
way upon his notice; she was quiet and docile as usual. But the happiness
was gone. There were rings round her eyes, which told of watching or of
weeping; her brow was clouded; and now and then Mr. Digby saw a tear or
two come which she made good efforts to get rid of unseen. She was
mourning, and it troubled him; but, as he said to himself over and over
again, "there was no help for it." He was unselfish about it; for to
himself personally there was no doubt but to have Rotha safely lodged
with her aunt would be a great relief. He had other business to attend
to.
CHAPTER XII.
MRS. BUSBY'S HOUSE.
By the beginning of the week Rotha had recovered command of herself,
externally at least; and on the Monday Mr. Digby and his charge were to
go to Mrs. Busby's. It was the first of November; dull, cloudy and cold;
getting ready for snow, Mr. Digby said, to judge by the sky. From the
clouds his eye came down to Rotha, who had just entered the room dressed
for her departure.
"Rotha," said he, "what is that you have on?"
"My brown lawn, Mr. Digby."
"Lawn? on such a day as this? You want a warmer dress, my child."
Rotha hesitated and coloured.
"My warm dresses--are not very nice," she said with some difficulty. "I
thought I must look as well as I could."
"And I have forgotten that the season was changing! and left you without
proper provision. You see, Rotha, I never had the charge of a young lady
before. Never mind, dear; that will soon be made right. But put on
something warm, no matter how it looks. You will take cold with that thin
dress."
Rotha hesitated.
"I don't think you will like it, if I put on my old winter frock," she
said.
"I would like it better than your getting sick. Change your dress by all
means."
When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an
old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made
over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had
got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very
"mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago;
the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had
lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was
worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr.
Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of
authority. He looked at her a little gravely.
"That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to
blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was
corning."
He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or
a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people
forget.
"This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha
tentatively.
"Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not?
and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies."
It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby
sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood
by, doubtful and thoughtful.
"Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like
very much to ask."
"Ask it, Rotha."
"But I do not know whether you would like it--and yet I cannot know
without asking--"
"Naturally. What is it, Rotha?"
"Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean."
"Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not."
The girl hesitated and struggled with herself.
"I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But
now,--how will it be, Mr. Digby?"
Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition.
"Who will be at the charge of your schooling, you mean? and other things?
Certainly I, Rotha, unless your aunt wishes very decidedly that it should
be herself."
"She will not wish that," said the girl. "Then, Mr. Digby, when I am done
with school--what am I to do? What do you want me to do? Because if I
knew, I might work better to get ready for it."
"Well," said Mr. Digby, making some easy strokes with his pencil, every
one of which however meant something,--"there is generally something for
everybody to do in this world; but we cannot always tell what, till the
time comes. The best way is to prepare yourself, as far as possible, for
everything."
"But I cannot do that," said Rotha, with the nearest approach to a laugh
that she had made since the previous Friday.
"Yes, you can. First, be a good woman; and then, get all the knowledge
and all the accomplishments, and all the acquirements, that come in your
way. Drawing, certainly, for you have a true love for that. How is it
with music? Are you fond of it?"
"I don't know," Rotha said low. "Mr. Digby, can I not--some time--do
something for you?"
"Yes," said he, looking up at her with a laughing glance, "you can do all
these things for me. I want you to be as good a woman, and as wise a
woman, and as accomplished a woman, as you are able to become."
"Then I will," said Rotha very quietly.
The carriage came. Rotha covered up her old dress as well as she could
under her silk mantle, very ill satisfied with the joint effect, She
behaved very well, however; was perfectly quiet during the drive, and
only once asked,
"Mr. Digby, you said I might write to you?"
"As often as you like. But you will see me too, Rotha, though not every
day. If anything goes wrong with you, let me know."
That was all; and then the carriage turned a corner and stopped in a
street of high, regular, stately houses, with high flights of doorsteps.
Poor Rotha felt her gown dreadfully out of place; but her bearing did not
betray her. She was trying hard to form herself on Mr. Digby's model, and
so to be even and calm and unimpassioned in her manners. Not easy, when a
young heart beats as hers was beating then. They entered the house. Mrs.
Busby was not in, the servant said; at the same time she opened the door
of the parlour, and Mr. Digby and Rotha went in.
Nobody was there; only the luxurious presence of warmth and colour and
softness and richness, whichever way the girl looked. She tried not to
look; she fixed her eyes on the glowing grate; while a keen sense of
wrong and a bitter feeling of resentment and opposition swelled her
heart. This was how her aunt lived! and her mother had done sewing for
her bread, and not got it. If the flowers in the carpet had been living
exotics, they would have thriven in the warm air that surrounded them,
and feared no frost; and her mother's fire had been fed by charity! It
was to the credit of Rotha's budding power of self-command that she
shewed nothing of what she felt. She was outwardly calm and impassive.
Then the heavy door was pushed inward and a figure appeared for which she
was scarcely prepared. A young girl of about her own age, also a
contrast. There was nothing but contrasts here. She was excessively
pretty, and as lively as a soap bubble. Something of her mother's
hardness of outlines, perhaps; but in that fifteen must needs be far
different from fifty; and this face was soft enough, with a lovely
tinting of white and red, charming little pearly teeth, a winning smile,
and pretty movements. She was not so tall as Rotha; and generally they
were as unlike as two girls could be. In dress too, as in everything
else. This new-comer on the scene was as bright as a flower; in a new
cashmere, fashionably made, of a green hue that set off the fresh tints
of her skin, edged with delicate laces which softened the lines between
the one and the other. She came in smiling and eager.
"Mr. Southwode! how long it is since we have seen you! What made you stay
away so? Mamma is out; she told me if you came I must see you. I am so
sorry she is out! No, I am very glad to see you; but I know you wanted to
see mamma. I'll do as well as I can." And she smiled most graciously on
him, but hitherto had not looked at Rotha, though Mr. Digby knew one
glance of her eye had taken her all in.
"Miss Antoinette," said he, shaking hands with her, "this is your
cousin."
The eyes came round, the smile faded.
"Oh!--" said she. "I knew it must be you. How do you do? Mamma is out;
she'll be so sorry. But your room is ready. Would you like to go up to it
at once, and take off your things?"--Then without waiting for an answer,
she pulled the bell twice, and springing to the door cried out, "Lesbia!
Lesbia!--Lesbia, where are you? O here you are. Lesbia, take this young
lady--up stairs and shew her her room--you know, the little room that you
put in order yesterday. Take her up there and shew her where things are;
and then take her to mamma's room; do you understand? Miss Carpenter what
is her name, Mr. Southwode? Rotha? O what a lovely name! Rotha, if you
will go up stairs with the girl, she will shew you your way."
"I will not go yet, thank you," said Rotha.
Antoinette looked at her, seemingly taken aback at this.
"Don't you want to go up and take off your things?" she said. "I think
you will be more comfortable."
"I would rather stay here."
Mr. Digby suppressed a smile, and had also to suppress a sigh. This by-
play was very clear to him, and gave him forebodings. He hoped it was not
clear to Rotha. However, he did not much prolong his stay after that. He
knew it was pain to Rotha and better ended; she must learn to swim in
these new waters, and the sooner she was pushed from her hold the kinder
the hard service would be. So he took leave of Miss Antoinette, and then,
taking Rotha's cold hand, he did what he had never done before; stooped
down and kissed her. He said only one word, "Remember!"--and went away.
He had thought to give the girl a little bit of comfort; and he had not
only comforted her, but lifted her up into paradise, for the moment. A
whole flood tide of pleasure seemed to pour itself into Rotha's heart,
making her deaf and blind to what was around her or what Antoinette said.
She went up stairs like one on wings, with the blood tingling in every
corner of her frame. If she had known, or if Mr. Digby had guessed, what
that kiss was to cost her. But that is the way in this life; we start and
shiver at the entrance of what is to be a path of flowers to our feet;
and we welcome eagerly the sugared bait which is to bring us into a
network of difficulty.
There was an under current of different feeling however, in Rotha's mind;
and the two girls as they went up stairs were as great a contrast to each
other as could be imagined. The one carried a heart conscious of a secret
and growing weight; the other had scarce gravity enough to keep her to
the earth's surface. So the one tripped lightly on ahead, and the other
mounted slowly, rebelling inwardly at every step she set her foot upon.
What a long flight of stairs! and how heavily carpeted; and with what
massive balusters framed in. Nothing like it had Rotha ever seen, and she
set her teeth as she mounted. Arrived at last at the second floor,
Antoinette passed swiftly along to the foot of another flight. "There is
mamma's room," said she, pointing to an open door; "and that is mine,"
indicating a small room adjoining; "now here is yours." She had got to
the top, and preceded Rotha into the small room off the hall at the head
of the stairs.
It was very small, of course; furnished with sufficient neatness, but
certainly with old things. It was not like the rest of the house. That
was no matter; the furniture was still as good as Rotha had been
accustomed to in her best days, at home; yet she missed something. It
looked poor and bare, and very cramped. Perhaps one reason might be, that
the day was chill and dark and here were no signs of a fire, nor even a
place to make one; and _that_ luxury Rotha had never missed. Her mother
and she had kept scant fires at one time, it is true; but since Mr. Digby
had taken the oversight of their affairs, their rooms had been always
deliciously warm. Anyhow, the place made a cheerless impression on Rotha.
She took off her hat and mantle.
"Where are they to go?" she asked her companion.
"You can put the mantle in one of those drawers."
"Not my hat, though."
"Yes, you could, if you turn up the edges a little. O never mind; it'll
go somewhere, and you can't wear that hat any longer now. It's too cold.
Let us go down to mamma's room."
This was the large front room on the second floor. Here was a warm fire,
a cosy set of easy chairs, tables with work, a long mirror in the door of
the wardrobe between the windows; a general air of comfort and household
living. Antoinette's room opened into this, and the door stood thrown
back, letting the fire warmth penetrate there also; and a handsome
dressing table was visible standing before the window. Antoinette stirred
the fire and sat down. Rotha stood at the corner of the hearth, charging
herself to be cool and keep quiet.
"Where did you come from?" Antoinette began cheerfully. "We might as well
get acquainted."
"Will that help you?" said Rotha.
"Help me what?"
"You said we might as well get acquainted."
"Well I want to know where you come from, to be sure," said the other
girl laughing. "I always want to know where people come from. It's one of
the first things I want to know."
"I come from Medwayville," said Rotha. "That is a place in the western
part of the state."
"But you don't come from there now. I know you did live in Medwayville.
But where do you come from now?"
There sprang up in Rotha's mind an instant and unwonted impulse of
reserve; she hardly knew why. So she answered,
"Mr. Digby brought me; he can tell you about the place better than I
can."
"Why, don't you know where you have been living?"
"I know the place when I see it. I could not find my way to it."
"Then you can't have the organ of locality. Do you know about organs, and
bumps on the head? That's what is called phrenology. Mamma thinks a great
deal of phrenology; she'll be examining your head, the first thing."
"Examining my head!"
"Yes, to find out what you are, you know. She has a little map, with
everything marked on it? so she'll feel your head to see where the bumps
are, and where she finds a bump she will look in her map to see what's
there, and then she'll know you have it."
"What?" said Rotha.
"_That;_ whatever the map says the bump ought to be."
"There are no bumps on my head," said Rotha a little proudly; "it is
quite round."
"O you're mistaken; everybody has bumps; when the head is round, it means
something, I forget what; whether bad or good. Mamma'll know; and she'll
judge you by your head. How long have you known Mr. Southwode?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know how long you have known him?"
"I do not know just how long it is."
"O I didn't mean that. Have you known him a month?"
"More than that."
"How came you to know him at all?"
"He came to see us?"
"Us? You and aunt Eunice? What made him go to see you? at first, I mean."
"How can I tell?" said Rotha, more and more displeased.
"Well, do you like him?"
The answer did not come suddenly.
"Do I like Mr. Digby?" Rotha said slowly. "I think I do."
"_We_ do. What sort of a carriage was he in when he was overturned?"
"A little phaeton."
"One-horse?"
"Yes."
"Was he alone?"
"No."
"What became of the other person?"
"Thrown out, like him."
"Hurt?"
"No."
"Do you know who it was?"
"Yes."
"Who was it?"
"It was I."
"_You?_" exclaimed Antoinette. "Were _you_ driving with Mr. Southwode?
How came you to be going with him?"
"Why should I not?"
"Why--" with a glance at Rotha's dress. Rotha saw and understood, but
would not enlighten her.
"Did you ever go with him before?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
But Rotha was getting amused now, and was mistress of the situation.
"Does it matter how many times?" she said quite unexcitedly.
"He never took _me_ anywhere," said Antoinette. "I declare, I'll make
him. It isn't using me well. What makes you call him Mr. Digby?"
"I have been accustomed to call him so."
"Did he tell you to?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if he'd let me? I don't believe mamma would, though. She won't
let you either do it any more. Digby is Mr. Southwode's first name. She
would say it was too familiar, to call him by his first name, even with a
'Mr.' to it. Mamma's a little poky at times. But how did you come to know
him first? you haven't told me."
"I suppose, the same way you came to know him," said Rotha slowly.
But the suggestion of anything similar in what concerned the social
circumstances of her and her cousin, struck Antoinette with such a sense
of novelty that, for a moment she was nonplussed. Then her eye fell upon
the clock on the mantel-piece, and she started up.
"I must rush right off," she said; "it is time for my drawing lesson.
That's one thing I don't get in school. Have you ever been to school?"
"No."
"I suppose you don't know much, then. Won't you have to work, though! I
am sorry I must go and leave you alone; but mamma will be in by and by."
While she was speaking, Antoinette had been putting on her wraps to go
out; handsome, ample, and becoming they were. A dark green cloak of some
figured, lustrous stuff; a little green hat with a coquettish leather;
gloves fitting nicely; and finally a little embroidered pocket-
handkerchief stuffed into an outer pocket of her cloak. Then taking her
portfolio, Antoinette hurried away.
Rotha felt a sense of uneasiness growing upon her. She was not at home,
and nothing promised her that she ever would be, in this house. For
awhile she sat still where she was, looking and thinking; or rather
feeling; for thought was scarcely organized. She was tired at last of the
stillness, the ticking of the clock and the soft stir of the coals in the
grate or falling of ashes into the pan. She went down to the parlour
again, having a mind to become a little acquainted with her new
surroundings while she could make her observations unobserved; and
besides, that parlour was a study to Rotha; she had seen nothing like it.
She went down and took her seat upon an ottoman, and surveyed things. How
beautiful it all was, she thought; beyond imagination beautiful. The
colours and figures in the carpet; the rich crimsons and soft drabs, and
the thick, rich pile to the stuff, what a wonder they were to her. The
window curtains, hanging in stately folds and draperies of drab, with
broad bands of crimson satin shot through the tamer colour, how royal
they were! And did anybody ever see anything so magnificent as the glass
in the pier, which filled the space from floor to ceiling between those
royal draperies? The furniture was dark and polished, as to the wood;
covers of striped drilling hid what might be the beauty of cushions
beneath, and Rotha was not one of the sort that can lift a corner to see
what was hidden. There was enough not hidden, and she could wait. But as
her eye roved from one thing to another, her heart gathered fuel for a
fire that presently rivalled its more harmless neighbour in the grate; a
fierce, steady, intense glow of wrath and indignation. This was how her
mother's sister lived and had been living; and her mother in the poor
little rooms in Jane Street. Magnificence and luxury here; and there toil
and the bread of charity. And not a hand held out to help, nor love
enough to be called upon for it. Rotha's heart fed its fire with dark
displeasure. There was built up a barrier between her and her aunt, which
threatened perpetual severance. Kindness might break it down; Rotha was
open to kindness; but from this quarter she did not expect it. She bent
her determination however on behaving herself so as Mr. Digby had wished.
She would not shew what she thought. She would be quiet and polite and
unexcited, like him. Poor Rotha! The fire should burn in her, and yet she
would keep cool!
She was studying the gas reading stand on the centre table, marvelling at
the beauty of its marble shaft and the mystery of its cut glass shade,
where bunches of grapes and vine leaves wandered about in somewhat stiff
order; when the door of the room opened softly and Mrs. Busby came in.
Rotha divined immediately that it was her aunt; the lady wore still the
bonnet and the shawl in which she had been abroad, and had the air of the
mistress, indefinable but well to be recognized. Softly she shut the door
behind her and came towards the fire. Rotha did not dislike her
appearance. The features were good, the eyes keen, the manner quiet
"And this is my niece Rotha," she said with a not unkindly smile. "How do
you do?" She took her hand and kissed her. Alas! the kiss was smooth ice.
Rotha remembered the last kiss that had touched her lips; how warm and
soft and firm too it had been; it meant something. This means nothing but
civility, thought Rotha to herself.
"You are all alone?" Mrs. Busby went on. "Antoinette had to go out. Shall
we go up stairs, to my room? We never sit here in the morning."
Rotha followed her aunt up stairs, where Mrs. Busby laid off hat and
shawl and made herself comfortable, calling a maid to take them and to
brighten up the fire.
"I'll have luncheon up here, Lesbia," she said by the way. "Now Rotha,
tell me all about yourself and your mother. I have heard nothing for a
long while, unless from some third person."
"Mother was ill a long time," said Rotha, uncertain how to render
obedience to this command.
"Yes, I know. When did you come to New York?"
"It is--two years now."
"Two years!" Mrs. Busby started up in her chair a little, and a faint
colour rose in her cheeks; then it faded and her lips took a hard set.
"Ill all that time?"
"No. She was not ill for the first year."
"Say, 'No _ma'am_,' my dear. That is the proper way. Do you know what
induced her to move to New York, Rotha?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Rotha colouring.
"May I know?"
"Didn't you know we were very poor?" said Rotha in a lower voice.
"How was _that_ the reason?"
"We couldn't--I mean--she couldn't, get work at Medwayville."
"Get work!" Mrs. Busby was silent. Perhaps that was an unfruitful, and
would prove an unrefreshing, field of inquiry. She would leave it
unexplored for the present. She paused a little.
"So since then you have been living in New York?"
"Yes."
A longer pause followed. Mrs. Busby looked at the fire and raised one
eyebrow.
"Under whose care have you been living, my dear, since you lost your
mother's?"
Rotha hesitated. Great soreness of heart combined now with another
feeling to make her words difficult. She did not at all want to answer.
Nevertheless the girl's temper was to be frank, and she saw no way of
evasion here.
"I have had nobody but Mr. Digby," she said.
"Mr. Digby! Mr. Southwode, you mean? That is his name, my dear; don't
speak of him as 'Mr. Digby.'"
Rotha's mouth opened, and closed. She was forming herself with all her
might on Mr. Digby's model; and besides that, she was trying to obey his
injunctions about pleasant behaviour.
"Where have you lived all this time?" a little shorter than the former
questions had been put.
"Since we came to New York?"
"No, no; since you have been under this gentleman's care? Where have you
been?"
"In a pleasant place near the river. I do not know the name of the
street."
"Who took care of you there, Rotha?"
Rotha lifted her eyes. "Mr. Digby--Mr. Southwode."
"Mr. Southwode! Did he live there himself?"
"Yes, at that time; not always."
"Near the river, and in New York?" said Mrs. Busby, mystified.
"I did not say in New York. It was out of the city."
"I was out of town," said Mrs. Busby musingly. "I wish I had come home
earlier, that I might have received you at once. But I am glad I have got
you now, my dear. Now you will have the pleasure of going to school with
Antoinette. You will like that, won't you?"
"I do not know, ma'am. I think so."
"Why you want to learn, don't you? You don't want to be ignorant; and the
only way is to go to school and study hard. Have you ever been to school
at all?"
"No, ma'am."
"You will have a great deal to do. And the very first thing for me to do
is to see to your wardrobe, that you may begin at once. Your box has
come; I found it down stairs when I came in, and I had it taken right up
to your room. Have you the key?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then go up, my dear, immediately; and bring down all your best dresses.
Then I can see what is to be done."
As Rotha went out, enter Antoinette.
"O mamma, here you are! I'm glad, I'm sure. I don't want that young lady
on _my_ hands any more."
"How do you like her, Antoinette?"
"Mamma, did you ever see such a figure? You won't let her go down stairs
till she is decently dressed, will you? I should be ashamed for even
Lesbia to see her."
"Lesbia has got to see her and make the best of it."
"O but servants always make the worst of it. And company--she _couldn't_
be seen by company, mamma. Why she looks as if she had come out of the
year one. To have such a creature supposed to belong to us!"
"Mr. Southwode brought her?"
"Yes, mamma; and you should have seen the parting. I declare, it was
rather striking! He kissed her, mamma, fancy! a real smacking kiss; and
Rotha coloured up as if she was delighted. Did you ever hear anything
like it?"
"She has done with him now," said Mrs. Busby drily.
"How'll you manage, mamma, if he comes and asks for her?"
"Get your things off, Antoinette, and make yourself ready for dinner. Ah,
here comes Rotha."
Rotha's arms were full of muslin and lawn dresses, which she deposited on
the table. Antoinette forgot or disregarded the order she had received
and came to take part in the inspection. With a face of curiosity and
business at once, Mrs. Busby unfolded, examined, refolded, one after
another.
"Mamma! how pretty that is!" exclaimed her daughter; "and that ashes of
roses is lovely!"
"Fine," said Mrs. Busby; "very fine. No sparing of money. Well made. Your
mother cannot have felt herself in straits when she made such purchases
as these, Rotha."
Rotha's heart gave a bound, but she shut her lips and was silent. Some
instinct within her was stronger than even the impulse to justify her
mother. What did it matter, what her aunt thought?
"These are all summer dresses," Mrs. Busby went on. "They are of no use
at this season. Where are your warm clothes?"
"I have none," said Rotha, with sad unwillingness. "This is the best I
have on."
"That?" exclaimed Mrs. Busby; and there was a pause. "Nothing better than
that, my dear?"
"The others are worse. They are all worn out."
A heavy step was heard coming up the stair at this moment. It reached the
landing place.
"Mr. Busby--" cried the voice of his wife, a little uplifted, "don't come
in here--I am engaged."
"Very well, my dear," came answer in a husky, rough voice, and the step
passed on.
"The first thing is a school dress," Mrs. Busby proceeded. "Antoinette,
fetch that purple poplin of yours, that you wore last winter, and let us
see if that would not do, for a while at least, till something can be
made."
Nothing that fits her can fit me, thought Rotha; but with some self-
command she kept her thoughts to herself. Antoinette brought the dress in
question and held it up, chuckling.
"It's about six inches too short, I should say, and wouldn't meet round
the waist by three at least."
"Try it on, Rotha."
Very unwillingly Rotha did as she was told. Mrs. Busby pulled and
twitched and stroked the dress here and there.
"It is a little too short. Could be let out."
"Then the marks of the gathers would shew, mamma."
"That could be hidden by a basque."
"There isn't much stuff left to make a basque. Miss Hubbell cut it all up
for the trimming."
"It could be made to do for a few days. I am anxious that Rotha should
lose no time in beginning school. See, it is November now."
All this was extremely distasteful to the subject of it. She knew right
well that her cousin's dress could never be made to look as if it
belonged to her, unless it were wholly taken to pieces and put together
again; neither was the stuff of the dress very clean, and the trimmings
had the forlorn, jaded look of a thing which has been worn to death. The
notion of appearing in it revolted her unbearably.
"Aunt Serena," she said, "I would just as lief wear my old dress, if you
don't mind. It would do as well as this, and be no trouble."
"Well--" said Mrs. Busby; "it would take some time, certainly, to fit
Antoinette's to you; perhaps that is the best way; and it is only for a
day or two; it wouldn't matter much. Well, then you may take these things
away, Rotha, and put them by."
"Where?" said Rotha. "In my trunk?"
"Yes, for the present That will do."
Rotha carried her muslins up stairs again, and had some ado not to sit
down and cry. But she would not, and fought the weakness successfully
down, appearing before her aunt again in a few minutes with an
imperturbable exterior. Which she was able to maintain about ten minutes.
Antoinette was dressing for dinner; dressing in front of her mother's
fire; making herself rather striking in a blue silk, over which her long
curling fair hair tumbled as over a pretty foil. Mrs. Busby also was
putting herself in order. Rotha looked on. Presently the dinner bell
rang.
"I'll send you up your dinner, Rotha," Mrs. Busby said, turning to her
niece. "Till we get some gowns made for you, you must keep in hiding.
I'll send it up to you here, hot and nice."
Rotha said not one word, but two flames shot into her cheeks, and from
her dark eyes flared two such lightnings, that Mrs. Busby absolutely
shrank back, and did not meet those eyes again while she remained in the
room. But in that one moment aunt and niece had taken their position
towards each other, and what is more, recognized it.
"I shall have my hands full with that girl," Mrs. Busby muttered as she
went down stairs. "Did you see how she looked at me?"
"I didn't know she could look so," replied Antoinette. "Isn't she a
regular spitfire?"
"I shall know how to manage her," Mrs. Busby said, with her mouth set.
"She is not at all like her mother."
Rotha, left in the dressing room, sat down and laid her head on her arms
on the table. Wrath and indignation were boiling within her. The girl
dimly felt more than her reason could as yet grasp; somewhat sinister
which ran through all her aunt's manner towards her and had undoubtedly
called forth this last regulation. What did it mean? So she could go to
school in her old dress and be seen by a hundred strange eyes, but might
not sit at the table with her aunt's family and take her dinner in their
company! And this was the very dress in which she had gone to the Park
with Mr. Digby more than once. _He_ had not minded it. And here there was
nobody that had not seen it already, except Mr. Busby.
Poor Rotha's heart, when once a passion of displeasure seized it, was
like the seething pot in Ezekiel's vision. She was helpless to stay the
outpour of anger and pride and grief and contempt and mortification,
every one of which in turn came uppermost and took forms of utterance in
her imagination. She had a firm determination to follow Mr. Digby's
teaching and example; but for the present she was alone, and the luxury
of passion might storm as it would. Upon this state of things came the
dinner, borne by the hands of Lesbia, who was a very sable serving maid;
otherwise very sharp. She set the tray on the table. Rotha lifted a white
face and fiery eyes, and glared at it and at her. Gladly would she have
sent it all down again; but she was hungry, and the tray steamed a
pleasant savour towards her.
"Thank you," said Rotha, with the courtesy she had learned of her friend.
"Would you like anything else?" the girl asked with an observing look.
"Nothing else, thank you."
"Why aint miss down stairs with the rest?"
"I couldn't go down to-day. That will do, thank you."
Lesbia withdrew, and Rotha mustered her viands. A glass of water and a
piece of bread, very nicely arranged; a plate with hot potatoes, turnips
mashed, beets, and three small shrimps fried.
Rotha cleared the board, and found the fish very small. By and by came up
Lesbia with a piece of apple pie. She took the effect of the empty
dishes.
"Did miss have enough?"
"It will do very well, thank you," said Rotha, attacking the piece of
pie, which was also small.
"Didn't you want a bit of the mutton?"
"Mutton!" exclaimed Rotha, and again an angry colour shewed itself in her
cheeks.
"Roast mutton and jelly and sweet potatoes. You hadn't only fish, had ye?
Don't ye like yaller potatoes? Car'lina potatoes?"
"Yes, I like them," said Rotha indifferently.
N. B. She had eaten them but a few times in her life, and thought them a
prime delicacy.
"I'll bring you some if you like, and some of the meat."
"No, thank you," said Rotha, finishing her pie and depositing that plate
with the rest.
"You'll have time enough," said Lesbia sympathizingly. "They won't come
up stairs; they stays down to see company."
"No, thank you," said Rotha again; but a new pang seized her. Company!
Mr. Digby would be company. What if he should come?
Lesbia went off with the tray, after casting several curious glances at
the new comer, whom she had heard talked of enough to give her several
clues. Rotha was left in the darkening dressing room; for the afternoon
had come to its short November end.
CHAPTER XIII.
NOT DRESSED.
Mr. Digby did not come that evening. Next evening he did. He came early,
just as the family had finished dinner. Mrs. Busby welcomed him with
outstretched hand and a bland smile.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Southwode," she said, before he had time to
begin anything. "I want to know what you think of this proposition to
open picture galleries and libraries to the people on Sunday?"
"The arguments for it are plausible."
"Certainly plausible. What do you think?"
"It is of no consequence, is it, what any individual thinks?"
"Why yes, as it seems to me. By comparing views and the reasons given in
support of the views, one may hope to attain some sound conclusion."
"Is it a matter for reason to consider?"
Mrs. Busby opened her eyes. "Is not everything that, Mr. Southwode?"
"I should answer 'no,' if I answered."
"Please answer, because I am very much in earnest; and I like to drive
every question to the bottom. Give me an instance to the contrary."
"When you tell Miss Antoinette, for example, to put on india rubbers when
she goes out in the wet, is she to exercise her reason upon the thickness
of the soles of her boots?"
"Yes," cried the young lady referred to; "of course I am! India rubbers
are horrid things anyhow; do you think I am going to put them on with
boots an inch thick?"
Mr. Southwode turned his eyes upon her with one of his grave smiles. Mrs.
Busby seemed to ponder the subject.
"Is it raining to-night, Mr. Southwode?" Antoinette went on.
"Yes."
"How provoking! then I can't go out. Mr. Southwode, you never took me
anywhere, to see anything."
"True, I believe," he answered. "How could I ask Mrs. Busby to trust me
with the care of such an article?"
"What 'such an article'?"
"Subject to damage; in which case the damage would be very great."
"I am not subject to damage. I never get cold or anything. Mr. Southwode,
won't you take me, some night, to see the Minstrels?"
"They are not much to see."
"But to hear, they are. Won't you, Mr. Southwode? I am crazy to hear
them, and mamma won't take me; and papa never goes anywhere but to his
office and to court; won't you, Mr. Southwode?"
"Perhaps; if Mrs. Busby will honour me so much."
"O mamma will trust _you_, I know. Then the first clear evening, Mr.
Southwode? the first that you are at leisure?"
Without answering her he turned to Mrs. Busby.
"How is Rotha?"
"Very well!" the lady answered smoothly.
"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing her?"
"I am afraid, not to-night. She was unable to come down stairs this
afternoon, and so took her dinner alone. Next time, I hope, she will be
able to see you."
Mr. Digby privately wondered what the detaining cause could be, but
thought it most discreet not to inquire; at least, not in this quarter.
"Is the school question decided?" he therefore went on quietly.
"Why no. I have been debating the pros. and cons.; in which process one
is very apt to get confused. As soon as one makes up one's mind to forego
certain advantages in favour of certain others, the rejected ones
immediately rise up in fresh colours of allurement before the mind, and
disturb one's judgment, and the whole calculation has to be gone over
again."
"The choice lies between--?"
"Mrs. Mulligan, Miss Wordsworth, and Mrs. Mowbray, have the highest name
in the city."
"And may I know the supposed counter advantages and disadvantages?"
"I'll tell you, Mr. Southwode," said Antoinette. "At Mrs. Mulligan's you
learn French and manners. At Miss Wordsworth's you learn arithmetic and
spelling. At Mrs. Mowbray's you learn Latin and the Catechism."
Mr. Southwode looked to Mrs. Busby.
"That's rather a caricature," said the lady smiling; "but it has some
truth. I think Mrs. Mowbray's is quite as fashionable a school as Mrs.
Mulligan's. It is quite as dear."
"Is it thought desirable, that it should be fashionable?"
"Certainly; for that shews what is public opinion. Besides, it secures
one against undesirable companions for a girl. Both at Mrs. Mulligan's
and Mrs. Mowbray's the pupils come from the very best families, both
South and North. There is a certain security in that."
Mr. Southwode allowed the conversation presently to take another turn,
and soon took his leave.
Rotha had watched and listened from the upper hall; had heard him come
in, and then had waited in an ecstasy of impatient eagerness till she
should be sent for. She could hear the murmur of voices in the parlour;
but otherwise the house was ominously quiet. No doors opening, no bell to
call the servant, no stir at all; until the parlour door opened and Mr.
Digby came out. Rotha was in a very agony, half ready to rush down,
unsummoned, and see him; and yet held back by a shy feeling of proud
reserve. He could ask for her if he had wanted her, she thought bitterly;
and while she lingered he had put on his overshoes and was gone. Rotha
crept up stairs to her own room, feeling desperately disappointed. That
her aunt might have made excuses to keep her up stairs, she divined; but
the thought put her in a rage. She had to sit a long while looking out of
her window at the lights twinkling here and there through the rain,
before the fever in her blood and her brain had cooled down enough to let
her go to bed and to sleep.
The next day she began her school experience. The intervening day had
been used by Mrs. Busby to make a call upon Mrs. Mowbray, in which she
explained that she had an orphan niece left under her care, for whom she
much desired the training and the discipline of Mrs. Mowbray's excellent
school. The girl had had no advantages; her mother had been ill and the
child neglected; she supposed Mrs. Mowbray would find that she knew next
to nothing of all that she ought to know. So it was arranged that Rotha
should accompany her cousin the very next morning, and make her beginning
in one of the younger classes.
Rotha went in her old grey dress. The walk was not long. Antoinette
stopped at the area gate of a house in a fine open street.
"Where are you going?" said Rotha.
"Here. This is the place."
"This? Why it is a very handsome house," said Rotha. "As good as yours."
"Of course it is handsome," Antoinette replied. "Do you think my mother
would let me go to a shabby place. Handsome! of course it is. Come down
this way; we don't ring the bell."
What a new world it was to Rotha! In the lower hall the girls took off
bonnets and wraps, hanging them up on hooks arranged there. Then
Antoinette took her up stairs, up a second flight of stairs, through
halls and stairways which renewed Rotha's astonishment. Was this a
school? All the arrangements seemed like those of an elegant private
home; soft carpet was on the stairs, beautiful engravings hung on the
walls. The school rooms filled the second floor; they were already
crowded, it seemed to Rotha, with rows and ranks of scholars of all
sizes, from ten years old up. Antoinette and she, being later than the
rest, slipped into the first seats they could find, near the door.
There was deep silence and great order, and then Rotha heard a voice in
the next room beginning to read a chapter in the Bible. The sound of the
voice struck her and made her wish to get a sight of the reader; but that
was impossible, for a bit of partition wall hid her and indeed most of
the room in which she was from Rotha's view. So Rotha's attention
concentrated itself upon what she could see. The pleasant, bright
apartments; the desks before which sat so many well-dressed and well-
looking girls; ah, they were very well dressed, and many of them, to her
fancy, very richly dressed; as for the faces, she found there was the
usual diversity. But what would anybody think of a girl coming among them
so very shabby and meanly attired as she was? If she had known-- However,
self-consciousness was not one of Rotha's troubles, and soon in her
admiration of the maps and pictures on the walls she almost forgot her
own poor little person. She was aware that after the reading came a
prayer; but though she knelt as others knelt, I am bound to say very
little of the sense of the words found its way to her mind.
After that the girls separated. Rotha was introduced by her cousin to a
certain Miss Blodgett, one of the teachers, under whose care she was
placed, and by whom she was taken to a room apart and set down to her
work along with a class of some forty girls, all of them or nearly all,
younger than she was. And here, for a number of days, Rotha's school life
went on monotonously. She was given little to do that she could not do
easily; she was assigned no lessons that were not already familiar; she
was put to acquire no knowledge that she did not already possess. She got
sight of nobody but Miss Blodgett and the girls; for every morning she
was sure to be crowded into that same corner at school-opening, where she
could not look at Mrs. Mowbray; nobody else wanted that place, so they
gave it to her; and Rotha was never good at self-assertion, unless at
such times as her blood was up. She took the place meekly. But school was
very tiresome to her; and it gave her nothing to distract her thoughts
from her troubles at home.
Those were threefold, to take them in detail. She wore still the old
dress; she was consequently still kept up stairs; and it followed also of
course that Mr. Digby came and went and she had no sight of him. It
happened thus.
Several days he allowed to pass without calling again. Not that he forgot
Rotha, or was careless about her; but he partly knew his adversary and
judged this course wise, for Rotha's sake. His first visit had been on
Tuesday evening; he let a week go by, and then he went again. Mrs. Busby
was engaged with other visitors; he had to post-pone the inquiries he
wished to make. Meanwhile Antoinette attacked him.
"Mr. Southwode,--now it is a nice evening, and you promised;--will you
take me to the Minstrels?"
"I always keep my promises."
"Then shall we go?" with great animation.
"Did I say I would go to-night?"
"No; but to-night is a good time; as good as any. Ah, Mr. Southwode! let
us go. You'll never take me, if you do not to-night."
"What would Mrs. Busby say?"
"O she'd say yes. Of course she'd say yes. Mamma always says yes when I
ask her things. Mamma! I say, mamma! listen to me one moment; may I go
with Mr. Southwode?"
One moment Mrs. Busby turned her head from the friend with whom she was
talking, looked at her daughter, and said, "Yes"; then turned again and
went on with what she was saying. Antoinette jumped up.
"And bring your cousin too," said Mr. Southwode as she was flying off.
Antoinette stopped.
"Rotha? she can't go."
"Why can she not go?"
"She has got nothing ready to wear out yet. Mamma hasn't had time to get
the things and have 'em made. She couldn't go."
"She might wear what she wore when I brought her here," Mr. Digby
suggested. Antoinette shook her head.
"O no! Mamma wouldn't let her go out so. She _couldn't_, now that she is
under her care, you know. Her things are not fit at all."
"Will you have the kindness to send word to your cousin that I should
like to see her for a few minutes?"
"O she can't come down?"
"Why not?"
"O she's in no condition. Mamma--mamma! Mr. Southwode wants to see
Rotha."
"I am very sorry!" said Mrs. Busby smoothly and calmly, turning again
from the discourse she was carrying on,--"I have sent her to bed with a
tumbler of hot lemonade."
"What is the matter?"
"A slight cold--nothing troublesome, I hope; but I thought best to take
it in time. I do not want her studies to be interrupted."
Mr. Southwode was powerless against this announcement, and thought his
own thoughts, till Mrs. Busby drew him into the discussion which just
then engaged her. Upon this busy talk presently came Antoinette, hatted
and cloaked, and drawing on her gloves. Stood and waited.
"Mr. Southwode--I am ready," she said, as he did not attend to her.
"For the Minstrels?" said he, with that very unconcerned manner of his.
"But, Miss Antoinette, would not your cousin like to go?"
"She _can't_, you know. Where are your ears, Mr. Southwode? Mamma
explained to you that she was in bed."
"Then do you not agree with me, that it would be the kindest thing to
defer our own pleasure until she can share it?"
Antoinette flushed and coloured, and tears of disappointment came into
her eyes. A little tinge rose in Mrs. Busby's cheeks too.
"Go and take your cloak off," she said coldly. "And Antoinette, you had
better see that your lessons for to-morrow morning are all ready."
Mr. Southwode thereupon took his departure. If he had known what eyes and
ears were strained to get knowledge of him at that moment, I think he
would have stood his ground and taken some very decided measures. But he
could not see from the lighted hall below up into the darkness of the
third story, even' if it could have occurred to him to try. There stood
however a white figure, leaning over the balusters, and very well aware
whose steps were going through the hall and out at the front door. Poor
Rotha had obeyed orders and undressed and gone to bed, though she
insisted her throat was only a very little irritated; and neither the one
fact nor the other had prevented her from jumping tip to listen when the
door bell rang, and again when steps she knew came out from the parlour.
Again he had been here, and again she had missed him. Of course he could
do nothing when told that she was in bed with a cold. Rotha went back
into her room and stood trembling, not with a chill, though the night was
cold enough, but with a fever of rage and desperation. She opened the
window and poured out the lemonade which she had not touched; she shut
the window and wrung her hands. She seemed to be in a net, in a cage, in
a prison; and the walls of her prison were so invisible that she could
not get at them to burst them. She would write to Mr. Digby, only she did
not know his address. Would he not write to her, perhaps? Rotha Was in a
kind of fury of impatience and indignation; this thought served to give
her a little stay to hold by.
And a letter did come for her the very next evening; and Rotha's eyes
never saw it, nor did her ears hear of it.
Neither did her new dresses come to light; and evening after evening her
condition was not changed. She was prisoner up stairs with her books and
studies, which did not occupy her; and hour after hour Rotha stood in the
hall and listened, or sat watching. She could not hear Mr. Digby's voice
again. She wondered what had power to detain him. With craving anxiety
and the strain of hope and fear, Rotha's cheek began to grow pale. It was
getting at last beyond endurance. She went through her school duties
mechanically, thinking of something else, yet doing all that was required
of her; for, as I said, it was ground that she had gone over already. She
queried with herself whether Mr. Southwode might not come even to the
school to seek her; it seemed so impossible that she should be utterly
kept from the sight of him. All this while Rotha never spoke his name
before her aunt or cousin; never asked a question about him or his
visits. By what subtle instinct it is hard to tell, she knew the
atmosphere of the house was not favourable to the transmission of those
particular sounds.
One thing, one day, had made a break in her gloomy thoughts. She was in
her class, in the special room appropriated to that class, busy as usual;
when the door opened and a lady came in whom Rotha had not fairly seen
before, yet whom she at once recognized for what she was, the head of the
establishment. Rotha's eyes were fascinated. It was a tall figure, very
stately and dignified as well as graceful; handsomely and carefully
dressed; but Rotha took in that fact without knowing what the lady wore,
she was so engrossed with the face and manner of this vision. The manner
was at once gracious and commanding; courteous exceedingly, while the air
of decision and the tone of authority were well marked. But the face! It
was wonderfully lovely; with fair features and kind eyes; the head sat
well upon the shoulders, and the hair was arranged with very rare grace
around the delicate head. So elegant a head one very rarely sees, as was
Mrs. Mowbray's, although the dressing of the hair was as simple as
possible. The hair was merely twisted up in a loose knot or coil at the
back; the effect was what not one in a thousand can reach with all the
arts of the hair-dresser. This lovely apparition paused a minute or two
before Miss Blodgett, while some matter of business was discussed; then
the observant eyes came to the young stranger in the class, and a few
steps brought them close up to her.
"This is Miss Carpenter, isn't it?--yes. How do you do, my dear." She
took Rotha's hand kindly. "How is your aunt, Mrs. Busby?"
Rotha answered. Perhaps those watchful eyes saw that there was no
pleasure in the answer.
"Your cousin--she is in Miss Graham's class, is she not?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, I hope you have made some friends here. Miss Doolittle, won't you
be helpful to Miss Carpenter if you can? she is a stranger among us.--
Good morning, young ladies!"
The lady swept away from the room; but all that day there hovered in
Rotha's thoughts a vision of beauty and grace and dignity, an accent of
kindness, a manner of love and authority, which utterly fascinated and
wholly captivated her. It was quite a sweetener of that day's dry work.
She looked to see the vision come again the next day, and the next; in
vain; but Rotha now knew the voice; and not a word was let fall from
those lips, in reading or prayer, at the school opening now, that she did
not listen to.
Days went on. At last one day Mrs. Busby said it was no use to wait any
longer for the mantua-makers; Rotha might as well come down and have her
dinner with the family. She could not stay in the drawing room of course,
until she was decently dressed; but she might as well come to dinner.
Rotha could not understand why so much could not have been granted from
the first; there was nobody at the dinner table but her aunt and cousin
and Mr. Busby. Mr. Busby was a very tall, thin man, always busy with
newspapers or sheets of manuscript; whose "Good morning, my dear!" in
that peculiar husky voice of his, was nearly all Rotha ever heard him
say. He took his breakfast, or his dinner, and went off to his study at
once.
Rotha climbed the stairs to Mrs. Busby's dressing room, after the meal
was over, and sat down to think. She was consuming herself in impatience
and fretting. By and by Lesbia came in to see to the fire.
"Lesbia," said Rotha with sudden resolution, "will you do something for
me?" She looked at the girl eagerly.
"Mebbe, miss. Like to know what 'tis, fust."
"It is only, to tell me something," said Rotha lowering her voice.
"Aint nothin' harder 'n to tell things," said the girl. "That's the
hardest thing I know."
"It isn't hard, if you are willing."
"Don' know about that. Well, fire away, Miss Rotha. What you want?"
Rotha went first to the door and shut it. Then came back and stood by the
table where Lesbia was lighting the gas drop.
"Lesbia, I want you to tell me-- You always open the door, don't you?"
"'Cept when I aint there."
"But in the evenings you do?"
"I'm pretty likely to, miss--if it aint my evening out."
"I want you to tell me--" Rotha lowered her voice to a whisper,--"if Mr.
Southwode has been here lately?"
Lesbia stood silent, considering.
"You know him? You know Mr. Southwode?"
"He brought you here the fust, didn't he?"
"Yes. Yes, that is he. When was he here last?"
"Don't just 'member."
"But _about_ when? Two weeks or three weeks ago?"
"Well, 'pears to me as if I'd seen him later 'n that."
"When, Lesbia? Oh do tell me! do tell me!"
"Why he aint nothin' particular to you, is he?"
"He is _everything_ to me. He is the only friend I have got in the world.
When was he here, Lesbia?"
"He's a mighty handsome gentleman, with hair lighter than your'n, and a
mustaches?"
"Yes. He came with me that first day. Tell me, Lesbia!"
"But Miss Rotha, I can't see what you want to know fur?"
"Never mind. I tell you, he is all the friend I have got; and I'm afraid
something is wrong, because I don't see him."
"I reckon there is," said Lesbia, not reassuringly.
"What?"
"Mrs. Busby will kill me."
"No, I shall not tell her you told me. O Lesbia, Lesbia, speak, speak!"
Lesbia glanced at the girl and saw her intense excitement, and seemed
doubtful.
"You'll be so mad, you'll go tellin' the fust thing," she said.
Rotha sat down, in silence now, and gazed in Lesbia's face with her own
growing white. Lesbia seemed at last overcome.
"He was here last week, and he was here this week," she said.
"This week!--and last week too. What day this week, Lesbia?"
"This here is Friday, aint it. Blessed if I kin keep the run o' the days.
Let us see--Mr. Southwode was here the last time, Tuesday."
"Tuesday? And I was here studying."
"Then you don't know?" said Lesbia eyeing her. "He's done gone away."
"What do you mean? That can't be."
"He's done gone, miss. Sailed Wednesday. I heerd 'em talking about it at
dinner. His name was in the list, they was sayin'; in the papers."
"Sailed Wednesday? O where to, Lesbia?"
"Don' know, miss; some place where the ships goes."
"England?"
"Mebbe. I doesn't know all de places on dis yere arth."
"How long is he going to be gone?"
"Can't tell dat, miss. I haint heerd nobody say. La, I dare say he'll
come back. It's as easy to come as to go. Folks is allays goin' and
comin'. But if you tell Mis' Busby, then I've done gone and lost my
place, Miss Rotha."
Rotha stood still and said not a word more. But she turned so white that
Lesbia looked on in alarm, expecting every moment she would faint. There
was no faintness, however. Rotha was not one of those who lose present
knowledge of misery in the weakness of a swoon. She turned white and even
livid in the intensity of passion, the fury of rage and despair which
held her; then, knowing that she must not betray Lesbia and that
accordingly she must not meet anybody's eyes, she seized her books and
rushed up stairs to her own little room.
It was dark there, but so much darker in the child's heart that she never
noticed that. It was cold, yet not to her, for in her soul a fire was
burning, hot enough to dispense with material warmth. She never missed
that. But the walls of her room did seem to her a prison, a dreadful
prison, from which she must flee if there were any place to flee to. Had
her only refuge failed her? Was her one heart's treasure lost to her? Was
the world empty, and all gone? The bewilderment of it almost equalled the
pain. Rotha held her head in both hands and tried to find some hope, or
some stay for her thoughts and for her feelings.
She charged it all presently with the certainty of intuition upon her
aunt. For in her Rotha had not one particle of trust. She had received at
her hands no unkind treatment, (what was the matter with the mantua-
makers, though?) she had heard from her lips no unkind word; yet both
would not have put such a distance between them as this want of trust
did. It was Rotha's nature to despise where she could not trust; and here
unhappily there was also the complication of fear. Somehow, she was sure,
her aunt had done it; she had prevented Mr. Digby from seeing her; and
now he was away, and how could she tell but cunning arrangements would be
potent enough to keep him from seeing her evermore? Any reason for such
machinations Rotha indeed failed to divine; why her aunt should desire to
keep them apart, was a mere mystery; all the same, she had done it; and
the chances were she would choose to do it permanently. Mr. Digby had
been duped, or baffled somehow; else he would never have left the country
without seeing his charge. She did not know before that Mr. Digby could
be duped, or baffled; but if once or twice, why not again.
She would write to him. Ah, she had not his address, that he was to have
given her. _He_ would write. Yes, but somebody else would get the letters.
Rotha was of anything but a suspicious disposition, yet now suspicion
after suspicion came in her mind. The possible moving cause for her
aunt's action was entirely beyond her imagination; the action itself and
the drift of it she discerned clearly. There rose in her a furious
opposition and dislike towards her aunt, a storm of angry abhorrence. And
yet, she was in Mrs. Busby's care, under her protection, and also--in her
power. Rotha gnashed her teeth, mentally, as she reviewed the situation.
But by degrees grief overweighed even anger and fear; grief so cutting,
so desolating, so crushing, as the girl had hardly known in her life
before; an agony of anguish which held her awake till late in the night;
till feeling and sense were blunted with exhaustion, and in her misery
she slept.
When the day came, Rotha awaked to a cold, dead sense of the state of
things; the ashes of the fire that had burned so fiercely the night
before; desolate and dreary as the ashes of a fire always are. She
revolved while she was dressing her plan of action. She must have certain
information from Mrs. Busby herself. She was certain indeed of what she
had heard; but she must hear it from somebody besides Lesbia, and she
must not betray Lesbia. She thought it all over, and went down stairs
trembling in the excitement and the pain of what she had to do.
It was winter now in truth. The basement room where the family took their
meals in ordinary, was a very warm and comfortable apartment; handsomely
furnished; only Rotha always hated it for being half underground. The
fire was burning splendidly; Mr. Busby sat in his easy chair at the side
of the hearth next the light; Mrs. Busby was at the table preparing
breakfast. Rotha stood by the fire and thought how she should begin. The
sun shone very bright outside the windows. But New York had become a
desert.
"Mr. Busby, will you come to the table?" said his wife. "Rotha, I am
going to see about your cloak to-day."
Rotha could not say "thank you." She began to eat, for form's sake.
"What are you going to get her, mother?" Antoinette enquired.
"You can come along and see."
"Aunt Serena," said Rotha, trying to speak un-concernedly, "what has
become of Mr. Digby--Mr. Southwode, I mean."
"I do not know, my dear," the lady answered smoothly.
"Why haven't I seen him?"
"My dear, you have not seen anybody. Some day I hope you will be able;
but I begin to despair of the dress-makers."
"If my tailor served me so, I should give him up," said Mr. Busby's
quick, husky utterance.
"Yes, papa, but you wouldn't, if there was only one tailor you liked."
"Isn't there more than one mantua-maker for all this big city?"
"My dear, Miss Hubbell suits me, and is uncommonly reasonable, for the
quality of her work; and she has so much custom, we cannot get her
without speaking long beforehand."
"Why don't you speak, then?"
"When was Mr. Digby--Mr. Southwode here, aunt Serena?" Rotha began again.
"A few nights ago. I do not recollect. Mr. Busby, as you go down town
will you stop at Dubois's and order the piano tuner? The piano is quite
out of tune. And I wish you would order me a bag of coffee, if you say
you can get it more reasonably at your down town place."
"Very well, my dear." The words used to amuse Rotha, they rolled out so,
brisk and sharp, like the discharge from a gun. To-day she was impatient.
"Aunt Serena, I have been wanting to see Mr. Southwode very much."
No answer. Mrs. Busby attended to her breakfast as if she did not hear.
"When can I?" Rotha persisted.
"I am sure, I cannot say. Mr. Busby, I will trouble you for a little of
that sausage."
"This sausage has too much pepper in it, mamma."
"And too little of something else," added Mr. Busby.
"Of what, Mr. Busby?"
"That I do not know, my dear; it belongs to your department."
"But even the Chaldean magicians could not interpret the dream that was
not told to them," Mrs. Busby suggested, with smiling satisfaction. "How
can I have the missing quality supplied, if you cannot tell me what it is
you miss?"
"You can divine, my dear, quite as well as the Chaldean magicians."
"Then if that is true, aunt Serena," Rotha put in desperately, "will you
please tell me where Mr. Southwode is?"
"Her divining rod is not long enough for that," said Mr. Busby. "Mr.
Southwode is on the high seas somewhere, on his way to England."
"On the high seas!" Rotha repeated slowly.
"There was no occasion to mention that, Mr. Busby," said his wife. "Mr.
Southwode's movements are nothing to us."
"Seem to be something to Rotha," said the gentleman.
"You knew that," said Rotha, steadily. "Why did you keep it from me, aunt
Serena?"
"I did not keep it from you," Mrs. Busby returned, bridling. "The papers
are open. I did not speak of it, because Mr. Southwode and his affairs
are no concern of yours, or of mine, and therefore are not interesting."
"Of yours? No! But they are all I have in the world!" said Rotha, with
fire in her cheeks and in her eyes. Mrs. Busby went on with her breakfast
and avoided looking at her. But Antoinette cried out.
"All she has in the world! Mr. Southwode! Pretty well for a young lady!
Mamma, do you hear that? Mr. Southwode is all she has in the world."
"Once hearing a silly thing is quite enough. You need not repeat it,
Antoinette."
"Didn't he come to say good bye?" asked Rotha, her eyes blazing.
"I do not answer questions put in that tone," said Mrs. Busby, coldly.
"I know he did," said Rotha. "What did he go to England for, Mr. Busby?"
"Mr. Busby," said his wife, "I request you not to reply. Rotha is
behaving improperly, and must be left to herself till she is better-
mannered."
"I don't know, my dear," said the gentleman, rising and gathering his
newspapers together, previous to taking his departure. "'Seems to me
that's an open question--public, as you say. I do not see why you should
not tell Rotha that Mr. Southwode is called home by the illness and
probable death of his father. Good-morning, my dear!"
"Did you ever see anything like papa!" said Antoinette with an appealing
look at her mother, as the door closed. "He don't mind you a bit, mamma."
Mrs. Busby's slight air of the head was more significant than words.
"He is the only fraction of a friend I have in this house," said Rotha.
"But you needn't think, aunt Serena, that you can do what you like with
Mr. Southwode and me. I belong to him, not to you; and he will come back,
and then he will take me under his own care, and I will have nothing to
do with you the rest of my life. I know you now. I thought I did before,
and now I know. You let mamma want everything in the world; and now
perhaps you will let me; but Mr. Southwode will take care of me, sooner
or later, and I can wait, for I know him too."
Rotha left the room, unconsciously with the air of a tragedy queen. Alas,
it was tragedy enough with her!
"Mamma!" said Antoinette. "Did you ever see anything like that?"
"I knew it was in her," Mrs. Busby said, keeping her composure in
appearance.
"What will you do with her?"
"Let her alone a little," said Mrs. Busby icily. "Let her come to her
senses."
"Will you go to get her cloak to-day?"
"I don't know why I should give myself any trouble about her. I will let
her wait till she comes to her senses and humbles herself to me."
"Do you think she ever will?"
"I don't care, whether she does or not. It is all the same to me. You let
her alone too, Antoinette."
"_I_ will," said Antoinette. "I don't like spitfires. High! what a
powder-magazine she is, mamma! Her eyes are enough to set fire to things
sometimes."
"Don't use such an inelegant word, Antoinette. 'High!' How can you? Where
did you get it?"
"You send me to school, mamma, to learn; and so I pick up a few things.
But do you think it is true, what she says about Mr. Southwode?"
"What?"
"That he will come and take her away from you."
"Not if I don't choose it,"
"And you will not choose it, will you?"
"Don't be foolish, Antoinette. Rotha will never see Mr. Southwode again.
She has defied me, and now she may take the consequences."
"But he _will_ come back, mamma? He said so."
"I hope he will."
"Then he'll find Rotha, and she'll tell him her own story."
"Will you trust me to look after my own affairs? And get yourself ready
to go out with me immediately."
CHAPTER XIV.
IN SECLUSION.
Rotha climbed the three flights of stairs from the breakfast room,
feeling that her aunt's house, and the world generally, had become a
desert to her. She went up to her own little room, being very sure that
neither in the warm dressing room on the second floor, nor indeed in any
other, would she be welcome, or even perhaps tolerated. How should she
be, after what had taken place? And how could she breathe, anyhow, in any
atmosphere where her aunt was? Imprudent? had she been imprudent? Very
possibly; she had brought matters to an unmanageable point, inconvenient
for all parties; and she had broken through the cold reserve which it had
been her purpose to maintain, and lost sight wholly of the principles by
which it had Been Mr. Digby's wish that she should be guided. Rotha had a
mental recognition of all this; but passion met it with simple defiance.
She was not weeping; the fire at her heart scorched all tender moisture,
though it would not keep her blood warm. The day was wintry indeed. Rotha
pulled the coverlet off her bed and wrapped herself in it, and sat down
to think. .
Thinking, is too good a name to give to what for some time went on in
Rotha's mind. She was rather looking at the procession of images which
passion called up and sent succeeding one another through the chambers of
her brain. It was a very dreary time with the girl. Her aunt's treachery,
her cousin's coldness, Mr. Digby's pitiless desertion, her lonely, lonely
place in the world, her unendurable dependence on people that did not
love her; for just now her dependence on Mr. Digby had failed; it all
rushed through and through Rotha's head, for all the world like the
changing images in a kaleidoscope, which are but new combinations,
eternally renewed, of the same changeless elements. At first they went
through Rotha's head in a kind of storm; gradually, for very weariness,
the storm laid itself, and cold reality and sober reason had the field.
But what could reason do with the reality? In other words, what step was
now to take? What was to be done? Rotha could not see. She was at present
at open war with her aunt. Yes, she allowed, that had not been exactly
prudent; but it would have had to come, sooner or later. She could not
live permanently on false social grounds; as well break through them at
once. But what now? What ground did she expect to stand and move on now?
She could not leave her aunt's house, for she had no other home to go to.
How was she to stay in it, if she made no apology or submission? And I
cannot do that, said the girl to herself. Apology indeed! It is she who
ought to humble herself to me, for it is she who has wronged me,
bitterly, meanly. Passion renewed the storm, for a little while. But by
degrees Rotha came to be simply cold and tired and miserable. What to do
she did not know.
Nobody was at home to luncheon. She knew this, and got some refreshment
from Lesbia, and also warmed herself through at the dressing-room fire.
But when the door bell announced the return of her aunt and cousin, she
sped away up stairs again and wrapped herself in her coverlet, and
waited. She waited till it grew dark. She was not called to dinner, and
saw that she would not be. Rotha fed upon indignation, which furnished
her a warm meal; and then somebody knocked softly at her door. Lesbia had
brought a plate with some cold viands.
"I'll fetch it agin by and by," she whispered. "I'm allays agin seein'
folks starve. What's the matter, Miss Rotha?"
Lesbia had heard one side down stairs, and impartially was willing now to
hear the other. Rotha's natural dignity however never sought such solace
of her troubles.
"Thank you, Lesbia," she simply said. "My aunt is vexed with me."
"She's vexed worse'n ever I seen her. What you gone and done, Miss
Rotha?"
"It can't be helped," said Rotha. "She and I do not think alike."
"It's convenientest not to quarrel with Mrs. Busby if you live in the
house with her," said Lesbia. "She's orful smart, she is. But she and me
allays thinks just alike, and so I get on first rate with her."
"That's a very good way, for you," said Rotha.
She went to bed, dulled that night with pain and misery, and slept the
night through. When the light of a bright Sunday morning awoke her, she
opened her eyes again to the full dreariness of her situation. So
terribly dreary and cold at heart Rotha had never felt. Deserted by her
one friend--and with that thought Rotha broke down and cried as if she
would break her heart. But hearts are tough, and do not break so easily.
The necessity of getting dressed before breakfast obliged her to check
her passion of grief and dry her eyes; though _that_ she did not; the
tears kept dripping on her hands and into her basin of water; but she
finished dressing, and then queried what she should do about going to the
breakfast-table. She was very uncertain whether she would be allowed
there. However, it was disagreeable, but the attempt must be made; she
must find out whether it was war to the knife or not. And although the
thought choked her, she was hungry; and be it the bread of charity, and
her aunt's charity to boot, she could not get along without it. She went
down stairs, rather late. The family were at breakfast.
Her aunt did not look at her. Antoinette stared at her. Mr. Busby, as
usual, took no notice. Rotha came up to the side of the table and stood
there, changing colour somewhat.
"I do not know," she said, "if I am to be allowed to come to breakfast. I
came to see."
Mrs. Busby made no answer.
"Polite--" said Antoinette.
"Eh?" said Mr. Busby looking up from a letter, "what's that? Sit down, my
dear, you are late. Hold your plate--"
As nobody interfered, Rotha did so and sat down to her meal. Mrs. Busby
said nothing whatever. Perhaps she felt she had pushed matters pretty
far; perhaps she avoided calling her husband's attention any further to
the subject. She made no remark about anything, till Mr. Busby had left
the room; nor then immediately. When she did speak, it was in her hard,
measured way.
"As you present yourself before me this morning, Rotha, I may hope that
you are prepared to make me a proper apology."
"What have I done, aunt Serena?"
"Do you ask me? You have forgotten strangely the behaviour due from you
to me."
"I did not forget it--" said Rotha slowly.
"Will you give me an excuse for your conduct, then?"
"Yes," said Rotha. "Because, aunt Serena, you had forgotten so utterly
the treatment due from you to me."
Mrs. Busby flushed a little. Still she commanded herself She always did.
"Mamma, she's pretty impudent!" said Antoinette.
"I always make allowances, and you must learn to do so, Antoinette, for
people who have never learned any manners."
Rotha was stung, but she confessed to herself that passion had made her
overleap the bounds which she had purposed, and Mr. Digby had counselled,
her behaviour should observe. So she was now silent.
"However," Mrs. Busby went on, "it is quite necessary that any one living
in my family and sheltered by my roof, should pay me the respect which
they owe to me."
"I will always pay all I owe," said Rotha deliberately, "so far as I have
anything to pay it with."
"And in case the supply fails," said Mrs. Busby, her voice trembling a
little, "don't you think you had better avoid going deeper into debt?"
"What do I owe you, aunt Serena?" asked the girl.
Mrs. Busby saw the gathering fire in the dark eyes, and did not desire to
bring on another explosion. She assumed an impassive air, looked away
from Rotha, rose and began to put her cups together on the tea-board, and
rang for the tub of hot water.
"I leave that to your own sense to answer," she said. "But if you are to
stay in my house, I beg you to understand, you must behave yourself to me
with all proper civility and good manners. Else I will turn you into the
street."
Rotha recognized the necessity for a certain decency of exterior form at
least, if she and her aunt were to continue under one roof; and so,
though her tongue was ready with an answer, she did not at once make it.
She rose, and was about quitting the room, when the fire in her blazed up
again.
"It is where mother would have been, if it had not been for other
friends," she said.
She opened the door as she spoke, and toiled up the long stairs to her
room; for when the heart is heavy somehow one's feet are not light. She
went to her cold little room and sat down. The sunshine was very bright
outside, and church bells were ringing. No going to church for her, nor
would there have been in any case; she had no garments fit to go out in.
Would she ever have them? Rotha queried. The church bells hurt her heart;
she wished they would stop ringing; they sounded clear and joyous notes,
and reminded her of happy times past. Medwayville, her father, her
mother, peace and honour, and latterly Mr. Southwode, and all his
kindness and teaching and his affection. It was too much. The early
Sunday morning was spent by Rotha in an agony of weeping and lamentation;
silent, however; she made no noise that could be heard down stairs where
Mrs. Busby and Antoinette were dressing to go to church. The intensity of
her passion again by and by wore itself out; and when the last bells had
done ringing, and the patter of feet was silenced in the streets, Rotha
crept down to the empty dressing room, feeling blue and cold, to warm
herself. She shivered, she stretched her arms to the warmth of the fire,
she was chilled to the core, with a chill that was yet more mental than
physical Alone, and stripped of everything, and everybody gone that she
loved. What was she to do? how was she to live? She was struggling with a
burden of realities and trying to make them seem unreal, trying for an
outlook of hope or comfort in the darkness of her prospects. In vain; Mr.
Digby was gone, and with him all her strength and her reliance. He was
gone; nobody could tell when he would come back; perhaps never; and she
could not write to him, and his letters would never get to her. Never;
she was sure of it. Mrs. Busby would never let them get further than her
own hands. So everything was worse than she had ever feared it could be.
Sitting there on the rug before the fire, and with her teeth chattering,
partly from real cold and partly from the nervous exhaustion, there came
to her suddenly something Mr. Digby had once said to her. If she should
come to see a time when she would have nobody to depend on; when her
world would be wholly a desert; _all_ gone that she had loved or trusted.
It has come now!--she thought to herself; even he, who I thought would
never fail me, he has failed. He said he would not fail me, but he has
failed. I am alone; I have nobody any more. Then he told me----
She went back and gathered it up in her memory, what he had told her to
do then. Then if she would seek the Lord, seek him with her whole heart,
she would find him; and finding him, she would find good again. The poor,
sore heart caught at the promise. I will seek him, she suddenly said; I
will seek till I find; I have nothing else now.
The resolve was as earnest as it was sudden. Doubtless the way had been
preparing for it, in her mother's and her father's teachings and prayers
and example, and in Mr. Digby's words and kindness and his example; she
remembered now the look of his eyes as he told her the Lord Jesus would
do all she trusted him to do. Yet the determination was extremely sudden
to Rotha herself. And as the meeting of two currents, whether in the
waters or in the air or the human mind, generally raises a commotion, so
this flowing in of light and promise upon the midst of her despair almost
broke Rotha's heart. The tears shed this time, however, though abundant,
were less bitter; and Rotha raised her head and dashed the drops away,
and ran up stairs to fetch her mother's Bible and begin her quest upon
the spot. Lying there upon the rug in her aunt's dressing room, she began
it.
She began with a careful consideration of the three marked passages. The
one in John especially held her. "He that hath my commandments and
keepeth them, he it is that loveth me."--I do not love Him, thought
Rotha, for I do not know Him; but I must begin, I suppose, with keeping
his commandments. Now the thing is, to find out what.--
She opened her book at hap hazard, lying on the rug there with it before
her. A leaf or two aimlessly turned,--and her eye fell on these words:
"And in that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book, and the eyes
of the blind shall see out of obscurity and out of darkness. The meek
also shall increase their joy in the Lord, and the poor among men shall
rejoice in the Holy One of Israel."
I am poor enough, thought Rotha, while soft warm tears streamed afresh
from her eyes;--and deaf enough, and blind enough too, I have been; but
meek?--I guess I'm not meek.
Turning over a leaf or two, her eyes were caught by the thirty fifth
chapter of Isaiah, and she read it all. There was the promise for the
deaf and the blind again; Rotha applied that to herself unhesitatingly;
but the rest of the chapter she could not well understand. Except one
thing; that the way of the blessed people is a "way of holiness." And
also the promise in the last verse, which seemed to be an echo of those
words of Jesus--"He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that
believeth on me shall never thirst." And Rotha was so hungry, and so
thirsty! She paused just there, and covering her eyes with her hand, made
one of the first real prayers, perhaps, she had ever prayed. It was a
dumb stretching out of her hands for the food she was starving for; not
much more; but it was eagerly put in the name of Christ, and such cries
he hears. She turned over a few more leaves and stopped.
"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand,
and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a
light of the Gentiles; to open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners
from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house."
Who could that be? Rotha knew enough to guess that it could mean but one,
even the great Deliverer. And a little further on she saw other words
which encouraged her.
"I will bring the blind by a way that they know not; I will lead them in
paths they have not known; I will make darkness light before them, and
crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not
forsake them."
So many promises to the blind, Rotha said to herself; and that means me.
I don't think I am meek, but I know I am blind.--Then on the very next
leaf she read--
"I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and as a cloud
thy sins; return unto me; for I have redeemed thee."
_Redeemed_, that means, bought back, said Rotha; and I know who has done
it, too. I suppose that is how he delivered the prisoners out of the
prison house. Well, if he has redeemed me, I ought to belong to him,--and
I will! I do not know much, but there is another promise; he will bring
the blind by a way they have not known, and will make darkness light
before them. Now what I have to do,--yes, I am redeemed, and I _will_ be
redeemed; and I belong to him who has redeemed me, of course. "He that
hath my commandments and keepeth them"--what are they?
She thought she must look in the New Testament for them; and not knowing
where to look in particular, she turned to the first chapter. It did not
seem to contain much that concerned her, till she came to the 21st verse.
"And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for
he shall save his people from their sins."
Rotha put that together with the "way of holiness," but it seemed to her
unspeakably wonderful. In fact, it was hard to believe. Save _her_ from
her sins? from pride and anger and self-will and self-pleasing? why, they
were inborn; they were in her very blood; they came like the breath of
her breathing. Could she be saved from them? Mr. Digby was like that. But
a Rotha without anger and pride and self-will--would she know herself?
would it be Rotha? and was she quite sure that she desired to be the
subject of such a transformation? Never mind; desire it or not, this was
the "way of holiness," and there was no other. But about commandments?--
She read the second chapter with an interest that hitherto she had never
given to it; so also the third, without finding yet what she was looking
for. The second verse, John the Baptist's cry to repentance, she answered
by saying that she _had_ repented; that step was taken; what next? In the
fourth chapter she paused at the 10th verse. I see, she said, one is not
to do wrong even for the whole world; but what must I do that is _right?_
She startled a little at the 19th verse; concluded however that the
command to "follow him" was directed only to the people of that time, the
apostles and others, who were expected literally to leave their callings
and accompany Jesus in his wanderings. The beatitudes were incipient
commands, perhaps. But she did not quite understand most of them. At the
16th verse she came to a full pause.
"Let your light so shine"--That is like Mr. Digby. Everything he does is
just beautiful, and shews one how one ought to be. Then according to
that, I must not do any wrong at all!--
ust here Rotha heard the latch key in the house door, and knew the
family were coming home from church. She seized her Bible and ran off up
stairs. There it was necessary to wrap herself in her coverlet again; and
shivering a little she put her book on the bed side and knelt beside it.
But presently poor Rotha was brought up short in her studies. She had
been saying comfortably to herself, reading v. 22,--I have not been
"angry without a cause"; and I have not called anybody "Raca," or "Thou
fool"; but then it came--
"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest _that thy
brother hath ought against thee_, leave there thy gift... go thy way...
first be reconciled... then offer thy gift."
Rotha felt as if she had got a blow. Her aunt had "something against
her." But, said Rotha to herself, not the thousandth part of what _I_
have against her. No matter, conscience objected; her charge remains the
same, although you may have a larger to set off against it. Then am I to
go and make it up with her? I can't do it, said Rotha. I do not wish to
do it. I wish her to know that I am angry, and justly angry; if I were to
go and ask her pardon for my way of speaking, she would just think I want
to make it up with her so that she may get me my new cloak and other
things.? And Rotha turned hot and cold at the thought. Yet conscience
pertinaciously presented the injunction?"first be reconciled to thy
brother." It was a dead lock. Rotha felt that her prayers would not be
acceptable or accepted, while a clear duty was knowingly left undone; and
do it she would not. At least not now; and how ever, that she could not
see. Her heart which had been a little lightened, sank down like lead. O,
thought she, is it so hard a thing to be a Christian? Did Mr. Digby ever
have such a fight, I wonder, before he got to be as he is now? He does
not look as if he ever had fights. But then he is strong.
And Rotha was weak. She knew it. She let her eye run down the page a
little further; and it came to these words--
"If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee."...
"If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off."...
Duty was plain enough. This luxury of anger at her aunt was a forbidden
pleasure; it must be given up; and at the thought, Rotha clutched it the
more warmly. So the bell rang for dinner, always early on Sunday. She
would rather not have gone down, and did linger; then she heard it rung
the second time and knew that was to summon the stragglers. She went
down. The rest were at table.
"Mamma," Antoinette was saying, "you must get a new bonnet."
"Why?"
"Mrs. Mac Jimpsey has got a new one, and it is handsomer than yours."
"What does that signify?" was asked in Mr. Busby's curious husky tones
and abrupt utterance.
"O papa, you don't understand such things."
"Nor you neither. You are a little goose."
"Papa! don't you want mamma and me to be as nice as anybody?"
"You are."
"O but Mrs. Mac Jimpsey's bonnet was fifty times handsomer than mamma's.
_You_ don't know, but it was."
"Nevertheless, your mamma is fifty times handsomer than Mrs. Mac
Jimpsey."
"O papa! but _that_ isn't the thing."
"And Mr. Mac Jimpsey's pocket is some fifty dollars or so emptier than
mine. You see, we have a hundred times the advantage, to say the least."
"Papa, gentlemen never understand such things."
"Better for them if the ladies didn't."
"My dear," said Mrs. Busby smoothly, "you do not consider dress a subject
of small importance?"
"I have no occasion to think about it, my dear, I am aware."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Busby?"
"It receives such exhaustive consideration from you."
"It cannot be done without consideration; not properly. Good dressing is
a distinction; and it requires a careful regard to circumstances, to keep
up one's appearance properly."
"What do you think about it, Rotha?" said Mr. Busby.
Rotha was startled, and flushed all over. To answer was not easy; and yet
answer she must. "I think it is comfortable to be well dressed," she
said.
"Well dressed! but there is the question. What do you mean by 'well
dressed'? You see, Antoinette means by it simply, handsomer things than
Mrs. Mac Jimpsey."
Antoinette pouted, much incensed at this speech and at the appeal to
Rotha generally; and Mrs. Busby brought her lips into firmer compression;
though neither spoke. Mr. Busby went on, rather kindly.
"What's the matter, that you didn't go to church to-day? Is Antoinette's
bonnet handsomer than yours?"
"It ought to be, Mr. Busby," said the lady of the house here.
"Ought it? Rotha might put in a demurrer. May I ask why?"
"Circumstances are different, Mr. Busby. That is what I said. Proper
dressing must keep a due regard to circumstances."
"Mine among the rest. Now I don't see why a bonnet fit for Antoinette's
cousin isn't good enough for Antoinette; and the surplus money in my
pocket."
"And you would have your daughter dress like a poor girl?"
"Couldn't do better, in my opinion. That's the way not to become one.
Fetch me your bonnet, Rotha, and let us see what it is like."
Rotha coloured high and sat still. Indeed her aunt said, "Nonsense! do no
such thing." But Mr. Busby repeated, "Fetch it, fetch it. We are talking
in the abstract; I cannot convict anybody in the abstract."
"But it is Sunday, Mr. Busby."
"Well, my dear, what of that? The better day, the better deed. I am
trying to bring you and Antoinette to a more Christian mind in respect of
bonnets; that's good work for Sunday. Fetch your bonnet, Rotha."
"Do no such thing, Rotha," said her aunt. "Mr. Busby is playing; he does
not mean his words to be taken literally. You would not send her up three
pair of stairs to gratify your whim, when another time would do just as
well?"
"My dear, I always mean my words to be taken literally. I do not
understand your arts of rhetoric. I will send Rotha up stairs, if she
will be so obliging as to gratify my whim."
He looked at Rotha as he spoke, and Rotha half rose from her seat; when
Antoinette suddenly dashed past her, saying, "I will fetch it"--and ran
off up stairs. Rotha sat down again, much confounded at this benevolence,
and wondering what that was not benevolent might lie beneath it. Mrs.
Busby pursed up her mouth and looked at nobody. Presently Antoinette came
down again. In her hand she held a little grey plush hat, somewhat worn
but very jaunty, with a long grey feather, curled round it. This hat she
held out on the tips of her fingers for her father's inspection. Rotha's
eyes grew large with astonishment. Mrs. Busby's lips twitched. Antoinette
looked daring and mischievous. Mr. Busby innocently surveyed the grey
plush and feather.
"So that is what you call a hat for a poor girl?" he said. "It seems to
me, if I remember, that is very like one you used to wear, Nettie."
"Yes, papa, it is; but this is Rotha's."
"Mrs. Busby, was this your choice?"
"Yes, Mr. Busby."
"Then of course this is proper for Rotha. Now will you explain to me why
it is not equally proper for Antoinette? But this is not what I should
have called a hat for a poor girl, my dear."
"Mr. Busby, while Rotha lives with us, it is necessary to have a certain
conformity--there cannot be _too_ much difference made."
"Hum--ha!" said the bewildered man. Rotha by this time had got her
breath.
"That is not my hat however, Mr. Busby," she said, with cheeks on fire.
"Yes, it is your hat," said Antoinette. "Do you think I am saying what is
not true? It is your hat, and nobody else's."
"It is _your_ hat. I have seen you wear it."
"I have given it to you. It is your hat."
"I don't take it," said Rotha. "Your things do not suit me, as your
mother has just said. You may do what you like with it; but you do not
give it to me!"
Mr. Busby looked from one to the other.
"Do you expect me to buy new everything for you?" Mrs. Busby asked now.
"Is it not good enough? I suppose it is much better than any hat you ever
had before in your life."
"But it is not mine," said Rotha. "It never was given to me. I never
heard anything of it until now, when Antoinette fetched it because she
did not want Mr. Busby to see what sort of a hat I really had. Thank you!
I do not take it."
"But it is yours!" cried Antoinette. "I have given it to you. Do you
think I would wear it, after giving it away?"
"If it was convenient, you would," said Rotha.
"You may lay your account with not having any hat, then, unless you wear
this," said Mrs. Busby. "You may take your choice. If you receive
Antoinette's kindness so, you must not look for mine."
"Your kindness, and hers, are the very strangest sort I ever heard of in
my life," said Rotha.
"What am I to understand by all this?" asked the perplexed Mr. Busby,
looking from the hat to the faces of the speakers.
"Only, that I never heard of that hat's being intended for me until this
minute," said Rotha.
"Rotha," said her aunt quietly, "you may go up stairs."
"What did you bring it down for, Nettie?"
"Because you took an insane fancy to see Rotha's bonnet, papa; so I
brought it."
"That is not true, Mr. Busby," Rotha said, standing up to go.
"It is not your hat?"
"No, sir."
"Mr. Busby, if you would listen to Antoinette's words," said his wife
with her lips very compressed, "you would understand things. Rotha, I
said you might go."
Which Rotha did, Antoinette at the same moment bursting into tears and
flinging the hat on the dinner table.
What followed, Rotha did not know. She climbed the many stairs with a
heavy heart. It was war to the knife now. She was sure her aunt would
never forgive her. And, much worse, she did not see how she was ever to
forgive her aunt. And yet--"if thy neighbour hath ought against thee"--.
Rotha had far more against _her_, she excused herself, in vain. The one
debt was not expunged by the other. And, bitter as her own grievances
seemed to her, there was a score on the other side. Not so would Mr.
Digby have received or returned injuries. Rotha knew it. And as fancy
represented to her the quiet, manly, dignified sweetness which always
characterized him, she did not like the retrospect of her own behaviour.
So true it is, that "whatsoever doth make manifest is light." No
discourse could have given Rotha so keen a sense of her own failings as
that image of another's beautiful living. What was done could not be
undone; but the worst was, Rotha was precisely in the mood to do it over
again; so though sorry she was quite aware that she was not repentant.
It followed that the promises for which she longed and to which she was
stretching out her hands, were out of reach. Clean out of reach. Rotha's
heart was the scene of a struggle that took away all possibility of
comfort or even of hope. She had no right to hope. "If thy hand offend
thee, cut it off"--but Rotha was not so minded. The prospect was dark and
miserable. How could she go on living in her aunt's house? and how could
she live anywhere else? and how could she bear her loneliness? and how
could she get to the favour of that one great Friend, whose smile is only
upon them that are at least trying to do his commandments? It was dark in
Rotha's soul, and stormy.
It continued so for days. In the house she was let alone, but so
thoroughly that it amounted to domestic exile or outlawry. She was let
alone. Not forbidden to take her place at the family table, or to eat her
portion of the bread and the soup; but for all social or kindly
relations, left to starve. Mr. Busby's mouth had been shut somehow; he
was practically again a man of papers; and the other two hardly looked at
Rotha or spoke to her. Antoinette and she sometimes went to school
together and sometimes separate; it was rather more lonely when they went
together. In school they hardly saw each other. So days went by.
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. MOWBRAY.
"How is that Carpenter girl doing?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired one day of Miss
Blodgett, as they met in one of the passages.
"I have been wanting to speak to you about her, madame. She knows all I
can teach her in that class."
"Does she! Her aunt told me she had had no advantages. Does she study?"
"I fancy she has no need to study much where she is. She has been
further."
"How does she behave?"
"Perfectly well. She does not look to me happy."
"Not happy! Is her cousin kind to her? She is cousin to that pretty
Busby, you know."
"I think she hardly speaks to her. Not here, I mean."
Mrs. Mowbray passed on. But that very afternoon, when school was breaking
up, Miss Blodgett asked Rotha to wait a few minutes. The girls were all
gone in a trice; Miss Blodgett herself followed; and Rotha was left
alone. She waited a little while. Then the door opened and the figure
which had such a fascination for her appeared. The face looked gentler
and kinder than she had seen it before; this was not school time. Mrs.
Mowbray came in and sat down by Rotha, after giving her her hand.
"Are you quite well, my dear?" was her instant question after the
greeting. "You are hoarse."
Rotha said she had caught a little cold.
"How did you do that?"
"I think it was sitting in a cold room."
"Were you obliged to sit in a cold room?"
Rotha hesitated. "It was pleasanter there," she said with some
embarrassment.
"You never should sit in a cold room. What did you want to be in a cold
room for?"
Rotha hesitated again. "I wanted to be alone."
"Studying?"
"Not my lessons,"--said Rotha doubtfully.
"Not your lessons? If you and I were a little better acquainted, I should
ask for a little more confidence. But I will not be unreasonable."
Rotha glanced again at the sweet face, so kindly now with all its
penetrating acuteness and habit of authority; so sweet with its smile;
and confidence sprang forth at the instant, together with the longing for
help. Did not this look like a friend's face? Where else was she to find
one? Reserve gave way.
"I was studying my duty," she said softly.
"Your duty, my dear? Was the difficulty about knowing it, or about doing
it?"
"I think--about doing it."
"Is it difficult?"
"Yes," said Rotha from the bottom of her heart.
Mrs. Mowbray read the troubled brow, the ingenuous mouth, the oppressed
manner; and her soul went forth in sympathy to her little perplexed human
sister. But her next words were a departure, and in a different tone.
"You have never been to school before, your aunt tells me?"
"No, ma'am," said Rotha, disappointed somehow.
"Are you getting along pleasantly?"
"Not very pleasantly," Rotha allowed, after a pause.
"Does Miss Blodgett give you too hard work to do?"
"O no, ma'am!" Rotha said with a spark more of spirit. "I have not
anything to do. I know it all already."
"You do! Where did you learn it?"
"Mother used to teach me--and then a friend used to teach me."
"What, my dear? It is important that I should know."
"Mother taught me history, and geography, and grammar, and little things.
Then a gentleman taught me more history, and arithmetic, and algebra, and
Latin, and natural history--"
"The gentleman was the friend you spoke of?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you like to study, Rotha?"
"O yes, ma'am! when it _is_ study, and I can understand it."
"I suppose your aunt did not know about all this home study?"
"She knew nothing about me," said Rotha.
"Then where has your home been, my dear?"
"Here,--for two years past. Before that, it was in the country."
Mrs. Mowbray was silent a bit.
"My dear, I think the first thing you should do should be, to take care
of that cold. Will you?"
"I do not know how, ma'am," said Rotha, for the first time lifting her
eyes with something like a smile to the lady's face.
"Does Mrs. Busby know that you have taken cold?"
"I do not know, ma'am."
"Will you take some medicine, if I give you some?"
"If you please, ma'am."
Mrs. Mowbray sent a servant for a certain box, and proceeded to choose
out a vial which she gave to Rotha, instructing her how to use it.
"And then, some time when we know each other better," she went on,
"perhaps you will tell me about that difficulty of duty, and let me see
if I can help you."
"O thank you, ma'am!" was spoken so earnestly that Mrs. Mowbray saw the
matter must be much on the young girl's heart.
That same evening did Mrs. Mowbray make a call on Mrs. Busby.
She came in with her gracious, sweet, dignified manner, which always put
everybody upon his best behaviour in her presence; as gracious as if she
had come for the sole pleasure of a talk with Mrs. Busby; as sweet as if
she had had no other object in coming but to give her and her family
pleasure. And so she talked. She talked public news and political
questions with Mr. Busby, with full intelligence, but with admirable
modesty; she bewitched him out of his silence and dryness into being
social and conversible; she delighted him with his own unwonted
performance. With Mrs. Busby she talked Antoinette, for whom she had at
the same time brought a charming little book, which compliment flattered
the whole family. She talked Antoinette and Antoinette's interests, but
not Antoinette alone; with a blessed kind of grace she brought in among
the other things relations and anecdotes the drift and bearing of which
was away from vanity and toward soul health; stories which took her
hearers for the moment at least out of the daily and the trivial and the
common, into the lofty and the noble and the everlasting. Even Mr. Busby
forgot his papers and cases and waked up to human interests and social
gentleness; and even Mrs. Busby let the lines of her lips relax, and her
eyes glistened with something warmer than a steely reflection. Antoinette
bloomed with smiles. Rotha was not in the room.
And not till she was drawing up her fur around her, preparatory to
departure, did Mrs. Mowbray refer to the fourth member of the family.
Then she said,
"How is your niece, Mrs. Busby? Miss Carpenter?"
"Quite well," Mrs. Busby answered graciously. "I believe she is at her
books."
"How does she like going to school?"
"I am afraid I can hardly say. Netta, how does Rotha enjoy her school
life?"
"I don't know," said Antoinette. "She doesn't enjoy anything, I should
say."
The tone of neither question nor answer escaped the watchful observation
of the visiter.
"I think you said she had had no advantages?"
"None whatever, I should say; not what we would call advantages. I
suppose she has learned a few common things."
"She is an orphan?"
Mrs. Busby assented. "Lost her mother last summer."
"I should like to have her more under my own eye than is possible as she
is now; a mere day scholar. What do you say to letting her become a
member of my family? Of course," added Mrs. Mowbray graciously, "I should
not propose to you to charge yourself with any additional burden on her
account. As she is an orphan, I should make no difference because of
receiving her into my family. I have a professional ambition to gratify,
and I like to be able to carry out my plans in every detail. I could do
better for Antoinette, if you would let me have _her_ altogether; but I
suppose that is not to be thought of."
Mrs. Busby wore an air of deliberation. Mr. Busby was understood to
mutter something about "very handsome."
"Will you let me have Antoinette?" said the lady smiling. "I think it
would do her no harm."
"Antoinette must content herself at home," Antoinette's mother replied.
"I am accustomed to having her under my own wing."
"And that is a privilege you would not yield to any one else. I
understand. Well, what do you say about Miss Carpenter?"
Mrs. Busby looked at her husband. Long experience enabled him to guess at
what he was desired to say.
"My dear--since Mrs. Mowbray is so kind--it would be a great thing for
Rotha the best thing that could happen to her--"
Mrs. Busby turned her eyes to her visiter.
"Since you are so good, Mrs. Mowbray--it is more than I could ask you to
do--"
"I shall be very glad to do it. I am nothing if not professional, you
know," Mrs. Mowbray said rising and drawing her fur together again. "Then
that is settled."-- And with gracious deference and sweetness of manner
she took her leave.
"That's what I call a good riddance!" exclaimed Antoinette when she was
free to express her opinion.
"You will find it a happy relief," added Mr. Busby. "And not a little
saving, too."
Mrs. Busby was silent. With all the relief and the saving, there was yet
something in the plan which did not suit her. Nevertheless, the relief,
and the saving, were undoubted facts; and she held her tongue.
"Mamma, what are you going to do about Rotha's dresses?"
"I will see, when she comes to me with a proper apology."
Of all this nothing was told to Rotha. So she was a little surprised,
when next morning Mrs. Mowbray came into the schoolroom and desired to
see her after school. But then Mrs. Mowbray's first words were about her
cold.
"My dear, you are very hoarse! You can hardly speak. And you feel
miserably, I see. I shall sequester you at once. Come with me."
Wondering but obedient, Rotha followed. What was going to happen now? Up
stairs, along a ball, up another flight of stairs, past the great
schoolrooms, now empty, through a small bedroom, through a large one,
along another passage. At last a door is opened, into what, as Rotha
enters it, seems to her a domestic paradise. The air deliciously warm and
sweet, the walls full of engravings or other pictures, tables heaped with
books, a luxuriously appointed bed and dressing tables, (what to Rotha's
eyes was enormous luxury)--finally a couch, where she was made to lie
down and covered over with a brilliant affghan. Rotha was transported
into the strangest of new worlds. Her new friend arranged the pillow
under her head, gave her some tasteless medicine; that was a wonderful
innovation too, for all Rotha's small experience had been of nauseous
rhubarb and magnesia or stinging salts; and finally commanded her to lie
still and go to sleep.
"But aunt Serena--?" Rotha managed to whisper.
"She has made you over to me. You are going to live in my house for the
present, where you can carry on your studies better than you could at
home, and I can attend to you better. Here you have been losing a month,
because I did not know what you properly required. Are you willing to be
my child, Rotha?--instead of Mrs. Busby's?--for a time?"
The flash of joy in Rotha's eyes was so eloquent and so bright, that Mrs.
Mowbray stooped down and kissed her.
"I never was Mrs. Busby's child,"--the girl must make so much protest.
"Well, no matter; you are not her child now. Lie still, and go to sleep
if you can."
Could she? Not at once. Is it possible to tell the sort of Elysium in
which the child was lapped? Softness and warmth and ease and rest, and
_hiding_, and such beauty and such luxury! Mrs. Mowbray left the room
presently; and Rotha lay still under her affghan, looking from one to
another point of delight in the room, wondering at this suddenly entered
fairyland, comforted inexpressibly by the assurance that she was taken
out of her aunt's house and presence, happy in the promise of the new
guardianship into which she had come. What pretty pictures were on the
walls, all around her, over her head; here was a lady, there a lovely
little girl; here a landscape; there a large print shewing a horse which
a smith is just about shoeing, and a little foal standing by. And so her
eye wandered, from one to another, every one having its peculiar interest
for Rotha. Then the books. How the books were piled up, on the floor, on
the dressing-table, on benches, on the mantelpiece; there was a kind of
overflow and breaking wave of literary riches which seemed to have
scattered its surplus about this room. And there were trinkets too, and
pretty useful trifles, and pretty things of use that were not trifles.
Rotha had always lived in a very plain way; her father's house had shewed
no far-off indication of this sort of life. Neither had her aunt's house.
Plenty of means was not wanting there; the house had money enough; what
it lacked was the life. No love of the beautiful; no habit of elegant
surroundings; no literary taste that had any tide or flow whatsoever,
much less overflow. No art, and no associations. Everything here had
meaning, and indications of life, or associations with it; with mental
life especially. What exactly it was that charmed her, Rotha could not
have told; she could not have put all this into words; yet she felt all
this. The girl had come into a new atmosphere, where for the first time
her soul seemed to draw free breath. It was, by its affinities, her
native air. Certainly in the company of Mr. Southwode all this higher
part of her nature had been fed and fostered, and with him too she was at
home; but she had seen him only in Mrs. Marble's house or in the lodgings
at Fort Washington.
It was long before Rotha could sleep. She waked as the day was declining
and the room growing dusky. A maid came in and lit the fire, which
presently sparkled and snapped and sent forth jets of flame which lit up
the room with a red illumination. Rotha recognized, she thought, the sort
of coal which Mr. Digby had sent in for her mother, and hailed the sight;
but she was mistaken, a little; it was kennal coal, not Liverpool. It
snapped and shone, and the light danced over pictures and books and
curtains; and Rotha wondered what would come next.
What came next was Miss Blodgett, followed by the maid bearing a tray.
The tray was placed on a stand by the couch, and Rotha was informed that
this was her dinner. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to keep quite quiet and live
very simply until this cold was broken up. Rotha raised herself on her
couch and looked in astonishment at what was before her. A hot mutton
chop, a roll, a cup of tea, and some mashed potatoe. A napkin was spread
over the tray; and there was a little silver salt cellar, and a glass of
water, and a plate of rice pudding. Ah, surely Rotha was in fairyland;
and never was there so beneficent and so magnificent a fairy in human
shape. Miss Blodgett saw her arranged to her mind, and left her to take
her dinner in peace and at leisure; which Rotha did, almost ready to cry
for sheer pleasure. When had dinner been so good to her? Everything was
so hot and so nice and so prettily served. Rotha lay down again feeling
half cured already.
However, such well-grounded colds as she had taken are not disposed of in
a minute; and Rotha's kept her shut up for yet several days more. Wonders
went on multiplying; for a little cot bed was brought into the room,
(which Rotha found was Mrs. Mowbray's own) and made up there for her
occupancy; and there actually she slept those nights. And Mrs. Mowbray
nursed her; gave her medicine, by night and by day; sent her dainty
meals, and allowed her to amuse herself with anything she could find.
Rotha found a book suited to her pleasure, and had a luxurious time of
it. Towards the end of the second day, Mrs. Mowbray came into the room; a
little while before dinner.
"How do you do?" she said, standing and surveying her patient.
"Very well, ma'am; almost quite well."
"You will be glad to be let out of prison?"
"It is a very pleasant prison."
"I do not think any prison is pleasant. What book have you got there?
Mrs. Sherwood. Do you like it?"
"O _very_ much, ma'am!"
"My dear, your aunt has sent your trunk, at my request; and Miss Blodgett
has unpacked it to get at the things you were wanting. But there is only
one warm dress in it. Is that your whole ward robe?"
"What dress is that? what sort, I mean?"
"Grey merino, I believe."
"It is not mine," said Rotha flushing. "It is Antoinette's. They tried it
on, but it did not fit me. I told aunt Serena I would rather wear my own
old one."
"That is the one you are wearing now?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"My dear, is that your whole supply for the winter?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I observe you have a nice supply of under wear."
"Yes, ma'am. That was got for me by somebody else; not my aunt."
"Have you other relations then, besides Mrs. Busby?"
"No, ma'am. But I have a friend."
"May I know more, since you have begun to confide in me? Who is this
friend?"
"It is the friend mother trusted me to, when she--when she--"
"Yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mowbray gently. "Why does not this friend
take care of you then, instead of leaving you to your aunt?"
"O he does take care of me," cried Rotha; "but he is in England; he is
not here. He had to go home because his father was very ill--dying, I
suppose."
"_He?_" repeated Mrs. Mowbray. "A gentleman?"
"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got
those things for me."
"What is his name, my dear?"
"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."
"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a _young_ gentleman."
"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England
suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow
from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can
forgive her for it,--never, never!"
"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought
she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"
"Mr. Digby took me to her," said Rotha, her eyes filling, while they
sparkled at the same time. "He said it was best for me to be there, under
her care, as he had no home where he could take me. But if he had known,
he never would have left me with her. I know he would not. He would have
taken care of me some other way."
"What has Mr. Southwode done for you, that you should have such trust in
him?"
But Rotha somehow did not want to go into this subject in detail.
"He did everything for us that a friend could do; he taught me, and he
took care of mother; and mother left me in his charge."
"Where was Mrs. Busby?"
"Just where she is now. She did not know we were here."
"Why was that?"
Rotha hesitated. "Mother did not like to tell her," she said, somewhat
obscurely.
"And she left you in this gentleman's care."
"Yes."
"And he put you under your aunt's care."
"Yes, for the present. But I was to tell him if anything went wrong; and
I have never been able to speak a word to him since. Nor to write,
because he had not given me his address."
"Mr. Southwode is an Englishman. It is probable, if his father is dead,
that he will make his home in England for the future."
Rotha was silent. She thought Mr. Digby would not forget her, or fail in
his promises; but she kept her views to herself.
"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am
very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will
try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling
you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?"
Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous masses of books in something
like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she
said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet
in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That
is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep
it, my dear."
"O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rushing
into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But
here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully.
"I dare say. It is the old story--'When the commandment came, sin
revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?"
"Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and
in the fifth chapter of Matthew,--here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to
the altar--'"
"I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and
not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?"
"Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly.
"Yes, but what has she done?"
"I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went
away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was
gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him."
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous
offence."
"It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst."
"She might have thought she had good reasons."
"She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in
her power."
"Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs.
Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people
do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and
it leaves you a great deal more comfortable."
"You cannot always do that," said Rotha.
"And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it?
Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?"
"It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently,"
said Rotha.
"It occurs to me--Those words you began to quote,--they run, I think, 'If
thy brother hath ought _against_ thee.' Is that the case here?"
"Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did
not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry--very angry;
but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I
had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not
spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an
apology; and I was so angry I could not."
"And do you feel so now?" Mrs. Mowbray asked after a slight pause.
"Just the same."
"Do you think you are a Christian, Rotha?"
"No, ma'am. I know--a Christian does His commandments," the girl answered
low.
"Do you want to be a Christian?"
"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"
"You cannot, while your will goes against God's will."
"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.
"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little
time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I
must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."
Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal
did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of
comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of
her difficulties.
Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a
delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing
nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of
people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and
hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray
came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was
upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she
only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this
question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and
established,--yes, not that only, but pure and good,--like Mr. Digby;
then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question
unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.
Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.
"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her.
"I had an errand--and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a
pleasant evening, all alone?"
"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.
"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that
was your case, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am, it was."
"And did you accomplish it?--what you had to do."
"No, ma'am."
"You must take me into your counsels. See here--how do you like that?"
She had drawn up a chair to the side of Rotha's couch, and opening one of
the packages on her lap, transferred it to Rotha's. It was the fashion
then for young people to wear woollen stuffs of bright plaid patterns;
and this was a piece of chocolate and black with a thread of gold colour;
soft and beautiful and rich tinted. "How do you like that?" Mrs. Mowbray
repeated; and Rotha answered that she thought it very beautiful.
"Don't you think that would make you a nice school dress? and here--how
would this do for company days?"
As she spoke, she laid upon the chocolate plaid another package,
containing a dark brown poplin, heavy and lustrous. Poor Rotha looked up
bewildered to the lady's face, which was beaming and triumphant.
"Like it?" she said gleefully. "I couldn't tell your taste, you know. I
had to go by my own Don't you think that would become you?"
"_Me?_" said Rotha.
"Yes. You see, we cannot wait for your aunt's slow motions, and you must
be clothed. Do you like it, my dear?"
"I like it _very_ much--of course--they are most beautiful; but--will
aunt Serena give you the money, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I shall not ask her," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "You need not say
anything about it, to her or anybody else. It is our affair. Now here is
a warm skirt, my dear; I want to keep you warm while you are in my house,
and you are not sufficiently armed against the cold weather. I don't want
to have you catching any more colds. You see, this is for my interest.
Now with that you will be as warm as a toast."
It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha
looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb.
Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.
"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday--and I will let
Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at
once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for
you?"
"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added--"Yes! I forgot; the
one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer." _That Mr.
Southwode got for me_, she had been about to say; but she checked herself.
Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's
name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did
not approve of Mr. Southwode.
"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of
goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"
"It remains a question, ma'am."
"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"
"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or
two times, and so--she has something against me; and I cannot pray."
"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not
pray. The Bible says, pray always."
"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there
thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy
brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"
"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and
took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.
"Well, my dear," she said at last,--"and so you think these words forbid
you to pray?"
"Do they not?" said Rotha, "until I could reconcile myself to aunt
Serena? or at least try."
"What is the matter between you and your aunt?"
"I do not know. I cannot tell what makes her do so."
"Do what?"
"Hide me from the only friend I have got."
"You mean that gentleman? My dear, she may have had very good reasons for
that?"
"She could not have good reasons for it," said Rotha flushing.
"My dear, old people often see things that young people do not see, and
cannot judge of."
"You do not know Mr. Southwode, ma'am. Anyhow, I do not feel as if I
could ever forgive her."
"That makes it difficult for you to go and ask her pardon, hey?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What are you going to do?"
"I do not know," said Rotha sadly.
"It is too late for us to talk longer to-night. I will shew you a Bible
to-morrow--stop, there is no time like the present--"
Mrs. Mowbray rose and went to a table from which she brought a little
volume. "This will do better," she said. "I have a Bible in which all
this, in this book, is arranged in reference columns; but this is more
convenient. You can use this with your own Bible, or any Bible. I am
going to give you this, my dear." And she fetched a pen as she spoke and
entered Rotha's name on the title page, with the date of day and month
and year. Then she went on--"Now see, Rotha; here is what will give light
on your question. Here are references from every verse in the Bible to
other parts and other verses which explain or illustrate it. Find your
place,--what is it?--Mat. v. 24, is it?--here; now see, here are
references to other passages, and from them you will find references to
still others. Take this to-morrow and study it out, and pray, my dear.
You cannot get along without praying."
CHAPTER XVI.
SCHOOL.
Rotha received the book with an access of pleasure, which expressed
itself however mainly in sparkling eyes and the red tinge of excitement
in her cheeks. She did say some words of thanks, but they were not
fluent, as customary with her when any great degree of delight was
pressing for utterance. Then speech was poor. Mrs. Mowbray did not miss
it; she could read the signs, and was satisfied. But long after she was
asleep, Rotha lay on her cot with eyes wide open, staring at the remains
of the fire. What had come to her? what strange, enchantment-like,
fabulous, change of circumstances? and this dispenser and contriver of
happiness, slumbering peacefully on the bed yonder, what was she but a
very fairy of blessing, bringing order out of disorder and comfort out of
the very depths of confusion. A home, and a friend, and nice dresses, and
study, and books! Two books to-day! Rotha was too happy to sleep.
The next day she began school duties again; but Mrs. Mowbray would not
have her join the family at meals, until, as she said, she had something
comfortable to wear. Rotha was thankful for the kind thoughtfulness that
spared her feelings; and in return bent herself to her appointed tasks
with an energy which soon disposed of them. However, they took all her
time, for Mrs. Mowbray had introduced her to another part of the school
and a much more advanced class of the pupils. This of itself gave her new
spirit. The following day Mrs. Mowbray, as she had promised, sent her
with one of the under teachers to have her dresses cut out. They went in
a carriage, and drove to Mrs. Marble's. Mrs. Marble wore a doubtful
countenance.
"Well, it _is_ time you had something warmer, if you've got nothing more
made since those lawns. Where's Mr. Digby?"
"In England."
"England! Don't say! And who's taking care of you?"
"Miss Carpenter is in Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Miss Jewett stiffly.
"Mrs. Mowbray, hey? what, the great school? You _are_ in luck, Rotha. Did
Mr. Digby put you there?"
"He did not choose the school," said Rotha. "I went to the same place
where my cousin went. Mrs. Marble, that's too tight."
"It'll look a great deal handsomer, Rotha. Slim waists are what all the
ladies want."
"I can't be pinched," said Rotha, lifting and lowering her shoulders in
the exultation of free play. "I would rather be comfortable."
"It does look better, to be snug, Miss Carpenter," said Miss Jewett,
taking the mantua-maker's part.
"I don't care," said Rotha. "I must have room to breathe. Make it loose
enough, Mrs. Marble, or it will just come back to you to be altered."
"You're as masterful as you just was, and as I always thought you would
be," said the mantua-maker. "I suppose you think times is changed."
"They are very much changed, Mrs. Marble," said Rotha calmly. "But I
always had my dresses loose."
"And everything else about you!--" muttered the dress-maker. However, she
was never an ill-natured woman, and took her orders with tolerable
equanimity.
"You are the first young lady I ever saw trying on dresses, who did not
want them to fit nicely," Miss Jewett remarked as they were driving away.
"But I could not _breathe!_" said Rotha. "I like to be comfortable."
"Different people have different notions of comfort," was the comment,
not admiring. But Rotha did not give the matter another thought.
The next day was Sunday. "You will not go to church, dear," Mrs. Mowbray
had whispered. "I shall not ask you till you have something to keep you
warm. Have you a thick outer coat?"
Rotha explained. Her aunt had been about to get her one two or three
weeks ago; then they had had their falling out, and since then she had
heard no more on the subject.
"We will get things in order by next Sunday. You can study at home to-
day, and maybe that will be the best thing for you."
It was the most welcome order Rotha could have received. She went up to
Mrs. Mowbray's room, which she still inhabited, and took Bible and New
Testament and her newly acquired possession, which she found bore title,
"The Treasury of Scripture Knowledge," and sat down on the couch. It was
all so comfortable around her that Rotha paused to look and think and
enjoy. Hid away, she felt; safe and secure from all disturbances; her
aunt could not worry her, Antoinette could not even look at her; nobody
could interfere with her; and the good fairy of her life would come in
only to help and shelter her. The warm air; poor Rotha had been
inhabiting a region of frost, it must be remembered, material as well as
spiritual; the slight sweet perfume that pervaded the room and came,
Rotha knew not from what; the pretty, cosy look of the place, furniture,
fire, pictures and all;--Rotha sat looking and feeling in a maze of
astonishment. That all this should be, geographically, so near Mrs.
Busby's house! With a breath of admiring delight, at last Rotha turned to
her books. Yes, if she could get that question settled--
She opened her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and found the fifth
chapter of Matthew; then the 24th verse. The first reference here was to
Mat. xviii. 15-17.
That does not tell me anything, thought Rotha. I cannot go to aunt Serena
and tell her her fault; it would be no use; and besides, that is what I
have done already, only not so, I suppose.--Then followed a passage from
Job and one from Proverbs, which did not, she thought, meet her case.
Then in Mark ix. 50 she found the command to "have peace one with
another." But what if I cannot? thought Rotha. Next, in Romans, the word
was "Recompense to no man evil for evil"; and, "If it be possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." This at first caused
some exultation, which evaporated upon further reflection. Had it not
been possible? If she had been patient, forgiving, sweet; if she had
spoken and looked accordingly; would there not have been peace? Her aunt
at least would have had nothing against her. Her own cause of grievance
would have remained; might she not have forgiven that? A resolute
negative answered this gentle suggestion of conscience; like Jonah in the
case of his gourd, Rotha said to herself she did well to be angry. At
least that Mrs. Busby deserved it; for conscience would not allow the
conclusion that she had done "well," at all. It was not as Mr. Digby
would have done. He was Rotha's living commentary on the word. She went
on. The next passage forbade going to law before unbelievers. Then came a
word or two from the first epistle of Timothy; an injunction to "pray
everywhere, lifting up holy hands, _without wrath_--"
Rotha got no further. That arrow struck home. She must not pray with
anger in her heart. Then she must forgive, unconditionally; for it would
never do to intermit all praying until somebody else should come to a
right, mind. Give up her anger! It made Rotha's blood boil to think of
it. How could she, with her blood boiling? And till she _did_--she might
not think to pray and be heard.
O why is it so hard to be a Christian! why is it made so difficult!
Then Rotha's conscience whispered that the difficulty was of her own
making; if _she_ were all right, that would be all easy. She would go on,
she thought, with her comparison of Bible passages; perhaps she would
come to something that would help. The next passage referred to was in
James.
"But if ye have bitter envying and strife in your hearts, glory not...
This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish.
For where envying and strife are, there is confusion and every evil
work."
"Devilish"! well, I suppose it is, Rotha confessed to herself. "Envying"
--I am not envying; but "strife"--aunt Serena and I have that between us.
And so "there is confusion and every evil work." I suppose there is. But
how am I to help it? I cannot stop my anger.--She went on to the next
reference. It was,
"Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye
may be healed."
The Bible was all against her. Tears began to well up into Rotha's eyes.
She thought she would see what the words were about forgiving. Her eye
had caught the Lord's prayer on the next leaf. She turned to that place
in her reference book. And here, first of all, the words of the prayer
itself struck her, and then the 14th and 15th verses below. It was a dead
lock! If she could not forgive, she could not be forgiven; sharp and
clear the sentence ran; there was no mistaking it, there could be no
glossing it over. Rotha's tears silently rose and fell, hot and
sorrowful. She did want to be forgiven; but to forgive, no. With tears
dripping before her Bible, she would not let them fall on it, she studied
a passage referred to, in the 18th of Matthew, where Peter was directed
to set no bounds to his overlooking of injuries, and the parable of the
unmerciful servant is brought up. Rotha studied that chapter long. The
right and the truth she saw clearly; but as soon as she thought of
applying them to her aunt Busby, her soul rose up in arms. She has done
me the cruelest and the meanest of wrongs, said the girl to herself;
cruel beyond all telling; what she deserves is to be well shaken by the
shoulders. Go to her and say that _I_ have done wrong to _her_ and ask
her to forgive _me_, and so help her to forget her own doings--I cannot.-
-Rotha made a common mistake, the sophistry of passion, which is the same
thing as the devil's sophistry. Her confessing and doing right, would
have been the very likeliest way to make Mrs. Busby ashamed of herself.
However, Rotha went on with her study. Two passages struck her
particularly, in Ephesians and Colossians. The first--"Be ye kind one to
another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's
sake hath forgiven you." The other to the same purport, in Col. iii. 13.
But he has not forgiven me, cried Rotha in her heart, while the tears
poured; he will not forgive me, unless I forgive her.--"But he is ready
to forgive you," the very words before her proclaimed. It was a dead
lock, nevertheless; and when Mrs. Mowbray came home from church she found,
to her surprise, Rotha still bending over her Bible with her tears
dripping on the floor. Mrs. Mowbray took off her hat and cloak before
she said a word. Then coming to Rotha's side on the couch, she put one
arm round her.
"My dear," she said gently, "what is the matter?"
The tone and the touch were so sympathizing, so tender, that Rotha
answered by an affectionate, clinging gesture, taking care at the same
time that none of her tears fell on Mrs. Mowbray's rich silk. For a
little space she made no other answer. When she spoke, it was with a
passionate accent.
"Madame, if I am ever to be a Christian, I must be made all over new!"
"That is nothing uncommon," the lady replied.
"It is every one's case. So the Bible says; 'If any man be in Christ, he
is a new creature.'"
"But how am I to get made over all new?" Rotha cried.
"That is the Holy Spirit's work. 'Except a man be born again, he cannot
see the kingdom of God.'"
"Then must I ask for him?"
"Certainly."
"But if I do not forgive aunt Serena, it is no use for me to pray?"
"Nay, Rotha, if that were true we should be in a bad case indeed. If you
read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, you will find that when the prodigal
son was returning, his father saw him _while he was yet a great way off;_
and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. If you are truly setting
yourself to seek God, you will find him; and if you are in earnest in
wishing to do his will, he will enable you to do it. You must always ask,
my dear. The Bible says, 'the Lord over all is rich unto all--' not, that
are perfect, but--'that call upon him.'"
"But it says, 'if ye do not forgive, neither will your heavenly Father
forgive you.'"
"True; but he will give you that new nature you say you must have; and
then forgiving will be easy."
Rotha looked up, partly comforted. And from that time she prayed for a
new nature.
A few days more saw her school dress finished and at home. It looked
magnificent to Rotha; far too good for a school dress. But Mrs. Mowbray
said no; she must look nice in school as well as anywhere; and that very
evening she brought to Rotha a box full of neat collars and cuffs and
ruffles; some of plain linen and some of lighter and prettier
manufacture. The supply was most abundant; and with these things were
some ribbands of various colours and little silk neck ties. Rotha
received them in the same mute way of speechless gratitude and delight;
and resolved one thing; that Mrs. Mowbray should have nothing to complain
of in her, whether regarding school duties or anything else.
Another thing Mrs. Mowbray did for Rotha that week. Calling Antoinette
Busby to her, at the close of a lesson, she said, "My dear, among the
things sent round from your house for your cousin's use, there is no coat
or cloak for cold weather wear. Will you tell your mother, Rotha's coat
has not been brought with the rest of her things? Thank you. That is all,
my dear."
Antoinette went home in a good deal of a fluster, and told her mother.
Mrs. Busby looked impenetrable.
"Now mamma, what are you going to do about it?"
"What did you say?"
"I said nothing. What could I say?"
"Did you see Rotha?"
"No; she is up stairs, getting nursed for her cold."
"Stuff!"
"Well, she had a cold, mamma. Mrs. Mowbray always finds out if the girls
are shamming. She is sharp enough."
"Rotha is no more ill than I am."
"Mrs. Mowbray always sends a girl off to her room if she is out of sorts,
and coddles her up with pills and tea. She don't do it unless she sees
reason."
"Why didn't you ask to see Rotha? It would have looked better."
"I never thought of it," said Antoinette laughing. "Because, really, I
didn't want to see her. I should rather think I didn't!"
"You had better ask to-morrow."
"Very well. And what shall I say about the coat?"
"I suppose I shall have to get her one," Mrs. Busby said grimly.
"Then she will want a hat, mamma."
"I'll send your grey plush."
"She won't wear it."
"Mrs. Mowbray will make her. _She_ won't hear nonsense."
"Who does, mamma? Not you, I am sure."
Having to do the thing, Mrs. Busby did it well, for her own sake. She
would have let Rotha stay within doors all winter; but if she must get
her a cloak, it should never be said she got her a poor one. Accordingly,
the next day two boxes were sent round to Mrs. Mowbray's; one containing
the rejected hat, the other a warm and handsome cloak, which Mrs. Busby
got cheap because it was one of the last year's goods, of a fashion a
little obsolete. Antoinette asked leave to see Rotha, that same day, and
was refused. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to be left quite to herself. So the
next time the cousins met was in class, a day or two later. It was a
class to which Mrs. Mowbray herself gave a lesson; it was a class of the
more advanced scholars; and Antoinette, who had left her cousin in a
lower department, among Miss Blodgett's pupils, was exceedingly
astonished to see Rotha come in among the young ladies of the family and
take her seat in the privileged library where these lessons were given.
Yet more was Antoinette astonished at her cousin's transformation. Rotha
was dressed well, in the abovementioned chocolate plaid; her linen collar
and cuffs were white and pretty like other people's; the dress was well
made; Rotha's abundant dark hair, now growing long, was knotted up
loosely at the back of her head, her collar was tied with a little cherry
coloured bow; and her whole figure was striking and charming. Antoinette,
who was an acknowledged beauty, felt a pang of displeasure. In fact she
was so much disturbed and annoyed that her mind was quite distracted from
the business in hand; she paid little attention to the lesson and rather
got into disgrace. Rotha on the contrary, entering the class and enjoying
the teaching for the first time, was full of delighted interest; forgot
even her new dress and herself altogether; took acute, intelligent part
in the discussion that went on, (the 'subject being historical) and at
one bound unconsciously placed herself at the head of the class. There
was no formal taking rank, but the judgment of all present involuntarily
gave her the place. And Mrs. Mowbray herself had some difficulty not to
look too often towards the face that always met hers with such sympathy
and life in every feature. Many there indeed were interested; yet no eyes
shewed such intelligent fire, no lips were so expressive in their play,
no interest was so evidently unalloyed with any thought of self-
consciousness.
As the girls scattered, after the hour was over, the cousins met.
"Well!" said Antoinette, "what's come over you?"
The tone was not pleasant. Rotha asked her distantly what she meant?
"Why I left you one thing, and I find you another," said Antoinette. "How
did you get here?"
"Mrs. Mowbray desired it. I came to school to study, Antoinette. Why
should I not be here?"
"But how _could_ you be here? These are the upper girls."
Rotha laughed a little. She felt very gay-hearted.
"And where did you get this?" Antoinette went on, feeling of a fold of
Rotha's dress. "What beautiful cashmere! Where did you get it?"
"There came a good fairy to my room one night, and astonished me."
"A fairy!" said Antoinette.
"Yes, the days of fairies are not over. I thought they were, but I was
mistaken," said Rotha joyously. "I do not think there is anything much
pleasanter, than to have a good fairy come and visit you."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. Good bye--the girls are going out to walk, and I must get
ready to go along."
She tripped up the stairs, leaving Antoinette mystified and crestfallen.
Under pretence of collecting her books, she lingered in one of the class
rooms in the lower story, waiting to see the girls pass out, which they
always did, she knew, by the lower door. They came presently in long
file. The families that sent their daughters to Mrs. Mowbray's were
generally of the wealthier portions of society; and it was a well dressed
set that defiled before Antoinette's eyes; too well, for many of them
were unbecomingly fine. Antoinette did not recognize her cousin until she
was quite out upon the street and turned her face casually to speak to
some one behind her. The new cloak, of dark green stun 7, was as handsome
as Antoinette's own; and there was no old grey plush hat above it. No
such matter; a neat little green hat, perfectly simple, but new and well
made and well fitting, shaded a face full of merry sparkle, totally
unlike the depressed, cloudy expression Antoinette had been used to
despise at home. She told her mother with an injured air what she had
seen. Mrs. Busby said nothing. It was vexatious; at the same time she
reflected that the credit of all this would redound to herself Nobody
but Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha herself knew whence came the dresses and
bonnet, and they would not tell, naturally. On the whole the gain was as
great as the loss.
But to Rotha now-a-days it was all gain. That walk with the girls; how
pleasant it was, to go with free step, conscious that there was nothing
in her appearance to draw remark or provoke pity. At Rotha's age, perhaps
as much as ever, such an immunity is prized and enjoyed. It was such a
walk as till then she had never taken in the streets of New York; for
even when, two or three years ago, she had gone with her mother, it was
with a feeling of being classed with the multitude of the poor and
struggling and ill-dressed. So the walking had been mainly in streets
where such classes were lodged and at home. Now Rotha went where the
buildings were fine and the ways broad, and where the passers-by were gay
and splendid. Her breath came freer, her step grew more elastic, the
colour rose in her cheeks; and when the little procession returned home,
Miss Parsons, who had been in charge of it, remarked to Mrs. Mowbray that
she had no idea before what a very handsome girl Miss Carpenter was. And
Mrs. Mowbray, when they all gathered to dinner, cast a keen glance at the
new member of the company. She was reassured; not a particle of self-
consciousness was to be traced in the fine, bright, spirited lace, though
the beauty was unquestioned.
That was the first time Rotha had met the family at table. It was a new
and highly interesting experience for her. The table was very long; and
the mere sight of so many fresh young faces together was inspiriting of
itself; of greatest interest to Rotha because these were her companions,
fellow pupils, sharers in work and play together. But apart from its
living surroundings, the board excited Rotha's keenest attention. The
delicacy and order of its arrangements, the beauty of its appointments,
the abundance of the supply, the excellence of the material. Everything
there was of the best; everything was well cooked and appetizing; it was
a simple table, as it should be, but no provision for health or comfort
was wanting. Rotha felt herself at home in surroundings that suited her.
Then it was a lively meal; not a bit of stagnation. At Mrs. Busby's the
talk at table was about nothing to stir the slightest interest, to any
one whose soul was not in a condition to be fed with the very dryest of
social husks; the only exceptions being when Mr. and Mrs. Busby got into
a debate. A debate always has some elements of interest, if there is any
wit on either side of it. Here, the first thing, after the carving was
well begun, was the reciting of French anecdotes or sayings or
quotations, by each of the scholars in turn; the exercise being
superintended by the French teacher, a very imposing person in Rotha's
eyes, to whom she had just that day been introduced. It was very amusing
to her to hear the differing accent, the varying voices, and to watch the
different air and manner of the girls, as Mme. Bonton's voice, uttering
"Suivante"--"Suivante"--called them up one after another. She herself, of
course, had no little speech prepared. Then the conversation became
general, as the business of dining went on its way, and Mrs. Mowbray made
part of it very interesting. Altogether, it was a time of delight to
Rotha.
Not less so were the hours of study that followed. It was one of her good
properties, that she could easily concentrate all her attention on the
one thing she happened to have in hand. So study was study to her; deep,
absorbing, conquering, and of course triumphing. And when the bell
summoned the family to tea, she came fresh for new pleasure to assemble
with the rest.
The parlours were cleared of the long table now; only enough of it being
left to accommodate the younger scholars who might not be trusted to hold
a cup of tea safely. The girls brought their various pieces of fancy
work; the rooms were well lighted, well furnished, the walls hung with
engravings and paintings, the mantelpieces full of pretty things; it was
not like a school, but like a large, elegant family gathering. Here the
tea was handed round, with rolls and excellent cake and biscuits. Mrs.
Mowbray presently called Rotha to her side, by the big table; and held a
little quiet talk with her about the course of the day, introducing her
at the same time to several of her schoolmates. I can never tell how the
girl's whole nature opened and expanded, like a suddenly blossoming rose,
under the genial, kindly atmosphere and culture into which she now came.
Study? She studied with a consuming kind of intensity. Not a teacher that
she had to do with, but took delight in her. She gave them absolutely no
trouble. She was not a timid girl; so was not, like some, hindered by
nervousness from making a fair presentation of herself. Her mind was
opening, greedy for the food it got, and taking it in rapidly.
And happy? There was not seemingly a happier girl in the house. Crowding
new interests had driven into the background, for the time, the demands
of conscience; and Rotha was one of those people whose cup of life is a
large one; capacities of heart and intellect alike wide in their
possibilities, but if satisfied, making existence very rich. She was
quiet enough in manner, never forgetting her beloved model; yet eye and
lip and varying colour, and the involuntary movement of head and hand,
and foot too, testified to the glad growing life of her soul. Mrs.
Mowbray saw it with perpetual satisfaction; it got to be a habit with her
that her eye sought and rested on that one unmistakeably honest and loyal
member of her family. And Rotha's eye never met hers but there came a
sparkle and a look of love into the young face.
All day was a delight now to the girl; beginning with the morning
prayers, which to be sure she loved mostly because she heard Mrs.
Mowbray's voice in them. Then came breakfast; bright and cheery, with the
hope and the work of the day in prospect, and a lively, pretty, pleasant
table and company in possession. It was not like school; it was a large
family; where all arrangements and supplies were as in the best appointed
private house, and the only rules that reigned were the rules of good
manners. Then came the brisk walk in the bracing morning air; and then,
study. Some lesson hours were particularly interesting to Rotha. Latin
she did not like, but French she took to kindly; and Madame Bonton told
madame with a satisfied nod of her head, that Miss Carpenter was "not a
soap bubble",--high praise, which only a few of the girls ever attained.
Among her schoolmates Rotha made no particular friends. Some of them
asked captiously who she was? others remarked critically that she thought
herself too good looking; others declared enviously that she was a
"favourite." Rotha did not take to any of them; made no confident of any
of them; and was felt by most of them to be somehow uncongenial. Those
who saw most of her felt this most decidedly. She presently was out of
favour with all her roommates.
It was a rule of the house that lights should be all out at ten o'clock.
Then one of the under teachers made a progress through the rooms to see
that this was done and everybody in bed. Rotha made one of four girls who
occupied a large room on the third floor. Each young lady had her own
bed, her own press and drawers, and everything comfort called for; of
course absolute privacy could not be given. When Rotha had been in her
new quarters two or three weeks, there came a collision between her and
her fellows in that room. One night Miss Jewett had been round as usual
and turned off the gas. As soon as her retreating foot-steps were heard
to reenter her own room, at the further end of the passage, one of the
girls sprang up and lit the gas again. The burner was near the head of
her bed, so that she could see pretty well to read when she was lying
down; which to Rotha's great surprise she went on to do for some time--
till Rotha fell asleep. The next night the same thing happened, and the
next. Rotha became uneasy, and finally could bear it no longer. The
fourth time this trick was played, she lifted her voice in protest.
"Miss Entable," said she, "what you are doing is against the rules."
She spoke clearly enough, though with a moderated voice; but not the
least attention was paid to her remonstrance. One of her three companions
was asleep; the second giggled; the reader took no notice. Rotha grew
hot. What was she to do? Not give way. To give way in the face of
opposition was never Rotha's manner. She slipped out of bed and came near
the one where the reader lay.
"Miss Entable, it is against rules, what you are doing."
"Mind your own business," said the other shortly.
"I am minding it," returned Rotha. "It is my business to keep Mrs.
Mowbray's rules, and not to help break them; and I will not."
"Will not what? You want to curry favour with old Mowbray--that's what
you do. I have no patience with such meanness!"
"You had better go and tell her what we are doing," said the third girl
scornfully.
"Miss Mc Pherson," said Rotha, her voice trembling a little with wrath,
"I think Mrs. Mowbray trusts you. How can you bear to be false to trust?"
"Stuff!"
"Cant!"
"Nobody asks your opinion about it. Who are you?" said the Mc Pherson,
who in her own opinion was somebody.
"Nor do I ask yours," said Rotha. "I will not help you break madame's
rules. The light is one fourth part mine; and my part shall not burn
after hours."
With which deliverance she turned off the gas. Words of smothered rage
and scorn followed her as she went back to bed; and the next day Rotha
was plainly ostracised by a large part of her school-mates.
The next evening the gas was lighted again after ten o'clock.
"Now you Carpenter," said the reader, "I am not going to stand any of
your ill manners. You will let the gas alone, if you please."
"I cannot let it alone," said Rotha. "I should be a sharer in your
dishonour."
"Dishonour! well, let it alone, or I'll--"
"What, Miss Entable?"
"Mc Pherson and I will put you in bed and tie you there; and Jennings
will help. We are three against one. So hold your tongue."
Rotha reflected. It did not suit her feeling of self-respect to be
concerned in a row. She raised herself on one elbow.
"I do not choose to fight," she said; "that is not my way. But if you do
not put the gas out, I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must make
somebody watch to see that her orders are observed."
Now there arose a storm; rage and contempt and reviling were heaped on
Rotha's head. "Informer!"--"Spy!"--"Mean tell tale!"--were some of the
gentle marks of esteem bestowed on her.
"I am not an informer," said Rotha, when she could be heard; "I am not
going to mention any names. I will only tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must
charge somebody to see that her orders are observed."
"Orders! She is a mean, pinching, narrow-minded, low, school ma'am. You
should see how it is at Mrs. De Joyce's. The girls have liberty--they
receive their friends--they go to the opera--they have little dances--
they do just what they like. Mrs. De Joyce is such a lady! it is another
thing. I am not going to stay in this mean house after this term is out."
"Mary Entable!" said Rotha, rising up on her elbow and speaking with
blazing eyes; "are you not ashamed of yourself? Mrs. Mowbray, who has
just been so kind to you! so generous! so good! How long is it since she
was nursing you through a terrible sickness--nursing you night and day--
entertaining your mother and your sister for ten days, in her crowded
house. Do you dare call her narrow? Answer me one thing, if you can; did
your mother and sister bear the expense of their stay here, or did she?
Answer me, if you have a fraction of a soul in you!--Aren't you ashamed!
I should think you would cover up your face in the bedclothes, and never
look at anybody again!"
Leaning on her elbow, raised so up in her bed, Rotha had delivered
herself of the foregoing; in a moderated voice it is true, but with a
cutting energy and directness. The other three girls were at first
silent, partly with astonishment, Rotha's usual manner was so contained.
"You may do as you like," she went on more composedly, "but help you I
will not in your wrong ways. If the gas is lighted again after ten
o'clock, I shall take my measures. I come of an honest family."
That last cut was too much. The storm of abuse burst forth again; but
Rotha wrapped herself in her coverlets and said no more. The gas was not
relighted that evening. However, in the nature of the case it followed
that lawless girls would not be long kept in check by the influence of
one whom they regarded so lightly as these did Rotha. A fortnight later,
the latter came to Mrs. Mowbray one day when she was alone in the
library.
"Well, my child--what is it?" said the kind voice she had learned to love
devotedly. Mrs. Mowbray was arranging some of the displaced books in the
bookcases, and spoke with only a fleeting glance at the person
approaching her, to see who it was.
"May I speak to you, madame?"
"Yes--speak. What is it?"
"I do not know how to say what I want to say."
"Straight out, my child. Straight out is best. What is the matter?"
"Nothing, with me, madame. But--if it would not give too much trouble--I
thought I would like it very much if I could be put in another room."
"Sleeping room?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"--Mrs. Mowbray's quick hands were busy all the while she was
talking; putting up and pulling down. Rotha hesitated.
"Madame, before I answer I should like to ask another question. What
ought I to do if I see something done which you have forbidden?"
A quick sharp glance came her way now.
"What have you seen?"
"That is just what I do not know whether I ought to tell you. I thought,
perhaps it would be the best way for me to go where I could not see it."
"Why?" said Mrs. Mowbray dryly.
"Then I should not be sharing the wrong. I suppose, more than that is not
my affair. I am afraid it would be troublesome to move me."
"Any change is troublesome in a house like this," the lady answered; and
Rotha stood still, not knowing how to go on. Mrs. Mowbray stepped up on
the library steps to arrange some books on the upper shelves; and till
she came down she did not speak again.
"You are quite right to mention no names and give no stories," she said
then. "I always doubt an informer. And you are quite right also in
refusing to countenance what is wrong. I will give you another room, my
dear." She took Rotha in her arms and kissed her repeatedly. "Have I
found a friend?" she said.
"You, madame?" said Rotha. "I cannot do anything for _you;_ but you have
done everything for me."
"You can give me love and truth that is all we any of us can give to one
another, isn't it? The ways of shewing may be different.--Where are you
going to spend the holidays?" she said with a change of tone.
"I don't know, madame. I have not thought about it."
"Will you spend them with me?"
Joy flamed up in Rotha's eyes and lips and cheeks. "O madame!--if I may."
"I expect half a dozen of the young ladies will stay with me. Here is a
note that came for you, from your aunt."
She gave Rotha an open note to read. It contained the request that Rotha
might spend the time between Christmas and New Year's Day at her house,
but not those days. Rotha read and looked up.
"Write," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and say to your aunt that I have invited you
and that you have accepted the invitation, for the whole holidays."
The smile and the glance of her sweet eye were bewitching. Rotha felt as
if she could have stooped down and kissed her very garments.
CHAPTER XVII.
BAGS AND BIBLES.
Those holidays were a never-to-be-forgotten time in Rotha's life.
Christmas eve, and indeed a day before, there was a great bustle and rush
of movement in the house, almost all the boarders sweeping away to their
various homes. Their example was followed by the under teachers; only
Miss Blodgett remained; and a sudden lull took place of the rush. A small
table was drawn out in the middle room; and Mrs. Mowbray came to dinner
with a face, tired indeed, but set for play. The days of the ordinary
weeks were always thick set with business; the weight of business was
upon every heart; now it was unmitigated holiday. Nobody knew better how
to play than Mrs. Mowbray; it was in her very air and voice and words.
Perhaps some of this was assumed for the sake of others; a large portion
of it was unquestionably real. The table was festive, that Christmas eve;
flowers dressed it; the dessert was gay with confections and bonbons, as
well as ice cream; and there was a breath of promise and anticipation in
Mrs. Mowbray's manner that infected the dullest spirits there. And some
of the girls were very dull! But Rotha's sprang up as if she had been in
paradise.
"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Blodgett?"
Miss Blodgett bridled and smiled and was understood to express her
opinion that she was "too old."
"'Too old!' My dear Miss Blodgett! One is never too old to be happy. I
intend to be as happy as ever I can. I shall hang up _my_ stocking; and I
expect everybody to put something in it."
"You ought to have let us know that beforehand, madame," said Miss
Blodgett.
"Let you know beforehand!" said Mrs. Mowbray, while her eye twinkled
mischievously: "My dear friend! I don't want any but free-will offerings.
You didn't think I was going to levy black mail? did you? Miss Blodgett!
I thought you knew me better."
Whether she were in jest or in earnest, Rotha could not make up her mind.
She was laughing at Miss Blodgett, that Rotha saw; but was it all
nonsense about the stocking and the gifts? Mrs. Mowbray's sweet eyes were
dancing with fun, her lips wreathed with the loveliest archness; whatever
she meant, Rotha was utterly and wholly bewitched. She ran on for some
little time, amusing herself and the girls, and putting slow Miss
Blodgett in something of an embarrassment, she was so much too quick for
her.
"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Emory?"
Miss Emory in her turn smiled and bridled, and seemed at a loss how to
answer.
"Miss Eutable?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Certainly. We will all hang up our stockings. Do you think by the
chimney is the best place, Louisa?"
The girl addressed was a little girl, left in Mrs. Mowbray's care while
her parents were in Europe. She dimpled and declared she supposed one
place was as good as another.
"But you believe Santa Claus comes down the chimney?"
"I always knew better, Mrs. Mowbray."
"You did! You knew better! She knew better, Miss Blodgett. We are growing
so wise in this generation. Here's little Miss Farrar does not believe in
Santa Claus. I think that's a great loss. Miss Carpenter, what do you
think about it? Do you think it is best to let the cold daylight in upon
all our dreams?"
"The sun is not cold, madame."
"But the sun leaves no mystery."
"I do not like mystery, madame?"
"You don't? I think the charm of the stocking hung up, is the mystery. To
listen for the sound of the reindeers' feet on the roof, to hear the
rustle of the paper packages as Santa Claus comes down the chimney--there
is nothing like that! I used to lie and listen and cover up my eyes for
fear I should look, and be all in a tremble of delight and mystery."
"I should have looked," said Rotha.
"You must never look at Santa Claus. He don't like it."
"But I always knew it was no Santa Claus."
"Do you think you, and Miss Farrar here, are the happier for being so
wise?"
"I do not know," said Rotha laughing. "I cannot help it."
"Mrs. Mowbray," said Miss Blodgett, "Miss Carpenter is the only young
lady in the house who says 'do not' instead of don't; have you noticed?"
"My dear Miss Blodgett! don't you go to preaching up preciseness. Life is
too short to round all the corners; and there are too many corners. You
must cut across sometimes. I say 'don't,' myself."
She went now into a more business-like inquiry, how the several young
ladies present expected to spend the next day; and as they rose from
table, asked Rotha if she would like to drive out with her immediately.
She had business to attend to.
The drive, and the business, of that Christmas eve remained a vision of
unalloyed pure delight in Rotha's memory for ever. The city was brightly
lighted, at least where she and Mrs. Mowbray went; the streets were full
of a gay crowd, gay as one sees it at no other time of all the year but
around the holidays; everybody was buying or had bought, and was carrying
bundles done up in brown paper, and packages of all sizes and shapes; and
everybody's face looked as if there were a pleasant thought behind it,
for everybody was preparing good for somebody else. Mrs. Mowbray was on
such errands, Rotha immediately saw. And the shops were such scenes of
happy bustle; happy to the owners, for they were driving a good trade;
and happy to the customers, for every one was getting what he wanted. A
large grocer's was the first place Mrs. Mowbray stopped at; and even here
the scene was exceedingly attractive and interesting to Rotha. It was not
much like the little corner grocery near Jane Street, where she once used
to buy half pounds of tea and pecks of potatoes for her mother; although
the mingled scents of spices and cheese did recall that to mind; the
spices and the cheese here were better, and the odours correspondingly.
Rotha never lost the remembrance, nor ever entered a large house of this
kind again in her life without a sweeping impression of the mysterious
bustle and joy of that Christmas eve.
Mrs. Mowbray had various orders to give. Among them was one specially
interesting to Rotha. She desired to have some twenty or thirty pounds of
tea done up in half pound packages; also as many pounds of sugar; loaf
sugar. As she and Rotha were driving off she explained what all this was
for. "It is to go to my poor old people at the Coloured Home," she said.
"Did you ever hear of the Old Coloured Home? I suppose not That is an
institution for the care of worn-out old coloured people, who have nobody
to look after them. They expect to see me at Christmas. Would you like to
go with me to-morrow, after church, when I go to take the tea to them?"
Rotha answered, most sincerely, that she would like to go anywhere with
Mrs. Mowbray.
"They think all the world of tea, those poor old women; and they do not
get it very good. The tea for them all is brewed in a great kettle and
sweetened with molasses, without taking any account of differences of
taste," Mrs. Mowbray added laughing; "and many of these old people know
what is good as well as I do; and this common tea is dreadful to them. So
at Christmas I always carry them a half pound of tea apiece and a pound
of loaf sugar; and you have no idea how much they look forward to it."
"Half a pound of tea will last quite a good while," said Rotha.
"How do you know, my dear?"
"I used to get half a pound at a time for mother, and then I used to make
it for her always; so I know it will do for a long time, if one is
careful."
"So you have been a housekeeper!"
"Not much.--I used to do things for mother."
"Mrs. Busby is her sister?"
"Yes, ma'am; but not like her. O not a bit like her."
"Where was Mrs. Busby in those days?"
"Here. Just where she is now."
"Did she never come to see you?"
"She did not know where we were. Mother never let her know."
"Do you know why not, my dear?"
"She had been so unkind--" Rotha answered in a low voice.
Mrs. Mowbray thought to herself that probably there had been fault on
both sides.
"You must try and forget all that, my dear, if there were old grievances.
It is best to forgive and forget, and Christmas is a capital time to do
it. I never dare think of a grudge against anybody at Christmas. And your
aunt seems disposed to be kind to you now."
"No, ma'am, I do not think she does."
"Don't you!"
"No, ma'am. I do not"
"Why, my dear, you must not bear malice."
"What is 'malice'?"
"Well,--ill-will."
"Ill-will--I do not think I wish any harm to her," said Rotha slowly;
"but I do not forgive her."
"What do you want to do to her?"
"I do not know. I should like to make her feel ashamed of herself--if I
knew how."
"I do not think that lies in your power, my dear; and I would not try.
That is a sort of revenge-taking; and all sorts of revenge-taking are
forbidden to us. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."
"I do not mean vengeance," said Rotha. "I mean, just punishment--a little
bit."
"That is the meaning of the word 'vengeance' in that place;--just
punishment; but in your heart, Rotha, it is revenge. Put it away, my
dear. It is not the spirit of Christ. You must forgive, if you would be
forgiven."
"I do not know how," said Rotha, low and steadily.
"See how Jesus did. When they were nailing him to the cross, he said,
'Father, forgive them.'"
"Yes, but he said too, Mrs. Mowbray,--'they know not what they do.'"
"My dear, nobody knows the evil he does. That does not excuse the evil,
but it helps your charity for the sinner. Nobody knows the evil he does.
I suppose Mrs. Busby has no notion how much she has hurt you."
Rotha thought, her aunt had as little _care;_ but she did not say it. She
was silent a minute, and then asked if the poor people at the Old
Coloured Home were all women?
"O no!" Mrs. Mowbray answered. "There are a great many men. I give _them_
a pound of tobacco each; but I prefer not to take that in the carriage
with me. It is all up there now, I suppose, waiting for me and to-morrow."
With which the carriage stopped again.
Here it was a bookstore; a large and beautiful one. The light was
brilliant; and on every counter and table lay spread about such treasures
of printing, engraving, and the book-binder's art, as Rotha had never
seen gathered together before. Mrs. Mowbray told her to amuse herself
with looking at the books and pictures, while she attended to the
business that brought her here; and so began a wonderful hour for Rotha.
O the books! O the pictures! what pages of interest! what leaves of
beauty! Her eyes were drunk with delight. From one thing to another, with
careful fingers and dainty touch she went exploring; sometimes getting
caught in the interest of an open page of letterpress, sometimes hanging
over an engraving with wondering admiration and sympathy. It seemed any
length of time, it was really not more than three quarters of an hour,
when Mrs. Mowbray approached her again, having got through her errands.
With cheeks red and eyes intent, Rotha was bending over something, the
sense of hearing for the present gone into abeyance; Mrs. Mowbray was
obliged to touch her. She smiled at Rotha's start.
"What had you there, my dear?"
"All sorts of things, Mrs. Mowbray! Just that minute, I was looking at an
atlas."
"An atlas!"
"Yes, the most perfect I ever saw. O beautiful, and with so many things
told and taught in it. A delightful atlas! And then, I was looking at the
illustrations in the 'Arabian Nights'--I think that was the name."
"You never read it?"
"O no, ma'am. I never had many books to read;--until now."
"Are you reading anything now, in course?"
"I haven't much time, there is so much history to read. But I have begun
'Waverley.'"
"Do you like it?"
"O, a great deal more than I can tell!"
"Do not let it draw you away from your studies."
"No, ma'am. There is no danger," said Rotha joyously.
Mrs. Mowbray did not speak again till the carriage stopped at Stewart's.
It was the first time Rotha had ever been inside of those white walls;
and this visit finished the bewitchment of the evening. At first the size
of the place and the numbers of people busy there engrossed her
attention; nor did either thing cease to be a wonder; but by degrees one
grows accustomed even to wonders. By degrees Rotha was able to look at
what was on the counters, as well as what was before them; for a while
she had followed Mrs. Mowbray without seeing what that lady was doing.
Mrs. Mowbray had a good deal of business on hand. When Rotha began to
attend to it, the two had come into the rotunda room and were standing at
the great glove counter. Between what was going on there, and what was
doing at the silk counters around her, Rotha was fully engaged, and was
only recalled to herself by Mrs. Mowbray's voice asking,
"What is your number, Rotha?"
"Ma'am?" said the girl "I did not understand--"
"What is the number of the size of glove you wear?"
"I do not know, ma'am--O, I remember! six and a half."
"Six and a half," Mrs. Mowbray repeated to the shopman; and then
proceeded to pull out pairs of gloves from the packages handed her.
"There's a dark green, my dear; that is near the shade of your cloak.
There is a good colour" throwing down upon the green a dark grey; and a
brown followed the green. "Now we want some lighter--do you like that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
More than the mere affirmative Rotha could not say; she looked on
bewildered and confounded, as a pair of pearl grey gloves was laid upon
the green, the dark, and the brown, and then came a tan-coloured pair,
and then a soft ashes of roses. Half a dozen pair of kid gloves! Rotha
had never even contemplated such profusion. She received the little
packet with only a half-uttered, low, suppressed word of thanks. Then the
two wandered away from that room, and found themselves among holiday
varieties. Here Rotha was dazzled. Not indeed by glitter; but by the
combinations of use and beauty that met her eyes, look where they would.
Mrs. Mowbray was making purchases, Rotha did not know of what, it did not
concern her; and she was never tempted by vulgar curiosity. She indulged
her eyes with looking at everything else. What fans, and dressing boxes
and work boxes, and fancy baskets, and hand mirrors, and combs and
brushes, and vials of perfumes, and writing cases, and cigar cases, and
Japan ware, and little clocks, and standishes, and glove boxes, and
papetries, and desks, and jewel cases----
"Have you a handbag for travelling, Rotha?"
The question made her start.
"No, ma'am. I never go travelling."
"You will, some time. How do you like that? Think it is too large?"
Rotha was speechless. Could Mrs. Mowbray remember that she had given her
half a dozen pair of gloves that evening already?
"I always like a handbag that will carry something," Mrs. Mowbray went
on. "You want room for a book, and room for writing materials; you should
always have writing materials in your hand-bag, and stamps, and
everything necessary. You never know what you may want in a hurry. I
think that is about right; do you?"
"That" was a beautiful brown bag of Russia leather, sweet with the
pungent sweetness of birch bark, or of the peculiar process of curing
with such bark; and with nickel plated lock and bolts. Rotha flushed
high; to speak she was incompetent just then.
"I think it will do then," said Mrs. Mowbray, herself in a high state of
holiday glee; preparing, as she was, pleasure for a vast number of
persons, rich and poor, young and old; she was running over with a sort
of angel's pleasure in giving comfort or making glad. In Rotha's case she
was doing both.
"Don't you want to take it home with you, my dear?" she went on. "There
will be so many things to send from the store to-night that they will
never get to their destination; and I always like to make sure of a thing
when I have got it. Though you rarely make a mistake here," she added
graciously to the foreman who was waiting upon her.
Rotha took the bag, without a word, for she had not a thing to say; and
she dropped her package of gloves into it, for safe keeping and easy
transportation. Talk of riches! The thing is comparative. I question if
there was a millionaire's wife in the city that night who felt as
supremely rich as did Rotha with her bag and her gloves. She tried to say
a word of thanks to her kind friend when she got home; but Mrs. Mowbray
stopped her.
"Go to bed, my dear," she said, with a kiss, "and don't forget to hang up
your stocking. Are you comfortable up there?"
"Yes, ma'am--O yes!" Rotha answered as she went up the stairs.
Comfortable! She was alone in her room, all her roommates having gone
somewhere for the holidays; the whole house was warm; and Rotha shut her
door, and set her bag on a table, and sat down and looked at it; with her
heart growing big. Hang up her stocking! She! Had she not had Christmas
enough already?
It all worked oddly with Rotha. To the majority of natures, great
pleasure is found to work adversely to the entertaining of serious
thoughts or encouraging religious impressions. With her, grief seemed to
muddle all her spiritual condition, and joy cleared it up. She sat
looking at her treasures, looking mentally at the wonderful good things
that surrounded her, contrasted with her previous unhappiness; and the
whole generous truth of her nature was aroused. She ought to be such a
good girl! And by "goodness" Rotha did not mean an orderly getting of her
lessons. Conscience went a great deal further, enlightened by the
examples she had known of what was really good. Yes, her mother would
have forgiven her aunt; and Mr. Digby would never have been ill-mannerly
to her; and supposing him for once to be in such a condition of wrong, he
would go straight forward, she knew, to make amends, own the fault and
ask pardon. Further than that; for on both their parts such feeling and
action would have been but the outcome of their habitual lowly and loving
obedience to God. That she ought to be like them, Rotha knew; and tears
of sorrow rushed to her eyes to think she was not. "The goodness of God
leadeth thee to repentance," was the thought working in her; although she
did not clothe it in the Bible words.
What hindered?
"My ugly temper," said Rotha to herself; "my wickedness and badness."
What help?
Yes, there was help, she knew, she believed. She brought her Bible and
turned to the marked passages, brushing away the tears that she might see
to read them. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them--" Well,
said Rotha, I will keep them from this time on.--Forgive and all? said
something in her heart. _Yes_, forgive and all. I will forgive!--But you
cannot?--Then I will ask help.
And she did. Earnestly, tearfully, ardently, for a long time. She felt as
if her heart were a stone. She had to go to bed at last, feeling no
better. But that she would be a true servant of God, Rotha was
determined.
So came Christmas morning on; clear, cold, bright and still. Rotha awaked
at the bell summons. Her first thought was of last night's determination,
to which she held fast; the next thought was, that it was Christmas day,
and she must look at her gloves and Russia leather bag. She sprang up,
and had half dressed herself before she remarked, lying on the empty bed
opposite her own, some peculiar-looking packages done up as usual in
brown paper. They must belong to Mrs. Mowbray and have got there by
mistake, she thought; and she went over to verify her supposition. No, to
her enormous surprise she saw her own name.
More Christmas things! Rotha hurried her dressing; she dared not stop to
open anything till that was done; and then an inner voice said, You will
not have much time for your prayers. Her heart beating, she turned away
and knelt down. And she would not cut short her prayers, either. She
besought help to forgive; she asked earnestly to be made "a new
creature"; for the old creature, she felt, would never forgive, to the
end of time. She rose then, brushing the moisture from her eyes, and went
over to look at those mysterious packages. One was light, square, and
shallow; the other evidently a book, and heavy. She opened the lesser
package first. Behold, a dozen cambrick handkerchiefs, and upon them a
little bright blue silk neck tie. Rotha needed those articles very much;
she was ready to scream for joy. The other package now; hands trembling
unfolded it. Brown paper, silk paper,--and one of Bagster's octavo Bibles
with limp covers was revealed. Rotha was an ardent lover of the beautiful
and the perfect; her own Bible was an old volume, much worn by handling,
bearing the marks of two generations' use and wear; this was the
perfection of a book in every respect. Rotha was struck dumb and still,
and nothing but tears could give due vent to her feelings; they were
tears of great joy, of repentance, of new purpose, and of very conscious
inability to do anything of herself that would be good. She had sunk on
her knees to let those tears have the accompaniment of prayer; she rose
up again and clasped the Bible in her arms, in heartiest love to it.
Breakfast was late that morning, and she had time for examining her gifts
and for getting a little composed before she had to go down stairs. She
went then quite sedately to all appearance. It was to her as if the world
had turned round two or three times since last night; other people,
however, she observed, had not at all lost their heads and were very much
as usual; except that they were dressed for going to church, and had the
pleasant freedom of holiday times in their looks and manner. Only Mrs.
Mowbray was really festive. She was sparkling with spirits, and smiling
with the joy of doing kindness, past and future. Rotha sat next her at
the table; and there was a gleam of amusement and intelligence in her eye
as she asked her, over her coffee cup, whether Santa Claus had come down
her chimney? She gave Rotha no time to answer, but ran on with a question
to some one else; only a few minutes after, as she put a chop upon
Rotha's plate, gave her a look full of affectionate kindness which said
that she understood all and no words were necessary.
It was time to go to church when breakfast and prayers were over.
Immediately after church, Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha took a carriage and
drove out to the Old Coloured Home; all the packages of tea and sugar
going along; as also a perfect stack of sponge cakes. Arrived at the
place, Mrs. Mowbray's first demand was to know whether "the milk" had
been delivered, and where "the tobacco" was. Then followed a scene, a
succession of scenes rather, that could never be forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray
went all through the rooms, dealing out to each poor creature among the
women a half pound package of tea, a pound of sugar, a half pint of milk,
and a sizeable sponge cake.
"My dear," she whispered to Rotha, who attended and helped her, "they
think all the world of a bit of cake! They never get it now, you know."
"Don't they get milk?"
"Some of the ladies bought a cow for them, that they might have it and
have it good; but it didn't work. The matron took the cream for herself;
they had only the blue watery stuff that was left; and when it was
attempted to rectify that abuse, somebody discovered that it cost too
much to keep a cow."
"What a shame!" cried Rotha indignantly.
"Never mind; you cannot have everything in this world; the Home is a
great deal better than being in the streets."
But Rotha did not like the Home. Its forms and varieties of infirmity,
disease, and decay, were very disagreeable to her. She had one of those
temperaments to which all things beautiful, graceful, and lovely, speak
with powerful influences, and which are correspondingly repelled and
distressed by the tokens of pain or want or coarse living. All the
delight of these women at the sight of Mrs. Mowbray, and all their
intense enjoyment of her gifts, manifested broadly and abundantly, could
not reconcile Rotha to the sight of their worn, wrinkled faces, bowed
forms, bleared eyes, and dulled expression. Every one was not so; but
these were the majority. Certainly Rotha had not had a very dainty
experience of life during the years of her abode in New York; she had
lived where the poorer classes lived and been accustomed to seeing them.
But there the sick and infirm were mostly in their houses, where she did
not visit them; and the exceptions were noticed one at a time. Here there
was an aggregation of infirmity, which oppressed her young heart and
revolted her fastidious sense. It was not pleasant; and Rotha, like most
others who have no experience of life, was devoted to what was pleasant.
She wondered to see the glee and enjoyment with which Mrs. Mowbray moved
about among these poor people; a word, and a word of cheer, for every
one; her very looks and presence coming like beams of loving light upon
their darkness. She seemed to know them almost all.
"How's rheumatism, aunty?" she asked cheerily of a little, wrinkled,
yellow old woman, sitting in a rocking chair and hovering near a fire.
"O missus, it's right smart bad! it is surely."
"Where is it now? in your hands, or your feet?"
"O missus, it is all places! 'Pears there aint no place where it aint.
It's in my hands, and in my feet, and in my head, and in my back; and I
can't sleep o' nights; and the nights is powerful long! so they be."
"Ah, yes; it makes a long night, to have to lie awake aching! I know that
by experience. I had rheumatism once."
"Did you, missus! But it warn't so bad as I be?"
"No, not quite, and I was stronger to bear it. You know who is strong to
help you bear it, aunty?"
"Yes, missus," said the poor creature with a long sigh;--"I does love de
Lord; sartain, I do. He do help. But I be so tired some times!"
"We'll forget all that when we get to heaven, aunty."
There was a faint gleam in the old eyes, as they looked up to her; a
faint smile on the withered lips. The rays of that morning light were
catching the clouds already!
"Now, aunty, I've brought you some splendid tea. Shall I make you a cup,
right off?"
"You wouldn't have time missus--"
"Yes, I would! Time for everything. Here, Sabrina, bring a kettle of
boiling water here and put it on the fire; mind, it must boil."
And while the woman went to obey the order, Mrs. Mowbray went on round
the room. There were so many to speak to, Rotha thought she would forget
the kettle and the tea; but she did not. From the very door which should
have let her into another ward, she turned back The kettle was boiling;
she ordered several cups; she made the tea, not out of the old woman's
particular private store; and then she poured it out, sugared and creamed
and gave her her cup; took one herself, and gave the rest to whosoever
came for it. They held quite a little festival there round the fire; for
Mrs. Mowbray brought out some cake too.
"Now," she said to Rotha as they hurried away, "they will not forget that
for a year to come. I always take a cup of tea with aunty Lois."
They went now among the men, distributing the tobacco. Rotha admired with
unending admiration, the grace and sweetness and tact with which Mrs.
Mowbray knew how to season her gifts; the enormous amount of pleasure she
gave and good she did which were quite independent of them. Bent figures
straightened up, and dull faces shone out, as she talked. The very beauty
which belonged to her in so rare measure, Rotha saw how it was a mighty
talent for good when brought thoroughly into the service of Christ. She
was a fair human angel going about among those images of want and
suffering and hopelessness; her light lingered on them after she had
passed on.
"How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray-
haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a
tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face
pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity,
before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took
the hand.
"Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home."
The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very
firm.
"You are not in a hurry to leave us?"
"It's better on de oder side, madam."
"Yes, that is true! And it is good to know there _is_ an 'other side,'
isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?"
'"Comfortable--" he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates,
waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de
time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place."
"Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I
do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you."
He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered
on which it came.
"Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get
home, I'll have all I want; but it's up _dere_."
"I thought, uncle Bacchus, you would like a very plain page to read the
words in that you love. See, I have brought you this. This will almost do
without spectacles, hey?"
She produced a New Testament in four thin volumes, of the very largest
and clearest type; presenting a beautiful open page. The old man almost
chuckled as he received it.
"Dat ar's good!" he said.
"Better than the old one, hey?"
"Dat ar certainly is good," he repeated. "De old un, de words is so
torturous small, if I didn't know what dey was, 'pears dey wouldn't be no
use to me."
"Well, then I made no mistake this time. Now, uncle Bacchus, I know you
take no comfort in tobacco; so I've brought you something else--something
you like. Must have something to make Christmas gay, you know."
She put a paper of French bonbons in the old man's hand. He laughed, half
at her and half at the sugarplums, Rotha thought; and he bowed again.
"De Lord give madam sumfin' to make _her_ gay!" he said.
"Himself, uncle Bacchus!"
"Dat's so, madam!" he replied, as she took his hand to bid him good bye.
This was a much longer colloquy than usual; a few words were all there
was time for, generally; and Rotha went on wondering and admiring to see
how Mrs. Mowbray could make those few words tell for the pleasure and
good of her beneficiaries. At last the whole round was made, the last
package disposed of, and Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha found themselves in the
carriage again. Rotha for her part was glad; she did not like the Home,
as I have said; the sight of the people was painful to her, even with all
the alleviations of pleasure. She was glad to be driving away from the
place. What did they know of Bagster's Bibles and Russia covered
travelling bags? Poor creatures! And Rotha's heart was leaping at thought
of her own.
They went in silence for a while.
"Aren't you very tired, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha ventured at last.
"Tired?" said Mrs. Mowbray brightly, rousing herself. "I don't know! I
don't stop to think whether I am tired. There will be plenty of time to
rest, by and by."
"That does not hinder one from feeling tired now," said Rotha, who did
not enjoy this doctrine.
"No, but it hinders one from minding it," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Do all you
can for other people, Rotha; it is the greatest happiness you can find in
this life."
"Do you think you had as much pleasure in getting those things for me,
Mrs. Mowbray,--my bag and my Bible,--and all my things,--as I had, and
have, in receiving them?"
Mrs. Mowbray smiled. "Do they give you pleasure?" she asked.
"More than you can think--more than I can tell. I think I am dreaming!"
"Then that gives _me_ pleasure. What are you going to do with your
Bible?"
"I am going to study it--" said Rotha slowly; "and I am going to live by
it."
"Are you? Have you decided that point?"
"Yes, ma'am. But I am not good yet, Mrs. Mowbray. I do not forgive aunt
Serena. It feels to me as if there was a stone where my heart ought to
be."
"Have you found that out?" said Mrs. Mowbray without shewing any
surprise. "There is help, my child. Look, when you get home, at the
thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel--I cannot tell you what verse--and you
will find it there."
They had no more talk until the carriage stopped at home. And Rotha had
no chance then even to open her Bible, but must make herself immediately
ready for dinner.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FLINT AND STEEL.
That Christmas dinner remained a point of delight in Rotha's memory for
ever. The company was small, several of the young ladies having accepted
invitations to dine with some friend or acquaintance. It was most
agreeably small, to Rotha's apprehension, for she could see more of Mrs.
Mowbray and more informally. Everybody was in gala dress and gala humour,
nobody more than the mistress of the house; and she had done everything
in her power to make the Christmas dinner a gala meal. Flowers and lights
were in plenty; the roast turkey was followed by ices, confections and
fruits, all of delicious quality; and Mrs. Mowbray's own kind and
gracious ministry made everything doubly sweet. Rotha had besides such
joy in her heart, that turkey and ices had never seemed so good in her
life. The whole day had been rich, full, sweet, blessed; the girl had
entered a new sphere where every want of her nature was met and
contented; under such conditions the growth of a plant is rapid; and in a
plant of humanity it is not only rapid but blissful.
Christmas joys were not done when the dinner was over. The girls who were
present, and the one or two under teachers, repaired to the library, Mrs.
Mowbray's special domain; and there she exerted herself unweariedly to
give them a pleasant evening. Two of them sat down to a game of chess;
two of them were allowed to look over some very rare and splendid books
of engravings; one or two were deep in fancy work, and one or two amused
themselves with a fine microscope. Rotha received her first introduction
to the stereoscope. This was no novelty to the rest, and she was left in
undisturbed enjoyment; free to look as long as she liked at any view that
excited her interest. Which of them did not! At Rotha's age, with her
mind just opening rapidly and her intellectual hunger great for all sorts
of food, what were not the revelations of the stereoscope to her! Delight
and wonder went beyond all power of words to describe them. And with
delight and wonder started curiosity. Rotha's first view was a gorge
in the Alps.
"Where is it?" she asked. And Mrs. Mowbray told her.
"How high are those hills?"
"Really, I don't know," said her friend laughing. "I will give you a
guide book to study."
Rotha thought she would like a guide book. Anything so majestic as the
sweep of those mountain lines and the lift of their snowy heads, she had
never imagined; nor anything so lovely as the peace of that narrow,
meadowy valley at the foot of them.
"Is it as good really, Mrs. Mowbray, as it looks here?" she asked.
"It is better. Don't you think colour goes for anything? and the sound of
a cowbell, and the rush of the torrents that come from the mountains?"
"I can hear cowbells and the rush of brooks here," said Rotha.
"It sounds different there."
Slowly and unwillingly and after long looking at it, Rotha laid the Swiss
valley away. Her next view happened to be the ruins of the Church at
Fountain's Abbey; and with that a new nerve of pleasure seemed to be
stirred. This was something in an entirely new department, of knowledge
and interest both. "How came people to let such a beautiful church go to
ruin?"
Mrs. Mowbray went back to the Reformation, and Henry the Eighth, and the
monkish orders; and the historical discussion grew into length. Then a
very noble view of the Fountain's Abbey cloisters opened a new field of
inquiry; and Rotha's eye gazed along the beautiful arches with an awed
apprehension of the life that once was lived under them; gazed and
marvelled and queried.
"That was an ugly sort of life," she said at last; "why do I like to look
at these cloisters, Mrs. Mowbray?"
Mrs. Mowbray laughed. "I suppose your eye finds beauty in the lines of
the architecture."
"Are they beautiful?"
"People say so, my dear."
"But do you think they are?"
"My dear, I must confess to you, I never paid much attention to
architecture. I never asked myself the question."
"I do not think there is any _beauty_ about them," said Rotha; "but
somehow I like to look at them. I like to look at them _very_ much."
"Here is another cloister," said Mrs. Mowbray; "of Salisbury cathedral.
The arches and lines here are less severe. How do you like that?"
"Not half so well," Rotha answered, after making the comparison. "I think
Fountain's Abbey _is_ beautiful, compared with this."
"It is called, I believe, one of the finest ruins in England. My dear, if
you want to study architecture, I shall turn you over to Mr. Fergusson's
book. It is in the corner stand in the breakfast room--two octavo
volumes. There you can find all your questions answered."
Which Rotha did not however find to be the case, though Fergusson in
after days was a good deal studied by her in her hours of leisure. For
this evening it was enough, that she went to her room with the feeling
that the world is very rich in things to be seen and things to be known;
a vast treasure house of wonders and beauties and mysteries; which
mysteries must yet have their hidden truth and solution, delightful to
search for, delightful to find. Would she some day see the Alps? and what
dreadful things cloisters and the life lived in them must have been! Her
eye fell on her Russia leather bag, in which she had placed her Bible for
safe keeping; and her thoughts went to the Bible. That told how people
should live to serve God; and it was not by shutting themselves up in
cloisters. How then? That question she deferred.
But took it up again the next day. It was a rainy day; low clouds and
thick beat of the rain storm against the windows and upon the street.
Rotha was well pleased. Good so; yesterday had held novelty and
excitement enough for a week; to-day she could be quiet, study Fergusson
on architecture, perhaps; and at all events study the life question in
her beautiful Bible. She had the morning to herself after breakfast, and
her room to herself; the patter and beat of the rain drops made her feel
only more securely safe in her solitude and opportunity. Rotha took her
Bible lovingly in her hands and slowly turned over the leaves to find the
thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel. And unquestionably, the great beauty of
the book, of the paper and the limp covers and the type, did help her
pleasure and did give an additional zest to the work she was about.
Nevertheless, Rotha was in earnest, and it _was_ work. The chapter, when
she found it, was an enigma to her. She read on and on, understanding but
very dimly what might be meant under the words; till she came to the
notable promise and prophecy beginning with the twenty fourth verse. Then
her eyes opened, and lingered, slowly going over item after item of the
help promised to humanity's wants, and then she read:--
"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within
you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will
give you an heart of flesh."----
It struck Rotha with a strange sort of surprise, the words meeting so
exactly the thought and want of her own heart. Did He who gave that
promise, long ago, know so well what she would be one day thinking and
feeling? But that was the very help she needed; all she needed; if the
heart of stone within her were gone, all the rest would fall into train.
Rotha waited no longer, but poured out a longing, passionate prayer that
this mighty change might be wrought in her. Even with tears she prayed
her prayer. She had resolved to be a Christian; yet she was not one;
could not be one; till a heart of flesh took the place of that impassive
induration which was where a heart should be. As she rose from her knees,
she thought she would follow out this subject of a hard heart, and see
what else the Bible said of it. She applied to her "Treasury of Scripture
Knowledge"; found the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel, and the twenty
sixth verse. The first reference sent her to the eleventh chapter of the
same book, where she found the promise already previously given.
"And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you;
and I will take the stony-heart out of their flesh, and I will give them
an heart of flesh; _that they may walk in my statutes, and keep mine
ordinances, and do them;_ and they shall be my people, and I will be
their God."
That is it! thought Rotha. I knew I could not be a Christian while I felt
so as I do. I could not keep the commandments either. If I had a new
heart, I suppose I could forgive aunt Serena fast enough. God must be
very willing to take people's stony heart away, or he would not promise
it so twice over. O my dear "Scripture Treasury"! how good you are!
Following its indications, she came next to a word of the prophet
Zechariah, accusing the people of obduracy:--"They refused to hearken,
and pulled away the shoulder, and stopped their ears, that they should
not hear. Yea, they made their hearts as an adamant stone, lest they
should hear the law, and the words which the Lord of hosts hath sent in
his spirit by the former prophets"--
Over this passage Rotha lingered, pondering. Could it be true that she
herself was to blame for the very hardness of heart she wanted to get rid
of? Had she "refused to hearken and pulled away the shoulder and stopped
her ears"? What else had she done? when those "former prophets" to her,
her mother, and Mr. Digby, had set duty and truth before her? They set it
before her bodily, too; and how fair their example had been! and how
immoveable she! Rotha lost herself for a while here, longing for her
mother, and crying in spirit for her next friend, Mr. Digby; wondering at
his silence, mourning his absence; and it was when a new gush of
indignation at her aunt seemed to run through all her veins, that she
caught herself up and remembered the work in hand, and slowly and
sorrowfully came back to it. How angry she was at Mrs. Busby this minute!
what a long way she was yet, with all her wishes and resolves, from the
loving tenderness of heart which would forgive everything. She went on,
hoping always for more light, and willing to take the sharpest charges
home to herself. Yet the next reference startled her.
"Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth; and
forthwith they sprang up because they had no deepness of earth: and when
the sun was up, they were scorched;"--
Was it possible, that she had been like that very bad ground? Yes, she
knew the underlying rock too well. Then in her case there was special
danger of a flash religion, taken up for the minute's sense of need or
perception of advantage merely, and not rooted so that it would stand
weather. Hers should not be so; no profession of being a Christian would
she make, till it was thorough work; till at last she could forgive her
aunt's treachery; it would be pretty thorough if she could do that! But
how long first? At present Rotha thought of her aunt in terms that I will
not stop to detail; in which there was bitter anger and contempt and no
love at all. She knew it, poor child; she felt the difficulty; her only
sole hope was in the power of that promise in Ezekiel, which she blessed
in her heart, almost with tears. That way there was an outlook towards
light; no other way in all her horizon. She would see what more the Bible
had to say about it.
Going on in her researches, after another passage or two she came to
those notable words, also in Ezekiel,--
"Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have
transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit: for why will ye
die, O house of Israel?"
Make herself a new heart? how could she? she could not; and yet, here the
words were, and they must mean something. And to be sure, she thought, a
man is said to build him a new house, who gets the carpenter to make it,
and never himself puts hand to tool. But cast away her transgressions?--
_that_ she could do, and she would. From that day forth. The next passage
was in the fifty first psalm; David's imploring cry that the Lord would
"create" in him "a new heart"; and then the lovely words in Jeremiah:--
"After those days, saith the Lord, I will put my law in their inward
parts, and write it in their hearts; and will be their God, and they
shall be my people."
Rotha shut her book. That was the very thing wanted. When the law of God
should be _in her heart_ so, then all would be right, and all would be
easy too. It is easy to do what is in one's heart. What beautiful words!
what exquisite promises! what tender meeting of the wants of weak and
sinful men! Rotha saw all this, and felt it. Ay, and she felt that every
vestige of excuse was gone for persistence in wrong; if God was so ready
to put in his hand of love and power to make things right. And one more
passage made this conclusively certain. It was the thirteenth verse of
the eleventh chapter of Luke.
The morning's work was a good one for Rotha. She made up her mind. That,
indeed, she had done before; now she took her stand with a clearer
knowledge of the ground and of the way in which the difficulties were to
be met. By a new heart, nothing less; a heart of flesh; which indeed she
could not create, but which she could ask for and hope for; and in the
mean time she must "cast away from her all her transgressions." No
compromise, and no delay. As to this anger at her aunt,--well, it was
there, and she could not put it out; but allow it and agree to it, or
give it expression, that she would not do.
She cast about her then for things to be done, neglected duties. No
studies neglected were on her conscience; there did occur to her some
large holes in the heels of her stockings. Rotha did not like mending;
however, here was duty. She got out the stockings and examined them. A
long job, and to her a hateful one, for the stockings had been neglected.
Rotha had but a little yarn to mend with; she sat down to the work and
kept at it until she had used up her last thread. That finished the
morning, for the stockings were fine, and the same feeling of duty which
made her take up the mending made her do it conscientiously.
The evening was spent happily over the stereoscope and Fergusson on
Architecture. Towards the end of it Mrs. Mowbray whispered to her,
"My dear, your aunt wishes you to spend a day with her; don't you think
it would be a good plan to go to-morrow? A thing is always more graceful
when it is done without much delay."
Rotha could but acquiesce.
"And make the best of it," Mrs. Mowbray went on kindly; "and make the
best of _them_. There is a best side to everybody; it is good to try and
get at it. The Bible says 'Overcome evil with good.'"
"Can one, always?" said Rotha.
"I think one can always--if one has the chance and time. At any rate, it
is good to try."
"But don't you think, ma'am, one must feel pleasant, before one can act
pleasant?"
"Feel pleasant, then," said Mrs. Mowbray smiling. "Can't you?"
"You do not know how difficult it is," said Rotha.
"Perhaps I do. Hearts are alike."
"O no, Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha in sudden protest.
"Not in everything. But fallen nature is fallen nature, my dear; one
person's temptations may be different from another's, but in the longing
to do our own pleasure and have our own way, we are all pretty much
alike. None of us has anything to boast of. What you despise, is the
yielding to a temptation which does not attack you."
Rotha's look at her friend was intelligent and candid. She said nothing.
"And if you can meet hatred with love, it is ten to one you can overcome
it. Wouldn't that be a victory worth trying for?"
Rotha knew the victory over herself was the first one to be gained. But
she silently acquiesced; and after breakfast next morning, with reluctant
steps, she set forth to go to her aunt's in Twenty-third Street. She had
been in a little doubt how to dress herself. Should she wear her old
things? or subject the new ones to her aunt's criticism? But Antoinette
had seen the pretty plaid school dress; it would be foolish to make any
mystery of it. She dressed herself as usual.
Mrs. Busby and her daughter were in the sitting room up stairs. Rotha had
knocked, modestly, and as she went in they both lifted up their heads and
looked at her, with a long look of survey. Rotha had come quite up to
them before her aunt spoke.
"Well, Rotha,--so it is you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you come to see me at last?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Mowbray said you wished it."
"What made you choose to-day particularly?"
"Nothing. Mrs. Mowbray said--"
"Well, go on. What did Mrs. Mowbray say?"
"She said you wanted to have me come, some day, and she thought I had
better do it to-day."
"Yes. Did she give no reason?"
"No. At least--"
"At least what?"
Rotha had no skill whatever in prevarication, nor understood the art.
Nothing occurred to her but to tell the truth.
"Mrs. Mowbray said a thing was more graceful that was done promptly."
The slightest possible change in the set of Mrs. Busby's lips, the least
perceptible air of her head, expressed what another woman might have told
by a snort of disdain. Mrs. Busby's manner was quite as striking, Rotha
thought. Her own anger was rising fast.
"O, and I suppose she is teaching you to do things gracefully?" said
Antoinette. "Mamma, the idea!"
"It did not occur to her or you that I might like to see my niece
occasionally?" said Mrs. Busby.
Rotha bit her lips and succeeded in biting down the answer.
"We have not grown very graceful _yet_," Antoinette went on. "It is
usually thought civilized to answer people."
"You had better take off your things," Mrs. Busby said. "You may lay them
up stairs in your room."
"Is there any reason which makes this an inconvenient day for me to be
here?" Rotha asked before moving to obey this command.
"It makes no difference. The proper time for putting such a question, if
you want to do things _gracefully_, is before taking your action, while
the answer can also be given gracefully, if unfavourable."
Rotha went slowly up stairs, feeling that or any other place in the house
better than the room where her aunt was. She went to her little cold,
cheerless, desolate-looking, old room. How she had suffered there! how
thankful she was to be in it no more! how changed were her circumstances!
Could she not be good and keep the peace, this one day? She had purposed
to be very good, and calm, like Mr. Digby; and now already she felt as if
a bunch of nettles had been drawn all over her. What an unmanageable
thing was this temper of hers. She went down stairs slowly and
lingeringly. The two looked at her again as she entered the room; now
that her cloak was off, the new dress came into view.
"Where did you get that dress, Rotha?" was her aunt's question.
"Mrs. Mowbray got it for me."
"Does she propose to send me the bill by and by?"
"Of course not! Aunt Serena, Mrs. Mowbray never does mean things."
"H'm! What induced her then to go to such expense for a girl she never
saw before?"
"I suppose she was sorry for me," said Rotha, with her heart swelling.
"Sorry for you! May I ask, why?"
"You know how I was dressed, aunt Serena; and you know how the other
girls in school dress."
"I know a great many of them have foolish mothers, who make themselves
ridiculous by the way they let their children appear. It is a training of
vanity. I should not have thought Mrs. Mowbray would lend herself to such
nonsense."
"But you do not think Antoinette has a foolish mother?" Rotha could not
help saying. Mrs. Busby's daughter was quite as much dressed as the other
girls. That she ought not to have made that speech, Rotha knew; but she
made it. So much satisfaction she must have. It remained however
completely ignored.
"Who made your dress?" Mrs. Busby went on.
"A dress-maker. One of the ladies went with me to have it cut."
"What did you do Christmas?" Antoinette inquired. In reply to which,
Rotha gave an account of her visit to the Old Coloured Home.
"Just like Mrs. Mowbray!" was Mrs. Busby's comment. "She has no
discretion."
"Why do you say that, aunt Serena?"
"Such an expenditure of money for nothing. What good would a little tea
and a little tobacco do those people? It would not last more than a week
or two; and then they are just where they were before."
"But it did not cost so very much," objected Rotha.
"Have you reckoned it up? Fifty or sixty half-pounds of tea, fifty or
sixty pounds of sugar,--why, the sugar alone would be five or six
dollars; and the tobacco, and the carriage hire; and I don't know what
beside. All for nothing. That woman does not know what to do with money."
"But is it not something, to make so many poor people happy, if even only
for a little while?"
"It would be a great deal better to give them something to do them good;
a flannel petticoat, now, or a pair of warm socks. That would last. Or
putting the money in the funds of the Institution, where it would go to
their daily needs. I always think of that."
"_Would_ it go to their daily needs? Some ladies got a cow for them once;
and it just gave the matron cream for her tea, and they got no good of
it."
"I don't believe that at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Busby. "I know the matron;
Mrs. Bothers; I know her, for I recommended her myself. I have no idea
she would be guilty of any such impropriety. It is just the gossip in the
house, that Mrs. Mowbray has taken up in her haste and swallowed."
Rotha tried to hold her tongue. It was hard.
"Did Mrs. Mowbray give _you_ anything Christmas?" Antoinette asked,
pushing her inquiries. Rotha hesitated, but could find no way to answer
without admitting the affirmative.
"What?" was the immediate next question; and even Mrs. Busby looked with
ill-pleased eyes to hear Rotha's next words. It seemed like making her
precious things common, to tell of them to these unkind ears. Yet there
was no help for it.
"She gave me a travelling hand-bag."
"What sort?"
"Russia leather."
"There, mamma!" Antoinette exclaimed. "Isn't that Mrs. Mowbray all over?
When a morocco one, or a canvas one, would have done just as well."
"As I said," returned Mrs. Busby. "Mrs. Mowbray does not know what to do
with money. When are you going travelling, Rotha?"
"I do not know. Some time in my life, I suppose."
"What a ridiculous thing to give her!" pursued Antoinette.
"Yes, I think so," her mother echoed. "Do not let yourself be deluded,
Rotha, by presents of travelling bags or anything else. Your future life
is not likely to be spent in pleasuring. What I can do for you in the way
of giving you an education, will be all I can do; then you will have to
make a living and a home for, yourself; and the easiest way you can do it
will be by teaching. I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray to educate you for some
post in which perhaps she can put you by and by; she or somebody else. So
pack up your expectations; you will not need to do much of other sorts of
packing."
"You forget there is another person to be consulted, aunt Serena."
"What other person?" said Mrs. Busby raising her head and fixing her
observant eyes upon Rotha.
"Mr. Southwode."
"Mr. Southwode!" repeated the lady coldly. "I am ignorant what a stranger
like him has to say about our family affairs."
"He is not a stranger," said Rotha hotly. "He is the person I know best
in the world, and love best. He is the person to whom I belong; that
mother left me to; and it is for him, not for you, to say what I shall
do, or what I shall be."
Imprudent Rotha! But passion is always imprudent.
"Very improper language!" said Mrs. Busby coldly. "When a young lady
speaks so of a young gentleman, what are we to think?"
"I am not a young lady," said Rotha; "and he is not a young gentleman; at
least, not very young; and you may think the truth, which is what I say."
"Do you mean that you have arranged to marry Mr. Southwode?" said the
lady, fixing her keen little eyes upon Rotha's face.
Rotha's face flamed, with mingled indignation and shame; she deigned no
answer.
"She doesn't speak, mamma," said Antoinette mischievously. "You may
depend, that's the plan. Rotha and Mr. Southwode! I declare, that's too
good! So that's the arrangement!"
"I am so ashamed that I cannot speak to you," said Rotha in her passion
and humiliation. "How can you say such wicked things! I wish Mr.
Southwode was here to give you a proper answer."
"What, you think he would take your part?" said her aunt.
"He always did. He would now. He will yet, aunt Serena."
"That is enough!" said Mrs. Busby, becoming excited a little on her part.
"Hush, Antoinette; I will have no more of this very unedifying
conversation. But you, Rotha, may as well know that you will never see
Mr. Southwode again. He is engaged in England with the affairs of his
father's business; he will probably soon marry; and then there is no
chance whatever that he will ever return to America. So you had best
consider whether it is worth while to offend the friends you have left,
for the sake of one who is nothing to you any more."
"I know Mr. Southwode better than that," was Rotha's answer. But the
girl's face was purple with honest shame.
"You expect he will come back and make you his wife?" said Mrs. Busby
scornfully.
"I expect he will come back and take care of me. You might as well talk
of his making that pussy cat his wife. I am just a poor girl, and no
more. But he will take care of me. I know he will, if I have to wait ten
years first."
"How old are you now?"
"Sixteen, almost."
"Then in ten years you will be twenty six. My dear, there is only one way
in which Mr. Southwode could take care of you then; he must make you his
wife, or leave it to somebody else to take care of you. He knows that as
well as I do; and so he put you in my hands. Now let us make an end of
this disgraceful scene. Before ten years are past, you will probably be
the wife of somebody else. All this talk is very foolish."
Rotha thought it _was_, but also thought the fault was not in her part of
it. She sat glowing with confusion; she felt as if the blood would verily
start through her skin; and angry in proportion. Still she was silent,
though Antoinette laughed.
"What a farce, mamma! To think of Rotha being in love with Mr.
Southwode!"
"Hold your tongue, Nettie."
"To love, and to be in love, are two things," said Rotha hotly. "I do not
know what being in love means; I _do_ know the other."
"O mamma!--she doesn't know what it means!"
"I told you to be quiet, Antoinette."
"I didn't hear it, mamma. But I think you might reprove Rotha for saying
what is not true."
"That is what I never do," said Rotha.
Mrs. Busby here interfered, and ordered Rotha to go up stairs to her room
and stay there till she could command herself. Rotha went.
"Mamma," said Antoinette then, "I do believe it is earnest about her and
Mr. Southwode. In her mind, I mean. Did you see how she coloured?"
"I should not be at all surprised," said, Mrs. Busby.
"When is he coming back, mamma?"
"I cannot say. I think he does not know himself. He writes that he is
very busy at present."
"But he will come back, you think?"
"He says so. Antoinette, say nothing--not a word more--about him to
Rotha. She has got her head turned, and it is best she should hear
nothing whatever about him. I shall take good care that she never sees
him again."
"Mamma, _he_ don't care for her?"
"Of course not. He is too much a man of the world."
There was silence.
"Mamma," Antoinette began after a pause, "do you think Rotha is
handsome?"
"She is very well," said Mrs. Busby in an indifferent tone.
"They think at school, that is, the teachers do, that she is a beauty."
"I dare say they have told her so."
"And you see how Mrs. Mowbray has dressed her up."
"I would not have sent her there, if I had known how it would be.
However, I could not arrange for her so cheaply anywhere else."
"What would you do, mamma, if Mr. Southwode were coming back?"
"I should know, in that case. He will not come yet a while. Now
Antoinette, let this subject alone."
"Yes, mamma. You are a clever woman. I don't believe even Mr. Southwode
could manage you."
"I can manage Mr. Southwode!" said Mrs. Busby contentedly.
CHAPTER XIX.
A NEW DEPARTURE.
Rotha found her room too cold to stay in, after the first heat of her
wrath had passed off. The only warm place that she knew of, beside her
aunt's dressing room, was the parlour; and after a little hesitation and
shivering, she softly crept down the stairs. The warm, luxurious place
was empty, of people, that is; and before the glowing grate Rotha sat
down on the rug and looked at the situation. Or she looked at that and
the room together; the latter made her incensed. It was so full of
luxury. The soft plush carpet, the thick rug on which she was crouching;
how they glowed warm and rich in the red shine of the fiery grate; how
beautiful the crimson ground was, and how dainty the drab tints of the
flowers running over it. How stately the curtains fell to the floor with
their bands of drab and crimson; and the long mirror between them,
redoubling all the riches reflected in it. What a magnificent extension
table, really belonging in the dining room, but doing duty now as a large
centre table, only it was shoved up in one corner; and upon it the gas
fixture stood, with its green glass shaft and its cut glass shade full of
bunches of grapes. Nothing else was on the table; not a book; not a
trinket; and so all the rest of the room was bare of everything _but_
furniture. The furniture was elegant; but the chairs stood round the
sides of the room with pitiless regularity and seemed waiting for
somebody that would never come. Empty riches! nothing else. At Mrs.
Mowbray's Rotha was in another world, socially and humanly. Books swarmed
from the shelves and lay on every table; pictures hung on the walls and
stood on the mantelpieces; here and there some lovely statuette delighted
the eye by its beauty or the mind by its associations; flowers were sure
to be in a glass or a dish somewhere; and all over there were traces of
travel and of cultivation, in bits of marble, or bits of bronze, or
photographs, or relics, telling of various ages and countries and
nationalities. Here, in Mrs. Busby's handsome rooms, the pretty hanging
lamps were exceedingly new, and they were the only bronze to be seen.
Rotha studied it all and made these comparisons for a while, in a vague,
purposeless reverie, while she was getting warm; but then her thoughts
began to come to a point. Everything and everybody in this house was
utterly unsympathetic to her; animate or inanimate; was this her home? In
no sense of the word. Had not her aunt just informed her, in effect, that
she had no home; that if she lived to grow up she must make her own way
and earn her own bread, or have none. Antoinette would grow up to all
this luxury, and in all this luxury; while she would be penniless, and
homeless. Had she brought this upon herself? Well, she might have been
more conciliating; but in her heart of hearts Rotha did not wish she had
been other than she had been. A home or friends to be gained only by
subserviency and truckling, she did not covet. There came a little
whisper of conscience here, suggesting that a medium existed between
truckling and defiance; that it was a supposable case that one might be
so pure and fair in life and spirit, that the involuntary liking and
respect of friends and acquaintances would follow of necessity. Was not
Mr. Digby such a person? did not Mrs. Mowbray win good-will wherever she
appeared? and Rotha was just enough to acknowledge to herself that her
own demeanour had been nothing less than love-winning. Alas, how could
she help it, unless she were indeed made over new; a different creature.
How else could she bear what must be borne in this house? But in this
house she was an outcast; they would have nothing to do with her more
than to see her through her schooling; there was no shelter or refuge
here to which she could ever look. Nor did she care for it, if only Mr.
Digby would come again. Was he lost to her? Had he really forgotten her?
would he forget his promise? Rotha did not believe it; her faith in him
was steadfast; but she did conceive it possible that business and
circumstances might keep him where his promise would be rendered of
little avail; and her heart was wrung with distress at the thought of
this possibility. Distress, which but for Mrs. Mowbray would have been
desolation. Even as it was, Rotha felt very desolate, very blank; and she
remembered again what Mr. Digby had said, about a time that might come
when all other help would fail her and she would be _driven_ to seek God.
All help had not failed yet; Mrs. Mowbray was a blessed good friend; but
she was all, and Rotha had no claim upon her. I will not wait to be
_driven_, she thought; I will not wait to be driven by extremity; things
are bad enough as it is; I will seek God now.--I have been seeking him.--
Mr. Digby said I must keep on seeking, until I found. I will. But in the
mean time I choose. I choose I will be a Christian, and that means, a
servant of Jesus. I will be his servant, no matter what he bids me do.
From this time on, I will be his servant. And then, some time, he will
keep his word and take the stony heart out of me, and give me a new
heart; a heart of flesh, I wonder how I came to be so hard!----
It was a step in advance of all Rotha had made yet. It was _the_ step,
which introduces a sinner into the pathway of a Christian; before which
that path is not entered, however much it may be looked at and thought
desirable. Rotha had made her choice and given her allegiance; for she at
once told it to the Lord and asked his blessing.
And then, forthwith, came the trial of her sincerity. The cross was
presented to her; which the Lord says those must take up and bear daily
who would follow him. People think that crosses start up in every path;
it is a mistake; they are only found in the way of following Christ and
in consequence of such following. They are things that may be taken up
and carried along; that _must_ be, if the Christian follows his Master;
but that he may escape if he will turn aside from following him and go
with the world. They are of many kinds, but all furnished by the world
and Satan without, or by self-will within. The form which the cross took
on this occasion for Rotha was of the latter kind. Conscience whispered a
reminder--"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest
that thy brother hath ought against thee--" And instantly Rotha's whole
soul rose up in protest. Make an apology to her aunt _now?_ Humble
herself to confess herself wrong, when the wrong done to her was so
manyfold greater? Bend to the hardness that would crush her? Justify
another's evil by confessing her own? Self-will gave her an indignant
"Impossible!" And conscience with quiet persistence held forth the cross.
Rotha put both hands to her face and swayed up and down, with a kind of
bodily struggle, which symbolized that going on in her mind. It was hard,
it was hard! Nature cried out, with a repulsion that seemed
unconquerable, against taking up this cross; yet there it was before her,
in the inexorable hands of conscience, and Grace said, "Do it; take it up
and bear it." And Nature and Grace fought. But all the while, down at the
bottom of the girl's heart, was a certain knowledge that the cross must
be borne; a certain prevision that she would yield and take it up; that
she must, if her new determination meant anything; and Rotha felt she
could not afford to let it vanish in air. She struggled, rebelled,
repined, and ended with yielding. Her will submitted, and she said in her
heart, "I must, and I will."
There came a sort of tired lull over her then, which was grateful, after
the battle. She considered _when_ she should do this thing, which it was
so disagreeable to do. She could not quite make up her mind; but at the
first opportunity, whenever that might be. Before she left the house at
any rate, if even she had to make the opportunity she wanted.
Then she thought she would return to her little cold room again, before
anybody found her in the parlour. She was thoroughly warmed up, she had
no more thinking to do just then; and if need be she would lay herself on
the bed and cover herself with blankets, and so wait till luncheon time.
As she went up stairs, something happened that she did not expect; there
stole into her heart as it were a rill of gladness, which swelled and
grew. "Yes, Jesus _is_ my King, she thought, and I am his child. O I
don't care now for anything, for Jesus is my King, and He will help and
take care." She went singing that Name in her heart all the way up
stairs; for the first time in her life the sweetness of it was sweet to
her; for the first time, the strength of it was something to lean upon.
Ay, she was right; she had stepped over the narrow boundary line between
the realm of the Prince of this world and the kingdom of Christ. She had
submitted herself to the one Ruler; she was no longer under the dominion
of the other. And with her first entrance into the kingdom of the Prince
of peace, she had stepped out of the darkness into the light, and the air
of that new country blew softly upon her. O wonderful! O sweet! O
strange!--that such a change should be so quickly made, and yet so hard
to make. Rotha had not fought all her battles nor got rid of all her
enemies, but that the latter should have no more _dominion_ over her she
felt confident. She was a different creature from the Rotha who had fled
down stairs an hour or two before in wrath and bitterness.
It was very cold up stairs. She lay down and covered herself with
blankets and went to sleep.
She was called to luncheon; got up and smoothed her hair as well as she
could with her hands, and thought over what she had to do. She had to set
her teeth and go at it like a forlorn-hope upon a battery, but she did
not flinch at all.
Mr. Busby was at luncheon, which was unusual and she had not counted
upon. He was gracious.
"How do you do, Rotha? Bless me, how you have improved! grown too, I
declare."
"There was no need of that, papa," said Antoinette, who was going to be a
dumpy.
"What has Mrs. Mowbray done to you? I really hardly know you again."
"Fine feathers, papa."
"Mrs. Mowbray has been very kind to me," Rotha managed to get in quietly.
"She's growing handsome, wife!" Mr. Busby declared as he took his seat at
the table.
"You shouldn't say such things to young girls, Mr. Busby," said his wife
reprovingly.
"Shouldn't I? Why not? It is expected that they will hear enough of that
sort of thing when they get a little older."
"Why should they, Mr. Busby?" asked Rotha, innocently curious.
"Yes indeed, why should they?" echoed her aunt.
"Why should they? I don't know. As I said, it is expected. Young ladies
usually demand such tribute from their admirers."
"To tell them they are handsome?" said Rotha.
"Yes," said Mr. Busby looking at her. "Ladies like it. Wouldn't you like
it?"
"I should not like it at all," said Rotha colouring with a little
excitement. "I don't mind your saying so, Mr. Busby; you have a right to
say anything you like to me; but if any stranger said it, I should think
he was very impertinent."
"You don't know much yet," said Mr. Busby.
"There is small danger that Rotha will ever be troubled with that sort of
impertinence," said Mrs. Busby, with that peculiar air of her head, which
always meant that she thought a good deal more than she spoke out at the
minute.
"Maybe," returned her husband; "but she is going to deserve it, I can
tell you. She'll be handsomer than ever Antoinette will."
Which remark seemed to Rotha peculiarly unlucky for her just that day.
Mrs. Busby reddened with displeasure though she held her tongue.
Antoinette was not capable of such forbearance.
"Papa!" she said, breaking out into tears, "that is very unkind of you!"
"Well, don't snivel," said her father. "You are pretty enough, if you
keep a smooth face; but don't you suppose there are other people in the
world handsomer? Be sensible."
"It is difficult not to be hurt, Mr. Busby," said his wife, pressing her
lips together.
"Mamma!" cried Antoinette in a very injured tone, "he called me
'pretty'?"
"Aint you?" said her father, becoming a little provoked. "I thought you
knew you were. But Rotha is going to be a beauty. It is no injury to you,
my child."
"You seem to forget it may be an injury to Rotha, Mr. Busby."
Whether Mr. Busby forgot it, or whether he did not care, he made no reply
to this suggestion.
"I _never_ tell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on
severely.
"Well, I don't think she will. Not her style."
"Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter.
"Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette's?" asked the mother.
"Skin isn't everything. My dear, don't be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in
his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie's a pretty little girl,
and I am glad of it; but don't you go to making a fool of her by making
her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you;
but that wasn't what I married you for."
Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there
had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there
had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice,
for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and
Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self-
command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept
silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby,
and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible.
"What's the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don't be silly.
I don't believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."
"You've said enough to please Rotha!" Antoinette sobbed.
"And it is unnecessary to be constantly comparing your daughter with some
one else," said Mrs. Busby. "Can't we talk of some other subject, more
useful and agreeable?"
Then Rotha summoned up her courage, with her heart beating.
"May I speak of another subject?" she said. "Aunt Serena, I have been
wanting to tell you--I have been waiting for a chance to tell you--that I
want to beg your pardon."
Mrs. Busby made no answer; it was her husband who asked, "For what?"
"To-day, sir, and a good while ago when I was here--different times--I
spoke to aunt Serena as I ought not; rudely; I was angry. I have been
wanting to say so and to beg her pardon."
"Well, that's all anybody can do," said Mr. Busby. "Enough's said about
that. It's very proper, if you spoke improperly, to confess it and make
an apology; that's all that is necessary. At least, as soon as Mrs. Busby
has signified that she accepts the apology."
But Mrs. Busby signified no such thing. She kept silence.
"My dear, do you want Rotha to say anything more? Hasn't she apologized
sufficiently?"
"I should like to know first," Mrs. Busby began in constrained tones,
"what motive prompted the apology?"
"Motive!--" Mr. Busby began; but Rotha struck in.
"My motive was, that I wanted to do right; and I knew it was right that I
should apologize."
"Then your motive was not that you were sorry for what you said?" Mrs.
Busby inquired magisterially.
Rotha was so astonished at this way of receiving her words that she
hesitated.
"I am sorry, certainly, that I should have spoken rudely," she said.
"But not sorry for what you said?"
"You are splitting hairs, my dear!" said Mr. Busby impatiently.
"Let her answer--" said his wife.
"I do not know how to answer," said Rotha slowly, and thinking how to
choose her words. "I am sorry for my ill-manners and unbecoming
behaviour; I beg pardon for that. Is there anything else to ask pardon
for?"
"You do not answer."
"What else can I say?" Rotha returned with some spirit. "I am not
apologizing for thoughts or feelings, but for my improper behaviour.
Shall I not be forgiven?"
"Then your _feeling_ is not changed?" said the lady with a sharp look at
her.
Rotha thought, It would be difficult for her feeling to change, under the
reigning system. She did not answer.
"Pish, pish, my dear!" said the master of the house,--"you are splitting
straws. When an apology is made, you have nothing to do but to take it.
Rotha has done her part; now you do yours. Has Santa Claus come your way
this year, Rotha?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he bring you, hey?"
"Mrs. Mowbray gave me a Bible."
"A Bible!" Mrs. Busby and her daughter both exclaimed at once; "you said
a bag?"
"I said true," said Rotha.
"She gave you a Bible and a bag too?"
"Yes."
"What utter extravagance! Had you no Bible already?"
"I had one, but an old one that had no references."
"What did you want with references! That woman is mad. If she gives to
everybody on the same scale, her pocket will be empty enough when the
holidays are over."
"But she gets a great deal of pleasure that way--" Rotha ventured.
"You do, you mean."
"Well, I am not so rich as Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Busby said; "but I must
remember you, Rotha." And he rose and went to a large secretary which
stood in the room; for that basement room served Mr. Busby for his study
at times when the table was not laid for meals. Three pair of eyes
followed him curiously. Mr. Busby unlocked his secretary, opened a
drawer, and took out thence a couple of quires of letter paper: 'sought
out then some envelopes of the right size, and put the whole, two quires
of paper and two packages of envelopes, into Rotha's astonished hands.
"There, my dear," said he, "that will be of use to you."
"What is she to do with it, papa?" Antoinette asked in an amused manner.
"Rotha has nobody to write letters to."
"That may be. She will have writing to do, however, of some kind. You
write themes in school, don't you?"
"But then, what are the envelopes for, papa? We don't put our
compositions in envelopes."
"Never mind, my dear; the envelopes belong to the paper. Rotha can keep
them till she finds a use for them."
"They won't match other paper, papa," said Antoinette. But Rotha
collected her wits and made her acknowledgments, as well as she could.
"Has Nettie shewn you her Christmas things?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it will please you to see them. You are welcome, my dear."
Rotha carried her package of paper up stairs, wondering what experiences
would till out the afternoon. Her aunt and cousin seemed by no means to
be in a genial mood. They all went up to the dressing room and sat down
there in silence; all, that is, except Mr. Busby. Rotha's thoughts went
with a spring to her bag and her books at Mrs. Mowbray's. Two o'clock,
said the clock over the chimney piece. In three hours more she might go
home.
Mrs. Busby took some work; she always had a basket of mending to do.
Apologies did not seem to have wrought any mollification of her temper.
Antoinette went down to the parlour to practise, and the sweet notes of
the piano were presently heard rumbling up and down. Rotha sat and looked
at her aunt's fingers.
"Do you know anything about mending your clothes, Rotha?" Mrs. Busby at
last broke the silence.
"Not much, ma'am."
"Suppose I give you a lesson. See here--here is a thin place on the
shoulder of one of Mr. Busby's shirts; there must go a patch on there.
Now I will give you a patch--"
She sought out a piece of linen, cut a square from it with great
attention to the evenness of the cutting, and gave it to Rotha.
"It must go from here to here--see?" she said, shewing the place; "and
you must lay it just even with the threads; it must be exactly even; you
must baste it just as you want it; and then fell it down very neatly."
Rotha thought, as she did not wear linen shirts, that this particular
piece of mending was rather for her aunt's account than for her own. Lay
it by the threads! a good afternoon's work.
"I have no thimble,--" was all she said.
Mrs. Busby sought her out an old thimble of her own, too big for Rotha,
and it kept slipping off.
The rest of the history of that afternoon is the history of a patch. How
easy it is, to an unskilled hand, to put on a linen patch by a thread,
let anyone who doubts convince herself by trying. Rotha basted it on, and
took it off, basted it on again and took it off again; it would not lie
smooth, or it would not lie straight; and when she thought it would do,
and shewed it to her aunt, Mrs. Busby would point out that what
straightness there was belonged only to one side, or that there was a
pucker somewhere. Rotha sighed and began again. She did not like the job.
Neither had she any pleasure in doing it for her aunt. Her impatience was
as difficult to straighten out as the patch itself, but Rotha thought it
was only the patch. Finally, and it was not long first, either, she began
to grow angry. Was her aunt trying her, she questioned, to see if she
would not forget herself and be ill-mannerly again? And then Rotha saw
that the cross was presented to her anew, under another form. Patience,
and faithful service, involving again the giving up of her own will. And
here she was, getting angry already. Rotha dropped her work and hid her
face in her hands, to send up one silent prayer for help.
"You won't get your patch done that way," said Mrs. Busby's cold voice.
Rotha took her hands down and said nothing, resolved that here too she
would do what it was right to do. She gave herself to the work with
patient determination, and arranged the patch so that even Mrs. Busby
said it was well enough. Then she received a needle and fine thread and
was instructed how to sew the piece on with very small stitches. But now
the difficulty was over. Rotha had good eyes and stitched away with a
good will; and so had the work done, just before the light failed too
much for her to see any longer. She folded up the shirt, with a gleeful
feeling that now the afternoon was over. Antoinette came up from her
practising, or whatever else she had been doing, just as Rotha rose.
"Aunt Serena," said the girl, and she said it pleasantly, "my stockings
some of them want mending, and I have no darning cotton. If you would
give me a skein of darning cotton, I could keep them in order."
"Do you know how?"
"Yes, ma'am, I know how to do that. Mother taught me. I can darn
stockings."
Mrs. Busby rummaged in her basket and handed to Rotha a ball of cotton
yarn.
"This is too coarse, aunt Serena," Rotha said after examining it.
"Too coarse for what?"
"To mend my stockings with."
"It is not too coarse to mend mine."
"But it would not go through the stitches of mine," said Rotha looking
up. "It would tear every time."
"How in the world did you come to have such ridiculous stockings? Such
stockings are expensive. I do not indulge myself with them; and I might,
better than your mother."
"Poor people always think they must have things fine, I suppose," said
Antoinette. "I wonder what sort of shoes she has, to go with the
stockings?"
The blood flushed to Rotha's face; and irritation pricked her to retort
sharply; yet she did not wish to speak Mr. Digby's name again. She
hesitated.
"Whose nonsense was that?" asked Mrs. Busby; "yours, or your mother's? I
never heard anything equal to it in my life. I dare say they are
Balbriggans. I should not be at all surprised!"
"I do not know what they are," said Rotha, striving to hold in her wrath,
"but they are not my mother's nonsense, nor mine."
"Whose then?" said Mrs. Busby sharply.
Rotha hesitated.
"Mrs. Mowbray's!" cried Antoinette. "It is Mrs. Mowbray again! Mamma, I
should think you would feel yourself insulted. Mrs. Mowbray is
ridiculous! As if you could not get proper stockings for Rotha, but she
must put her hand in."
"I think it is very indelicate of Mrs. Mowbray; and Rotha is welcome to
tell her I say so," Mrs. Busby uttered with some discomposure. Rotha's
discomposure on the other hand cooled, and a sense of amusement got up.
It is funny, to see people running hard after the wrong quarry; when they
have no business to be running at all. However, she must speak now.
"It is not Mrs. Mowbray's nonsense either," she said. "Mr. Southwode got
them for me."
"Mr. Southwode!"--Mrs. Busby spoke out those two words, and the rest of
her mind she kept to herself.
"Mamma," said Antoinette, "Mr. Southwode is as great a goose as other
folks. But then, gentlemen don't know things--how should they?"
"You are a goose yourself, Antoinette," said her mother.
"Have you no cotton a little finer? I mean a good deal finer?" said
Rotha, going back to the business question.
"There are no stockings in my house to need it."
"Then what shall I do? There are two or three little holes in the toes."
"I will tell you. I will get you some stockings fit for you; and you may
bring those to me. I will take care of them till you want them, which
will not be for a long time."
Rotha turned cold with dismay. This was usurpation and oppression at
once; against both which it was in her nature to rebel furiously. She was
fond of the stockings, as of everything which Mr. Southwode had got for
her; moreover they suited her, and she liked the delicate comfort of
them. And though nothing less than suspicious, Rotha had a sudden feeling
that the time for her to see her stockings again would never come; they
would be put to other use, and Mrs. Busby would think it was a fair
exchange. _She_ would wear the coarse and Antoinette would have the fine.
There was a terrible tempest in Rotha's soul, which nevertheless she did
not suffer to burst out. She would appeal to Mrs. Mowbray. She took leave
somewhat curtly, carrying her two quires of paper with her, but leaving
the coarse darning cotton which she did not intend to use.
CHAPTER XX.
STOCKINGS.
Rotha went home in a storm of feelings, so tumultuous and conflicting
that her eyes were dropping tears all the way. All the strength there was
in her rose against this new injury; while a feeling of powerlessness
made her tremble lest after all, she would be obliged to submit to it.
She writhed under the bonds of circumstance. Could Mrs. Mowbray protect
her? and if not, must her fine stockings go, to be worn upon her cousin's
feet, or her aunt's? The up-rising surges of Rotha's rage were touched
and coloured by just one ray of light; she had entered a new service, she
had therewith got a new Protector and Helper. That thought made the tears
come. She was no longer a hopeless slave to her own passions; there was
deliverance. "Jesus is my King now! he will take care of me, and he will
help me to do right." So she thought as she ran along. For, precisely
what Adam and Eve lost by disobedience, in one respect, their descendants
regain as soon as they return to their allegiance and become obedient.
The riven bond is united again; the lost protection is restored; they
have come "from the power of Satan, to God"; and under his banner which
now floats over them, the motto of which is "Love," they are safe from
all the wiles and the force of the enemy. Rotha was feeling this already;
already rejoicing in the new peace which is the very air of the kingdom
she had entered; glad that she was no longer to depend on herself, to
fight her battles alone. For between her aunt and her own heart, the
battle threatened to be hot.
It was dinner-time when she got home, and no time to speak to Mrs.
Mowbray. And Rotha had to watch a good while before she could find a
chance to speak to her in private. At last in the course of the evening
she got near enough to say in a low tone,
"Mrs. Mowbray, can I see you for a minute by and by?"
"Is it business?" the lady asked in the same tone, at the same time
opening a Chinese puzzle box and putting it before another of her pupil-
guests.
"It is business to me," Rotha answered.
"Troublesome business?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"We cannot talk it over here, then. I will come to your room by and by."
Which indeed she did. She came when the work of the day was behind her;
and what a day! She had entertained some of her girls with a visit to the
book-making operations of the American Bible Society; she had taken
others to a picture gallery; she had packed a box to send to a poor
friend in the country; she had looked over a bookseller's stock to see
what he had that could be of service to her in her work; she had paid two
visits to relations in the city; she had kept the whole group of her
pupils happily entertained all the evening with pictures and puzzles; and
now she came to be a sympathizing, patient, helpful friend to one little
tired heart. She came in cheery and bright; looked to see if the room
were comfortable and entirely arranged as it should be, and then took a
seat and an air of expectant readiness. Was she tired? Perhaps--but it
did not appear. What if she were tired? if here was more work that God
had given her to do. She did not shew fatigue, in look or manner. She
might have just risen after a night's sleep.
"Are you comfortable here, my dear?"
"O very, ma'am, thank you."
"Now what is the business you want to speak about?"
"I want you to tell me what I ought to do!"
"About what? Have you had a pleasant day?"
"Not at all pleasant."
"How happened that?"
"It was partly my fault."
"Not altogether?" Mrs. Mowbray asked with a smile that was very kindly.
"I do not think it was all my fault, ma'am. Partly it was. I lost my
temper, and got angry, and said what I thought, and aunt Serena banished
me. Then at luncheon I apologized and asked pardon; I did all I could.
But that wasn't the trouble. Aunt Serena told me to bring her all my nice
stockings, and she would get me coarser and commoner ones. Must I do it?"
And Rotha's eyes looked up anxiously into the lace of her oracle.
"What made her give you such an order?"
Rotha hesitated, and said at last she did not know.
"Are your stockings too fine for proper protection to your feet in cold
weather?"
"O, no, ma'am! nothing was said about _that_ at all; only I am a poor
girl, and have no business to have fine stockings."
"How came you to have them so fine?"
"They were given to me. They were got for me; by a friend who was not
poor. Are they not mine now?"
"And you say your aunt wants them?"
"Says I must bring them to her, and she will get me some more fit for
me."
"What does she want with them?" cried Mrs. Mowbray sharply.
"She says _she_ has none so fine, and she will keep them till I want
them; but when would that be?"
"What did you say?"
"I said nothing. I was too terribly angry. I got out of the house without
saying anything. It all came from asking her for some darning cotton to
mend them; and what she gave me was too coarse."
"I have got fine darning cotton," said Mrs. Mowbray. "I will give you
some."
"Then you do not think I need let her have them? Dear Mrs. Mowbray, has
she any _right_ to take my things from me?"
"I should say not," Mrs. Mowbray answered.
"Then you think I may refuse when she asks me for them?" said Rotha,
joyfully.
"What is your rule of action, my dear?"
"My rule?" said Rotha, growing grave again. "I think, Mrs. Mowbray, I
want to do what is right."
"There is a further question. Do you want to do what I think right, or
what you think right, or--what God thinks right?"
"I want to do _that_," said Rotha, with her heart beating very
disagreeably. "I want to do what God thinks right."
"Then I advise you, my dear, to ask him."
"Ask him what, madame?"
"Ask what you ought to do in the circumstances. I confess I am not ready
with the answer. My first feeling is with you, that your aunt has no
right to take such a step; but, my dear, it is sometimes our duty to
suffer wrong. And you are under her care; she is the nearest relative you
have; you must consider what is due to her in that connection. She stands
to you in the place of your parents--"
"O no, ma'am!" Rotha exclaimed. "Never! Not the least bit."
"Not as entitled to affection, but as having a right to respect and
observance. You cannot change that fact, my dear. Whether you love her or
not, you owe her observance; and within certain limits, obedience. She
stands in that place with regard to you."
"But my own mother gave me to Mr. Southwode."
"He could not take care of you properly; as he shewed that he was aware
when he placed you under the protection of your aunt."
"She will never protect me," said Rotha. "She will do the other thing."
"Well, my dear, that does not change the circumstances," said Mrs.
Mowbray rising.
"Then you think"--said Rotha in great dismay--"you think I ought to pray,
to know what I ought to do?"
"Yes. I know no better way. If you desire to do the will of the Lord, and
not your own."
"But how shall I get the answer?"
"Look in the Bible for it. You will get it. And now, good night, my dear
child! Don't sit up to-night to think about it; it is late. Start fresh
to-morrow. You have a good time for that sort of study, now in the
holidays."
She gave a kind embrace to Rotha; and the girl went to bed soothed and
comforted. True, her blood boiled when she thought of her stockings; but
she tried not to think of them, and soon was beyond thinking of anything.
The next day was filled with a white snow storm; with flurries of wind
and thick, driving atoms of frost, that chased everybody out of the
streets who was brought thither by anything short of stern business. A
lovely day to make the house and one's own room seem cosy and cheery. It
was positive delight to hear the sharp crystals beat on the window panes
and to see the swirling eddies and gusts of them as the wind carried them
by, almost in mass. It made quiet and warmth and comfort feel so much the
more delicious. Rotha had retreated to her room after breakfast and
betaken herself to her appointed work.
Her Bible had a new look to her. It was now not simply a book Mrs.
Mowbray had given her; that was half lost in the feeling that it was a
book God had given her. As such, something very dear and reverent,
precious and wonderful, and most sweet. Not any longer an awesome book of
adverse law, with which she was at cross purposes; but a letter of love,
containing the mind and will of One whom it was her utter pleasure to
obey. The change was so great, Rotha lingered a little, in admiring
contemplation of it; and then betook herself to the business in hand. How
should she do? She thought the best way would be to ask earnestly for
light on her duty; then to open the Bible and see what she could find.
She prayed her prayer, honestly and earnestly, but she hoped, quite as
earnestly, that it would not be her duty to let her aunt have her fine
stockings.
And here lies the one great difficulty in the way of finding what the
Bible really says on any given subject which concerns our action. Looking
through a red veil, you do not get the right colour of blue; and looking
through blue, you will easily turn gold into green. Or, to change the
figure; if your ears are filled with the din of passion or the clamour of
desire, the soft, fine voice of the Spirit in the word or in the heart is
easily drowned and lost. So says F?nelon, and right justly--"O how rare a
thing is it, to find a soul still enough to hear God speak!"
The other supposed difficulty, that the Bible does not speak directly of
the subject about which you are inquiring, does not hold good. It may be
true; nevertheless, as one or two notes, clearly heard, will give you the
whole chord, even so it is with this heavenly music of the Lord's will.
Rotha did not in the least know where to look for the decision she
wanted; she thought the best thing therefore would be to go on with that
same chapter of Matthew from which she had already got so much light. She
had done what in her lay to be "reconciled to her brother," alias her
aunt; she was all ready to go further. Would the next saying be as hard?
She read on, for a number of verses, without coming to anything that
touched her present purpose. Then suddenly she started. What was this?
"Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for
a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall
smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man
will sue thee at the law and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak
also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain."--
Rotha stared at the words first, as if they had risen out of the ground
to confront her; and then put both hands to her face. For there was
conflict again; her whole soul in a tumult of resistance and rebellion.
Let her aunt do her this wrong! But there it stood written--"That ye
resist not evil." "O why, thought Rotha, why may not evil be resisted?
And people _do_ resist it, and go to law, and do everything they can, to
prevent being trampled upon? Must one let oneself be trampled upon? Why?
Justice should be done; and this is not justice. I wish Mrs. Mowbray
would come in, that I might ask her! I do _not_ understand it."
At the moment, as if summoned by her wish, Mrs. Mowbray tapped at the
door; she wanted to get something out of a closet in that room, and
apologized for disturbing Rotha.
"You are not disturbing--O Mrs. Mowbray, are you _very_ busy?" cried the
girl.
"Always busy, my dear," said the lady pleasantly. "I am always busy. What
is it?"
"Nothing--if you are _too_ busy," said Rotha.
"I am never too busy when you want my help. Do you want help now?"
"O very much! I can_not_ understand things."
"Well, wait a moment, and I will come to you."
Rotha straightened herself up, taking hope; set a chair for Mrs. Mowbray,
and received her with a face already lightened of part of its shadow of
care.
"It is this, Mrs. Mowbray. I was looking, as you told me, to see what I
ought to do; and look here,--I came to this:--'That ye resist not evil.'
Why? Is it not right to resist evil?"
"Read the passage; read the whole passage, to the end of the chapter."
Rotha read it; the verses she had been studying, and then, "Ye have heard
that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine
enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you,
do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use
you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which
is in heaven:"--Rotha read on to the end of the chapter.
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray then, "do you think you could love your
enemies and pray for them, if you were busy fighting and resisting them?"
"I do not know," said Rotha. "Perhaps not. I do not think it would be
easy any way."
"It is not easy. Do you not see that it would be simply impossible to do
the two things at once? You must take the one course or the other; either
do your best to repel force with force, resist, struggle, go to law, give
people what they deserve; or, you must go with your hands full of
forgiveness and your heart full of kindness, passing by offence and even
suffering wrong, if perhaps you may conquer evil with good, and win
people with love, and so save them from great loss. It is worth bearing a
little loss oneself to do that."
"But is it _right_ to let people do wrong things and not stop them? Isn't
it right to go to law?"
"Sometimes, where the interests of others are at stake. But if it is only
a little discomfort for you or me at the moment, I think the Bible says,
Forgive,--let it pass,--and love and pray the people into better
behaviour, if you can."
"I never can, aunt Serena," said Rotha low.
"My dear, you cannot tell."
"Then I ought to let her have my stockings?" Rotha said again after a
pause.
"That is a question for you to judge of. But can you forgive and love
her, and resist her at the same time? You could, if what she asks
demanded a wrong action from you; but it is only a disagreeable one."
"Is it only because it is so disagreeable, that it seems to me so wrong?"
"I think it _is_ wrong in your aunt; but that is not the question we have
to deal with."
"And if one man strikes another man--do you think he ought to give him a
chance to strike him again?"
"What do the words _say?_"
Rotha looked at the words, as if they ought to mean something different
from what they said.
"I will tell you a true story," Mrs. Mowbray went on. "Something that
really once happened; and then you can judge. It was in a large
manufacturing establishment, somewhere out West. The master of the
establishment--I think he was an Englishman?-had occasion to reprove one
of his underlings for something; I don't know what; but the man got into
a great rage and struck him a blow flat in the face. The master turned
red, and turned pale; stood still a moment, and then offered the man the
other side of his face for another blow. The man's fist was already
clenched to strike,--but at seeing that, he wavered, his arm fell down,
and he burst into tears. He was conquered.--
"What do you think?"
"He was a very extraordinary man!" said Rotha.
"Which?" said Mrs. Mowbray smiling.
"O I mean the master."
"But what do you think of that plan of dealing with an injury?"
"But does the Bible really mean that we should do so?"
"What does it _say_, my dear? It is always quite safe to conclude that
God means what he says."
"People don't act as if they thought so."
"What then?"
"Mrs. Mowbray, I don't see how a man _could_."
"By the grace of God."
"I suppose, by that one could do anything," said Rotha thoughtfully.
Silence fell, which Mrs. Mowbray would not break. She watched the girl's
face, which shewed thoughts working and some struggle going on. The
struggle was so absorbing, that Rotha did not notice the silence, nor
know how long it lasted.
"Then--you think--" she began,--"according to--that I ought--"
The words came slowly and with some inner protest. Mrs. Mowbray rose.
"It is no matter what I think. The decision must be made by yourself
independently. Study it, and pray over it; and I pray you may decide
rightly."
"But if _you_ thought, Mrs. Mowbray--" Rotha began.
"It is not I whom you have to obey, my child. I think your case is not an
easy one; it would not be for me; I believe it would rouse all the
wickedness there is in me; but, as you said, by the grace of God one can
do anything. I shall pray for you, my dear."
She left the room, though Rotha would fain have detained her. It was much
easier to talk than to act; and now she was thrown back upon the
necessity for action. She sat leaning over the Bible, looking at the
words; uncompromising, simple, clear words, but so hard, so hard, to
obey! "If he compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain." And then
Rotha's will took such a hold of her stockings, that it seemed as if she
never could let them go. It was injustice! it was oppression! it was
extortion! it was more, something else that Rotha could not define. Yes,
true, but--"if he take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also."
A long while Rotha worried over those words; and then stole into her mind
another thought, coming with the subtlety and the peace of a sunbeam.--It
is not for aunt Serena; it is for Christ; you are his servant, and these
are his commands.--It is true! thought Rotha, with a sudden casting off
of the burden that was upon her; I _am_ his servant; and since this is his
pleasure, why, it is mine. Aunt Serena may have the things; what does it
signify? but I have a chance to please God in giving them up; and here I
have been trying as hard as I could to fight off from doing it. A pretty
sort of a Christian I am! But--and O what a joy came with the
consciousness--I think the Lord is beginning to take away my stony heart.
The feeling of being indeed a servant of the Lord Christ seemed to
transform things to Rotha's vision. And among other things, the words of
the Bible, which were suddenly become very bright and very sweet to her.
The question in hand being settled, and no fear of the words any longer
possessing her, it occurred to her to take her "Treasury of Scripture
Knowledge" and see what more there might be about this point of not
resisting evil. She found first a word back in Leviticus----
"Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy
people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."--Lev. xix. 18.
It struck Rotha's conscience. This went even further than turning the
cheek and resigning the cloak; (or she thought so) for it forbade her
withal to harbour any grudge against the wrong doer. Not have a grudge
against her aunt, after giving up the stockings to her? Yet Rotha saw and
acknowledged presently that only so could the action be thoroughly sound
and true; only so could there be no danger of nullifying it by some
sudden subsequent action. But bear _no grudge?_ Well, by the grace of
God, perhaps. Yes, that could do everything.
She went on, meanwhile, and read some passages of David's life; telling
how he refused to take advantage of opportunities to avenge himself upon
Saul, who was seeking his life at the time. The sweet, noble, humble
temper of the young soldier and captain, appeared very manifest and very
beautiful; at the same time, Rotha thought she could easier have forgiven
Saul, in David's place, than in her own she could forgive Mrs. Busby.
Some other words about not avenging oneself she passed over; _that_ was
not the point with her; and then she came to a word in Romans,----
"If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all
men."
That confirmed her decision, and loudly. If she would live peaceably with
Mrs. Busby, no doubt she must do her will in the matter of the stockings.
But "with all men," and "as much as lieth in you"; those were weighty
words, well to be pondered and laid to heart. Evidently the Lord would
have his servants to be quiet people and kindly; not so much bent on
having their own rights, as careful to put no hindrance in the way of
their good influence and example. And I am one of his people, thought
Rotha joyously. I will try all I can. And it is very plain that I must
not bear a grudge in my heart; for if it was there, I could never keep it
from coming out.
Then she read a verse in 1 Corinthians vi. 7. "Now therefore there is
utterly a fault among you, because ye go to law one with another. _Why do
ye not rather take wrong?_ why do ye not rather suffer yourselves to be
defrauded?" It did not stumble her now. Looking upon all these
regulations as opportunities to make patent her service of Christ and to
please him, they won quite a pleasant aspect. The words of the hymn, so
paradoxical till one comes to work them out, were already verified in her
experience--
"He always wins who sides with God;
To him no chance is lost.
_God's will is sweetest to him when
It triumphs at his cost_."
Ay, for then he tastes the doing of it, pure, and unmixed with the
sweetness of doing his own will.
And then came,--"Not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing; but
contrariwise blessing; knowing that ye are thereunto called, that ye
should inherit a blessing."--1 Peter iii. 9.
"Contrariwise, _blessing_." According to that, she must seek out some way
of helping or pleasing her aunt, as a return for her behaviour about the
stockings. And strangely enough, there began to come into her heart, for
the first time, a feeling of pity for Mrs. Busby. Rotha did not believe
she was near as happy, with all her money, as her little penniless self
with her Bible. No, nor half as rich. What could she do, to shew good
will towards her?
There was nobody at the dinner table that evening, who looked happier
than Rotha; there was nobody who enjoyed everything so well. For I am the
servant of Christ she said to herself. A little while later, in the
library, whither they all repaired, she was again lost in the
architecture of the 13th and 14th centuries, and in studying Fergusson.
She started when Mrs. Mowbray spoke to her.
"How did you determine your question, my dear?"
Rotha lifted her head, threw back the dark masses of her hair, and
cleared the arches of Rivaulx out of her eyes.
"O,--I am going to let her have them," she said.
"What she demanded?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
"The words seemed plain, madame, when I came to look at them. That about
letting the cloak go, you know; and, 'If it be possible, . . . live
peaceably with all men.' If I was going to live peaceably, I knew I
must."
"And you are inclined now to live peaceably with the person in question?"
"O yes, ma'am," said Rotha. She smiled frankly in Mrs. Mowbray's face as
she said it; and she was puzzled to know what made that lady's eyes
swiftly fill with tears. They filled full. Rotha went back to her
stereoscope.
"What have you there, my dear?"
"O this old abbey, Mrs. Mowbray; it is just a ruin, but it is so
beautiful! Will you look?"
Mrs. Mowbray put the glass to her eye.
"It is a severe style--" she remarked.
"Is it?"
"And it was built at a severe time of religious strictness in the order
to which it belonged. They were a colony from Clairvaux; and the prior of
Clairvaux, Bernard, was the most remarkable man of his time; remarkable
through his goodness. In all Europe there was not another man, crowned or
uncrowned, who had the social and political power of that man. Yet he was
a simple monk, and devoted to God's service."
"I do not know much about monks," Rotha remarked.
"You can know a good deal about them, if you will read that work of
Montalembert on the monks of the Middle Ages. Make haste and learn to
read French. You must know that first."
"Is it in French?"
"Yes."
Rotha thought as she laid down Rivaulx and took up Tintern abbey, that
there was a good deal to learn. Pier next word was an exclamation.
"O how beautiful, how beautiful! It is just a door, Mrs. Mowbray,
belonging to Tintern abbey, a door and some ivy; but it is so pretty! How
came so many of these beautiful abbeys and things to be in ruins?"
"Henry the Eighth had the monks driven out and the roofs stripped off.
When you take the roof off a building, the weather gets in, and it goes
to ruin very fast."
Henry the Eighth was little more than a name yet to Rotha. "What did he
do that for?" she asked.
"I believe he wanted to turn the metal sheathing of the roofs into money.
And he wanted to put down the monastic orders."
"Mrs. Mowbray, this abbey was pretty old before it was made a ruin."
"How do you know?"
"Because, I see it. Only half of the door was accustomed to be opened;
and the stone before the door on that side is ever so much worn away. So
many feet had gone in and out there."
Mrs. Mowbray took the glass to look. "I never noticed that before," she
said.
So went the days of the vacation, pleasantly and sweetly after that.
Rotha enjoyed herself hugely. She had free access to the library, which
was rich in engravings and illustrations, and in best works of reference
upon every subject that she could wish to look into. Sometimes she went
driving with Mrs. Mowbray. Morning, evening, and day were all pleasant to
her; the leisure was busily filled up, and the time fruitful. With the
other young ladies remaining in the house for the holidays, she had
little to do; little beyond what courtesy demanded. Their pleasures and
pursuits were so diverse from her own that there could be little
fellowship. One was much taken up with shopping and visits to her mantua-
maker; several were engrossed with fancy work; some went out a great
deal; all had an air of dawdling. They fell away from Rotha, quite
naturally; all the more that she was getting the name of being a
favourite of Mrs. Mowbray's. But Rotha as naturally fell away from them.
None of them cared for the stereoscope, or shared in the least her
pleasure in the lines and mouldings and proportions of glorious
architecture. And Rotha herself could not have talked of lines or
mouldings; she only knew that she found delight; she did not know why.
CHAPTER XXI.
EDUCATION.
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, the last day of December, "would you like
to have the little end room?"
Rotha looked up. "Where Miss Jewett sleeps?"
"That room. I am going to place Miss Jewett differently. Would you like
to have it?"
"For myself?"--Rotha's eyes brightened.
"It is only big enough for one. You may have it, if you like. And move
your things into it to-day, my dear. The young ladies who live in this
room will be coming back the day after to-morrow."
With indescribable joy Rotha obeyed this command. The room in question
was one cut off from the end of a narrow hall; very small accordingly;
there was just space for a narrow bed, a wardrobe, a little washstand, a
small dressing table with drawers, and one chair. But it was privacy and
leisure; and Rotha moved her clothes and books and took possession that
very day. Mrs. Mowbray looked in, just as she had finished her
arrangements.
"Are you going to be comfortable here?" she said. "My dear, I thought, in
that other room you would have no chance to study your Bible."
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! I am so delighted."
"There is a rule in Miss Manners' school at Meriden, that at the ringing
of a bell, morning and evening, each young lady should go to her room to
be alone with her Bible for twenty minutes. The house is so arranged that
every one can be alone at that time. It is a good rule. I wish I could
establish it here; but it would do more harm than it would good in my
family. My dear, your aunt has sent word that she wishes to see you."
Rotha's colour suddenly started. "I suppose I know what that means!" she
said.
"The stockings?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What are you going to do?"
"O I am going to take them."
"And, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, kissing Rotha, "pray for grace to do
it _pleasantly_."
Yes, that was something needed, Rotha felt as she went through the
streets. Her heart was a little bitter.
She found her aunt's house in a state of preparation; covers off the
drawing-room furniture, greens disposed about the walls, servants busy.
Mrs. Busby was in her dressing-room; and there too, on the sofa, in mere
wantonness of idleness, for she was not sick, lay Antoinette; a somewhat
striking figure, in a dress of white silk, and looking very pretty
indeed. Also looking as if she knew it.
"Good morning, Rotha!" she cried. "This is the dress I am to wear to-
morrow. I'm trying it on."
"She's very ridiculous," Mrs. Busby remarked, in a smiling tone of
complacency.
"What is to be to-morrow?" Rotha inquired pleasantly. The question
brought Antoinette up to a sitting posture.
"Why don't you know?" she said. "_Don't_ you know? Mamma, is it possible
anybody of Rotha's size shouldn't know what day New Year's is?"
"New Year's! O yes, I remember; people make visits, don't they?"
"Gentlemen; and ladies receive visits. It is the greatest day of all the
year, if you have visitors enough. And I eat supper all day long. We have
a supper table set, and hot oysters, and ice cream, and coffee, and cake;
and I never want any dinner when it comes."
"That is a very foolish way," said her mother. "Did you bring the
stockings, Rotha?"
Silently, she could not say anything "pleasantly" at the moment, Rotha
delivered her package of stockings neatly put up. Mrs. Busby opened and
examined, Antoinette running up to look too.
"Mamma! how ridiculously nice!" she exclaimed. "You never gave me any as
good as those."
"No, I should hope not," said her mother. "Here are eleven pair, Rotha."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Were there not twelve?"
"Yes, ma'am. The other pair I have on."
"They are a great deal too thin for this time of year. Here are some
thicker I have got for you. Sit down and put a pair of these on, and let
me have those."
Every fibre of her nature rebelling, Rotha sat down to unbutton her boot.
It was hard to keep silence, to speak "pleasantly" impossible. Tears were
near. Rotha bent over her boot and prayed for help. And then the thought
came, fragrant and sweet,--I am the servant of Christ; this is an
opportunity to obey and please _him_.
And with that she was content. She put on the coarse stockings, which
felt extremely uncomfortable. But then she could not get her boot on. She
tugged at it in vain.
"It is no use," she said at last. "It will not go on, aunt Serena. I
cannot wear my boots with these stockings."
"The boots must be too small," said Mrs. Busby. She came herself, and
pushed and pinched and pulled at the boot. It would not go on.
"What do you get such tight-fitting boots for?" she said, sitting back on
the floor, quite red in the face.
"They are not tight; they fit me perfectly."
"They won't go on!"
"That is the stockings."
"Nonsense! The stockings are proper; the boots are improper. What did you
pay for them?"
"I did not get them."
"What did they cost, then? I suppose you know."
"Six and a half."
"I can get you for three and a half what will do perfectly," said Mrs.
Busby, rising up from the floor. But she sat down, and did not fetch any
boots, as Rotha half expected she would.
"What are you going to do to-morrow, Rotha?" her cousin asked.
"I don't know. What I do every day, I suppose," Rotha answered, trying to
make her voice clear.
"What is Mrs. Mowbray going to do?"
"I do not know."
"I wonder if she receives? Mamma, do you fancy many people would call on
Mrs. Mowbray?"
"Why not?" Rotha could not help asking.
"O, because she is a school teacher, you know. Mamma, do you think there
would?"
"I dare say. Your father will go, I have no doubt."
"O, because she teaches me. And other fathers will go, I suppose. What a
stupid time they will have!"
"Who?" said Rotha.
"All of you together. I am glad I'm not there."
"I shall not be there either. I shall be up stairs in my room."
"Looking at your Russia leather bag. Why didn't you bring it for us to
see? But your room means three or four other people's room, don't it?"
It was on Rotha's lips to say that she had a room to herself; she shut
them and did not say it. A sense of fun began to mingle with her inward
anger. Here she was in her stockings, unable to get her feet into her
boots.
"How am I to get home, ma'am?" she asked as demurely as she could.
"Antoinette, haven't you a pair of old boots or shoes, that Rotha could
get home in?"
"What should I do when I got there? I could not wear old boots about the
house. Mrs. Mowbray would not like it."
"Nettie, do you hear me?" Mrs. Busby said sharply. "Get something of
yours to put on Rotha's feet."
"If she can't wear her own, she couldn't wear mine--" said Miss Nettie,
unwilling to furnish positive evidence that her foot was larger than her
cousin's. Her mother insisted however, and the boots were brought. They
went on easily enough.
"But these would never do to walk in," objected Rotha. "My feet feel as
if each one had a whole barn to itself. Look, aunt Serena. And I could
not go to the parlour in them."
"I don't see but you'll have to, if you can't get your own on. You'll
have worse things than that to do before you die. I wouldn't be a baby,
and cry about it."
For Rotha's lips were trembling and her eyes were suddenly full. Her neat
feet transformed into untidy, shovelling things like these! and her
quick, clean gait to be exchanged for a boggling and clumping along as if
her feet were in loose boxes. It was a token how earnest and true was
Rotha's beginning obedience of service, that she stooped down and laced
the boots up, without saying another word, though tears of mortification
fell on the carpet. She was saying to herself, "If it be possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." She rose up and made
her adieux, as briefly as she could.
"Are you not going to thank me?" said Mrs. Busby. A dangerous flash came
from Rotha's eyes.
"For what, aunt Serena?"
"For the trouble I have taken for you, not to speak of the expense."
Rotha was silent, biting in her words, as it were.
"Why don't you speak? You can at least be civil."
"I don't know if I can," said Rotha. "It is difficult. I think my best
way of being civil is to hold my tongue. I must go--Good bye, ma'am!--"
and she staid for no more, but ran out and down the stairs. She paused as
she passed the open parlour door, paused on the stairs, and then went on
and took the trouble to go a few steps back through the hall to get the
interior view more perfectly. The grate was heaped full of coals in a
state of vivid glow, the red warm reflections came from, crimson carpet
and polished rosewood and gilding of curtain ornaments. Antoinette's
piano gave back the shimmer, and the thick rug before the hearth looked
like a nest of comfort. So did the whole room. A feeling of the security
and blessedness of a home came over Rotha. This was home to Antoinette.
It was not home to herself, nor was any other place in all the earth. Not
Mrs. Mowbray's kind house; it was kind, but it was not _home;_ and a keen
wish crept into the girl's heart. To have a home somewhere! Would the
time ever be? Must she perhaps, as her aunt foretold, be a houseless
wanderer, teaching in other people's homes, and having none? Rotha looked
and ran away; and as her feet went painfully clumping along the streets
in Antoinette's big boots, some tears of forlornness dropped on the
pavement. They were hot and bitter.
But I am a servant of Christ--thought Rotha,--I _am_ a servant of Christ;
I have been fighting to obey him this afternoon, and he has helped me. He
will be with me, at any rate; and he can take care of my home and give it
me, if he pleases. I needn't worry. I'll just let him take care.
So with that the tears dried again, and Rotha entered Mrs. Mowbray's
house more light-hearted than she had left it. She took off her
wrappings, and sought Mrs. Mowbray out.
"Madame," she said, looking at her feet, "I wanted you to know, that if I
do not look nice as I should, it is not my fault."
Mrs. Mowbray's eyes likewise went to the boots, and staid there. She had
a little struggle with herself, not to speak what she felt.
"What is the matter, Rotha?"
"You see, Mrs. Mowbray. My boots would not go on over the thick
stockings; so I have had to put on a pair of Antoinette's boots. So if I
walk queerly, I want you to know I cannot help it."
"You have more stockings than that pair, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am; enough to last a good while."
"Let me see them."
Mrs. Mowbray examined the thick web.
"Did you and your aunt have a fight over these?"
"No, madame," said Rotha softly.
"How was it then? You put them on quietly, and without remonstrance?"
"Not exactly without remonstrance. But I didn't say much. I did not trust
myself to say much. I knew I should say too much."
"What made you fear that?"
"I was so angry, ma'am."
There came some tears again, dropping from Rotha's eyes. Mrs. Mowbray
drew her down with a sudden movement, into her arms, and kissed her over
and over again.
"My dear," she said with a merry change of tone, "thick stockings are not
the worst things in the world!"
"No, ma'am."
"You don't think so."
"No, ma'am."
"It will be a good check to your vanity, eh?"
"Am I vain, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I don't know! most people are. Isn't it vanity, that makes you dislike
to see your feet in shoes too large for them?"
"Is it?" said Rotha. "But it is right to like to look nice, Mrs. Mowbray,
is it not?"
"It is right to like to see everything look nice, therefore of course
oneself included."
"Then that is not vanity."
"No,--but vanity is near. It all depends on what you want to look nice
for."
Rotha looked an inquiry.
"What _do_ you want to look nice for?" Mrs. Mowbray asked smiling.
"I suppose," Rotha said slowly, "one likes to have people like one."
"And you think the question of dress has to do with that?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do."
"Well, so do I. But then--_why_ do you want people to like you? What
for?"
"One cannot help it," said Rotha, her eyes opening a little at these
self-evident questions.
"Perhaps that is true. However, Rotha, there are two reasons for it and
lying back of the wish; one is one's own pleasure or advantage simply.
The other is--the honour and service of God."
"How, ma'am? I do not see."
"Just using dress like everything else, as--a means of influence. I knew
a lady who told me that since she was a child, she had never dressed
herself that she did not do it for Christ."
Rotha was silent and pondered. "Mrs. Mowbray, I think that is beautiful,"
she said then.
"So do I, my dear."
"But that would not make me like these boots any better."
"No," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "Naturally. But I think nevertheless,
in the circumstances, it would be better for you to wear them, at least
during some of this winter weather, than to discard them and put on
others. You shall judge yourself. What would be the effect, if, being
known to have plenty of shoes and stockings to cover your feet, you cast
them aside, and I procured you others, better looking?"
"O you could not do that!" cried Rotha.
"If I followed my inclinations, I should do it But what would the
effect be?"
Rotha considered. "I suppose,--I should be called very proud; and you,
madame, very extravagant, and partial."
"Not a desirable effect."
"No, madame. O no! I must wear these things." Rotha sighed.
"Especially as we are both called Christians."
"Yes, madame. There are a good many right things that are hard to do,
Mrs. Mowbray!"
"Else there would be no taking up the cross. But we ought to welcome any
occasion of honouring our profession, even if it be a cross."
Rotha went away much comforted. Yet the clumsy foot gear remained a
constant discomfort to her, every time she put them on and every time she
felt the heavy clump they gave to her gait. Happily, she had no leisure
to dwell on these things.
The holidays were ended, and the girls came trooping back from their
various homes or places of pleasure. They came, as usual, somewhat
disorganized by idleness and license. Study went hard, and discipline
seemed unbearable; tempers were in an uncertain and irritable state.
Rotha hugged herself that she had her own little corner room, in which
she could be quite private and removed from all share in the dissensions
and murmurings, which she knew abounded elsewhere. It was a very little
room; but it held her and her books and her modest wardrobe too; and
Rotha bent herself to her studies with great ardour and delight. She knew
she was not popular among the girls; the very fact of her having a room
to herself would almost have accounted for that; "there was no reason on
earth why she should have it," as one of them said; and Mrs. Mowbray was
accused of favouritism. Furthermore, Rotha was declared to be "nobody,"
and known to be poor; there was no advantage to be gained by being her
adherent; and the world goes by advantage. Added to all which, she was
distancing in her studies all the girls near her own age, and becoming
known as the cleverest one in the house. No wonder Rotha had looks
askance and frequently the cold shoulder. Her temperament, however, made
her half unconscious of this, and when conscious, comfortably
independent. She was one of those natures which live a concentrated life;
loving deeply and seeking eagerly the good opinion of a few; to all the
rest of the world careless and superior. She was polite and pleasant in
her manners, which was easy, she was so happy; but she was hardly winning
or ingratiating; too independent; and too outspoken.
The rule was that at the ringing of a bell in the morning all the girls
should rise; and at the ringing of a second bell everybody should repair
to the parlours for prayers and reading the Bible. The interval between
the two bells was amply sufficient to allow the most fastidious dresser
to make her toilette. But the hour was early; and the rousing bell an
object of great detestation; also, it may be said, the half hour given to
the Scriptures and prayer was a weariness if not to the flesh to the
spirit, of many in the family. So it sometimes happened that one and
another was behind time, and came into the parlour while the reading was
going on, or after prayers were over. Mrs. Mowbray remarked upon this
once or twice. Then came an outbreak; which allowed Rotha to see a new
side of her friend's character, or to see it more plainly than
heretofore. It was one morning a week or two after school had begun
again; a cold morning in January. The gas was lit in the parlours; Mrs.
Mowbray was at the table with her books; the girls seated in long lines
around the rooms, each with a Bible.
"Where is Miss Bransome?" Mrs. Mowbray asked, looking along the lines of
faces. "And Miss Dunstable?"
Nobody spoke.
"Miss Foster, will you have the kindness to go up to Miss Bransome and
Miss Dunstable, and tell them we are waiting for them?"
The young lady went. Profound silence. Then appeared, after some delay,
the missing members of the family; they came in and took their seats in
silence.
"Good morning, young ladies!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "Have you slept well?"
"Quite well, madame,"--one of them answered, making an expressive facial
sign to her neighbours on the other side, which Rotha saw and greatly
resented.
"So well that you did not hear the bell?" Mrs. Mowbray went on.
Silence.
"Answer, if you please. Did you hear the bell?"
"I did, madame," came in faint tones from one of the young ladies; and a
still more smothered affirmative from the other.
"Then why were you late?"
Again silence. Profound attention in all parts of the rooms; nobody
stirring.
"It has happened once or twice before. Now, young ladies, please take
notice," said Mrs. Mowbray, raising her voice somewhat. "If any young
lady is not in her place here at seven o'clock, I shall go up for her
myself; and if I go up for her, she will have to come down with me, just
as she is. I will bring you down in your nightgown, if you are not out of
it before I come for you; you shall come down in your night dress, here,
to the parlour. So now you know what you have to expect; and remember, I
always keep my promises."
The silence was awful, Rotha thought. It was unbroken, even by a
movement, until Mrs. Mowbray turned round to her book and took up the
interrupted reading. Very decorously the reading went on and ended; in
subdued good order the girls came to the table and eat their breakfast;
but there were smouldering fires under this calm exterior; and it was to
be expected that when the chance came the fire would break forth.
The chance came that same evening before tea. The girls were gathered,
preparatory to that ceremony, in the warm, well lighted rooms; and as the
custom was, each one had her favourite bit of ornamental work in hand. It
was a small leisure time. No teacher, as it happened, was in the front
parlour where Rotha sat, deep in a book; and a conversation began near
her, in under tones to be sure, which she could not but hear. Several new
scholars had come into the family at the New Year. One of these, a Miss
Farren, made the remark that Mrs. Mowbray had "showed out" that morning.
"Didn't she!" said another girl. "O that's what she is! You'll see.
That's _just_ what she is."
"She is an old cat!"
This last speaker was Miss Dunstable, and the spitefulness of the words
brought Rotha's head up from her book, with ears pointed and sharpened.
"I thought she looked so sweet," the new comer, Miss Farren, remarked
further. "I was quite taken with her at first. I thought she looked so
pleasant."
"Pleasant! She's as pleasant as a mustard plaster, and as sweet as
cayenne pepper. I'll tell you, Miss Farren; you're a stranger; you may
as well know what you have to expect--"
"Hush, girls!"
"What's the matter?" said the Dunstable, looking round. "There's nobody
near. Jewett has gone off into the other room. No, it is a work of
charity to let Miss Farren into the secrets of her prison house, 'cause
there are two sides to every game. Mrs. M. is a tyrannical, capricious,
hypocritical, domineering, fiery old cat. O she's fiery; you have got to
take care how you rise up and sit down; and she's stiff, she thinks
there's only one way and that's her way; and she's unjust, she has
favourites--"
"They all have favourites!" here put in another.
"She has ridiculous favourites. And she is pious, you'll be deluged with
the Bible and prayers; and she's sanctimonious, you won't get leave to
go to the opera or the theatre, or to do anything lively; and she's
stingy, you'll learn that you must take all the potatoes you want the
first time the dish is handed you, for it won't come a second time; and
she's prudish, she won't let you receive visitors; and she's passionate,
she'll fly out like a volcano if you give her a chance; and she's
obstinate, she'll be as good--or as bad--as her word."
By this time Rotha had sprung to her feet, with ears tingling and cheeks
burning, and stood there like Abdiel among the fallen angels, only indeed
that is comparing great things with small She was less patient and
prudent than Abdiel might have been.
"Miss Farren," she said, speaking with the calmness of intensity, "there
is not one bit of truth in all that Miss Dunstable has been saying to
you."
The young lady addressed looked in surprise at the new speaker. Rotha's
indignant eyes were sending out angry fires. The other girls looked on
too, in scorn and anger, but some awe.
"Miss Carpenter is polite!" said one.
"Her sort," said another, "What you might expect from her family."
"She is a favourite herself," cried a third. "Of course, Mrs. M. is
smooth as butter to her."
"You may say what you like of me," said Rotha; "but you shall not tell a
stranger all sorts of false things about Mrs. Mowbray, without my telling
her that they are false."
"Don't speak so loud!" whispered a stander-by; but Sotha went on,
overpowering and silencing her opponents for the moment by the moral
force of her passionate utterance,--
"She is as kind as it is possible to be. She is kinder than ever you can
think. She is as generous as a horn of plenty, and there is not a small
thread in all her composition. She knows how to govern, and she will
govern you, if you stay in her house; and she will keep her promises, as
you will find to your cost if you break her laws; but she is good, and
sweet, and bountiful, as a goddess of mercy. And whoever says anything
else of her, you may be sure is not worthy of her Kindness; and speaks
not true, but meanly, falsely, ungratefully, and mischievously!"
Rotha stood and blazed at them; and incensed and resentful as they were,
the others were afraid now to say anything; for Mrs. Mowbray herself had
come into the centre room, and other ears were near, which they did not
wish to arouse. It passed for the time; but the next day another of her
companions attacked Rotha on the subject.
"You made Miss Dunstable awfully angry at you last evening, Rotha."
"I suppose so."
"What did you do it for?"
"Because she was telling a pack of lies!" said Rotha. "I'm not going to
sit by and hear anybody talk so of Mrs. Mowbray. And you ought not; and
nobody ought."
"Miss Dunstable will hate you, I can tell you. She'll be your enemy after
this."
"That is nothing to me."
"Yes, it's all very well to say that, but you won't think so when you
come to find out. She belongs to a very rich family, and she is worth
having for a friend."
"A girl like that?" cried Rotha. "A low spirited, false girl? Worth
having for a friend? Not to anybody who is worth anything herself."
"But she is ever so rich."
"What's that to me? Do you think I am going to sit by and hear Mrs.
Mowbray slandered, or anybody else, because the story teller has plenty
of money? What is her money to me?"
"Well, I don't know," said the other deprecatingly. "It puts things in
her power. Her family is one of the best in New York."
"Then the other members of it are much superior to this one!--that's all
I have got to say."
"But Rotha, she can hurt you."
"How?"
"She can make the other girls treat you ill."
"I can bear as much as that for Mrs. Mowbray, I guess."
"What makes you like her so much?"
Rotha's eyes gave a wondering, very expressive, glance at her
interlocutor.
"Because she is so unspeakably good, and beautiful, and generous. She
is a kind of a queen!"
"She likes to rule."
"She _has_ to rule. What sort of a place would the house be, if she did
not rule?"
"But, Julia Dunstable could do you good, if she liked."
"Could she? How?" said Rotha drily.
"O she could put pleasant things in your way. She gave some of us a
lovely invitation to a Christmas party; we had a royal time; and she asks
the girls every now and then."
"And you would have me be a traitor for the sake of an invitation? Bell
Savage, I do not want invitations from such people."
"La, Rotha, the world is full of such people; you cannot pick and
choose."
"But I will. I will pick and choose those whom I honour with my
friendship. And I can assure you of one thing; _my_ family would be very
much ashamed of such a one belonging to it, as the one you want me to
court. I court nobody. And I will expose a lie wherever I find it, if
it's my business."
I think Rotha forgot at the moment that Mrs. Busby belonged to "her
family." However, Miss Savage was not wrong in supposing that her
interference with Miss Dunstable would come back upon her own head. She
was made to feel that a large number of the girls looked down upon her
and that they refused all community with her. Even from people one does
not care for, this sort of treatment is more or less painful; and it
certainly made Rotha's school days less joyous in some respects than they
might otherwise have been. From one reason and another, the greater
proportion of her companions turned her the cold shoulder. Some for
partisanship, some for subserviency, some to be in the fashion, and
others again for pure envy.
For Rotha sprang forward in her learning and surpassed all who were
associated with her, in their mutual studies. Her partial isolation
contributed, no doubt, to this end; having little social distraction, no
home outside her school walls, and no delight in the things which
occupied most of the minds within them, she bent to her books; drank, and
drank deep, of the "Castalian spring," and with ever increasing
enjoyment. She studied, not to get and keep a high position, or to gain
distinction, or to earn praise or prizes, but for pure pleasure in study
and eagerness to increase knowledge and to satisfy Mrs. Mowbray. So her
progress was not only rapid but thorough; what she gained she kept; and
her mental growth was equal to her physical.
The physical was rapid and beautiful. Rotha shot up tall, and developed
into a very noble-looking girl; intelligent, spirited, sweet and strong
at once. Her figure was excellent; her movement graceful and free, as
suited her character; colour clear and brunette, telling of flawless
health; and an eye of light and force and fire and honesty, which it was
at all times a pleasure to meet, speaking of the active, brave and true
spirit to which it belonged. By degrees, as all this became manifest,
shewed itself also the effect of culture, and the blessing of real
education. Refinement touched every line of Rotha's face, and marked
every movement and every tone. She gained command over her impetuous
nature, not so but that it broke bounds occasionally; yet the habit
became moderation, and something of the beautiful quiet of manner which
Rotha had always admired in Mr. Southwode, did truly now belong to
herself. Mrs. Mowbray had perpetual delight in her. Was it wonderful,
when so many faces were only carelessly obtuse, or stupidly indifferent,
or obstinately perverse, that the mistress should turn to the bright eye
which was sure to have caught her meaning, and watch for the answer from
lips which were sure to give it with rare intelligence.
Those lessons from her beloved teacher were beyond all other lessons
prized and delighted in by Rotha. They gave incentive to a vast deal of
useful reading, more or less directly connected with the subject in hand.
Some of the girls followed out this 'reading extensively; and no one so
much as Rotha. Her great quickness and diligence with her regular lessons
made this possible.
Meanwhile, it is not to be supposed that Rotha's feet remained
permanently in their coarse habiliments. When the cold and the snows were
gone, and lighter airs and warmer weather came in with spring, Mrs.
Mowbray exchanged the uncomely boots and thick stockings for others which
better suited Rotha's need and comfort. No more animadversions were heard
on the subject from Mrs. Busby, who indeed seemed rather inclined to let
Rotha alone.
And so went by two years; two years of growth and up-building and varied
developement; years of enjoyment and affection and peace. The short
intervals during which she was an inmate of her aunt's family served only
as enhancement of all the rest; foils to the brightness of Mrs. Mowbray's
house, and sharpeners of the appetite that was fed there. Nothing was
ever heard of Mr. Digby, not by Rotha at least; and this was her only
grief. For Rotha was true to her affections; and where she had loved
once, did not forget Once she asked Mrs. Mowbray if it was not strange
she never got any word from Mr. Southwode? "Why should you, my dear?"
Mrs. Mowbray replied, with an impenetrable face.
"Because--I suppose, because I loved him so much," said Rotha innocently;
"and I think he is true."
"He has done a friend's part by you; and now there is nothing more for
him to do. I see no reason why he should write to you."
I do!--thought Rotha; but Mrs. Mowbray's tone did not invite her to
pursue the subject; and she let it thenceforth alone.
CHAPTEK XXII.
A CHANGE.
The two years of smooth sailing along the stream of life, were ended.
What was coming next? But how should the sailor learn navigation, if he
had never anything but calm weather and quiet airs?
It was spring, late in May; when one evening Mrs. Mowbray came into
Rotha's little room, shut the door, and sat down. Rotha looked up from
her book and smiled. Mrs. Mowbray looked down at the book and sighed. A
heavy sigh, it seemed to Rotha, and her smile died away.
"You want to speak to me, madame?" she said, and laid her book away.
"I am going to send you home--" said the lady abruptly.
"Home!--" the word was but half uttered. What was this? The term was not
near at an end.
"You must go, my dear," Mrs. Mowbray went on more softly; for the first
word had been spoken with the sternness of pain. "I must send you all
away from me."
"Whom?"
"All of you! It has pleased heaven to visit me with a great calamity. You
must all go."
"What is it, Mrs. Mowbray?" said Rotha, trembling with a fear to which
she could give no form.
"I do not know, but I think it too probable, that a contagious disease
has broken out in my family. The little Snyders are both ill with scarlet
fever."
"They are at home."
"But Miss Tremont is taken in just the same way, and Miss de Forest is
complaining. I have isolated them both; but I have no choice but to send
all the rest of you away, till I shall know how the thing will go."
Rotha looked terribly blank.
"It is hard, isn't it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, noticing this with a faint
smile; "but it is not best for us to have things go too smooth. I have
had no rubs for two years or more."
That this was a hard "rub" was evident. Mrs. Mowbray sat looking before
her with a troubled face.
"Why is it best for us that things should not go smooth?" Rotha ventured.
To her sense the possible good of this disturbance was not apparent,
while the positive evil was manifold.
"The Lord knows!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "He sees uses, and needs, which we
do not suspect. I am sorry for you, my dear child."
"And I am sorry you are troubled, dear Mrs. Mowbray!"
"I know you are. Your sympathy is very sweet to me.--We have had a
pleasant two years together, have we not?"
"Oh so pleasant!" echoed Rotha, almost in tears. "But--this sickness will
pass over; and then we may come back again, may we not?"
"It is too near the end of term, to come back this spring. It cannot be
before next September now; and that is a long way off. One never knows
what will happen in so many months!"
Rotha had never seen Mrs. Mowbray look or speak so despondently. She was
too utterly downhearted herself to say another word of hope or
confidence. Four months of interval and separation! Four months with her
aunt! What would become of her? What might happen in the mean time?
"When must I go, Mrs. Mowbray?" she asked sadly.
"To-night. Yes, my child, I must send you away from me. You have been a
comfort to me ever since you came into my house; and now I must send you
away." She folded Rotha in her arms and kissed her almost passionately.
Then let her go, and spoke in business tones again.
"Put up whatever you wish to take with you. The carriage will be at the
door at half past eight. I shall go with you."
With which words she departed.
The tears came now, which had been carefully kept back until Mrs. Mowbray
was gone; and it was under a very shower of heavy drops that Rotha folded
and stowed away all her belongings.
Stowed them in her trunk, which Mrs. Mowbray had at once sent up to her
room. Amidst all her tears, Rotha worked like a sprite; she would leave
nothing on her kind friend's hands to do for her, not even anything to
think of. She packed all away, wondering the while why this sudden
interruption to her prosperous course of study and growth should have
been allowed to come; wondering when and how the interrupted course would
be allowed to go on again. Happily she did not know what experiences
would fill the next few months, in which Mrs. Mowbray's fostering care
would not help her nor reach her; nor what a new course of lessons she
would be put upon. Not knowing all this, Rotha shed bitter tears, it is
true, but not despairing. And when the summons came, she was ready, and
joined Mrs. Mowbray in the carriage with calm self-possession restored.
The drive was almost silent. Once Mrs. Mowbray asked if there was
anything Rotha had left to be done for her in her room or in the house?
Rotha said "Nothing; all was done"; and then the carriage rolled on
silently as before; the one of its occupants too busy with grave thoughts
to leave her tongue free, the other sorrowfully wishing she would talk,
yet not daring to ask it. Arrived at the door, however, Mrs. Mowbray
folded the girl in her arms, giving her warm kisses and broken words of
love, and ending with bidding her write often.
"I may be unable to answer you, but do not let that stop you. Write
always; I shall want to hear everything about you."
And Rotha answered, it would be the greatest joy to her; and they parted.
She went in at a somewhat peculiar moment. Half an hour sooner,
Antoinette had returned from a friend's house where she had been dining,
and burst into the parlour with news.
"Mamma!" she exclaimed, before the door was shut behind her,--"Guess what
is coming."
"What?" said her mother calmly. She was accustomed to Antoinette's
superlatives.
"Mr. Southwode is coming back.--"
Now Mrs. Busby did prick up her ears. "How do you know?"
"There was a Mr. Lingard at dinner--a prosy old fellow, as tiresome as
ever he could be; but he is English, and knows the Southwodes, and he
told lots about them."
"What?"
"O I don't know!--a lot of stuff. About the business and the property,
and how old Mr. Southwode left it all to this son; and he carries it on
in some ridiculous way that I didn't understand; and the uncle tried to
break the will, and there has been a world of trouble; but now Mr. Digby
Southwode is coming back to New York."
"When?"
"O soon; any day. He may be here any day. And then, mamma--"
"And was the will broken?"
"No, I believe not. At any rate, Mr. Southwode, our Mr. Southwode, has it
all. But he's absurd, mamma; he pays people, workmen, more than they
ought to have; and he sells, or makes them sell, for less; less than the
market price; and he gives away all his income. So Mr. Lingard says."
"He will learn better," said Mrs. Busby.
"Well, mamma, he's coming back; and what will you do?"
"Welcome him," said her mother. "I always liked Mr. Southwode."
"Yes, yes, but I mean, about Rotha. He will look her up, the first thing;
and she will fly ecstatically to meet him--I remember their parting
salute two years ago, and their _meeting_. I don't doubt, will be
equally tender. Mamma, are you prepared to come down with something
handsome in the way of wedding presents?"
"Nonsense!"
"It's _not_ nonsense!" said Antoinette vehemently. "It will be the absurd
truth, before you know where you are; and papa, and you, and I, we shall
all have the felicity of offering congratulations and holding receptions.
If you don't prevent it, mamma! _Can't_ you prevent it? _Won't_ you
prevent it? O mamma! won't you prevent it?"
"Get up, Antoinette"--for the young lady had thrown herself down on the
floor in her urgency, at her mother's feet. "Get up, and take off your
things; you are extremely silly. I have no intention of letting them meet
at all."
"Mamma, how are you going to help it? He will find out where she is at
school--he will go straight there, and then you may depend Rotha will
snap her fingers at you. So will he; and to have two people snapping
their fingers at us will just drive me wild."
Mrs. Busby could not help laughing. At the same time, she as well as
Antoinette regarded the matter from a very serious point of view. She
knew Rotha had grown up very handsome; and all her mother's partiality
did not make her sure that men like Mr. Southwode might not prefer the
sense and grace and spirit which breathed from every look and motion of
Rotha's, to the doll beauty of her own daughter. Yet it was not insipid
beauty either; the face of Antoinette was exceedingly pretty, the smile
very captivating, and the white and peach-blossom very lovely in her
cheeks. But for sense, or dignity, or sympathy with any thoughts high and
noble, if one looked to Antoinette one would look in vain. No matter;
hers was just a style which captivates men, Mrs. Busby knew; even
sensible men,--the only danger as in possible comparison or contrast.
That danger should be avoided.
"Nobody will snap fingers at me," she complacently remarked.
"But how will you help it?"
"I dare say there is no danger. Get up, Antoinette! there is the door
bell."
And then in walked Rotha.
It struck her that her aunt and cousin were a little more than ordinarily
stiff towards her; but of course they had no reason to expect her then,
and the surprise was not agreeable. So Rotha dismissed the matter with a
passing thought and an unbreathed sigh; while she told the cause of her
unlooked-for appearance. Mrs. Busby sat and meditated.
"It is very unfortunate!" she said at last, with her eyebrows
distressingly high.
"What?" said Rotha. "My coming? I am sorry, aunt Serena; as sorry as you
can be. Is my being here _particularly_ inconvenient just at this time?"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Busby, with the same deeply considerative air. "I am
thinking what will be the best way to manage. We have a plan of going to
Chicago--Mr. Busby's family is mostly there, and he wants us to visit
them; we should be gone all June and part of July, for I know Mr. Busby
wants to go further, if once he gets so far; and we may not be back till
the end of July. I don't know what to do with Rotha."
Not a word of this plan had Antoinette ever heard before, but she kept
wise silence; only her small blue eyes sparkled knowingly at the fire.
Rotha was silent too at first, with vexation.
"I am very sorry--" she repeated.
"Yes," said Mrs. Busby. "I thought I could leave you in safe quarters
with Mrs. Mowbray for a week or two after school broke up; now that
possibility is out of the question. Well, we will sleep upon it. Never
mind, Rotha; don't trouble yourself. I shall find some way out of the
difficulty. I always do."
These words were spoken with so much kindness of tone that they quite
comforted Rotha as to the immediate annoyance of being in the way. She
went up to her little third-story room, threw open the blinds, to let the
stars look in, and remembered that neither she nor yet her aunt Busby was
the guide of her fortunes. Yet, yet,--what a hard change this was! All
the pursuits in which she had taken such delight, suddenly stopped; her
peaceful home lost; her best friend separated from her. It was difficult
to realize the fact that God knew and had allowed it. Yet no harm, no
real harm, comes to his children, unless they bring it upon themselves;
so this change could not mean harm. How could it mean good? Sense saw
not, reason could not divine; but faith said "yes"; and in the quietness
of that confidence Rotha went to sleep.
At breakfast the ladies' faces had regained their wonted brightness.
"I have settled it all!" Mrs. Busby announced, when her husband had left
the breakfast table and the room. Rotha looked up and waited; Antoinette
did not look up; therefore it may be presumed she knew what was coming.
"I am going to send Rotha to the country while we are gone."
"Where in the country?" asked the person most concerned.
"To my place in the country--my place at Tanfield. _I_ have a place in
the country."--Mrs. Busby spoke with a very alert and pleased air.
"Tanfield--" Rotha repeated with slow recollection. "O I believe I know.
I think I have heard of Tanfield."
"Of course. It is the old place where I lived when I was a girl; and a
lovely place it is."
"And just think!" put in Antoinette. "Isn't it funny? I have never seen
it."
"Who is there?" Rotha asked.
"O the old house is there, and the garden; and somebody who will make you
very comfortable. I will take care that she makes you comfortable. I
shall see about that."
"Who is that? old Janet?" asked Antoinette.
"No. Janet is not there?"
"Who then, mamma?"
"Persons whom I have put in charge."
"Do I know them?"
"You know very little about them--not enough to talk."
"Mamma! As if one couldn't talk without knowing about things! Who is it,
mamma? I want to know who will have the care of Rotha."
"It is not necessary you should know at present. Rotha can tell you, when
she has tried them."
"I suppose I shall have the care of myself," said Rotha; to whom all this
dialogue somehow sounded unpromising. To her remark no answer was made.
"Mamma, what will Rotha do there, all by herself?"
"She will have people all round her."
"She don't know them. You mean the Tanfield people?"
"Who else should live at Tanfield. I was one of the Tanfield people
myself once."
"What sort of people are they, mamma?"
"Excellent people."
"Country people!--"
"Country people can be a very good sort. You need not sneer at them."
"I remark that you have not been anxious to go back and see them, mamma."
Rotha was dumb meanwhile, and during a longer continuance of this sort of
talk; with a variety of feelings at work in her, among which crept a
certain flavouring of suspicion. Was she to be _alone_ in her mother's
old home at Tanfield? Alone, with companions that could not be
companions? Was it any use to question her aunt further? She feared not;
yet the questions would come.
"What sort of persons are those in the house, aunt Serena?"
"Quite sufficient to take good care of you. A man and his wife. Honest
people, and kind."
"Servants!"
"In so far as they are serving me."
Antoinette again pressed to be told who they were, was again put off.
From the little altercation resulting, Mrs. Busby turned to Rotha with a
new theme.
"You will not want your New York wardrobe there,--what will you do? Leave
your trunk here? That will be best, I think, till you come back again."
"O no," said Rotha hastily. "I will take it with me."
"You will not want it, my dear. Summer is just here; what, you need up
there is some nice calico dresses; those will be just the thing. I will
get some for you this very day, and have them cut out; and then you can
take them and make them up. It will give you something to do. Your winter
wardrobe would be of no service to you there, and to carry it back and
forward would be merely trouble and risk."
"To leave it here would be risk."
"Not at all. There will be somebody in charge of the house."
"I prefer to have the charge of my own clothes myself."
"My dear, I am not going to take it from you; only to guard the things
for you while you are away. They would be out of place in the summer and
at Tanfield."
"Some would; but they are all mixed up," said Rotha, trying to keep her
patience, though the blood mounted into her cheeks dangerously.
"They can be separated," said Mrs. Busby coolly. "When your trunks come,
I will do that for you."
Not if I am alive! thought Rotha; but she remembered the old word--"If it
be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably--" and she held her
tongue. However, later in the day when Mrs. Busby came in after buying
the calicos, the proposition was renewed. She came to Rotha and demanded
the keys of the boxes.
"Thank you, aunt Serena--I would rather do what I want done, myself."
"Very well," said Mrs. Busby pleasantly; "but if you will give me the
keys, I will see what I think ought to be done. I can judge better than
you can."
"I would rather not," said Rotha. "If you please, and if you do not mind,
ma'am, I would rather nobody went into my trunk but myself."
"Don't be a child, Rotha!"
"No, aunt Serena. I remember that I am one no longer."
"But I wish to have your keys--do you understand?"
"Perfectly; and I do not wish to give them. You understand that."
"Your wish ought to give way to mine," said Mrs. Busby severely.
"Why?" said Rotha, looking at her with a frank face.
"Because you are under my care, and I stand in the place of a mother to
you."
Hot words sprang to Rotha's lips, hot and passionate words of denial; but
she did not speak them; her lips opened and closed again.
"Do you refuse me?" Mrs. Busby asked, after waiting a moment.
"Entirely!" said Rotha looking up again.
"Then you defy me!"
"No, I mean nothing of the kind. You are asking a thing which no one has
a right to ask. I am simply holding my rights; which I will do."
"So shall I hold mine," said Mrs. Busby shortly; "and you do not seem to
know what they are. Your trunk will not leave this house; you may make
such arrangements as it pleases you. And I shall give myself no further
trouble about one who is careless what annoyance she makes me. I had
intended to accompany you myself and see you comfortably settled; but it
appears that nothing I could do would be of any pleasure to you. I shall
let you go without me and make your own arrangements."
With which speech Mrs. Busby ended the interview; and Rotha was left to
think what she would do next.
Her trunk must be left behind. It was too plain that here power was on
the side of her aunt. Without coming to downright fighting, this point
could not be carried against her. Rotha longed to go and talk to Mrs.
Mowbray; alas, that was not to be thought of. Mrs. Mowbray's hands and
head were full, and her house was a forbidden place. How swiftly
circumstances can whirl about in this world! Yesterday a refuge, to-day a
danger. Rotha must leave her trunk. But many things in it she must not
leave. What to do? I will not deny that her thoughts were bitter for a
while. A little matter! Yes, a little matter, compared with Waterloo or
Gravelotte; but _not_ a little matter to a girl in every day life and
having a girl's every day liking for being neat and feeling comfortable.
And right is right; and the infringing of right is hard to bear, perhaps
equally hard, whether it concerns a nation's boundaries or a woman's
wardrobe. If Rotha had been more experienced, perhaps the wisdom of doing
nothing would have suggested itself; but she was young and did not know
what to do. So she laid out of her trunk certain things; her Bible and
Scripture Treasury; her writing materials; her underclothes; and her
gloves. If Rotha had a weakness, it was for neat and _suitable_ gloves.
The rest of her belongings she locked up carefully, and sat down to await
the course of events.
It was swift, as some intuition told her it would be. There was no more
disputing. Mrs. Busby let the subject of the trunk drop, and was as
benign as usual; which was never benign except exteriorly. She was as
good as her word in purchasing calicos; brought home what seemed to Rotha
an unnecessary stock of them; and that afternoon and the next day kept a
dress-maker cutting and basting, and Rotha at work to help. These cut and
basted dresses, as they were finished, Mrs. Busby stowed with her own
hands in a little old leather trunk. Then, when the last one went in, she
told Rotha to bring whatever she wished to have go with her.
"To put in that?" Rotha asked.
"Certainly. It will hold all you want."
Rotha struggled with herself with the feeling of desperate indignation
which came over her; struggled, grew red and grew pale, but finally did
go without another word; and brought down, pile by pile, her neat under
wardrobe. Mrs. Busby packed and packed. Her trunk was leather, and
strong, but its capacities were bounded by that very strength.
"All these!" she exclaimed in a sort of despair. "There is no use
whatever in having so much linen under wear."
Rotha was silent.
"It is _much_ better to have fewer things, and let them be washed as
often as necessary. A family would want a caravan at this rate."
"This is Mrs. Mowbray's way," said Rotha.
"Mrs. Mowbray's way is not a way to be copied, unless you are a
millionaire. She is the most extravagant woman I ever met, without
exception."
"But aunt Serena, it costs no more in the end, whether you have a dozen
things for two years, and comfort, or half a dozen a year, and
discomfort."
"You don't know that you will live two years to want them."
"You don't know that you will live one, for that matter," said
Antoinette, who always spoke her mind, careless whom the words touched.
"At that rate, mamma, we ought to do like savages,--have one dress and
wear it out before getting another; but it strikes me that would be
rather disagreeable."
"You will not find anybody at Tanfield to do all this washing for you,"
Mrs. Busby went on.
"I shall have no more washing done than if I had fewer things," Rotha
said.
"Then there is no sort of use in lugging all these loads of linen up
there just to bring them back again. The trunk will not hold them. Here,
Rotha--take back these,--and these, and these--"
Rotha received them silently; silently carried them up stairs and came
down for more. She was in a kind of despair. Her Bible and most precious
belongings she had put carefully in her travelling bag, rejoicing in its
beauty and security.
"Mamma," said Antoinette now, "does Rotha know when she is going?"
"I do not know."
"Well, that's funny. I should think you would tell her. Why it's almost
time for her to put on her bonnet."
Rotha's eyes went from one to the other. She was startled.
"I am going to send you off by the night train to Tanfield,"--Mrs. Busby
said without looking up from the trunk.
"The _night_ train!" exclaimed Rotha.
"It is the best you can do. It brings you there by daylight. The night
train is as pleasant as any."
"If you have company"--said Rotha.
"And if the cars don't run off nor anything," added Antoinette. "All the
awful accidents happen in the night."
"I would not have Rotha go alone," said Mrs. Busby grimly; "but she don't
want my companionship."
Rotha would have been glad of it; however, she did not say so. She stood
confounded. What possible need of this haste?
"Put your things away, Rotha," said Mrs. Busby glancing up,--"and come
down to dinner. You must leave at seven o'clock, and I have had dinner
early for you."
The dinner being early, Mr. Busby was not there; which Rotha regretted.
From him she hoped for at least one of his dry, sensible remarks, and
possibly a hint of sympathy. She must go without it. Dinner had no taste,
and the talk that went on no meaning. Very poor as this home was, it was
better than an unknown country, and uncongenial as were her companions,
she preferred them to nobody. Gradually there grew a lump in her throat
which almost choked her.
Meantime she was silent, seemed to eat, and did quietly whatever she was
told She put up sandwiches in a paper; accepted an apple and some figs;
looked curiously at the old basement dining room, which she had never
liked, but which had never seemed to her so comfortable as now; and at
last left it to get herself ready. Taking her Russia bag in her hand, she
seemed to grasp Mrs. Mowbray's love; and it comforted her.
Her aunt and she had a silent drive through the streets, already dark and
lamp-lit. All necessary directions were given her by the way, and a
little money to pay for her drive out from Tanfield. Then came the
confusion of the Station--not the Grand Central by any means; the bustle
of getting her seat in the cars; her aunt's cold kiss. And then she was
alone, and the engine sounded its whistle, and the train slowly moved
away into the darkness.
For a while Rotha's mind was in a tumult of confusion. If Mrs. Mowbray
knew where she was at that minute! She had had no chance to write to her.
If she only knew! What then? she could not help matters. O but she could!
Mrs. Mowbray could always find help. Love that would not rest, energy
that would not tire, a power of will that would not be denied, and a
knowledge and command of men and things which enabled her always to lay
her hand on the right means and apply them; all this belonged to Mrs.
Mowbray, and made her the most efficient of helpers. But just now,
doubtless, the affairs of her own house laid full claim to all her
energies; and then, she did not know about Rotha's circumstances. How
strange, thought Rotha, that she does not--that things should have come
together so that she cannot! I seem to be cut off designedly from her,
and from everybody.
There crept slowly into her heart the recollection that there was One who
did know the whole; and if there were design in the peculiar collocation
of events, as who could doubt, it was _His_ design. This gave a new view
of things. Rotha looked round on the dingy car, dingy because so dimly
lighted; filled, partly filled, with dusky figures; and wondered if one
there were so utterly alone as she, and marvelled greatly why she had
been brought into such a strange position. Separated from everything!
Then her Russia bag rebuked her, for her Bible was in it. Not separated
from God, whose message was there; perhaps, who knows? she was to come
closer to him, in the default of all other friends. She remembered the
words of a particular psalm which not long ago had been read at morning
prayers and commented on by Mrs. Mowbray; it came home to her now.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My
help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth."
If he made heaven and earth, he surely can manage them. And Mrs. Mowbray
had said, that whoever could honestly adopt and say those first words of
the psalm, might take to himself also all the following. Then how it went
on!--
"He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not
slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep."
The tears rushed into Rotha's eyes. So he would watch the night train in
which she journeyed, and let no harm come to it without his pleasure. The
words followed,--
"The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand; the
sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall
preserve thee from all evil, he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall
preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even
for evermore."
It was to Rotha as if she had suddenly seen a guard of angels about her.
Nay, better than that. She was a young disciple yet, she had not learned
all the ins and outs of faith; but this night her journey was sweet to
her. The train rumbled along through the darkness; but "darkness and the
light are alike to him," she remembered. Now and then the cars stopped at
a village or wayside station; and a few lights shone upon boards and
platforms and bits of wall; sometimes shone from within a saloon where
refreshments were set out; there were switches to be turned on or off;
there was a turn-out place where the train waited three quarters of an
hour for the down train. All the same! Rotha remembered that switches and
turnouts made no manner of difference, no more than the darkness, if the
Lord was keeping her. It was somehow a sweet kind of a night that she
had; not alone nor unhappy; faith, for the moment at least, laying its
grasp on the whole wide realm of promise and resting satisfied and quiet
in its possessions. After a while she slept and dozed, waking up
occasionally to feel the rush and hear the rumble of the cars, to
remember in whose hand she was, and then quietly to doze off again.
CHAPTER XXIII.
TANFIELD.
The last time she awoke, the rush and the roar had ceased; the train was
standing still in the darkness. Not utterly in the dark, for one or two
miserable lamps were giving a feeble illumination; and there was a stir
and a hum of voices. Another station, evidently. "What is it?" she asked
somebody passing her.
"Tanfield."
Tanfield! and this darkness still. "What o'clock is it, please?" she
asked the conductor, who just then appeared.
"Three o'clock in the morning. You stop here, don't you?"
"Yes; but how can I get to the hotel?"
"It's just by; not a dozen steps off. Here, give me your bag--I'll see
you there. We don't go on; change cars, for whoever wants to go further.
You don't go further?"
"No."
"Then come on."
Half awake, and dazed, Rotha gratefully followed her companion; who
piloted the way for her out of the train and through the station house
and across a street, or road rather, for it was not paved. A hotel of
some pretension faced them on the other side of the street. The kind
conductor marched in like one at home, sent for the sleepy chambermaid,
and consigned Rotha to her care.
"You would like a room and a bed, ma'am?"
"A room, yes, and water to wash the dust off; but I do not want a bed.
How early can you give me breakfast?"
"Breakfast? there's always breakfast full early, ma'am, for the train
that goes out at half past six. You'll get breakfast then. Going by the
half past six train, ma'am?"
"No. I shall want some sort of a carriage by and by, to drive me out to
Mrs. Busby's place; do you know where that is? And can I get a carriage
here?"
"You can get carriages enough. I don't know about no places. Then you'll
take breakfast at six, ma'am? You'll be called."
With which she shewed Rotha into a bare little hotel room, lit a lamp,
and left her.
Rotha refreshed herself with cold water and put her hair in order. It
must be half past three then. She went to the window, pulled up the shade
and opened the sash and sat down. At half past three in the morning, when
the season is no further advanced than May, the world is still nearly
dark. Yet two cocks were answering each other from different roosts in
the neighbourhood, and announcing that morning was on its way. The sky
gave little token yet, however; and the stars sparkled silently out of
its dark depths. The rush and the roar of the train, and of life itself,
seemed to be left behind; the air had the fresh sweetness which it never
can have where human beings do greatly congregate; there was a spice in
it which Rotha had not tasted for a long while. That sort of spice is
enlivening and refreshing; there is a good tonic in it, which Rotha felt
and enjoyed; at the same time it warned her she was in new circumstances.
She had an uneasy suspicion, or intuition rather, that these new
circumstances were not intended, so far as her aunt's intentions affected
them, to be of transient duration. It was all very well to talk of July
or the beginning of August; truth has a way of making itself known
independent of words and even athwart them; and so it had been now; and
while Mrs. Busby talked of the middle of summer, some subtle sense in
Rotha's nature translated the words and made them signify an indefinite
and distant future, almost as uncertain as indefinite. Rotha could not
help feeling that it might be long before she saw New York or Mrs.
Mowbray again; and anew the wondering thought arose, why Mrs. Mowbray
should have been incapacitated for helping her precisely at this
juncture? It was mysterious. It was evident that a higher rule than Mrs.
Busby's was taking effect here; it was plain that not her aunt alone had
willed to put her away from all she trusted and delighted in, and bring
her to this strange place; where she would be utterly alone and uncared-
for and shut off from all her beloved pursuits. But why?
It is the vainest of questions; yet one which in such circumstances
mortals are terribly tempted to ask. If they could be told, _then_, the
design of the movement would be lost upon their mental and spiritual
education; and ten to one the ulterior developments would be hindered
also which are meant to turn to their temporal advantage. It is in the
nature of things, that the "why" should be hidden in darkness; without
being omniscient we cannot see beforehand the turns that things will
take; and so now is Faith's time to be quiet and trust and believe. And
somehow faith is apt to find it hard work. Most of us know what it is to
trust a human fellow creature absolutely, implicitly; with so full a
trust that we are not afraid nor doubtful nor unwilling; but with one
hand in the trusted one's hand are ready to go blindly anywhere, or to
dare or to do gladly, counting with certainty that there is no hazard
about it. So children can trust their father or their mother; so friends
and lovers can trust one another. But it is very hard, somehow, to trust
God so. Precisely such trust is what he wants of us; but--we do not know
him well enough! "They that know thy name _will put their trust in
thee_." Yet it is rare, rare, to find a Christian who can use Faber's
words--
"I know not what it is to doubt;
My mind is ever gay;
I run no risk, for come what will,
Thou always hast thy way."
Rotha at any rate had not got so far. Her mind was in a troubled state,
as she sat at the window of the Tanfield hotel and stared out into the
dewy dusk of the morning. It was indignant besides; and that is a very
disturbing element in one's moods. She felt wronged, and she felt
helpless. The sweet trust of the night seemed to have deserted her. A
weary sense of loneliness and forlornness came instead, and at last found
its safest expression in a good hearty fit of weeping. That washed off
some of the dust from her tired spirit.
When she raised her head again and looked out, the dawn was really coming
up in the sky. Things were changed. There was a sweeter breath in the
air; there was an indefinable stir of life in all nature. The grey soft
light was putting out the stars; the tops of the trees swayed gently in a
morning breeze; scents came fresher from flowers and fields; scents so
rarely spicy and fragrant as dwellers in towns never know them, as all
towns of men's building banish them. Birds were twittering, cocks were
crowing; and soon a stir of humanity began to make itself known in the
neighbourhood; a soft, vague stir and movement telling of the awaking to
life and business and a new day. Feet passed along the corridor within
doors, and doors opened and shut, voices sounded here and there, horses
neighed, dogs barked. Rotha sat still, looking, watching, listening, with
a growing spring of life and hope in herself answering to the movement
without her. And then the light broadened; dusky forms began to take
colour; the eastern sky grew bright, and the sun rose.
Now Rotha could see about her. She was in a well-built village. Well-to-
do looking house tops appeared between the leafy heads of trees that were
much more than "well-to-do"; that were luxuriant, large, and old, and
rich in their growth and thriving. The road Rotha could not see from her
window; however, what she did see shewed that the place was built
according to the generous roomy fashion of New England villages; the
houses standing well apart, with gardens and trees around and between
them; and furthermore there was an inevitable character of respectability
and comfort apparent everywhere. Great round elm heads rose upon her
horizon; and the roof trees which they shadowed were evidently solid and
substantial. This town, to be sure, was not Rotha's place of abode; yet
she might fairly hope to find that, when she got to it, of the like
character.
She sat at the window almost moveless, until she was called to her early
breakfast. It was spread in a very large hall-like room, where small
tables stood in long rows, allowing people to take their meals in a sort
by themselves. Rotha placed herself at a distance from all the other
persons who were breakfasting there, and was comfortably alone.
She never forgot that meal in all her life. She wanted it; that was one
thing; she was faint and tired, with her night journey and her morning
watch. The place was brilliantly clean; the service rendered by neat
young women, who went back and forth to a room in the rear whence the
eatables were issued. And very excellent they were, albeit not in the
least reminding one of Delmonico's; if Delmonico had at that day existed
to let anybody remember him. No doubt, it might have been difficult to
guess where the coffee was grown; but it was well made and hot and served
with good milk and cream; and Rotha was exhausted and hungry. The coffee
was simply nectar. The corn bread was light and sweet and tender; the
baked potatoes were perfect; the butter was good, and the ham, and the
apple sauce, and the warm biscuit. There was a pleasant sensation of
independence and being alone, as Rotha sat at her little table in the not
very brightly lit room; and it seemed as if strength and courage came
back to her heart along with the refitting of her physical nature. She
was not in a hurry to finish her breakfast. The present moment was
pleasant, and afforded a kind of lull; after it must come action, and
action would plunge her into she could not tell what. The lull came to an
end only too soon.
"Do you know where Mrs. Busby's place is?" she inquired of the girl that
served her.
"Place? No, I don't. Is it in Tanfield?"
"It is near Tanfield."
"You are not going by the train, then?"
"No. I am going to this place. Can I get a carriage to take me there?"
"I'll ask Mr. Jackson."
Mr. Jackson came up accordingly, and Rotha repeated her question. He was
a big, fat, comfortable looking man.
"Busby?" he said with his hand on his chin--"I don't seem to recollect no
Busbys hereabouts. O, you mean the old Brett place?"
"Yes, I believe I do. Mrs. Busby owns it now."
"That's it. Mrs. Busby. She was the old gentleman's daughter. The family
aint lived here this long spell."
"But there is somebody there? somebody in charge?"
"Likely. Somebody to look arter things. You're a goin' there?"
"If I can get a carriage to take me."
"When'll you want it?"
"Now. At once."
"There aint no difficulty about that, I guess. Baggage?"
"One small trunk."
"All right I'll have the horse put to right away."
So a little before eight o'clock Rotha found herself in a buggy, with her
trunk behind her and a country boy beside her for a driver, on the way to
her aunt's place.
Eight o'clock of a May morning is a pleasant time, especially when May is
near June. All the world was fresh and green and dewy; the very spirit of
life in the air, and the very joy of life too, for a multitude of birds
were filling it with their gleeful melody. How they sang! and how utterly
perfumed was every breath that Rotha drew. She sniffed the air and tasted
it, and breathed in full long breaths of it, and could not get enough.
Breathing such air, one might put up with a good deal of disagreeableness
in other things. The country immediately around Tanfield she found was
flat; in the distance a chain of low hills shut in the horizon, blue and
fair in the morning light; but near at hand the ground was very level.
Fields of springing grain; meadows of lush pasture; orchards of apple
trees just out of flower; a farmhouse now and then, with its comfortable
barns and outhouses and cattle in the farmyard. Every here and there one
or two great American elms, lifting their great umbrella-like canopies
over a goodly extent of turf. Barns and houses, fences and gateways, all
in order; nothing tumble-down or neglected to be seen anywhere; an
universal look of thrift and business and comfort. The drive was
inexpressibly sweet to Rotha, with her Medwayville memories all stirred
and quickened, and the contrast of her later city life for so many years.
She half forgot what lay behind her and what might be before; and with
her healthy young spirit lived heartily in the present. The drive however
was not very long.
At the end of two miles the driver stopped and got down before a white
gate enclosed in thick shrubbery. Nothing was to be seen but the gate and
the green leafage of trees and shrubs on each side of it. The boy opened
the gate, led his horse in, shut the gate behind him, then jumped up to
his seat and drove on rapidly. The road curved in a semi-circle from that
gate to another at some distance further along the road; and midway, at
the point most distant from the road, stood a stately house. The approach
was bordered with beds of flowers and shrubbery; a thick hedge of trees
and shrubs ran along the fence that bordered the road and hid it from the
house, sheltering the house also from the view of passers-by; and tall
trees, some of them firs, increased the bowery and bosky effect. The
house was well shut in. And the flower borders were neglected, and the
road not trimmed; so that the impression was somewhat desolate. All
windows and blinds and doors moreover were close and fastened; the look
of life was entirely wanting.
"Is there anybody here?" said Rotha, a little faint at heart.
"I'll find out if there aint," said her boy companion, preparing to
spring out of the wagon.
"O give me the reins!" cried Rotha. "I'll hold them while you are gone."
"You can hold 'em if you like, but he won't do nothin'," returned Jehu.
And dashing round the corner of the house, he left Rotha to her
meditations. All was still, only the birds were full of songs and pouring
them out on all sides; from every tree and bush came a warble or a
twitter or a whistle of ecstasy. The gleeful tones half stole into
Rotha's heart; yet on the whole her spirit thermometer was sinking. The
place had the neglected air of a place where nobody lives, and that has
always a depressing effect. Her charioteer's absence was prolonged, too;
which of itself was not cheering. At last he came dashing round the
corner again.
"Guess it's all right," he said. "But you'll have to git down, fur's I
see; I can't git you no nearer, and she won't come to the front door.
They don't never open it, ye see. So they says."
Rotha descended, and bag in hand followed the boy, who piloted her round
the corner of the house and along a weedy walk overhung with lilacs and
syringas and overgrown rosebushes, until they were near another corner.
The house seemed to be square on the ground.
"There!" said he,--"you go jist roun' there, and you'll see the kitchen
door--leastways the shed; and so you'll git in. Mrs. Purcell is there."
"Who is Mrs. Purcell?" said Rotha stopping.
"I d'n' know; she's the woman what stops here; her and Joe Purcell. She's
Joe Purcell's wife. I'll git your trunk out, but you must send some un
roun' to fetch it, you see."
Rotha turned the second corner, while the boy went back; and a few steps
more brought her round to the back of the house, where there was a broad
space neatly paved with small cobble stones. An out-jutting portion of
the building faced her here, and a door in the sane. This must be the
"shed," though it had not really that character. Rotha went in. It seemed
to be a small outer kitchen. At the house side an open ladder of steps
led up to another door. Going up, Rotha came into the kitchen proper. A
fire was burning in the wide chimney, and an old-fashioned dresser
opposite held dishes and tins. Between dresser and fire stood a woman,
regarding Rotha as she came in with a consideration which was more
curious than gracious. Rotha on her part looked eagerly at her. She was a
tall woman, very well formed; not very neatly dressed, for her sleeves
were worn at the elbows, and a strip torn from her skirt and not torn
off, dangled on the floor. The dress was of some dark stuff, too old to
be of any particular colour. But what struck Rotha immediately was, that
the woman was not a white woman. Very light she was, undoubtedly, and of
a clear good colour, but she had not the fair tint of the white races.
Red shewed in her cheeks, through the pale olive of them; and her hair,
black and crinkly, was not crisp but long, and smoothly combed over her
temples. She was a very handsome woman; a fact which Rotha did not
perceive at first, owing to a dark scowl which drew her eyebrows
together, and under which her eyes looked forth fiery and ominous. They
fixed the new-comer with a steady stare of what seemed displeasure.
"Good morning!" said Rotha. "Are you Mrs. Purcell?"
"Who wants Mrs. Purcell?" was the gruff answer.
"I was told that Mrs. Purcell is the name of the person who lives here?"
"There's two folks lives here."
"Yes," said Rotha, "I understood so. You and your husband work for Mrs.
Busby, do you not?"
"No," said the woman decidedly. "Us don't work for nobody. Us works for
our ownselves;"--with an accent on the word "own."
"This is Mrs. Busby's house?"
"Yes, this is her house, I reckon."
"And she pays you for taking care of it."
"Who told you she does?"
"Nobody told me; but I supposed it, of course."
"She don't pay nothin'. Us pays her; that's how it is. Us pays her, for
all us has; the land and the house and all."
"I am Mrs. Busby's niece. Did she send you any word about me?"
"Sent Joseph word--" said the woman mutteringly. "He said as some one was
comin'. I suppose it's you. I mean, Mr. Purcell."
"Then you expected me. Did Mrs. Busby tell you what you were to do with
me?"
"I didn't read the letter," said the woman, turning now from her
examination of Rotha to take up her work, which had been washing up her
breakfast dishes. "Joseph didn't tell me nothin'."
"I suppose you know where to put me," said Rotha, getting a little out of
patience. "I shall want a room. Where is it to be?"
"_I_ don' know," said Mrs. Purcell, whose fingers were flying among her
pots and dishes in a way that shewed laziness was no part of her
character. "There aint no room but at the top o' the house. Joseph and me
has the only room that's down stairs. I s'pose you wouldn't like one o'
the parlours. The rest is all at the top."
"Can I go to the parlour in the mean time, till my room is ready?--if it
is not ready."
"It aint ready. I never heerd you was comin', till last night. How was I
to have the room ready? and I don' know which room it's to be."
"Then can I go to the parlour? where is it?"
"It's all the next floor. There's nothin' but parlours. You can go there
if you like; but they aint been opened in a year. I never was in 'em but
once or twice since I lived here."
Rotha was in despair. She set her bag on one chair and placed herself on
another, and waited. This was far worse even than her fears. O if she had
but a little money, to buy this woman's civility! perhaps it could be
bought. But she was thrown from one dependence to another; and now she
was come to depend on this common person. She did not know what more to
say; she could not do anything to propitiate her. She waited.
"Have you had any breakfast?" said Mrs. Purcell, after some ten minutes
had passed with no sound but that of her cups and plates taken up and set
down. This went on briskly; Mrs. Purcell seemed to be an energetic
worker.
"Yes, thank you. I took breakfast at the hotel in Tanfield."
"I didn't know but I had to cook breakfast all over again."
"I will not give you any more trouble than I can help--if you will only
give me a room by and by."
"There's nothin' fur I to _give_--you can pick and choose in the whole
house. Us has only these rooms down here; there's the whole big barn of a
house overhead. Folks meant it to be a grand house, I s'pose; it's big
enough; but I don't want no more of it than I can take care of."
"You can take care of my room, I suppose?" said Rotha.
The woman gave a kind of grunt, which was neither assent nor denial, but
rather expressed her estimation of the proposal. She went on silently and
rapidly with her kitchen work; putting up her dishes, brushing the floor,
making up the fire, putting on a pot or two. Rotha watched and waited in
silence also, trying to be patient. Finally Mrs. Purcell took down a key,
and addressing herself to Rotha, said,
"Now I'm ready. If you like to come, you can see what there is."
She unlocked a door and led the way up a low flight of steps. At the top
of them another door let them out upon a wide hall. The hall ran from one
side of the house to the other. With doors thrown open to let in the air
and light this might have been a very pleasant place; now however it was
dark and dank and chilly, with that dismal closeness and rawness of
atmosphere which is always found in a house long shut up. Doors on the
one hand and on the other hand opened into it, and at the end where the
two women had entered it, ran up a wide easy staircase.
"Will you go higher?" said Mrs. Purcell; "or will you have a room here?"
Rotha opened one of the doors. Light coming scantily in through chinks in
the shutters revealed dimly a very large, very lofty apartment, furnished
as a drawing-room. She opened another door; it gave a repetition of the
same thing, only the colour of the hangings and upholsteries seemed to be
different. A third, and a fourth; they were all alike; large, stately
rooms, fit to hold a great deal of company, or to accommodate an
exceedingly numerous family with sitting and dining and receiving rooms.
The four saloons took up the entire floor.
"There is no bedroom here," said Rotha.
"The folks that lived here didn't make no 'count o' sleepin', I guess.
They put all the house into their parlours. I suppose the days was longer
than the nights, when they was alive."
"But there must be bedrooms somewhere?"
"You can go up and see. _Us_ wouldn't sleep up there for nothin'. Us
could ha' took what we liked when us come; but I said to Mr. Purcell,--I
said,--I wasn't goin' to break my back runnin' up and down stairs; and if
he wanted to live up there, he had got to live without I. So us fixed up
a little room down near the kitchen. These rooms is awful hot in summer,
too. I can dry fruit in 'em as good as in an oven."
They had reached the top story of the house by this time, after climbing
a long flight of stairs. Here there were a greater number of rooms, and
indeed furnished as bedrooms; but they were low, and immediately under
the roof. The air was less dank than in the first story, but excessively
close.
"Is this all the choice I have?" Rotha asked.
"Unless us was to give you our room."
"But nobody else sleeps in all this part of the house!"
"No," said Mrs. Purcell, with an action that answered to a Frenchman's
shrug of the shoulders; "you can have 'em all, and sleep in 'em all, one
after the other, if you like. There's nobody to object."
"But suppose I wanted something in the night?" said Rotha, who did not in
the least relish this liberty.
"You'd have to holler pretty loud, if you wanted I to do anything for
you. I guess you'll have to learn to wait on yourself."
"O it isn't that," said Rotha; "I can wait on myself; but if I wanted--
something I couldn't do for myself--if I was frightened--"
"What's to frighten you?"
"I do not know--"
"If you got frightened, all you'd have to do would be to take your little
feet in your hand and run down to we; that's all you could do."
Rotha looked somewhat dismayed.
"I could ha' told you, it wasn't a very pleasant place you was a comin'
to," Mrs. Purcell went on. "Sick o' your bargain, aint ye?"
"What bargain?"
"I don' know! Which o' these here rooms will you take? You've seen the
whole now."
Rotha was very unwilling to make choice at all up there. Yet a thought of
one of those great echoing drawing rooms was dismissed as soon as it
came. At last she fixed upon a room near the head of the stairs; a corner
room, with outlook in two directions; flung open the windows to let the
air and the light come, in; and locked up her bag in a closet.
"There aint nobody to meddle with your things," observed Mrs. Purcell,
noticing this action,--"without it's me; and I've got enough to do down
stairs. There's nothin' worse than rats in the house."
"Have you some sheets and towels for me?" said Rotha. "And can you give
me some water by and by?"
"I've got no sheets and towels but them as us uses," replied Mrs.
Purcell. "Mrs Busby haint said nothin' about no sheets and towels. Those
us has belongs to we. They aint like what rich folks has."
"I have brought none with me, of course. Mrs. Busby will pay you for the
use of them, I have no doubt."
"Mrs. Busby don't pay for nothin'," said the woman.
"Will you bring me some water?"
"I'll give you a pail, and you can fetch some for your own self. I can't
go up and down them stairs. It gives me a pain in my back. I'll let you
have some o' us's sheets, if you like."
"If you please," said Rotha.
"But I can't come up with 'em. I'd break in two if I went up and down
there a few times. I'll let you have 'em whenever you like to come after
'em."
And therewith Mrs. Purcell vanished, and her feet could be heard
descending the long stair. I think in all her life Rotha had never felt
much more desolate than she felt just then. She let herself drop on a
chair and buried her face in her hands. Things were worse, a hundred
fold, than ever she could have imagined them. She was of rather a nervous
temperament; and the idea of being lodged up there at the top of that
great, empty, echoing house, with nobody within call, and neither help
nor sympathy to be had if she wanted either, absolutely appalled her.
True, no danger was to be apprehended; not real danger; but that
consideration did not quiet fancy nor banish fear; and if fear possessed
her, what sort of consolation was it that there was no cause? The fear
was there, all the same; and Rotha thought of the yet distant shades of
night with absolute terror. After giving way to this feeling for a little
while, she began to fight against it. She raised her head from her hands,
and went and sat down by the open window. Soft, sweet, balmy air was
coming in gently, changing the inner condition of the room by degrees;
Rotha put her head half out, to get it unmixed. It was May, May in the
country; and the air was bringing May tokens with it, of unseen
sweetness. There were lilies of the valley blooming somewhere, and
daffodils; and there was the smell of box, and spice from the fir trees,
and fragrance from the young leaf of oaks and maples and birches and
beeches. There was a wild scent from not distant woods, given out from
mosses and wild flowers and turf, and the freshness of the upturned soil
from ploughed fields. It was May, and May whispering that June was near.
The whisper was so unspeakably sweet that it stole into Rotha's heart and
breathed upon its disturbance, almost breathing it away. For June means
life and love and happiness.
"Everything is happy now;
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true,
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue;
'Tis the natural way of living!"
June was coming, and May was here; more placid and more pensive, but
hardly less fair; that is, in her good moods; and Rotha insensibly grew
comforted. _This_ delight would remain, whatever she had or had not
within the house; there was all out of doors, and the Spring! and Rotha's
heart made a great bound to meet it. She could live out of doors a great
deal; and in the house--well, she would make the best of things.
She drew in her head to take a survey. Yes, it was a snug room enough,
once in nice order; and the first thing to do, she decided, was to put it
in nice order. She must do it herself. O for one of those calicos, lying
at present cut and basted in her trunk. She must make them up as fast as
possible. With the feeling of a good deal of business on hand, Rotha's
spirits rose. She went down to the kitchen again, and begged the loan of
a big apron. Mrs. Purcell silently gave it. Then Rotha desired brushes
and a broom and dusters, and soap and water and towels. One after another
Mrs. Purcell placed these articles, such as she had, at her disposal.
"My trunk is in the road by the front steps," she remarked. "Can you get
it taken up for me?"
"A trunk?" said Mrs. Purcell, knitting her brows again into the scowl
which had greeted Rotha at the first. A very black scowl the latter
thought it.
"Yes, my trunk. It's a little one. Not much for anybody to carry."
"Whatever did you want of a trunk?"
"Why, to hold my things," said Rotha quietly.
"Are you goin' to stay all summer?"
"I hope not; but I do not know how long. My aunt is going on a journey; I
must stay till she comes back."
"Why didn't she let you go along?"
"I suppose it was not convenient."
A grunt from Mrs. Purcell. "Rich folks only thinks what's convenient for
their own selves!"
"But she will pay you for your trouble."
"She'll pay Mr. Purcell, if she pays anybody. It don't come into _my_
pocket, and the trouble don't go into his'n."
"I shall not be much trouble."
"Where is you goin' to eat? You won't want to eat along o' we?"
No, certainly, that was what Rotha did not want. She made no reply.
"Mis' Busby had ought to send folks to take care o' her company, when she
sends company. _I_ haint got no time. And us hasn't got no place. There's
no place but us's kitchen--will you like to eat here? I can't go and tote
things up to one o' them big parlours."
"Do the best you can for me," said Rotha. "I will try and be content."
And staying no further parley, which she felt just then unable to bear,
she gathered together her brushes and dusters and climbed up the long
stairs again. But it was sweet when she got to her room under the roof.
The May air had filled the room by this time; the May sunshine was
streaming in; the scents and sounds of the spring were all around; and
they brought with them inevitably a little bit of hope and cheer into
Rotha's heart. Without stopping to let herself think, she set about
putting the place in order; brushed and dusted everything; washed up the
furniture of the washstand; made up the bed, and hung towels on the rack.
Then she drew an old easy chair to a convenient place by one of the
windows; put a small table before it; got out and arranged in order her
writing materials, her Bible and Scripture Treasury; put her bonnet and
wrappings away in a closet; and at last sat down to consider the
situation.
She had got a corner of comfort up there, private to herself. The room
was large and bright; one window looked out into the top of a great tulip
tree, the other commanded a bit of meadow near the house, and through the
branches and over the summits of firs and larches near at hand and apple
trees further off, looked along a distant stretch of level country. No
extended view, and nothing remarkable; but sweet, peaceful nature, green
turf, and leafy tree growths; with the smell of fresh vegetation and the
spiciness of the resiny evergreens, and the delicious song and chipper
and warble of insects and birds. It all breathed a breath of content into
Rotha's heart. But then, she was up here alone at the top of the house;
there was all that wilderness of empty rooms between her and the rest of
the social world; and at the end of it, what? Mrs. Purcell and her
kitchen; and doubtless, Mr. Purcell. And what was Rotha to do, in the
midst of such surroundings? The girl grew almost desperate by the time
she had followed this train of thought a little way. It seemed to her
that her pleasant room was a prison and Mr. and Mrs. Purcell her jailers;
and her term of confinement one of unknown duration. If she had only a
little money, then she would not be so utterly helpless and dependent;
even money to buy Mrs. Purcell's civility and good-will; or if she had a
little more than that, she might get away. Without any money, she was
simply a prisoner, and at the mercy of her jailers. O what had become of
her friends! Where was Mr. Southwode, and how could he have forgotten
her? and how was it that Mrs. Mowbray had been taken from her just now,
just at this point when she was needed so dreadfully? Rotha could have
made all right with a few minutes' talk to Mrs. Mowbray; to write and
state her grievances, she justly felt, was a different thing, not so easy
nor so manifestly proper. She did not like to do what would be in effect
asking Mrs. Mowbray to send for her and keep her during her aunt's
absence. No, it was impossible to do that. Rotha could not Better bear
anything. But then,--here she was with no help!
It all ended in some bitter weeping. Rotha was too young yet not to find
tears a relief. She cried herself tired; and then found she was very much
in need of sleep. She gave herself up to it, and to forgetfulness.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE PURCELLS.
Rotha's sleep had not lasted two hours when it was interrupted. There
came a pounding at her door. She jumped up and unlocked it.
"Joseph said, he guessed you'd want some dinner. I told him, I didn't
know as you'd care for the victuals us has; but it's ready, if you like
to come and try."
The extreme rudeness of the woman acted by way of a counter irritant on
Rotha, and gave her self-command and composure. She answered civilly;
waited to put her hair and dress in order, wisely resolving to lose no
means of influence and self-assertion that were within her reach; and
went down.
A small table was set in the kitchen, coarsely but neatly, as Rotha saw
at a glance. It was set for three; and the third at the table was the
hitherto unseen Mr. Purcell. He was a white man; not so good-looking as
his wife, but with a certain aspect of sense and shrewdness that was at
least not unkindly. He nodded, did not trouble himself to rise as Rotha
came in; indeed he was busily occupied in supplying himself with such
strength and refreshment as viands can give; and to judge by his manner
he needed a great deal of such strength and was in a hurry to get it. He
nodded, and indicated with a second nod the place at table which Rotha
was expected to take.
"It's an unexpected pleasure," he said. "Prissy and me doesn't often have
company. Hope you left Mis' Busby well?"
Rotha had an instant's hesitation, whether she should accept the place in
the household thus offered her, or claim a different one. It was an
instant only; her sense and her sense of self-respect equally counselled
her not to try for what she could not accomplish; and she quietly took
the indicated seat, and answered that Mrs. Busby was well.
"Now, what'll you eat?" Mr. Purcell went on. "We're plain folks--plainer
'n you're accustomed to, I guess; and we eat what we've got; sometimes
it's one thing and sometimes it's another. Prissy, she gen'lly fixes it
up somehow so's it'll do, for me, anyhow; but I don' know how it'll be
with you. Now to-day, you see, we've got pork and greens; it's sweet
pork, for I fed it myself and I know all about it; and the greens is
first-rate. I don' know what they be; Prissy picked 'em; but now, will
you try 'em? If you're hungry, they'll go pretty good."
"They's dandelions--" said Mrs. Purcell.
Pork and dandelions! Rotha was at first dumb with a sort of perplexed
dismay; then she reflected, that to carry out her propitiating policy it
would be best not to shew either scorn or disgust. She accepted some of
the greens and the pork; found the potatoes good, and the bread of
capital quality, and the butter sweet; and next made the discovery that
Mr. Purcell had not overrated his wife's abilities in the cooking line;
the dinner was really, of its kind, excellent. She eat bread and butter,
then conscious that two pair of eyes were covertly watching her, nibbled
at her greens and pork; found them very passable, and ended by making a
good meal.
"You was never in these parts before?" Mr. Purcell asked meanwhile.
"No," said Rotha. "Never."
"Mis' Busby comin' along, some o' these days?"
"No, I think not. I have not heard anything about her coming here."
"'Spect she likes grand doings. Does she live very fine, down to New
York?"
"How do you mean?"
"All the folks does, in the City o' Pride," remarked Mrs. Purcell.
"Do Mis' Busby?" persisted her husband. "Be they all highflyers, to her
house?"
"I do not know what you mean by 'highflyers.'"
"Folks that wears heels to their shoes," put in Mrs. Purcell. "They can't
set foot to the ground, like common folks. And they puts their hair up in
a bunch on the top."
"Anybody can do that," said Mr. Purcell, sticking his knife in the butter
to detach a portion of it.
"Anybody can't, Joe! that's where you're out. It takes one o' them
highflyers. And then they thinks, when their heels and their heads is all
right, they've got up above the rest of we."
"You can put your hair any way you've a mind to," returned her husband.
"There can't none of 'em get ahead o' you there."
Both parties glanced at Rotha. Her long hair was twisted up in a loose
knot on the top of her head; very becoming and very graceful; for without
being in the least disorderly it was careless, and without being in the
least complicated or artificial it was inimitable, by one not initiated.
Husband and wife looked at her, looked at each other, and laughed.
"Mis' Busby writ me about you," said Joe, slightly changing the subject.
"She said, you was one o' her family."
"She is my aunt."
"She is! I didn't know Mis' Busby never had no brother, nor sister', nor
nothin'."
"She had a sister once."
"She aint livin' then. And you live with Mis' Busby?"
"Yes."
"Well, 'taint none o' my business, but Mis' Busby didn't say, and I
didn't know what to think. She said you was comin', but she didn't say
how long you was goin' to stay; and we'd like to know that, Prissy and
me; 'cause o' course it makes a difference."
"In what?" said Rotha, growing desperate.
"Well, in our feelin's," said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head in a suave
manner, indicating his good disposition. "You see, we don' know how to
take care of you, 'thout we knowed if it was to be for a week, or a
month, or that. Mis' Busby only said you was comin'; and she didn't say
why nor whether."
"I do not know," said Rotha. "You must manage as well as you can without
knowing; for I cannot tell you."
"Very good!" said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head blandly again; "then
that's one point. You don' know yourself."
"No."
"That means she aint a goin' in a hurry," said Mrs. Purcell. "There's her
trunk, Joe, that you've got to tote up stairs."
"I'll do that," said Joe rising; "if it aint bigger 'n I be. Where is it
at?"
"Settin' out in the road."
"And where's it goin'?"
"Up to her room. She'll shew you."
Rotha mounted the stairs again, preceding Joe and her trunk, and feeling
more utterly desolate than it is easy to describe. Shut up here, at the
top of this great empty house, and with these associates! Her heart
almost failed her.
"Well, you've got it slicked up here, nice!" was Mr. Purcell's
declaration when he had come in and deposited the little trunk on the
floor, and could look around him. "You find it pretty comfortable up
here, don't you."
"It's very far from the kitchen--" said Rotha with an inward shudder.
"Well--'tis; but I don' know as that's any objection. Young feet don't
mind runnin' up and down; and when you are here, you've got it to
yourself. Well, you can take care o' yourself up here; and down stairs
Prissy will see that you don't starve. I expect that's how it'll be." And
with again an affable nod of his capable head, Mr. Purcell departed.
Rotha locked the door, and went to her window; nature being the only
quarter from which she could hope for a look or a tone of sympathy. The
day was well on its way now, and the May sun shining warm and bringing
out the spicy odours of the larches and firs. A little stir of the soft
air lightly moved the small branches and twigs and caressed Rotha's
cheek. A sudden impulse seized her, to rush out and get rid of the house
and its inmates for a while, and be alone with the loveliness of the
outer world. She threw a shawl round her, put on her straw bonnet, locked
her door, and ran down.
The front door of the main hall was fast, and no key in the lock; Rotha
must go out as she had come in, through the kitchen. Mrs. Purcell was
there, but made no remark, and Rotha went out and made her way first of
all round to the front of the house. There she sat down upon the steps
and looked about her.
An unkept gravel road swept round from the gate by which she had entered,
up to her feet, and following a similar curve on the other side swept
round to another gate, opening on the same high-road. The whole sweep
took in a semicircle of ground, which lay in grass, planted with a few
trees. To explore this gravel sweep was the first obvious move. So Rotha
walked down to the gate by which she had come in that morning, and then
back and down to the corresponding gate on the other side. All along the
way from gate to gate, there ran wide flower beds on both sides; the back
of the flower beds being planted thick with trees and shrubbery. Old
fashioned flowering shrubs stood in close and wildering confusion. Lilac
bushes held forth brown bunches where the flowers had been. Syringas
pushed sweet white blossoms between the branches of other shrubs that
crowded them in. May roses were there, with their bright little red
faces, modest but sweet; and Scotch roses, aromatic and wild-looking.
There was a profusion of honeysuckle, getting ready to bloom; and
laburnums hung out tresses of what would be soon "dropping gold." And
Rotha stood still once before the snowy balls of a Guelder rose, so white
and fresh and fair that they dazzled her. She went on, down to the gate
furthest from Tanfield, and spent a little while there, looking up and
down the road. A straight, well-kept country road it was, straight and
empty. Not a house was in sight, and only farm fields on the other side
of the bordering fences. Rotha would have gone out, and walked at least a
rod or two, but that gate was locked. There was no traffic or intercourse
in any direction but with Tanfield. The empty highway seemed very lonely
and desolate to the gazer at the gate. How shut off from the world she
was! shut off in one little corner where nobody would ever look for her.
If Rotha had put any faith in her aunt's promises, of course she would
not have minded a month's abode in this place; but she put no faith in
her aunt, and had a sort of instinct that she had been sent here for no
good reason, and would be allowed, or forced, to remain here for an
indeterminate and possibly quite protracted length of time. The mere
feeling of being imprisoned makes one long to break bounds; and so Rotha
longed, impatiently, passionately; but she saw no way. A little money
would enable her to do it. Alas, she had no money. Her aunt had taken
care of that. After paying for her breakfast and drive, she had only a
very few shillings left; not even enough to make any impression upon the
good will of her guardians, or jailers. Somehow they seemed a good deal
more like that than like servants.
Rotha turned despairingly away from the gate and retraced her steps,
examining the old flower beds more minutely. They were terribly
neglected; choked with weeds, encroached upon by the bordering box, the
soil hard and unstirred for many a day. Yet there were tokens of better
times. Here there was a nest of lilies of the valley; there a mat of moss
pink, so bright and fresh that Rotha again stood still to admire.
Daffodils peeped out their yellow faces from tufts of encumbering weeds;
and stooping down, Rotha found an abundance of polyanthus scattered about
among the other things, and periwinkle running wild. Nothing was seen to
advantage, but a great deal was there. If I stay here, thought Rotha, I
will get hold of a hoe and rake, and put things to rights. The flowers
would be good friends, any way.
Coming up towards the house again, Rotha saw a road which branched off at
right angles from the sweep and went straight on, parallel to the side of
the house but at a good distance from it. She turned into this road.
Between it and the house was one mass of thick shrubbery, thick enough
and high enough to hide each from the other. Following 011, Rotha
presently saw at a little distance on her right hand, the house being to
the left, a black board fence with a little gate in it. The garden
perhaps, she thought; but for the present she passed it. Further along,
the shrubbery ceased; a few large trees giving pleasant shade and variety
to the ground about the barns, which stood here in numbers. Stables,
carriage house, barn, granary; there was a little settlement of
outhouses. Rotha had a liking for this neighbourhood, dating from old
Medwayville associations; her feet lingered; her eyes were gladly alive
to notice every detail; her ears heard willingly even a distant grunting
which told of the presence of the least amiable of farm-yard inhabitants,
somewhere. Rotha opened a door here and there, but saw neither man nor
beast. Wandering about, she found her way finally to a huge farmyard back
of the barn. It was tramped with the feet of cattle, so cattle must be
there at times. On one side of the farmyard she found the pig pen. It was
so long since she had seen such a sight, that she stood still to watch
the pigs; and while she stood there a voice almost at her elbow made her
start.
"Them pigs is 'most good enough to belong to Mis' Busby, aint they?"
Mr. Purcell was coming at long strides over the barnyard, which Rotha had
not ventured to cross; she had picked her way carefully along a very
narrow strip of somewhat firm ground by the side of the fence. The man
seemed disposed to be at least not unkindly, and Rotha could not afford
to do without any of the little civility within her reach. So she
answered rather according to her policy than her feeling, which latter
would have bade her leave the spot immediately.
"I am no judge."
"Never see a litter o' piggies afore?"
"I suppose I have, sometime."
"Them's first-rate. Like to eat 'em?"
"Eat them!" cried Rotha. "Such young pigs?"
"Just prime now," said the man, looking at them lovingly over the fence,
while grunting noses sniffing in his direction testified that the inmates
of the pen knew him as well as he knew them. "Just prime; they's four,
goin' on five, weeks old. Prissy's at me to give her one on 'em; and
maybe I will, now you've come. I telled her it was expensive, to eat up a
half a winter's stock for one dinner. I aint as extravagant as Prissy."
"How 'half a winter's stock'?" said Rotha, by way of saying something.
"Bless you, don't you see? Every one o' them fellers'd weigh two hundred
by next Christmas; and that'd keep Prissy and me more'n half the winter.
I s'pose you won't be here to help us eat it then?"
"Next Christmas! No," said Rotha. "I shall not be here so long as that."
"Summer's got to come first, hain't it? Well, you might be in a wuss
place."
Slowly Mr. Purcell and Rotha left the pig pen and the barnyard and came
out into the space between the various farm buildings.
"Where does that road lead to?" Rotha asked, pointing to one which ran on
from the barns with a seemingly straight track between fields.
"That? that don't lead no wheres."
"Where should I find myself, if I followed it out to the end?"
"You'd find yourself jammed up agin the hill. Don't you see them trees?
that's a hill runnin' along there."
"Running right and left? It is not high. Just a hilly ridge. What is on
it?"
"Nothin's on it, but a mean little pack o' savins Aint good for nothin';
not even worth cuttin' for firewood. What ever do you s'pose hills was
made for? I mean, sich hills; that haint got nothin' onto 'em but rocks.
What's the use of 'em?"
"If it wasn't for hills, Mr. Purcell, your low lands would have no water;
or only in a pond or a ditch here and there."
"What's the reason they wouldn't? There aint no water on the hills now."
"Springs?"
"There's springs every place. I could count you a half a dozen in less'n
half a mile."
"Ay, but the springs come from the hills; and if it were not for the
hills they would not be anywhere."
"O' course it's so, since you say it," said Mr. Purcell, scratching his
head with a comic expression of eye;--"but I never see the world when
there warn't no hills on it; and I reckon you didn't."
Rotha let the question drop.
"I s'pose you'd say, accordin' to that, the rocks made the soft soil?"
"They have made a good deal of it," said Rotha smiling.
"Whose hammer broke 'em up?"
"No hammer. But water, and weather; frost and wet and sunshine."
"Sunshine!" cried Mr. Purcell.
"They are always wearing away the rocks. They do it slowly, and yet
faster than you think."
"But I'll tell you. You forget. The soil aint up there--it's down here."
"Yes, I know. I do not forget. Water brought it down."
Here Mr. Purcell went off into an enormous guffaw of laughter, amused to
the last degree, and probably in doubt whether to think of his informant
as befooled or befooling. He went off laughing; and Rotha returned slowly
homeward. Half way towards the drive, she struck a walk which led
obliquely through the tangled shrubbery to the kitchen door.
Her room, when she reached it, looked cheerful and pleasant enough. The
open windows let in the air and the sunshine, and the top of the tulip
tree was glittering in the warm light. At the same time the slantness of
the rays shewed that the afternoon was on its way. Night was coming. And
a spasm of dread seized Rotha at the thought of being up there, quite
alone, away from anybody, and without guardianship or help in any
occasion of need or alarm. Rotha was of a nervous and excitable
temperament, a coward physically, unaccustomed to being alone or to
taking care of herself. She looked forward now to the darkness with
positive dread and dismay. O for her little corner room at Mrs.
Mowbray's, where she was secure, and in the midst of friends! O for even
her cheerless little room at her aunt's, where at least there were people
below her to guard the house! Here, quite alone through the long, still
nights, and nobody within even calling distance, how should she ever
stand it! For a little while Rotha's wits were half paralyzed with
terror. Reason then began slowly to assert herself, and the girl's
natural force of character arose to struggle with the incubus of fear.
She reminded herself that nothing was more unlikely than a night alarm;
that the house was known to be empty of all that might tempt thieves, and
that furthermore also it was in the highest degree unlikely that the
neighbourhood of Tanfield harboured such characters. Probably she was
safer from disturbance up here, than either at Mrs. Mowbray's or at Mrs.
Busby's. But of what use was the absence of disturbance, when there was
the presence of fear? Rotha reasoned in vain. She had a lively
imagination; and this excellent property now played her some of the arch
tricks of which it is capable. Possible disturbances occurred to her;
scenes of distress arose upon her vision, so sharp and clear that she
shrank from them. Probable? No, they were not; but who should say they
were not possible? Had not everything improbable happened in this world,
as well as the things which were reasonably to be expected? And if only
possible, if they were possible, where were comfort and security to be
found? Without some degree of both, Rotha felt as if she must quit the
place, set out and walk to the hotel at Tanfield; only she had no
money to pay her charges with if she were there.
Distress, and be it that it was unreasonable, it was very real distress,
drove her at last to the refuge we all are ready to seek when we can get
no other. She took her Bible and sat down with it, to try to find
something that would quiet her there. Opening it aimlessly at first; then
with a recollection of certain words in it, she turned to the third
psalm.
"I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy
hill. Selah. I laid me down and slept; I awaked, for the Lord sustained
me. I will not be afraid of thousands of people, that have set themselves
against me round about."
David had more than fancied enemies to fear; he was stating an actual,
not a problematical case; and yet he could say "_I will not be afraid"!_
How was that ever possible? David was one of the Lord's people; true; but
do not the Lord's people have disagreeable things happen to them? How can
they, or how should they, "not be afraid"? Just to reach that blessed
condition of fearlessness was Rotha's desire; the way she saw not. There
was a certain comfort in the fact that other people had seen it and found
it; but how should she? Rotha had none to ask beside her Bible, so she
went to that Query, do the books and helps which keep us from applying to
the Bible, act as benefits or hindrances?
Rotha would have been greatly at a loss, however, about carrying on her
inquiry, if it had not been for her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge."
Turning to it now as to a most precious friend, she took the words in the
psalm she had been reading for her starting place. And the very first
next words she was directed to were these:--
"I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep; for thou, Lord, only makest
me to dwell in safety." Ps. iv. 8.
Rotha stopped and laid down her face in her hands. O if she could quietly
say that! O what a life must it be, when any one can simply and
constantly say that! "Lay me down and sleep"; give up the care of myself;
feel secure. But in the midst of danger, how can one? Rotha thought she
must be a poor, miserable fraction of a Christian, to be so far from the
feeling of the psalm; and probably she was right. "If ye had faith as _a
grain of mustard seed_," the Lord used to say to his disciples; so
apparently in his view they had scarce any faith at all. And who of us is
better? How many of us can remove mountains? Yet faith as big as a grain
of mustard seed can do that. What must our faith be? Not quite a
miserable sham, but a miserable fraction. Rotha felt self-reproved,
convicted, longing; however she did not see how she was at once to become
better. She lifted her eyes, wet with sorrowful drops, and went on. If
there were help, the Bible must shew it. Her next passage was the
following:--
"It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of
sorrows; for so he giveth his beloved sleep."--Ps. cxxvii. 2.
Studying this a good while, in the light of her fears and wants, Rotha
came to a sense of the exquisite beauty of it; which wiser heads than
hers, looking at the words merely in cool speculation, do fail to find.
She saw that the toiling and moiling of men passes away from the Lord's
beloved; that what those try for with so much pains and worry, these have
without either; and in the absolute rest of faith can sleep while the
Lord takes care. His people are quiet, while the world wear themselves
out with anxiety and endeavour.
"His beloved."--I cannot have got to that, thought Rotha. I am not one of
them. But I must be. That is what I want to be.
The next thing was a promise to the Israelites, as far back as Moses'
time; that if they kept the ways of the Lord, among other blessings of
peace should be this: that they should lie down and none should make them
afraid; but Rotha thought that hardly applied, and went further. Then she
came to the word in the third of Proverbs, also spoken to the man who
should "keep wisdom":--
"When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid; yea, thou shalt lie
down, and thy sleep shall be sweet."--Prov. iii. 24.
It set Rotha pondering, this and the former passage. Is it because I am
so far from God, then? because I follow and obey him so imperfectly? that
I am so troubled with fear. Quite reasonable, if it is so. Naturally, the
sheep that are nearest the shepherd, feel most of his care. What next? It
gave her a stir, what came next: It was in the time of the early church;
James, the first martyr among the apostles, had been beheaded by Herod's
order; and seeing that this was agreeable to the fanatical Jews, he had
apprehended Peter also and put him in ward; waiting only till the feast
of the Passover should be out of the way, before he brought him forth to
execution. And it was the night preceding the day which should be the day
of execution; "and the same night Peter was sleeping between two
soldiers, bound with two chains." Chained to a Roman soldier on one side
of him, and to another on the other side of him, on no soft bed, and
expecting a speedy summons to death, _Peter was sleeping_. All sorts of
characters do sleep, it is said, the night before the day when they know
they are to be put to death; in weariness, in despair, in stolid
indifference, in stoical calmness, in proud defiance. But Rotha knew it
was upon no such slumbers that the "light shined in the prison," and to
no such sleeper that the angel of the Lord came, or ever does come. That
was the sleep of meekness and trust.
The list of passages given by the "Treasury" on that clause of the third
psalm here came to an end. Rotha had not enough, however; she took up the
words in the 6th verse--"I will not be afraid," etc. And then she came to
the burst of confident triumph in the 27th psalm. And then,
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the
mountains be carried into the midst of the sea."--Ps. xlvi. 1, 2.
Here was a new feature. Trouble might come, yea, disaster; and yet the
children of God would not fear. How that? Such absolute love, such
perfect trust, such utter devotion to the pleasure of their Father, that
what was his will became their will, and they knew no evil could really
touch them? It must be so. O but this is a step further in the divine
life. Or does this devotion lie also at the bottom of all those
declarations of content and peace she had been reading? Rotha believed it
must, after she had studied the question a little. O but what union with
God is here; what nearness to him; what consequent lofty and sweet
elevation beyond the reach of earthly trouble. Rotha got no further. She
saw, in part at least, what she wanted; and falling on her knees there by
the open window, she prayed that the peace and the life and the sweetness
of the May might come into her heart, by the perfecting of love and faith
and obedience there. She prayed for protection in her loneliness, and for
the trust which saves from fear of evil. A great asking! but great need
makes bold. She prayed, until it seemed as if she could pray no longer;
and then she went back to her Bible again. But gradually there began to
grow up a feeling in Rotha, that round the walls of her room there was an
invisible rampart of defence which nothing evil could pass. And when one
of her Bible references took her to the story of Elisha, shut up in a
city enclosed by an army of enemies, but whose servant's eyes in answer
to his prayer were opened to see "the mountain full of horses and
chariots of fire round about Elisha"--her faith made a sort of spring.
She too seemed to have a sight of the invisible forces, mostly undreamed
of because unseen, which keep guard around the Lord's people; and she
bowed her head in a sort of exulting gladness. Why this was even better
than to need no defence, to know that such defence was at hand. Without
danger there could be no need of guard; and is not such unseen ministry a
glorious companionship? and is it not sweeter to know oneself safe in the
Lord's hand, than to be safe, if that could be, anywhere else?
I have learned one thing, said Rotha to herself, as she rose to make some
final arrangements for the evening. I wonder if I came here partly to
learn this? But what can I have been brought here for, indeed? There is
some reason. There is the promise that everything shall work for good to
them that love God; so according to that, my coming here must work good
for me. But how possibly? What am I to do, or to learn, here? It must be
one thing or the other. My learning in general seems to be stopped,
except Bible learning. Well, I will carry that on. I shall have time
enough. What else in all the world can I do?
Her unfinished calico dresses occurred to her. There was work for some
days at least. Perhaps by that time she would know more. For the present,
with a glad step and a lightened heart she went about her room, arranging
certain things in what she thought the prettiest and most convenient way;
got out some clothes, and even work; and then wished she had a book.
Where was she to get books to read? and how could she live without them?
This question was immediately so urgent that she could not wait to have
it settled; she must go down without delay to Mrs. Purcell, and see if
any information respecting it was to be had in that quarter.
CHAPTER XXV.
ROTHA'S REFUGE.
The kitchen was all "redd up," as neat as wax; everything in its place;
and at the table stood Mrs. Purcell with her sleeves rolled up to her
elbows and her arms in a great pan, hard at work kneading bread. She
looked clean too, although her dress was certainly dilapidated; perhaps
that was economy, though a better economy would have mended it. So Rotha
thought. She did not at once start the business she had come upon; she
stood by the table watching the bread-making operation. Mrs. Purcell eyed
her askance. This woman had most remarkable eyes. Black they were, as
sloes, and almond shaped; and they could look darker than black, and
fiery at the same time; and they could look keen and sly and shrewd, and
that is the way they looked out of their corners at Rotha now, with an
element of suspicion. A little while without speech. She was kneading her
dough vigorously; the large smooth mass rolling and turning under her
strong wrists and fingers with quick and thorough handling.
"Isn't that rather hard work?" Rotha said.
"I think all work's hard," was the morose-sounding answer.
"Do you? But it would be harder not to do any."
"That's how folks looks at it. I'd rather eat bread than make it. There
aint no fun in work. I'd like to sit down and have somebody work for me.
That's what you've been doin' all your life, aint it?"
"Not quite," said Rotha gravely.
"Can you make bread?"
"No."
"Then I s'pose you think I'll make your bread for you while you are
here?"
"I do not think about it," said Rotha with spirit. "I have nothing to do
with it. My aunt sent me here. If you cannot keep me, or do not wish to
keep me, that is your affair. I will go back again."
"What did you come for?"
"I told you; my aunt was leaving home."
"Joe says, there's fish in the brook that'll jump at a fly made o'
muslin--but I aint that sort o' fish. I didn't engage to make no bread
for Mis' Busby when I come here."
"Shall I write to my aunt, then, that it is not convenient for me to stay
here."
"You can if you like, for it _aint_ convenient; but it's no use; for Mr.
Purcell don't care, and Mis' Busby don't care. I'll make all the bread
you'll eat; I guess."
"What do Mrs. Busby and Mr. Purcell not care about?"
"They don't care whether I make bread all day, or not."
"I hope it will not be for long," said Rotha, "that I shall give you this
trouble."
"I don't know how long it will be," said Mrs. Purcell, making out her
loaves with quick dexterity and putting them in the pans which stood
ready; "but I aint a fool. I can tell you one thing. Mis' Busby aint a
fool neither; and when she pays anybody to go from New York here in the
cars, it aint to pick her a bunch o' flowers and go back again."
Rotha was not a fool either, and was of the same opinion. This brought
her back to her business.
"If I stay a while, I shall want to get at some books to read," she said.
"Are there any in the house?"
"Books?" said Mrs. Purcell. "I've never seen no books since I've been
here."
"Where can I get some, then? Where are there any?"
"I don't know nothin' about books. I don't have no use for no books, my
own self. I don't read none--'cept my 'little blue John.'"
"Your 'little blue John'? What is that?"
"I s'pose you have a big one."
"I do not know what you mean."
"I don't mean nothin'," said the woman impatiently. "There's my 'little
blue John'--up on the mantel shelf; you can look at it if you want to."
Looking to the high shelf above the kitchen fireplace, Rotha saw a little
book lying there. Taking it down, she was greatly astonished to find it a
copy of the gospel of John, a little square copy, in limp covers, very
much read. More surprised Rotha could hardly have been.
"Why, do you like this?" she involuntarily exclaimed.
"Sometimes I think I do,"--was Mrs. Purcell's ambiguous, or ironical,
answer; as she carefully spread neat cloths over her pans of bread. Rotha
wondered at the woman. She was handsome, she had a good figure and
presence; but there was a curious mixture of defiance and recklessness in
her expression and manner.
"I see you have read it a good deal."
"It's easy readin',"--was the short answer.
"Do you like the gospel of John so much better than all the rest of the
Bible?"
"I don' know. The rest has too many words I can't make out."
"Well, I am very fond of the gospel of John too," said Rotha. "I think
everybody is,--that loves Christ."
"Do you love him?" Mrs. Purcell asked quickly and with a keen look.
"Yes, indeed. Do you?"
Mrs. Purcell laughed a little laugh, which Rotha could not understand. "I
aint one o' the good folks"--she said.
"But you might love him, still," said Rotha, drawn on to continue the
conversation, she hardly knew why, for she certainly believed the woman's
last assertion.
"The folks that love him are good folks, aint they?"
"They ought to be," said Rotha slowly.
"Well, that's what I think. There's folks that _say_ they love him, and I
can't see as they're no better for it. _I_ can't."
"Perhaps they are trying to be better."
"Do you think Mis' Busby is?"
The question came with such sharp quickness that Rotha was at a loss how
to answer.
"She says she do. I aint one o' the good folks; and sometimes I tells Joe
I'm glad I aint."
"But Mrs. Purcell, that is not the way to look at it. I have seen other
people that said they loved Christ, and they lived as if they did. They
were beautiful people!"
Rotha spoke with emphasis, and Mrs. Purcell gave her one of her sideway
glances. "I never see no such folks," she returned cynically.
"I am very glad I have," said Rotha; "and I know religion is a blessed,
beautiful truth. I have seen people that loved Jesus, and were a little
bit like him in loving other people; they did not live for themselves;
they were always taking care of somebody, or teaching or helping
somebody; making people happy that had been miserable; and giving,
everywhere they could, pleasure and comfort and goodness. I have seen
such people."
"Where did they live?"
"In New York."
"Was they in Mis' Busby's house?"
"Not those I was speaking of."
"When I see folks like that, I'll be good too," was Mrs. Purcell's
conclusion.
"But you love this little book?" said Rotha, recurring to the thumb-worn
little volume in her hand.
"I didn't tell you I did."
"No, but I see you do. I should think, anybody that liked the gospel of
John, would want to be like what it says."
"I didn't tell you I didn't."
"No," said Rotha, half laughing. "I am only guessing, and wishing, you
see. Mrs. Purcell, will you take some water up to my room?"
The woman's brows darkened. "What for?" she asked.
"To wash with. The water I took up this afternoon was for putting my room
in order,--basin and pitcher and washstand, and wiping off dust. I want
water, you know, every day for myself."
"The water's down here--just out o' that door."
"But I cannot wash down here."
"I don't know nothin' about that, whether you can or whether you can't.
That's where us washes. If you want to do it up stairs, there's nothin'
to hinder you."
"Except that somebody must carry up the water."
"That's not _my_ business," said the woman. "You can take that pail if
you want to; but you must bring it down again. That's my pail for goin'
to the pump."
Rotha hesitated. Must she come to this? And to doing _everything_ for
herself and for her own room? For if carrying up the water, then surely
all other services beside. Providing water was one of the least. Was it
come to this? She must know.
"Then you will not take care of my room for me, Mrs. Purcell?" she asked
quietly.
"Mis' Busby didn't write nothin' about my takin' care o' rooms," said
Mrs. Purcell; "without they was empty ones. I've got you to take care of;
I can't take o' your room too. You're strong and well, aint you, like
other folks?"
Rotha made no reply. She stood still, silent and indignant, both at the
impertinence of the woman's speech and at the hardness of her aunt's
unkindness. The shadow of the prospect before her fell upon her very
gloomily and chill. Mrs. Purcell it was safest not to answer. Rotha
turned, took up the pail and went to the pump.
And there she stood still She set down her pail, but instead of pumping
the water, she laid hold of the pump handle and leaned upon it What ever
was to become of her? Must she be degraded not only to menial
companionship but to manual labour also? Once no doubt Rotha had been
familiar with such service; but that was when she was a child; and the
years that had passed since then and the atmosphere of Mrs. Mowbray's
house had ripened in her a love of refinement that was almost fastidious.
Not only of innate refinement, which she knew would not be affected, but
of refinement in all outward things; her hands, her carriage, her walk,
her dress. Must she live now to do things which would harden her hands,
soil her dress, bend her straight figure, and make her light step heavy?
For how long? If she had known it would be only for a month, Rotha would
have laughed at it, and played with it; instead of any such comforting
assurance, she had a foreboding that she was to be left in Tan field for
an indefinite length of time. She tried to reason herself out of this,
saying to herself that she had really no ground for it; in vain. The sure
instinct, keener than reason in taking evidence, forbade her. She stood
in a sort of apathy of dismay, looking into the surrounding shrubbery and
noting things without heeding them; feeling the sweet, still spring air,
the burst of fresh life and the opening of fresh promise in earth and
sky; hearing the birds twitter, the cocks crowing, and noticing that
there was little else to even characterize, much less break, the silent
peace of nature. In the midst of all this what she felt was revulsion
from her present surroundings and companionship; and it was at last more
to get out of Mrs. Purcell's near neighbourhood than for any other reason
that she filled her pail and carried it up stairs to her room. She was
half glad now that it was so far away from the kitchen. If she could but
take her meals up there! She filled her pitchers; but did not immediately
go back with Mrs. Purcell's pail. She sat down at the window instead, and
crossing her arms on the sill, sat looking out, questioning the May why
she was there?
Oddly enough, it seemed as if the May answered her after a while. The
beauty, the perfectness, the loveliness, the peace, held perhaps somewhat
the same sort of argument with her as was addressed by the Lord himself,
once upon a time, to his servant Job. Here there was no audible voice;
yet I think it is still the same blessed Speaker that speaks through his
works, and partly the same, or similar, things that he says. Could there
be such order, such beauty, such plain adaptation, regularity and system,
in one part of the works and government of God, and not in another. And
after all it was He who had sent Rotha to this place and involved her in
such conditions. Then surely for some reason. As the gentleness of the
spring air is unto the breaking of winter's bands, and the rising of the
sap is unto the swelling of the buds and by and by the bursting leaf,
must it not be so surely a definite purpose with which she had been
brought here? What purpose? Were there bands to be broken in her soul's
life? were buds and leafage and flower to be developed in her character,
for which this severe weather was but a safe and necessary precursor? It
might be; it must be; for it is written that "all things work together
for good to them that love God." Rotha grew quieter, the voice of the
spring was so sweet and came so clear--"Child, trust, trust! Nothing can
go wrong in God's management." She heard it and she felt it; but Rotha
was after all a young disciple and her experience was small, and things
looked unpromising. Some tears came; however she was comforted and did
trust, and resolved that she would try to lose none of the profiting she
might anyway gain.
And, as she had now so few books to be busy with, might she not be meant
to find one such great source of profiting in her Bible?
She drew it to her and opened her little "Treasury." What ever could she
do now without that? It gave her a key, with which she could go unlocking
door after door of riches, which else she would be at a loss to get at.
She opened it at the eighth chapter of Romans and looked at the 28th
verse.
"We know, that all things work together for good to them that love God--"
But things that come through people's wickedness?
She went on to the first reference. It was in the same chapter. "Who
shall separate us from the love of Christ?"
Well, nothing, and nobody. And if so, that love standing fast, surely it
was guaranty enough that no harm should come. Tears began to run, another
sort of tears, hot and full, from Rotha's eyes. Shall a child of God have
that love, and know he has it, and worry because he has not somewhat
else? But this was not exactly to the point. She would look further.
What now? "We glory in tribulation," said the apostle; and he went on to
say why; because the outcome of it, the right outcome, was to have the
heart filled with the love of God, and so, satisfied. How that should be,
Rotha studied. It appeared that trouble drove men to God; and that the
consequence of looking to him was the finding out how true and how
gracious he is; so fixing desire upon him, which desire, when earnest
enough and simple enough, should have all it wanted. And cannot people
have all this without trouble? thought Rotha. But she remembered how
little she had sought God when her head had been full of lessons and
studies and books and all the joys of life at Mrs. Mowbray's. She had not
forgotten him certainly, but her life did not need him to fill any void;
she was busied with other things. A little sorrowfully she turned to the
next reference. Ge. 1. 20. Joseph's comforting words to the brothers who
had once tried to ruin him.
"As for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good,--"
Rotha's heart made a leap. Yes, she knew Joseph's story, and what
untoward circumstances they had been which had borne such very sweet
fruit. Could it be, that in her own case things might work even so? Her
aunt's evil intention do her no harm, but be a means of advantage? "All
things shall work for good"--then, one way or the other way, but perhaps
both ways. Yet she was quite unable to imagine _how_ good could possibly
accrue to her from all this stoppage of her studies, separation from her
friends, seclusion from all the world at the top of an empty house, and
banishment to the society of Joe Purcell and his wife. To be sure, things
were as dark with Joseph when he was sold for a slave. Rotha's heart was
a little lightened. The next passage brought the water to her eyes again.
O how sweet it ran!
"Thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee these
forty years in the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know
what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldest keep his commandments or
no. And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to hunger, and fed thee with
manna, which thou knewest not, neither did thy fathers know, that he
might make thee know that man doth not live by bread only, but by every
word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the Lord doth man live."--De.
viii. 3, 4.
"_Suffered thee to hunger_." Poor Rotha! the tears ran warm from her
eyes, mingled but honest tears, in which the sense of _her_ wilderness
and _her_ hunger was touched with genuine sorrow for her want of trust
and her unwillingness to take up with the hidden manna. Yet she believed
in it and prayed for it, and was very sure that when she once should come
to live upon it, it would prove both sweet and satisfying. Ah, this was
what she had guessed; there were changes to be wrought in herself,
experiences to be attained, for the sake of which she had come to this
place. Well! let the Lord dispose things as seemed to him best; she would
not rebel. She would hope for the good coming. The next verse was one
well known.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."--Ps.
xlvi. 1.
Yes, Rotha knew that. She went on, to Jeremiah's prophecy concerning a
part of the captive Jews carried away to Babylon. And truly she seemed to
herself in almost as bad a case.
"Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel, Like these good figs, so will I
acknowledge them that are carried away captive of Judah, whom I have sent
out of this place into the land of the Chaldeans for their good. For I
will set mine eyes upon them for good, and I will bring them again to
their land; and I will build them, and not pull them down; and I will
plant them, and not pluck them up. And I will give them an heart to know
me, that I am the Lord: and they shall be my people, and I will be their
God: for they shall return unto me with their whole heart."--Jer. xxiv.
5-7.
Rotha bowed her head upon her book. I am content! she said in herself.
Let the Lord do even this with me, and take the way that is best. Only
let me come out so!--
But the next wonderful words made her cry again. They cut so deep, even
while they promised to heal so wholly.
"And I will bring the third part through the fire, and will refine them
as silver is refined, and will try them as gold is tried: they shall call
on my name, and I will hear them; I will say, It is my people; and they
shall say, The Lord is my God."--Zach. xiii. 9.
If Rotha's tears flowed, her heart did not give back from its decision.
Yes, she repeated,--I would rather be the Lord's tried gold, even at such
cost; at any cost. Must one go through the fire, before one can say and
have a right to say, "The Lord is my God"? or does one never want to say
it, thoroughly, until then? But to be the Lord's pure gold I cannot miss
that. I wonder if Mrs. Mowbray has been through the fire? Oh I know she
has. Mr. Southwode?--I think he must. I remember how very grave his face
used to be sometimes.
Here Rotha's meditations were interrupted. She heard steps come clumping
up the stairs, and there was a tap at her door.
"Prissy's got supper ready," said Mr. Purcell. "I've come up to call
you."
With which utterance he turned about and went down the stairs again.
Rotha gave a loving look at her Bible and "Treasury," locked her door,
and followed him.
"It's quite a ways to the top o' the house," remarked Mr. Purcell. "It'd
be wuss 'n a day's work to go up and down every meal."
"Nobody aint a goin' up and down every meal," said his wife. "_I_ aint, I
can tell you."
"How am I to know, then, when meals are ready?" Rotha asked.
"I don' know," said Mr. Purcell; and his wife added nothing. Rotha began
to consider what was her best mode of action. _This_ sort of experience,
she felt, would be unendurable.
The table was set with coarse but clean cloth and crockery. I might say
much the same of the viands. The bread however was very good, and even
delicate. Besides bread and butter there was cold boiled pickled pork,
cold potatoes, and a plate of raw onions cut up in vinegar. Mr. Purcell
helped Rotha to the two first-named articles.
"Like inguns?"
"Onions? Yes, sometimes," said Rotha, "when they are cooked."
"These is rareripes. First rate--best thing on table. Better 'n if they
was cooked. Try 'em?"
"No, thank you."
"I knowed she wouldn't, Joe," said Mrs. Purcell, setting down Rotha's cup
of tea. "What us likes wouldn't suit the likes o' her. She's from the
City o' Pride. Us is country folks, and don't know nothin'."
"I've a kind o' tender pity for the folks as don't know inguns," said Mr.
Purcell. "It's _them_ what don't know nothin'."
"She don't want your pity, neither," returned his wife. "I'd keep it, if
I was you. Or you may pity her for havin' to eat along with we; it's
_that_ as goes hard."
"You are making it harder than necessary," said Rotha calmly, though her
colour rose. "Please to let me and my likings or dislikings alone. There
is no need to discuss them."
After which speech there was a dead, ominous silence, which prevailed
during a large part of the meal. This could not be borne, Rotha felt. She
broke the silence as Mrs. Purcell gave her her second cup of tea.
"I have been thinking over what you said about calling me to meals. I
think the best way will be, not to call me."
"How'll you get down then?" inquired Mrs. Purcell sharply.
"I will come when I am ready."
"But I don't keep no table a standin'. 'Taint a hotel. If you'll eat when
us eats, you can, as Joe and Mis' Busby will have it so; but if you aint
here when us sits down, there won't be no other time. I can't stand
waitin' on nobody."
"I was going to say," pursued Rotha, "that you can set by a plate for me
with whatever you have, and I'll take it cold--if it is cold."
"Where'll you take it?"
"Wherever I please. I do not know."
"There aint no place but the kitchen."
Rotha was silent, trying to keep temper and patience.
"And when I've got my room cleaned up," Mrs. Purcell went on with
increasing heat, "I aint a goin' to have nobody walkin' in to make a muss
again. This room's my place, and Mis' Busby nor nobody else hasn't got no
right in it. I aint a goin' to be nobody's servant, neither; and if folks
from the City o' Pride comes visitin' we, they's got to do as us does. I
never asked 'em, nor Joe neither."
"Hush, hush, Prissy!" said her husband soothingly.
"I didn't--and you didn't," returned his wife.
"But Mis' Busby has the house, and it aint as if it warn't her'n; and the
young woman won't make you no trouble she can help."
"She won't make me none she _can't_ help," said Mrs. Purcell. "Us has to
work, and I mean to work; but us has got work enough to do already, and I
aint a goin' to take no more, for Mis' Busby nor nobody. You're just
soft, Joe, and you let anybody talk you over. I aint."
"You've got a soft side to you, though," responded Joe, with a calm
twinkle in his eye. "I'd have a rough time of it, if I hadn't found
_that_ out."
A laugh answered. The sudden change in the woman's lowering face
astonished Rotha. Her brows unknit, the lines of irritation smoothed out,
a genial, merry, amused expression went with her laugh over to her
husband; and the talk flowed over into easier channels. Mr. Purcell even
tried after his manner to be civil to the stranger; but Rotha's supper
choked her; and as soon as she could she escaped from the table and the
onions and went to her room again.
Evening was falling, but Rotha was not afraid any more. Her corner room
under the roof seemed to her now one of the safest places in the world.
Not undefended, nor unwatched, nor alone. She shut and locked her door,
and felt that inside that door things were pleasant enough. Beyond it,
however, the prospect had grown very sombre, and the girl was greatly
disheartened. She sat down by the open window, and watched the light fade
and the spring day finish its course. The air was balmier than ever, even
warm; the lights were tender, the shadows soft; the hues in earth and sky
delicate and varied and dainty exceedingly. And as the evening closed in
and the shades grew deeper, there was but a change from one manner of
loveliness to another; till the outlines of the tulip tree were dimly
distinguishable, and the stars were blinking down upon her with that
misty brightness which is all spring mists and vapours allow them. Yes,
up here it was pleasant. But how in the world, Rotha questioned, was she
to get along with the further conditions of her life here? And what would
she become, she herself, in these coarse surroundings of companionship
and labour? Either it will ruin me, or it will do me a great deal of
good, thought she. If I do not lose all I have gained at Mrs. Mowbray's,
and sink down into unrefined and hard ways of acting and feeling, it will
be because I keep close to the Lord's hand and he makes me gentler and
purer and humbler and sweeter by all these things. Can he? I suppose he
can, and that he means to do it. I must take care I put no hindrance. I
had better live in the study of the Bible.
Very, very sorrowful tears and drooping of heart accompanied these
thoughts; for to Rotha's fancy she was an exile, for an indefinite time,
from everything pleasant in the way of home or society. When at last she
rose up and shut the window, meaning to strike a light and go on with her
Bible study, she found that in the disagreeable excitement of the talk at
supper she had forgotten to provide herself with lamp or candle. She
could not go down in the dark through the empty house to fetch them now;
and with a momentary shiver she reflected that she could not get them in
the night if she wanted them. Then she remembered--"The darkness and the
light are both alike to Thee." What matter, whether she had a lamp or
not? The chariots of fire and horses of fire that made a guard round
Elisha, were independent of all earthly help or illumination. Rotha grew
quiet. As she could do nothing else, she undressed by the light of the
stars and went to bed; and slept as sweetly as those who are watched by
angels should, the long night through.
CHAPTER XXVI.
ROTHA'S WORK.
Spring had one of her variable humours, and the next day shewed a change.
When Rotha awoke, the light was veiled and a soft rain was thickly
falling. Shut up by the weather now! was the first thought. However, she
got up, giving thanks for her sweet, guarded sleep, and made her toilet;
then, seeing it depended on her alone to take care of her room, she put
it carefully in order so far as was possible. It was early still, she was
sure, though Rotha had no watch; neither voice nor stir was to be heard
anywhere; and turning her back upon her stripped bed, the disorder of
which annoyed her, she sat down to her Bible study. It is all I have got!
thought she. I must make of it all I can.--May did not give her so much
help this morning; the rain drops pattered thick and fast on leaf and
window pane; the air was not cold, yet it was not genial either, and
Rotha felt a chill creep over her. There was no way of having a fire up
there, if she had wanted one. She opened her beloved books, to try and
forget other things if she could. She would not go down stairs until it
was certain that breakfast would be near ready.
Carrying on the line of study broken off yesterday, the first words to
which she was directed were those in 2 Cor. iv. 17, 18.
"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far
more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the
things which are seen, but at the things which are unseen--"
Poor Rotha at this immediately rebelled. Nothing in the words was
pleasant to her. She was wont always to live in the present, not in the
future; and she would be willing to have the glory yonder less great, so
it were not conditioned by the trouble here. And with her young life
pulses, warm and vigorous as they were, to look away from the seen to the
unseen things seemed well nigh impossible and altogether undesirable. It
was comfort that she wanted, and not renunciation. She was missing her
friends and her home and her pursuits; she was in barren exile, amid a
social desert; a captive in bonds that though not of iron were still, to
her, nearly as strong. She wanted deliverance and gladness; or at least,
manna; not to look away from all and find her solace in a distant vision
of better things.
I suppose it is because I have so little acquaintance with things unseen,
thought Rotha in dismal candidness. And after getting thoroughly chilled
in spirit, she turned her pages for something else. The next passages
referred to concerned the blessedness of being with Christ, and the rest
he gives after earth's turmoil is over. It was not over yet for Rotha,
and she did not wish it to be over; life was sweet, even up here in her
room under the roof. How soft was the rain-drop patter on the outer
world! how beautiful the glitter of the rain-varnished leaves! how lovely
the tints and hues in the shady depths of the great tulip tree! how
cheery the bird song which was going on in spite of everything! Or
perhaps the birds found no fault with the rain. I want to be like that,
said Rotha to herself; not to be out of the storm, but to be able to sing
through it. And that is what people are meant to do, I think.
The words in the twelfth of Hebrews were some help to her; verses 10 and
11 especially; confessing that for the time being, trouble was trouble,
yet a bitter root out of which sweet fruit might grow; in "them which are
exercised thereby."
"Wherefore lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees."--
Courage, hope, energy, activity; forbidding to despond or to be idle; the
words did her good. She lingered over them, praying for the good fruits
to grow, and forming plans for her "lifted-up" hands to take hold of. And
then the first verses of the first chapter of James fairly laid a
plaister on the wounds of her heart. "Count it all joy." "The trying of
your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that
ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing."
Rotha almost smiled at the page which so seemed to smile at her; and took
her lesson then and there. Patience. Quiet on-waiting on God. That was
her part; the good issues and the good fruit he would take care of. Only
patience! Yes, to be anything but patient would shew direct want of faith
in him and want of trust in his promise. And then the words in 1 Peter i.
6, 7, gave the blessed outcome of faith that has stood the trial; and
finally came the declaration--
"As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous therefore, and
repent."
Rotha fell on her knees and prayed earnestly for help to act in
accordance with all these words. As she rose from her knees, the thought
crossed her, that already she could see some of the good working of her
troubles; they were driving her to God and his word; and whatever did
that must be a blessing.
She ran down stairs, quite ready now for her breakfast. Entering the
kitchen, she stood still in uncertainty. No table set, no cooking going
on, the place in perfect order, and Mrs. Purcell picking over beans at
the end of the table. The end of the table was filled with a great heap
of the beans, and as she looked them over Mrs. Purcell swept them into a
tin pan in her lap. She did not pause or look up. Rotha hesitated a
moment.
"Good morning!" she said then. "Am I late?"
"I don' know what folks in the City o' Pride calls early. 'Thout knowing
that, I couldn't say."
"But is breakfast over?"
"Joe and me, us has had our breakfast two hours ago."
"I did not know it was so late! I had no notion what o'clock it was."
"Joe said, he guessed you was sleepin' over. That's what he said."
"Well, have you kept any breakfast for me, Mrs. Purcell?"
"I didn't set by nothin' in particular. I didn't know as you'd be down
'fore dinner. You didn't say."
Rotha waited a minute, to let patience have a chance to get her footing;
she seemed to be tottering. Then she said, and she said it quietly,
"Where can I get something to eat?"
"I don' know," said the woman indifferently.
"But I must have some breakfast," said Rotha.
"Must you? Well, I don' know how you'll get it. _My_ hands is full."
"You must give it to me," said Rotha firmly. "I will take it cold, or any
way you please; but I must have something."
Mrs. Purcell sat silent at her bean picking, and there was a look of
defiance on her handsome face which nearly put Rotha's patience to a
shameful rout. She hardly knew how to go on; and was extremely glad to
see Mr. Purcell come in from the lower kitchen.
"Wet mornin'!" said Mr. Purcell, with a little jerk of his head which did
duty for a salutation.
"Mr. Purcell," said Rotha, "I am glad you are come; there is a question
to be decided here."
"No there aint; it's decided," put in Mr. Purcell's wife. The man looked
as if he would like to be left out of the question; but with a resigned
air he asked, "What is it?"
"Whether, while I am in this house, I can have my proper meals, and have
them properly."
"You can have your meals, if you'll come to 'em," said Mrs. Purcell,
picking her beans.
Rotha was too vexed to speak again, and looked to the man.
"Well--you see," he began conciliatingly, as much towards his wife as
towards her, Rotha thought, "you see, Prissy has her work, and she has a
lot of it; and she likes to do it reg'lar. It kind o' puts her out, you
see, to be gettin' breakfast all along the mornin'. Now she's gettin' her
dinner. She's like a spider;--let her alone, and put nothin' in her way,
and she'll spin as pretty a web as you'll see; but if you tangle it up,
it'll never get straight again."
Mrs. Purcell kept diligently picking her beans over and sweeping them
into her pan.
"You do not meet the question yet," said Rotha haughtily.
"Well, you see, the best way would be for you to be along at meal times;
when they's hot and ready on the table. Then one more wouldn't make so
much difference."
"I have no way of knowing when the meals are ready. If Mrs. Purcell will
set by some for me on a plate, and a cup of coffee, I will take it, not
good nor hot."
"My victuals aint bad when they's cold," put in Mrs. Purcell here.
"Well, Prissy, can't you do that?" asked her husband.
"You can do it if you like," she said, getting up at last from the table,
whence the great heap of beans had disappeared. "It ain't nothin' to me
what you do."
Mr. Purcell demanded no more of a concession from his housekeeper, but
went forthwith to one cupboard after another and fetched forth a plate
and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon, and finally bread, a
platter with cold fried pork on it, and some butter. He had not washed
his hands before shewing this civility; and Rotha looked on in doubtful
disgust.
"Where's the coffee, Prissy?"
"The last of it went down your throat. You never leaves a drop in the
coffee pot, and wouldn't if there was a half a gallon. What's the use o'
askin' me, when you know that?"
"Can I have a glass of milk?" said Rotha.
The milk was furnished, and she began to make a very good breakfast on
bread and milk.
"Aint there a bit o' pie, Prissy?" asked Mr. Purcell.
"You've swallowed it. There aint no chance for nothin' when you're
round."
Upon which Mr. Purcell laughed and went out, glad no doubt to have the
matter of breakfast disposed of without any more trouble. But Rotha eat
slowly and thoughtfully. Breakfast was disposed of, but not dinner. How
was she to go on? She meditated, tried to gather patience, and at last
spoke.
"It is best to arrange this thing," she said. "Meals come three times a
day. If you will call me, Mrs. Purcell, I will come. If you will not do
that, will you set by things for me?"
"Things settin' round draws the flies. We'd be so thick with flies, we
couldn't see to eat."
"What way will you take, then?"
"_I_ don' know!"
All the while she was actively and deftly busy; putting her beans in
water, preparing her table, and now sifting flour. Rotha came and stood
at one end of the table.
"I should not have thought," she said, "that anybody that loved the
gospel of John, would treat me so."
A metallic laugh answered her, which she could not help thinking covered
some feeling. The woman's words however were uncompromising.
"I didn't say I loved no gospel of John."
"No, not in words; but the little book tells of itself that somebody has
loved it."
"I'll put it away, where it won't tell nothin'."
"My aunt pays you for my board," Rotha went on, "and she expects that you
will make me comfortable."
"_What_ does she pay for your board?" said Mrs. Purcell, lifting up her
head and flashing her black eyes at Rotha.
"I do not know what. I did not read her letter. You must know."
"She don't pay nothin' for you!" said the woman scornfully. "That's Mis'
Busby! _She's_ a good Christian, and that's the way she does. She'll go
to church, and say her prayers regular, and be a very holy woman; but
she won't pay nobody nothin' if she can help it; and she thinks us'll do
it, sooner 'n lose the place, and she can put you off on us for
nothin'--don't ye see? So much savin' to her, and she can put the money
in the collection. I don't believe in bein' no Christian! Us wouldn't do
the like o' that, and us aint no Christians; and I like our kind better
'n her kind."
Rotha stood petrified.
"You must be mistaken," she said at length. "My aunt may not have
mentioned it, but it is of course that she pays you for your time and
trouble, as well as for what I cost you."
"You don't cost _her_ nothin'," said Mrs. Purcell. "That's all she cares
for. Us knows Mis' Busby. Maybe you don't."
The last words were scornful. Rotha hardly heeded them, the facts of the
case had cut her so deep. "Can it be possible!" she exclaimed in a
stupefied way. Mrs. Purcell glanced at her.
"You didn't know?"
"Certainly not. Nothing would have made me come, if I had. Nothing would
have made me! But I am dependent on my aunt. I have no money of my own."
Two bitter tears made their way into Rotha's eyes. "Of course you do not
want to take trouble for me," she went on. "I cannot much blame you."
"Me and Joe has to live and get along, as 'tis; and it takes a sight o'
work to take care o' Joe. 'Taint feedin' no chicken, to feed Joe Purcell;
and Prissy Purcell has a good appetite her own self; and Joe, he won't
eat no bread as soon as it's beginnin' to get dry; an' I has to bake
bread all along the week. An' Joe, he's always gettin' into the bushes
and tearin' his things, and he won't go with no holes in 'em; and nights
I has to sit up and put patches. I put patches with my eyes shut, 'cause
I's so sleepy I can't hold 'em open. An' he wears the greatest sight o'
clothes of any man in Tanfield. He wears three shirts; there's his red
flannel one, and one o' unbleached muslin--you know that is warm, next
his skin; 'cause he won't have the flannel next his skin; and then there
goes a white shirt over all; and the cuffs and the collar must be
starched and stiff and shiny, or he aint satisfied. I tells him it aint
no use; it won't stay so over five minutes; but anyhow, he is
satisfied."
"I shouldn't think it was wholesome to wear so many clothes," said Rotha.
"He thinks 'tis."
"You should coax him out of it."
"Prissy Purcell has tried that, and she won't try it no more. There aint
no coaxin' Joe. If he wants to do a thing, he'll do it his own self; and
if he don't want to do it, you can't move him."
Rotha paused a minute, to let the subject of Joe Puree 11 drop.
"Well, Mrs. Purcell," she said then, "I am very sorry I am on your hands.
I do not know exactly what to do. I will write to my aunt, and tell her
how I am situated, and how _you_ are situated; but till her answer comes,
how shall we do?"
"She won't send no answer!" said Mrs. Purcell, in a much modified manner
however. "Us knows her, Joe and me. She's got what she wants, and she's
satisfied. She don't care for my trouble, nor for your trouble. She's
great on savin', Mis' Busby is. She don't never pay nothin' she hadn't
need to."
"I am very sorry," said Rotha bitterly. "I will see if I can find some
way of earning the money, Mrs. Purcell, so that I can pay you for the
cost and trouble I put you to. But I must have time for that; and
meanwhile, what will you do?"
"Us wouldn't think so much of it," Mrs. Purcell went on, "if she didn't
set up for bein' somethin' o' extras. I don't make no count o' no such
Christians. Mis' Busby wouldn't miss the Communion!--" And the speaker
looked up at Rotha, as if to see what she thought on the subject.
"There are different sorts of Christians," said Rotha. "Meanwhile, how
shall we arrange things, Mrs. Purcell?"
"Will all sorts of Christians get to heaven," was Mrs. Purcell's
response, the query put with her sharp black eyes as well as with her
lips.
"Why no! Of course not. Christians are not all alike; but it is only true
Christians whom the Lord will call his own."
"How aint they alike? how is they different?"
"Real Christians? Well--some of them are ignorant, and some are wise.
Some have had good teachings and good helpers, and some have had none;
it makes a difference."
"I thought they was all one."
"So they are, in the main things. They all love Christ, and trust in his
blood, and do his will. So far as they know it, at least. 'Whosoever
shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my
brother, and sister, and mother.' So Jesus said, when he was upon earth."
Mrs. Purcell stopped in what she was doing and looked up at Rotha. "That
aint in my 'little blue John,'" she said.
"No, I think the words are in Matthew."
"And aint no other people Christians, but them as is like that?"
"You know what is written in the fourteenth chapter of John--'He that
hath my commandments and _keepeth them_, he it is that loveth me.'"
"And aint there no other sort?" inquired Mrs. Purcell, still peering into
Rotha's eyes.
"Of Christians? Certainly not. Not of real Christians. How could there
be?"
"Then I don't believe there aint none."
"O yes, there are! Many, many. True believers and servants of the Lord
Jesus."
"Then Prissy Purcell never see one of 'em," said the woman decidedly.
It shot through Rotha's mind, how careful she must be. This woman's whole
faith in Christianity might depend on how she behaved herself. She stood
soberly thinking, and then came back to the immediate matter in hand.
"I will pay you, Mrs. Purcell, for my cost and trouble, if ever I can,"
she said. "That is all I can say. I would go away, if I could. I do not
want to be here."
"It's hard on you, that's a fact," said the woman. "Well, us won't make
it no harder, Joe and me. We aint starvin'. Joe, he's money laid up; and
us always has victuals to eat; victuals enough; and good, what they is,
for Joe won't have nothin' else. I don' know if you can like 'em. But I
can't go up all them stairs."
"I will take care of my own room. Cannot you call me when dinner is
ready, in some way?"
"Joe can holler at you. He can go out and holler."
"I'll have my window open, and I shall hear. And some day, Mrs. Purcell,
I will pay you."
"All right," said the woman, whose face was completely cleared up and
looked pleasanter than Rotha could ever have believed possible. "Prissy
Purcell will get you a good dinner."
So the storm was laid; and Rotha went slowly up stairs, feeling devoutly
thankful for that, but very, very sorrowful on her own account. Her,
fancy was busy, all the while she was putting her room in order, with the
possible future; feeling utterly doubtful of her aunt, in every possible
respect, and very sad and depressed in view of her condition and in view
of the extreme difficulty of mending it. Then flashed into her mind what
she had been saying down stairs; and then, what she had been reading and
thinking last night. To do her work, to trust the Lord, and _to be
content_, were the duties that lay nearest to hand.
The duties were far easier to see than to fulfil; however, Rotha took
hold of the easiest first, and prayed her way toward the others. She got
out her sewing; obviously, Mrs. Busby knew what she was about when she
provided those calico dresses. The stuff was strong and troublesome to
sew; the needle went through hard. Rotha sewed on it all day; and indeed
for many days more. She kept at her work diligently, as I said, praying
her way toward perfect trust and quiet content. In her solitude she made
her Bible her companion; one may easily have a worse; and setting it open
at some word of command or promise, she refreshed herself with a look at
it from time to time, and while her needle flew, turned over the words in
her mind and wrought them into prayer. And indeed Rotha had loved her
Bible before; but after two weeks of this way of life she loved it after
a new fashion, such as she had never known. It became sweet
inexpressibly, and living; so that she seemed to hear the words spoken to
her from heaven. And those days of solitary work grew into some of the
loveliest days Rotha had ever seen. She would take her "Treasury," choose
some particular thought or promise to start with, and from that go
through a series of passages, explaining, elucidating, illustrating,
enjoining, conditioning, applying, the original word. The care of her
room, and carrying water up and down, gave her some exercise; not enough;
but Rotha would not indulge herself with out of door amusement till her
mantua making was done.
She hoped for some temporary release from her prison when Sunday came.
She was disappointed. May sent another pouring rain, and no going out was
to be thought of.
"Where do you go to church? when the sun shines," asked Rotha, as she sat
at the breakfast-table and looked at the rain driving past the window.
Silence answered her at first.
"Where _do_ you go, Joe?" repeated his wife, with a laugh. "Us is wicked
folks, Miss Carpenter. Joe, he don't like to tell on hisself; but 'taint
no worse to tell 'u not to tell. So Prissy Purcell thinks."
"Warn't the Sabbath made for rest?" Joe inquired now, with a gleam in his
eyes.
"For rest from our own work," said Rotha wonderingly.
"Prissy and me, we haint no other; and it's a blessin' we haven't, for we
get powerful tired at that. Aint that so, Prissy?"
"Don't you go to church anywhere?"
"Aint anywheres to go!" said Joe. "Aint no church nowheres, short o'
Tanfield; and there's a difficulty. Suppos'n' I tackled up the bosses and
went to Tanfield; by the time we got there, and heerd a sermon, and come
back, and untackled, and put the hosses up and cleaned myself again, my
day o' rest 'ud be pretty much nowhere. An' I don' know which sermon I'd
want to hear, o' the three, if I was there. I aint no Episcopal; and I
never did hold with the Methody's; and 'tother man, I'd as lieve set up a
dip candle and have it preach to me. Looks like it, too."
Rotha was in silent dismay. Tanfield was too far to go on foot and alone.
Not even Sunday? I am afraid a good part of that Sunday was wasted in
tears.
The next morning brought a fresh difficulty. It suddenly flashed upon
Rotha that she must have some clothes washed.
That she should ask Mrs. Purcell to do it, was out of the question. That
she should hire somebody else to do it, was equally out of the question.
There remained--her own two hands.
Her hands. Must she put them into the wash tub? Must they be roughened
and reddened by hard work in hot and cold water? I am afraid pride had
something to say here, besides the fastidious delicacy of refinement to
which for a long while Rotha bad been accustomed, and which exactly
suited the nature that was born with the girl. She went through a hard
struggle and a painful one, before she could take meekly what was put
upon her. But it _was_ put upon her; there was no other way; and there is
no mistake and no oversight in God's dealings with his children. What he
does not want them to do, he does not give them to do. It cost Rotha a
good while of her time that morning, but at last she did see it, and then
she accepted it. If God gave it to her to do, there could be no evil in
the doing of it, and no hurt, and no disgrace. What she could do for God,
was therewith lifted up out of the sphere of the low and common. Even the
censers of Korah's wicked company were holy, because they had been used
for the Lord; much more simple service from a believing heart. After a
while Rotha's mind swung quite clear of all its embarrassments, and she
saw her duty clear and took it up willingly. She went down at once then
to the kitchen, where Mrs. Purcell was flying about with double activity.
It certainly seemed that the rest of the Sunday had added wings to her
heels.
"Do you wash this morning, Mrs. Purcell?"
"Yes. I aint one o' them as likes shovin' it off till the end o' the
week. If I can't wash Monday, Prissy Purcell aint good to live with."
"When will be a convenient time for me to do my washing?"
"Ha' you things to wash?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say. You will lend me a tub, and a little soap, won't
you?"
"I don' know whether I will or not. Suppos'n you've got the tub, do you
know how to get your things clean? I don' believe you never done it."
"No, I have never done it. But I can learn."
"I guess it'd be more trouble to learn you, than to do the things. You
fetch 'em here, and I'll do 'em my own self."
"But I cannot pay you a cent for it, Mrs. Purcell; not now, at least.
You'll have to take it on trust, if you do this for me."
"All right," said Prissy. "You go fetch the things, 'cause I'm bound to
have my tubs out o' the way before dinner."
Rotha obeyed, wondering and thankful. The woman was entirely changed
towards her; abrupt and unconventional, certainly, in manner and address,
but nevertheless shewing real care and kindness; and shewing moreover
what a very handsome woman she could be. Her smile was frank and sweet;
her face when at rest very striking for its fine contour; and her figure
was stately. Moreover, she was an uncommonly good cook; so that the
viands, though plain, were made both wholesome and appetizing. In that
respect Rotha did not suffer; the exclusive companionship of two such
ignorant and unrefined persons was a grievance on the other hand which
pressed harder every day.
She kept herself busy. When her dresses were done, she began to spend
hours a day out of doors.
The sweet things in the flower borders which were choked and hindered by
wild growth and weeds, moved her sympathy; she got a hoe and rake and
fork from Mr. Purcell and set about a systematic clearing of the ground.
It was a spacious curve from one gate to the other; and all the way went
the flower border at one side of the road, and all the way on the other
side, except where the house came in. Rotha could do but a little piece a
day; but the beauty and pleasantness of that lured her on to spend as
much time in the work as she could match with the necessary strength. It
was so pretty to see the flowers in good circumstances again! Here a
sweet Scotch rose, its graceful growth covered with wild-looking, fair
blossoms; here a bed of lily of the valley; close by a carpet of lovely
moss pink, which when cleared of encumbering weedy growth that half hid
it, fairly greeted Rotha like a smile whenever she went out. And
periwinkle also ran in a carpet over the ground, green with purple stars;
daffodils were passing away, but pleasant yet to see; and little tufts of
polyanthus and here and there a red tulip shewed now in all their
delicate beauty, scarcely seen before. Hypericum came out gloriously,
when an intrusive and overgrown lilac bush was cut away; and syringa was
almost as good as jessamine, Rotha thought; little red poppies began to
lift their slender heads, and pansies appeared, and June roses were
getting ready to bloom. And as long as Rotha could busy herself in the
garden work, she was happy; she forgot all that she had to trouble her;
even when Prissy Purcell came out to see and criticise what was going on.
"What are you doin' all that for?" the latter asked one day, after
standing some time watching Rotha's work. "Are you thinkin' Mis' Busby'll
come by and by?"
"My aunt? No indeed!" said Rotha looking up with a flush. "I have no idea
when I shall see my aunt again; and certainly I do not expect to see her
here."
"Somebody else, then?"
"Why no! There is nobody to come."
"Didn't you never have a beau?" said Prissy Purcell, stooping down and
speaking lower.
"A _what?_" said Rotha turning to her.
"A beau. A young man. Most girls does, when they're as good-lookin' as
you be. You know what I mean. Didn't you never keep company with no one?"
"Keep company!" said Rotha, half vexed and half amused. "Mrs. Purcell, I
was a little girl only just a few days ago."
"But you're as handsome as a red rose," insisted Mrs. Purcell. "Didn't
you never yet see nobody you liked more 'n common?"
Rotha looked at her again, and then went on forking up her ground. "Yes,"
she said; "but people a great deal older than myself, Mrs. Purcell. Now
see how that beautiful stem of white lilies is choked and covered up. A
little while longer and we shall have a lovely head of white blossom
bells there."
"Older 'n your own self?" repeated Mrs. Purcell softly.
"What?--O yes!" said Rotha laughing; "a great deal older than myself. Not
what you are thinking about. I have been a school girl till I came here,
Mrs. Purcell."
"Then Mis' Busby didn't send you here to keep you away from no one?"
Again Rotha looked in the woman's face, a half startled look this time.
"No one, that I know," she answered. But a strange, doubtful feeling
therewith came over her, and for a moment she stood still, with her eye
going off to the gate and the road, musing. If it were so!--and a
terrible impatience swelled in her breast. Ay, if it _were_ so, there was
no help for her. She could not get away, and nobody could come to her,
because nobody knew and nobody would know where she was. Even supposing
that so unimportant a person as poor little Rotha Carpenter were not
already and utterly forgotten. That was most probable, and anything
different was not to be assumed. Continued care for her would have
forwarded some testimonials of its existence, in letters or messages. Who
should say that it had not? was the next instant thought. They would have
come to her aunt, and her aunt would never have delivered them.
This sort of speculation, natural enough, is besides very exasperating.
It broke up Rotha's peace for that day and took all the pleasure out of
her garden work. She went on pulling up weeds and forking up the soil,
but she did the one with a will and the other with a vengeance; staid out
longer than usual, and came in tired.
"Joe," said Mrs. Purcell meanwhile in the solitude of her kitchen, "I'll
bet you a cookie, Mis' Busby's up to some tricks!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
INQUIRIES.
The weeks went on now without any change but the changes of the season.
Rotha's flower borders bloomed up into beauty; somewhat old-fashioned
beauty, but none the worse for that. Hypericum and moss pink faded away;
the roses blossomed and fell; sweet English columbines lifted their sonsy
heads, pale blue and pale rose, and dark purple; poppies sprang up, as
often in the gravel road as in the beds; lilies came and went; the
laburnum shook out its clusters of gold; old honeysuckles freshened out
and filled all the air with the fragrance of their very sweet flowers.
Rotha's tulip tree came into blossom, and was a beautiful object from her
high window which looked right into the heart of it. Rotha grew very fond
of that tulip tree. There were fruits too. The door in the fence, which
she had noticed on her first expedition to the barnyard, was found to be
the entrance to a large kitchen garden. Truly, Joe Purcell cultivated few
vegetables; cabbages however were in number and variety, also potatoes,
and that resource of the poor, onions.
The fruits were little cared for; still, there were numbers of purple
raspberry bushes trained along the fence, which yielded a good supply of
berries; there were strawberry beds, grown up with weeds, where good
picking was to found if any one wanted to take the trouble. Gooseberries
were in great profusion, and currants in multitude. Old cherry trees,
which shaded parts of the garden disadvantageously for the under growth,
yielded a magnificent harvest of Maydukes, white hearts and ox hearts;
and pear trees and mulberry trees were not wanting, promising later
crops. Mr. and Mrs. Purcell had paid little attention to these treasures;
Joe hadn't time, he said; and Prissy wouldn't be bothered with gathering
berries after all the rest she had to do. Rotha made it her own
particular task to supply the little family with fruit; and it was one of
the pieces of work she most enjoyed. Very early, most often, while the
sun's rays yet came well aslant, she set off for the old garden with her
basket on her arm; and brought in such loads of nature's riches that Joe
and his wife declared they had never lived so in their lives. It was
lonely but sweet work to Rotha to gather the fruit. The early summer
mornings are some of the most wonderful times of the year, for the glory
and fulness and freshness of nature; the spirit of life and energy abroad
is catching; and sometimes Rotha's heart sang with the birds. For she had
a happy faculty of living in the present moment, and throwing herself
wholly into the work she might be about, forgetting care and trouble for
the time. Other mornings and evenings, she would almost forget the
present in thoughts that roamed the past and the future. Pushing her hand
among the dewy tufts of strawberry plants to seek the red fruit which had
grown large under the shadow of them, her mind would go wandering and
searching among old experiences to find out the hidden motives and
reasons which had been at work, or the hidden issues which must still be
waited for. At such times Rotha would come in thoughtful and tired. How
long would her aunt leave her in this place? and how, if her aunt did not
release her, was she ever to release herself? What was Mrs. Mowbray
about, that she never wrote? several letters had been sent off to her,
now a good while ago; letters telling all, and seeking counsel and
comfort. No word came back. And oh, where was that once friend, who had
told her to tell him everything that concerned her, and promised, tacitly
or in so many words, that her applications would never be disregarded nor
herself lost sight of? Years had passed now since he had given a sign of
his existence, much less a token of his care. But after all, was that a
certain thing? Was it not possible, that Mrs. Busby might have come in
between, and prevented any letter or word of Mr. Digby's from reaching
her? This sort of speculation always made Rotha feel wild and desperate;
she banished it as much as she could; for however the case were, she
possessed no remedy.
June passed, and July, and August came. No word from Mrs. Busby to Rotha,
and Joe Purcell said none came for him. The raspberries were gone, and
currants and gooseberries in full harvest; when there happened an
unlocked for and unwelcome variety in Rotha's way of life. Mrs. Purcell
was taken ill. It was nothing but chills and fever, the doctor said; but
chills and fever are pretty troublesome visiters if you do not know how
to get rid of them; and that this doctor certainly did not. It may be
said, that he had a difficult patient. Prissy Purcell was unaccustomed to
follow any will but her own, and made the time of sickness no exception
to her habit. With a chill on her she would get up to make bread; with
the "sick day" demanding absolute rest and quiet care, she would go out
to the garden to gather cabbages, and stand about preparing them and
getting ready her dinner; till provoked nature took her revenge and sent
the chill creeping over her. Then Prissy would (if it was not baking day)
throw down whatever she had in hand and go to her bed; and it fell to
Rotha's unwonted fingers to put on the pot and cook the dinner, set the
table and wash the dishes, even the pots and pans; for somebody must do
it, as she reflected, and poor Mrs. Purcell would come out of her bed in
the evening a mere wreck of her usual self, very unfit to do anything.
It was a strange experience, for Rotha to be cooking Joe Purcell's dinner
and then eating it with him; making gruel and toast for Prissy and
serving it to her; keeping the kitchen in order; sweeping, dusting,
mopping, scrubbing, for even that could not be avoided sometimes. "It is
my work," Rotha said to herself; "it is what is given me just now to do.
I wonder, why? But all the same, it is given; and there must be some use
in it." She was very busy oftentimes now, without the help of her flower
borders, which had to be neglected; she rejoiced that the small fruit was
gone, or nearly gone; from morning to night, when Prissy was abed, she
went steadily from one thing to another with scarce any interval of
active work. No study now but her Bible study; and to have time for that,
Rotha must get up very early in the morning. Then, at her window, with
the glory of the summer day just coming upon the outer world, she sat and
read and thought and prayed; her eyes going alternately from her open
page to the green and golden depths of the tulip tree opposite her
window; looking the while with her mental eye at the fresh and glorious
riches of some promise or prophecy. Perhaps Rotha never enjoyed her Bible
more, nor ever would, only that with growing experience in the ways of
the Lord comes ever new power to see the beauties of them, and with
greater knowledge of him comes a larger love.
August passed, and September came. And September also ran its course. The
weather grew calm and clear, and began to be crisp with frost, and the
outer world beautified with red maple leaves and crimson creepers and
golden hickory trees. Prissy got better and took her former place in the
house; and therewith Rotha had time to breathe and bethink herself.
Her aunt must long since be returned from Chicago. Once a scrap of a note
had been received from her, but it told nothing. It was not dated, and
the postmark was not New York. It told absolutely nothing, even
indirectly. Airs. Mowbray must long since have reopened her school, but
it seemed to be tacitly agreed upon that Rotha was to go to school no
more. What were all the people about? there seemed to be a spell upon
Rotha and her affairs, as much as if she had been a princess in a fairy
tale enchanted and turned to stone, or put to sleep; only she was not
turned to stone at all, but all alive and quivering with pain and fear
and anxiety. It was her life that was spell-bound. A thousand times she
revolved the possibility of going into some work by which she could make
money; and always had to give it up. She saw nobody, knew nobody, could
apply to no one. She had used up all her writing paper in letters; and
never an answer did she get. She began to think indeed her world was
bewitched. Winter was looming up in the distance, not so very far off
neither; was she to pass it _here_, alone with Prissy Purcell and her
husband? Sometimes Rotha's courage gave way and she shed bitter tears;
other times, when she was dressing her flowers in the long beds, or when
she was looking into the tulip tree with some sweet word of the Bible in
her mind, she could even smile at her prospect, and trust, and be quiet,
and wait. However, as the autumn wore on, I am afraid the quiet was more
and more broken up and the trust more sorrowful.
It was on one of these evenings of early October, that Mr. Southwode
presented himself, after so long an interval, at Mrs. Busby's door.
Nothing was changed, to all appearance, in the house; it might have been
but yesterday that he walked out of it for the last time; and nothing was
changed in the appearance of Mr. Southwode himself. Just as he came three
years ago, he came now.
Mrs. Busby was alone in her drawing room, and advanced to meet him with
outstretched hand and an expression of great welcome. She had not changed
either, unless for the better. Her visiter recognized, as he had often
done before, the expression of sense and character in her face, the quiet
suavity of her manner, the many indications that here was what is called
a fine woman. About the goodness of this fine woman he was not so sure;
but he paid her a tribute of involuntary respect for her abilities, her
cleverness, and her good manners.
"Mr. Southwode! I am delighted to see you!" she exclaimed as she advanced
to meet him, cordially, and yet with quiet dignity; not too cordial. "You
have been a stranger to New York a great while."
"Yes," he said. "Much longer than I anticipated."
"I thought we should hardly ever see you here again."
"Why not?" he asked with a smile.
"Want of sufficient attraction. You know, we are apt to think here that
Englishmen, if they are well placed in their own country, do not want
anything of other countries. They are on the very height of civilization,
and of everything else. They have enough. And certainly, America cannot
offer them much."
"America is a large field for work,"--Mr. Southwode observed.
"Ah yes; but what country is not? I dare say you find enough to do on the
other side. Do you not?"
"I have no difficulty on that score," Mr. Southwode confessed; "on either
side of the Atlantic."
"We were very glad to hear of the successful termination of your
lawsuit," Mrs. Busby went on. "I may congratulate you, may I not? I know
you do not set an over value on the goods of fortune; but at the same
time, it always seems to me that the possessor of great means has a great
advantage. It is true, wealth is a flood in which many people's heads and
hearts are submerged; but that would never be your case, I judge."
"I would rather be drowned in some other medium," he allowed.
"Well, we heard right? The decisions were in your favour, and
triumphantly?"
"They were in my favour, and unconditionally. I did not feel that there
was much to triumph about, or can be, in a family lawsuit."
"No; they are very sad things. I am very glad you are out of them, and so
well out of them."
"Thank you. How are my young friends in the family?"
"The girls? Quite well, thank you, They are unluckily neither of them at
home."
"Not at home! I am sorry for that. How has _my_ child developed?" he
asked with a slight smile.
"She has grown into a young woman," Mrs. Busby answered, with one of
those utterly imperceptible, yet thoroughly perceived, changes of manner
which speak of a mental check received or a mental protest made. It was
not a change of manner either; nothing so tangible; I cannot tell what it
was in her expression that Mr. Southwode instantly saw and felt, and that
put him upon his guard and upon his mettle at once. Mrs. Busby had drawn
her shawl closer round her; that was all the outward gesture. She always
wore a shawl. In winter it was thick and in summer it was gossamer; but
one way or another a shawl seemed essential to Mrs. Busby's well-being.
What Mr. Southwode gathered from her words was a covert rebuke and
rebuff. He was informed that Rotha was grown up.
"It is hard to realize that," he said lightly. "It seems but the other
day that I left her; and since then, nothing else has changed!"
"She has changed," said Mrs. Busby drily.
"May I ask, how?--besides the physical difference, which to be sure was
to be looked for?"
"I do not know that there is any other particular change."
"That would disappoint me," said Mr. Southwode. "I hoped to find a good
deal of mental growth and improvement as the fruit of these three years.
She has been at school all the time?"
"Yes."
"What is her school record?"
"Very fairly good," said Mrs. Busby, turning her eyes now upon the young
man, whom for the last few minutes they had avoided. "I did not know you
were so much interested in Rotha, Mr. Southwode."
"She was my charge, you are aware. Her mother left her to my care."
"Until she was placed in mine," said Mrs. Busby with dignity. "I hope you
believe that I am able to take good care of her?"
"I should be very sorry to doubt that, and no one who knows Mrs. Busby
could question it for a moment. But a charge is a charge, you know. To
resign it or delegate it is not optional. I regard myself as Rotha's
guardian always, and it was as her guardian that I entrusted her to you."
Mrs. Busby did not answer this, and did not change a muscle in face or
figure.
"And so," Mr. Southwode went on, smiling,--he was amused, and he
appreciated Mrs. Busby,--"it is as her guardian that I am asking an
account of her now."
"I have given it," said Mrs. Busby; and she moved her lips as if they
were dry, which however her utterance was not. It was pleasant.
"The young ladies can hardly be expected home early, I suppose?" said Mr.
Southwode, looking at his watch.
"Hardly"--returned Mrs. Busby in the same way.
"When can I see Rotha to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," said Mrs. Busby, speaking leisurely, "you will hardly see
her. She is not at home. I said that before, but you understood me to
speak of the evening merely."
"Where is she then? I can go to her."
"No, you cannot," said Mrs. Busby half smiling, but it was not a smile
Mr. Southwode liked. "She is at a friend's house in the country."
"Not in New York! How long do you expect her to be absent?"
"That I cannot possibly tell. It depends on circumstances that I do not
know."
Mr. Southwode pondered. "Will you favour me with her address?" he asked,
taking out his notebook.
"It is not worth the while," said the lady quietly. "She is at a
considerable distance from New York, too far for you to go to her; and
she may be home any day. It depends, as I said, on what I do not now
know."
"And may be delayed yet for some time, then?"
"Possibly."
"Will you give me her address, Mrs. Busby."
Mr. Southwode's pencil was ready, but instead of giving him something to
do with it, Mrs. Busby rang the bell. Pencil and notebook waited.
"Lesbia, go up to my dressing room and bring me a little green book with
a clasp lying on my table there."
A few minutes of silence and waiting; then Lesbia returned with the
announcement, "There aint no sort o' little book there, Mis' Busby.
There's a heap o' big ones, but they aint green."
"Go again and look in the left hand drawer."
Lesbia came again. "Aint nothin' there but papers."
"That will do. Mr. Southwode, I have not my address book, and without
that I cannot give you what you want. The name of the post-office town is
very peculiar, and I always forget it. But I can write to Rotha to-morrow
and summon her, if you think it necessary."
"Would that be an inexpedient measure?"
"You must judge. I have not thought best to do it; but if it is necessary
I can do it now."
"I will not give you so much trouble. If you will allow me, I will come
again to morrow evening, and get the address."
"To-morrow evening!" said the lady slowly. "I am very sorry, I have an
engagement; I shall not be at home to-morrow evening."
Why did it not occur to Mrs. Busby to say that she would leave the
address for him, if he would call for it? Mr. Southwode quietly put up
his pencil, and remarked that another time would do; and passed on easily
to make inquiries about what New York had been doing since he went away?
Mrs. Busby told him of certain buildings and plans for buildings here and
there, and then suddenly asked,
"When did you come, Mr. Southwode?"
"I landed to-day."
"To-day! Rotha would be very much flattered if she knew how prompt you
have been to seek her out."
It was said with a manner meant to be smoothly insinuating, but which
somehow had missed the smoothness. Mrs. Busby for that moment had lost
the hold she usually kept of herself.
"Rotha would expect no less of me," Mr. Southwode answered calmly.
"Then you and she must have been great friends before you went away?
greater then I knew."
"Did Rotha not credit me with so much?" he asked with a smile, which
covered a sharp observation of the lady, examining him.
"To tell you the truth," said Mrs. Busby, with a manner which was
intended to be gracious, "I did not encourage her. Knowing what
gentlemen, and young gentlemen, generally are, I thought it unlikely that
you would much remember Rotha amid the pressure of your business in
England, and very likely that things might turn out so that she would
never see you again. I expected every day to hear that you were married;
and of course that would have been an end of your interest in her."
"Why do you think so, may I ask?"
"_Why?_ Every woman knows," said Mrs. Busby in amused fashion.
"I will not marry till I find a woman that does not know," said Mr.
Southwode shaking his head.
"Now that is unreasonable, Mr. Southwode."
"I do not think so. Prove it."
"I cannot prove it to a man. I have only a woman's knowledge, of what he
does not understand. And besides, Mr. Southwode, it is quite right and
proper that it should be so. A man shall leave his father and mother and
cleave to his wife; and if his father and mother, surely everybody else."
"As I am not married, the case does not come under consideration," said
the gentleman carelessly. And after a pause he went on--"I have written
several letters to Rotha during the time of my absence, and addressed
them to your care. Did you receive them safe?"
"I received several--I do not at this moment recollect just how many."
"Do you know why they were never answered?"
"I suppose I do," said Mrs. Busby composedly. "Rotha has been exceedingly
engrossed with her studies."
"She had vacations?"
"O certainly. She had vacations."
"Then can you tell me, Mrs. Busby, why Rotha never wrote to me?"
"I am afraid I cannot tell you," the lady answered slowly, looking into
the fire.
"Do you think Rotha has forgotten me?"
"It is not like her, I should say, to forget. I never hear her mention
you. But then, I see her little except in the vacations, and not always
then; she was often carried off from me."
"By whom, may I ask?"
"O by her school teacher."
"And that was--? Pardon me, but it concerns me to know all about Rotha I
can."
"I am not sure if I am justified in telling you."
"Why not?"
"I think," said Mrs. Busby with an appearance of candour, "my
guardianship is the proper one for her. How can you be her guardian,
while she lives in my house, Mr. Southwode? Or how can you be her
guardian out of it?"
"I promised her mother," he said. "How a promise shall be fulfilled, may
admit of question; but not whether it shall be fulfilled."
"I know of but one way," Mrs. Busby went on, eyeing him now intently. "If
you tell me you are intending to take _that_ way,--then I have no more to
say, of course. But I know of but one way in which it can be done."
Mr. Southwode laughed a little, a low, soft laugh, that in him always
meant amusement. "I did not promise _that_ to her mother," he said, "and
I cannot promise it to you. It might be convenient, but I do not
contemplate it."
"Then, Mr. Southwode, I feel it my duty to request that you fulfil your
promise by acting through me."
It was well enough said; it was not without some ground of reason. If he
could have felt sure of Mrs. Busby, it might have received, partially at
least, his concurrence. But he was as far as possible from feeling sure
of Mrs. Busby; and rather gave her credit for playing a clever mask. Upon
a little pause which followed the last words, there came a ring at the
door and the entrance of the young lady of the house. Antoinette was
grown up excessively pretty, and was dressed to set off her prettiness.
Her mother might be pardoned for viewing her with secret pride and
exultation, if not for the thrill of jealous fear which accompanied the
proud joy. That anybody should stand in this beauty's way!
"Mr. Southwode!" exclaimed the young lady. "It is Mr. Southwode come
back. Why, Mr. Southwode, what has kept you so long? We heard you were
coming five months ago. Why didn't you come then?"
Mrs. Busby wished her daughter had not said that.
"There were reasons--not interesting enough to occupy your ear with
them."
"'Occupy my ear'!" repeated the girl. "That is something new. Mamma,
isn't that deliciously polite! Well, what made you stay away so long, Mr.
Southwode? I like to have my ear occupied."
"Should not people stay where they belong?"
"And do you belong in England?"
"I suppose, in a measure, I may say I do."
"You talk foolishly, Antoinette," her mother put in. "Don't you know that
Mr. Southwode's home is in England?"
"People can change their homes, mamma. Then, you are not going to stay
long, Mr. Southwode?"
"I do not know how long. That is an undecided point."
"And what have you come over for now?"
"Antoinette!" said her mother again. "I do not know if you can excuse
her, Mr. Southwode; she is entirely too out-spoken. That is a question
you have nothing to do with, Nettie."
"Why not, mamma? He has come for something; and if it is business, or
travelling, or hunting, I would like to know."
"Hunting, at this time of year!" said Mrs. Busby.
"I might say it is business," said Mr. Southwode. "In one part of my
business, perhaps you can help me."
Antoinette pricked up her ears delightedly, and eagerly asked how? and
what?
"I made it part of my business to inquire about a little girl that I left
three years ago under your mother's care."
"Rotha!" exclaimed Antoinette; and a cloudy shadow of displeasure and
suspicion forthwith fell over her face; not tinder such good control as
her mother's. "A little girl! She was not so very little."
"What sort of a girl has she turned out to be?"
"Not little now, I can tell you. She is a great deal bigger than I am. So
you came to see about Rotha?"
"What can you tell me about her?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Nothing but the truth," said Mr. Southwode gravely.
"But the truth about what? Rotha is just what she used to be."
"Not changed except in inches?"
"_Inches!_ Feet!--" said Antoinette. "We don't think about inches when we
look at her. I don't know about anything else. If you want an account of
her studies you must ask somebody at school."
"Her teacher was yours?"
"O yes. Lately, you know, we were both in the upper class; and of course
we were together in Mrs. Mowbray's lessons; but then in other things we
were apart."
"How was that?"
"Studied different things," said Antoinette shortly. "Had different
masters. I can't tell you about Rotha's lessons, if you want to know
that." She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke, and tugged at them
with an appearance of vexation, which might be due to their excellent fit
and consequent difficulty of removal.
"Has she proved herself a pleasant inmate of the family?"
"She has been rather an inmate of Mrs. Mowbray's family," said
Antoinette. "Mrs. Mowbray has swallowed her up and carried her off from
us. _We_ don't see much of her."
"Antoinette," said her mother here, "Mr. Southwode wants to know Rotha's
address; and I cannot give him the name of the place. Can you help me
recollect it?"
"Never knew it, mamma. I didn't know the place had a name. I can't
recollect what I never heard."
"There must be a post-office," Mr. Southwode remarked.
"Must there? O I suppose there must, somewhere; but I don't know it."
"Lesbia could not find my address book," Mrs. Busby added.
"It is a matter of no consequence," Mr. Southwode rejoined. And he
presently after took his leave. A moment's silence followed his
departure.
"There was no need to tell him you did not know the post-office town,"
said Mrs. Busby. "That was as much as to say, you never write."
"What should I write for?" returned Antoinette defiantly. "Mamma! was
that all he came for? to ask about Rotha?"
"All that he came here for," said Mrs. Busby, with lines in her brow and
a compressed mouth. "I wish you had not told him where Rotha went to
school, either."
"Why?"
"Just as well not to say it."
"But what harm? He could ask, if he wanted to know; and then you would
have to tell. What does he want her address for?"
"I don't know; but I can manage that, well enough. He knows nothing about
Tanfield."
"Mamma! I wish Rotha had never come to us!" cried Antoinette with tears
in her eyes.
"Don't be foolish, Antoinette. Mr. Southwode will be here again in a day
or two; and then leave things to me."
Mr. Southwode meantime walked slowly and thoughtfully to the corner of
the street. By that time his manner changed; and he hailed a horse car
and sprang into it like a man who was suffering from no indecision in
either his views or purposes. Oddly enough, the very name which
Antoinette had comforted herself with thinking he did not know, had
suddenly occurred to him, together with a long-ago proposition of Mrs.
Busby to her sister in the latter's time of need. He had pretty well made
up his mind.
Half an hour later Mr. Southwode was announced to Mrs. Mowbray.
Mrs. Mowbray recollected him; she never forgot anybody, or failed to
catalogue anybody rightly in the vast collections and stores of her
memory. She received Mr. Southwode therefore with the gracious courtesy
and dignity which was habitual with her, and with the full measure also
of her usual reserve and quick observation.
After a few commonplaces respecting his absence and his return, Mr.
Southwode begged to ask if Mrs. Busby's niece, Miss Carpenter, were in
her house or school?
"Miss Carpenter is not with me," Mrs. Mowbray answered guardedly.
"But she has been with you, if I understand aright?"
"She has been with me until lately."
"Are you informed that she will not return?"
"By no means! I am expecting to see her or hear from her every day. O by
no means. Miss Carpenter ought to remain with me several years yet. I
shall be much disappointed if she do not. It is one great mistake of
parents now-a-days, that they do not give me time enough. The first two
or three years can but lay a foundation, on which to build afterwards."
"May I ask, if the foundation has been successfully laid in Miss
Carpenter's case? I am interested to know; because Mrs. Carpenter when
she died left her child to my care; and I hold myself responsible for
what concerns her."
Mrs. Mowbray hesitated slightly. "Where was Mrs. Busby?" she asked then.
"Here; but there was no intercourse between the sisters."
"Was it not by her mother's wish that Miss Carpenter was placed with her
aunt?"
"No. I acted on no authority but my own."
"What sort of a woman was Mrs. Carpenter?"
"A very admirable woman. A sweet, sound, noble nature, with a great deal
of quiet strength."
"Is her daughter like her?"
"Not in the least. I do not mean that she lacks some of her mother's good
qualities; but they are developed differently, and with a wholly
different background of temperament."
"Was there a feud between the sisters, or anything like it?"
Mr. Southwode hesitated. "I know the story," he said. "Mrs. Carpenter
never complained; but I think another woman would, in her place."
"Will you allow me to ask, how she came to entrust her child to you?"
"I was the only friend at hand. And now," Mr. Southwode went on smiling,
"may I be permitted to ask another question or two? When have you heard
from Miss Carpenter?"
"Not a word all summer. In the spring my school was broken up, on account
of sickness in the house; I sent Rotha home to her aunt; and since then I
have heard nothing from her. Not a word."
"You do not know then of course where she is?"
"With her aunt, I suppose, of course. Is she not with Mrs. Busby?"
"She is making a visit somewhere, Mrs. Busby tells me." And he hesitated.
"Has Rotha's home been happy with her aunt?"
"That is a question I never ask. Rotha does not complain."
"I need not ask whether her abode has been happy _here_," said the
gentleman smiling again; "but, has she been a satisfactory member of your
school?"
"Perfectly so! Of my school and family."
"You are satisfied with her studies, her progress in them, I mean?"
"Perfectly. I never taught any one with more pleasure or better results."
"I am very glad to hear that," said Mr. Southwode. And he took his leave.
The very next train for Tanfield carried him northward.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
DISCOVERIES.
The next day, which was the 24th of October, passed as other days of less
significance had done. At dinner Mrs. Purcell complained of Rotha's
failure of appetite. Rotha had been down-hearted all the morning. Seven
days more, and November would begin!
"You don't eat worth a red cent!" said Mrs. Purcell. "Aint that a good
pot pie?"
"Excellent! The queen of England couldn't have a better."
"If she hasn't a better appetite she won't be queen long. Why don't ye
eat?"
"Sometimes I can't, Prissy."
"What ails you?"
"Nothing. I get thinking; that's all."
"Joe," said his wife, "what's Mis' Busby doin'?"
"Couldn't say."
"Where is she? Why don't she come after Miss Rotha?"
"I s'pose she's busy with her own affairs. If she' had consulted me, I
could ha' told you more."
"If she ever consults you, I hope you'll give her some good advice. She
wants it bad!"
"I guess I will," said Mr. Purcell, lounging out. "If I don't, you kin."
Rotha wished to escape further remark or enquiry, and went out too. She
would divert herself with gathering a great bunch of the fall flowers and
dress some dishes. She often refreshed herself and refined the tea-table
with a nosegay dressed in the middle of it, especially as it seemed to
give not less pleasure to her entertainers than to her. She went now
slowly down the gravelled drive, filling her hands as she went with
asters, chrysanthemums, late honeysuckles, and bits of green from box and
cedar and feathery larches. She went slowly, thinking hard all the way,
and feeling very blue indeed. She saw no opening out of her troubles, and
she strongly suspected that her aunt meant there should be none. What was
to become of her? True, it flashed into her mind, "The Lord is my
Shepherd";--but the sheep was taking it into her head to think for
herself, and could not see that the path she was following would end in
anything but disaster and famishing. If she could but get out of this
path----
Ah, silly sheep!
Rotha found herself at the gate leading into the high road; the gate by
which she had been admitted so many months ago, and which she had never
passed through since. She did not open it now; she stood still, resting
one hand on the bars of it and gazing off along the road that led to
Tanfield. It was quite empty; there was little passing along that road in
the best of times, and very little at this season. It looked hopeless and
desolate, the long straight lines of fences, and the gray, empty space
between running off into nothing. Anything moving upon it would have been
a relief to the eye and the mind; it looked like Rotha's own life at
present, unchanging, Monotonous, solitary, barren, endless. Yet very
precious flowers had been lately blossoming upon her path, and fragrant
plants springing; but this, if she partly knew, at this moment she wholly
ignored or forgot. She stood in a dream reverie, looking forward with her
bodily eye, but with the eye of her mind back, and far back; to her
mother, to her father, to Mr. Digby, and the times at Medwayville when
she was a happy child. Nothing regular or consecutive; a maze of dream
images in which she lost herself, and under the power of which her tears
slowly gathered and began to run down her cheeks. Standing so, looking
down the long empty road, and in the very depths of disheartened
foreboding and dismay, a step startled her. Nobody was in sight on the
road towards Tanfield; it was a quick business step coming in the other
direction. Rotha turned her head hurriedly, and then was more in a maze
than ever, though of a different kind. Close by the gate somebody was
standing. A stranger? And why did he look so little strange? Rotha's eyes
grew big unconsciously, while she likewise utterly forgot that they were
framed in a setting of wet eyelashes; and then there came flashing
changes in her face. I cannot describe how all the lines of it altered;
and fire leapt to her eye, not without an alternating shadow however, a
sort of shadow of doubt; her lips parted, but she could not bring out a
word. The stranger stood still likewise, and looked, and I am not sure
but his eyes opened a little; light came into them too, and a smile.
"Have I found you?" he said. "Perhaps you will let me come in."
And while Rotha remained in stupid bewilderment and uncertainty of
everything except the identity of the person before her, he laid hold of
the latch of the gate and made his own words good; Rotha giving way just
enough to allow of it. I think the new-comer was a little uncertain as
well; nevertheless he was not the sort of man to shew uncertainty.
"Is this my little Rotha?" he said as he came up to her; and then, taking
her hand, he began just where he left off, by stooping and kissing her.
That roused Rotha, as much as ever the kiss of the prince in the fairy
tale woke the sleeping beauty. The blood flushed all over her face, she
pulled her hand away, and flung herself as it were upon the gate again;
laying hold of the bars of it and bending down her face upon her arms.
What did he do that for? and had he a right? After leaving her unthought
of for so many years, was he entitled to speak to her and look at her
and--kiss her, just as he could do once when she was a child? Rotha's
mind was in terrible tumult, for notwithstanding this protest of reason,
or of feeling, that touch of his lips upon her lips had waked up all the
old past; it was just like the kiss with which he had bid her good bye
three years ago; but whether to forgive him or not, and whether there was
anything or not, Rotha did not yet know. Yet the old power of his
presence was asserting itself already. All she could do was to keep
silent, and the silence was of some little duration; for Mr. Digby, as
his old fashion was, waited.
"I see you have not forgotten me," he said at length. "Or--should I
say--"
"I thought you _had_ forgotten _me_, Mr. Southwode," said Rotha. She said
it with some dignity, removing her arms from the gate and standing before
him. Yet she could not raise her eyes to him. Her manner was entirely
unexceptionable and graceful.
"What made you think that?"
"I had some reason. It is three years, just three years, since you went
away; and I have never heard a word from you in all the time."
"You have not heard from me? How comes that?"
"I do not know how it comes. I have never heard."
"And so, you thought I had never written?"
"_Did_ you write?" said Rotha, flashing the question now at him with her
eyes. It was exactly one of the old looks, that he remembered, bright,
deep, eager. Yet how the girl had changed!
"I wrote a number of times."
"To me?"
"Yea. I got no answer."
"How could I answer letters that I never had?" cried Rotha.
"Could you not, possibly, have written to me a letter that was not an
answer?"
"Yes, and I would; O how I wanted to write, many a time!--but I did not
know where to send it. I had not your address."
"I left it with your aunt for you; or rather, I believe I left it in a
note for you, when I went away."
"She never let me know as much," said Rotha a little bitterly.
"You might have guessed she had my address. Did you ever ask her? You
know, I promised to give it to you?"
"There was no use in my asking her any such thing,"' said Rotha. "She
never let me hear a word from you or about you. I only learned by chance,
as it were, that you had gone back to England."
"And so you thought I had forgotten you?"
"What could I think? I did not want to think that," said Rotha, feeling
somewhat put in the wrong.
"I did not want you to think that. The least you can do to a friend, if
you have got him, is to trust him."
"But then, I thought--they said--I thought, maybe, after you had put me
in aunt Serena's care, you had done--or thought you had done--the best
you could for me."
"The best I could just at the moment. I never promised to leave you with
Mrs. Busby always, did I?"
"But you were in England, and busy," said Rotha. "It seemed--No, it
_didn't_ seem very natural that you should forget all about me, for I
did not think it was at all like you; but that was what people said."
"And Rotha believed?"
"I almost believed it at last," said Rotha, very sorry to confess the
fact.
"What do you think now?"
"I think I was mistaken. But, Mr. Digby, three years is a long time; and
after all, why should you remember me? I was nothing to you; only a child
that you had been very kind to."
He was silent. What was she to him indeed? And what sort of relations was
he to maintain between them now? She was not a child any longer. Here was
a tall, graceful girl, albeit dressed in exceedingly plain garments; the
garments could not hide and even rather emphasized the fact, for she was
graceful in spite of them. And the promise of the child's face was
abundantly fulfilled in the woman. Features very fine, eyes of changing
and flashing power, all the indications that he well remembered of a
nature passionate, tender, sensitive and strong; while there was also a
certain veil of sweetness and patience over them all, which he did not
remember. Mr. Southwode began dimly to perceive that he could not take up
things just where he left them; what he left was not in existence. In
place of the passionate, variable, wilful child, here was a developed,
sensitive, and withal very beautiful woman. What was he to do with her?
or what could he do for her?
Unconsciously, the two had begun slowly pacing towards the house, and
Rotha was the one to break the silence. Happily, her companion's scruples
did not enter her head.
"What brought you here, Mr. Digby? How ever came you to Tanfield?"
"To look after that little girl you thought I had forgotten," he said
with a slight smile.
"But what made you come _here?_ Did you know I was here?"
"Not at all. I could not find out anything of your whereabouts; except
indeed that you were 'in the country.' So much I learned."
"From whom?"
"From Mrs. Busby."
"From my aunt! You have seen her! When did you see her?"
"Yesterday; immediately upon my arrival."
"Then you have only just come? From England, I mean."
"Only just come."
Rotha paused. This statement was delightfully soothing.
"And you saw aunt Serena? And what did she say?"
"She said nothing. I could get nothing out of her, of what I wanted to
hear. She said you were quite well, making a visit at a friend's house in
the country."
"That--is--not--true!" said Rotha slowly and indignantly. "Did she tell
you that?"
"Are you not making a visit here?"
"What is a 'visit'? No, I am not. And, it is not a friend's house,
either."
"How came you here? and when? and what for, then?" said he now in his
turn.
"I came--some time in last May; near the end, I believe."
"Why?"
Rotha lifted her eyes to his. "I do not know," she said.
"What was the alleged reason for your coming?"
"Aunt Serena was going, she said, to Chicago, on a visit, and my presence
would not be convenient. I could not stay in the house in New York alone.
So I was sent here. That is all I know."
"_Sent?_"
Rotha nodded. "Yes."
"Not _brought?_"
"O no!"
"Did you come _alone?_"
A sudden spasm seemed to catch the girl's heart; she stopped and covered
her face with her hands; and for a minute or two there came a rush of hot
tears, irrepressible and unmanageable. Why they came Rotha did not know,
and was surprised at them; but there was a quiver and a glitter in her
face when she took her hands down, which shewed to her companion that the
clouds and the sunshine were at strife somewhere. They walked on a few
paces more, and then, coming full in sight of the house, Rotha's steps
stayed.
"Where are we going?" she said. "I have no place to take you to, in
there."
Mr. Digby's eyes made a survey of the building before him.
"O it is large enough--there is room, and rooms, enough," said Rotha;
"but it is all unused and unopened. I have one corner, at the top of the
house; and down in another corner Mr. and Mrs. Purcell have their kitchen
and a little sleeping place off it; all the rest is desert."
"Who are Mr. and Mrs. Purcell?"
"Aunt Serena's tenants--farmers--I do not know what to call them. They
might be servants, but they are not that exactly."
"Do you mean that there is no other person in the house?"
"No other person."
Mr. Southwode began to go forward again, slowly, looking at everything as
he went.
"What do you hear from your aunt?"
"Nothing. O yes, I have had one scrap of a note from her; some time ago;
but it told me nothing:"
"Have you written to her?"
"Over and over; till I was tired."
"Have you written to no one else?"
"Why of course! I wrote to Mrs. Mowbray, again and again; and to one or
two of the girls; but I never got an answer. The whole world has seemed
dead, and been dead, for me."
They slowly paced by the house, and began to go down the sweep towards
the other gate.
"Alone with these two servants for five months!" Mr. Southwode said.
"Rotha, what sort of a life have you been living all this while?"
"I do not know," said the girl catching her breath. "Rather queer. I
suppose it has been good for me."
"What makes you suppose that?"
"I think I can feel that it has."--But Rotha added no more.
"Is confidence between us not fully reestablished?" he asked with a
smile.
"O yes--if you care to know," Rotha answered hesitatingly, at the same
time finding herself ready to slide back into the old habit of being very
open with him.
"I care to know--if you like to tell me."
"It has been a queer life," she repeated. "I have been living between two
things, my Bible, and the garden. There was an interval of some weeks not
long ago, when Mrs. Purcell was sick; and then I lived largely in the
kitchen."
"Go on, and tell me--But how can you go on!" Mr. Southwode found himself
approaching the gate and road again, and suddenly broke off. "I cannot
keep you standing here by the hour, and a little time will not do for us.
Pray, if you have no place to take me to, where do you yourself live?"
The laughing glance that came to him now was precisely another of the
child's looks that he remembered; a look that recognized his sympathy,
and answered it out of a fund of heart treasure.
"I live between my corner at the top of the house, and Mrs. Purcell's
corner at the bottom. I have no place but my room and her kitchen."
"Where can I see you? We have a great deal to talk about. Rotha, suppose
you go for a drive with me?"
Rotha's eyes sparkled. "It would not be the first time," she said.
"No. Then the next question is, when can we go?" He looked at his watch.
"It is too late for this afternoon," Rotha opined.
"I am afraid it is. I do not think we can manage it. Then--Rotha, will
you be ready to-morrow morning? How early can you be ready?"
"We have breakfast about half past six."
"_We?_"
"Yes," said Rotha half laughing. "We. That is, Mr. Purcell, and his wife,
and myself."
"Do you take your meals with these people?"
Rotha nodded. "And in their kitchen. It is the only place."
"But they are not--What are they?"
"Not what you would call refined persons," said Rotha, while again the
laugh of amusement and pleasure in her eyes shone through an iris of
sudden tears. "No--they have been kind to me, though, in their way."
"As kind as their allegiance to Mrs. Busby permitted," said Mr. Southwode
drily, recognizing at the same time the full beauty of this look I have
tried to describe. "Well! That is over. How early to-morrow will you be
ready to come away?"
"To come away?" repeated Rotha. "For a drive, you mean?"
"For a drive from this place. It is not my purpose ever to bring you back
again."
The colour darted vividly into Rotha's cheeks, and a corresponding flash
came to her eye. Yet she stood still and silent, while the colour went
and came. Never here again? Then whither? and under what guardianship?
His own? There came a great heart leap of joy at this suggestion, but
with it came also a vague pull-back of doubt; the origin of which
probably lay in words she had heard long ago and never forgotten, the
tendency of which was to throw scruples in the way of such an arrangement
or to cast some slur upon it. Was there an echo of them in Rotha's young
consciousness? She did feel that she was a child no longer; that there
was a difference since the old time. Yet she was still as simple, nearly,
as a child; and of that sort of truth in her own heart which readily
believes truth in others. Mr. Digby's truth she knew. Altogether there
was a confusion of thoughts within her, which he saw, though he did not
read.
"Do you owe anything to these people here?" he asked, a sudden question
rising in his mind.
"Owe? To Mr. Purcell and his wife? No. I owe them for a good deal of
kindness. O! you mean--Yes, in one sense I owe them. I have never paid
them anything."
"For your board, and their care of you?"
"No.--I do not owe them for much _care_," said Rotha smiling. "I have
taken care of myself since I have been here."
"Do I understand you? Has nobody paid them anything for your stay here?"
"Nobody."
"Upon what footing were you here, then?"
"It has no name," said Rotha contentedly. She could be gay now over this
anomalous past. "I do not know what to call it."
"Has your aunt allowed you to depend upon these people?"
"Yes. I have not really depended upon them, Mr. Southwode. I promised
myself, and I promised Mrs. Purcell, that some day, if I ever could do
it, I would live to pay her. If I could have got any work to do, I would
have taken it, and paid her before now; but I had no chance. I could see
nobody."
"How literally is that to be taken?"
"With absolute literalness. I have seen nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Purcell
since I came here. Began almost to think I never should."
"But Sundays?"
"What of Sundays?"
"Did you not go to church somewhere?"
"Yes," said Rotha smiling; "in my pleasant corner room at the top of the
house. Nowhere else."
"Why not?"
"It is not the habit of the people. And their habit, I found, I could not
change."
"What did you do with your Sundays?"
"Spent them alone with my Bible. And often they were very, very pleasant;
though I found it difficult to keep up such study all alone, through the
long days."
"I must not let you stand here any longer! Will you be ready for me at
eleven o'clock to-morrow?"
"Yes. There is no difficulty in that."
"Then I will be here at eleven. Good bye!"
He gave her his hand, looked at her a little steadily, but Rotha could
not tell what he was thinking of; then as he let go her hand he lifted
his hat and turned away.
A flush of colour came over Rotha's face, and she was glad to turn too;
to hide it. Walking up to the house, she tried to think what Mr.
Southwode meant by that last gesture. She was half pleased, and half not
pleased. It was the manner of a gentleman to a stranger; she was no
stranger. But it was also the manner of a gentleman towards a lady. Did
he recognize her then for one? for a grown-up woman? a child no longer?
and was he going to take on distance in his behaviour to her? She did not
like the idea. That thought however, and all thoughts, soon merged in a
feeling of exceeding joy. In the surprise and strangeness of the first
meeting, Rotha had hardly had time to know how she felt; no Aurora
Borealis is more splendid than the rosy rays of light which began now to
stream up into her sky. She knew and began to realize that she was
overwhelmingly happy. There were questions unsolved and not easy to
solve; there were uncertainties and perplexities in her future; she half
discerned that; but she could not give attention to it, in the present
she was so exceedingly glad. And she need not; for did not Mr. Digby
always know what to do with perplexities? She belonged to him again, and
he, not her aunt any more, had the disposal of her; it was the old time
come back. She was no longer alone and forlorn; no longer divided from
her best friend; what of very hard or very evil could come to her now?
She felt she was too much excited to bear the sight of Mrs. Purcell just
yet; she turned into the old garden to gather some pears. For the last
time! It rang in Rotha's heart like a peal of bells. The glint of the
October sun, warm and mellow on yellow leaves and on leaves yet green, on
tree branches and even garden palings, was like a reflection from the
inner sunshine which even so shone upon everything. The world had not
looked so when she came out of the house that afternoon; everything was
changed. No more under the dominion of her aunt Busby! how Rotha's heart
leapt at the thought. No longer to be shut up here with the two Purcell
people, and having an indefinite prospect of dull isolation and hopeless
imprisonment before her. What was before _her_, Rotha did not indeed know;
only Mr. Digby was in it, and that was enough, and security for all the
rest.
She was thinking this, when it suddenly occurred to her, that she had
known all along that the love and power of a heavenly friend had been in
her future; and yet the knowledge had never given her the rest and the
content that the certainty of the human friend gave. Rotha stopped
picking pears and stood still, sorry and ashamed. It was true; she could
not deny it; and it grieved her. So this was all her faith amounted to,
her faith in the Friend who is better and surer immeasurably than all
other friends! She could trust Mr. Digby with a trust that made her
absolutely careless and happy; she could not trust Christ so. It grieved
Rotha keenly; it made her ashamed with a genuine and wholesome shame; but
the fact stood.
CHAPTER XXIX.
PERPLEXITIES.
She went in with a lapful of pears. By the way she had made up her mind
not to speak of what had happened. She had been considering. Joe and
Prissy were certainly kind to her, and kindly disposed; yet, what had
become of her letters? They had all been intrusted to Mr. Purcell, to
mail or have mailed in Tanfield. Did that fact stand in connection with
the other fact, that no answers ever came? It was plain now that Mrs.
Busby had been playing a deep game; plain that it had been her purpose to
keep Rotha hidden away at least from one person. Rotha was the least in.
the world of a suspicious nature; nevertheless she felt uncertain what
course Joe and Prissy might see fit to take if they knew of what was
planning; she resolved they should not know. If only they had not seen
Mr. Southwode already! he _would_ stand so in sight of the house. But
Prissy looked very unsuspicious.
"Well, I do think!" she began. "I should say, you wanted some pears. What
ever did you s'pose was goin' to be done with 'em?"
"Eat them!" said Rotha cheerily, emptying her apronful upon the table.
"The boards is just scoured! And them aint the kind."
"The kind for what? They are ripe, are they not?"
"Ripe enough for doin' up. I can make pear honey of 'em. They'd ha' been
good done with molasses, if I'd ha' had 'em in time. You can't do nothin'
with 'em as they be. They'd draw your mouth all up."
Rotha looked at her pears and laughed. "Shews how much I know!" she said.
"Folks as lives in the City o' Pride don't know much o' things!" remarked
Prissy.
"The City of Pride. Why do you call New York that?"
"Aint it?"
"I do not know that there is more pride there than in other places. Pride
is in people--not in the places where people live. I think _you_ are
pretty proud, Prissy."
"That's all us has got to keep us up," rejoined Mrs. Purcell. "Do you
think pride's wrong?"
"Yes, and so do you, if you believe your little book up there on the
mantelpiece."
"What's in it about pride?" inquired Prissy quickly.
"Do you not recollect? The Lord said, 'How can ye believe, which receive
honour one of another.' Here it is." She took the little volume from the
mantel shelf and found the place. Prissy looked at it.
"What's the harm?" she said.
"Never mind, if you don't understand. The Lord said it; and he knows."
"What's come to you?" Prissy asked suddenly. "You're twice as much of a
girl as you was this mornin'."
"Am I?"
"Somethin's done you a heap o' good. Your face is fired up; and your eyes
is two colours, and there's somethin' shinin' out o' 'em."
"I do feel better," said Rotha soberly. And after that she was careful to
be sober as long as supper lasted.
When she went up to her room she sat down to think at leisure. The light
was fading out of the depths of the tulip tree; the stars were twinkling
in the dark blue; the still air was a little frosty. Yes, the year had
sped on a good part of its course, since that May evening when Rotha had
first made friends with the big tulip tree. Near five months ago it was,
and now the days were growing short again. O was it possible that her
release had come? And not the release she had hoped for, but this? so
much better! Only five months; and her little imprisonment was ended, and
its lessons all--_were_ they all--learned? With her heart filling and
swelling, Rotha sat by her window and thought everything over, one thing
after another. She had trusted; she might have trusted better!
Her aunt's sending her to this place had separated her from nothing, not
even from Mr. Digby. Here he was, and had her again under his protection;
and it was _he_ henceforth who would say what she should do and where she
should go. Not Mrs. Busby henceforth. Rotha's heart thrilled and throbbed
with inexpressible joy. Not without queer other thrills also, of what
might be described as an instinct of scruple; a certain inner
consciousness that in this condition of things there was somewhat
anomalous and difficult to adjust. Yet I am by no means sure that this
consciousness did in any wise abate the joy. Rotha went over now in
imagination all her interview with Mr. Southwode; recalled all he said,
and remembered how he looked at each turn of the conversation. And the
more she mused, the more her heart bounded. Till at last she recollected
that there was something else to be' done before eleven o'clock to-
morrow; and she went from reverie to very busy activity.
It was all done, all she had to do, before breakfast time next day. After
breakfast Rotha was in great doubt how to manage. If she dressed for her
departure, Mr. and Mrs. Purcell would find out that something was going
to happen, and perhaps try to hinder it. If she waited in her room until
called for, she did not know but they would deny her being in the house
at all and bar access to her. Doubtless Mr. Digby would not be
permanently barred out, or thwarted in what he meant to do; but Rotha
could not endure the thought of delay or disappointment. She would have
gone out to meet him; but she was no longer a child, and a feeling of
maidenly reserve forbade her. She made everything ready; knew she could
change her dress in five minutes; and went down to the kitchen about ten
o'clock; she could not stay any longer away from the scene of action. She
took a knife and helped Mrs. Purcell pare the pears for stewing.
"You have been very kind to me, Prissy," she said, after some time of
busy silence.
"'Cause I warnt no more put out about the pears, you mean? Well, I'll
tell you. I was fit to bite a tenpenny nail off, when I see you come in
with that lapful last night. But I knowed you didn't know no better. If
Joe warn't so set I'd make him pick the pears; but he always says and
sticks to it, the fruits o' the earth what grows on trees aint no good.
He'll eat 'em fast enough, I tells him, and so he will; as long as I'll
stand to cook 'em; but he won't lift never a hand to get 'em off the
trees. No thin' but corn and oats, and them things, is work for a man, he
thinks."
"Unreasonable--" said Rotha.
"When isn't men unreasonable?--What do you want, sir? This aint the front
o' the house."
And Rotha came round with a start, for there, at the door of the kitchen,
at the top of the steps leading up from the scullery, stood Mr.
Southwode; and Prissy's question had been put with a strong displeased
emphasis.
"I know it," said the intruder in answer, "and I beg your pardon; but--
Does anybody live at the front of the house?
"Them as tries, finds out," said Mrs. Purcell, with a fierce knitting of
her brows.
"That is also true, as I have learned by experience. I found that nobody
lived there."
"Who did you think lived there? Who do you want?" asked Prissy,
ungrammatically, but pointedly.
"Am I speaking to Mrs. Purcell?" And then the new-comer smiled at Rotha
and shook hands with her.
"That is my name," said Prissy. "It aint her'n."
"I am aware of that too," said the stranger composedly, "and my present
business is with Mrs. Purcell. I wish to know, in the first place, how
many weeks Miss Carpenter has been in your house?"
"What do you want to know for?" said Prissy. "Is it any business o'
yourn?"
"Yes. I may say it is nobody else's business. You have a right to ask;
and that is my answer."
"What do you want to know for?"
"I wish to discharge your account. Miss Carpenter promised that you
should be honestly paid, when the time came; and the time is come now."
"Be you come from Mis' Busby?"
"I saw Mrs. Busby a few days ago."
"And she sent you?"
"I am not honoured with any commission from Mrs. Busby. As I told you,
this business is mine, not hers."
"Mis' Busby put her here in us's care; and us is bound to take care of
her, Joe and me. Us can't take no orders but from Mis' Busby."
"No; but you can take money? Mrs. Busby, I think, will not pay you. I
will. But I must do it now. I am going away, and may probably never come
this way again."
"I don't see what you have to do, a payin' Miss Carpenter's o win's,"
said Prissy, eyeing him suspiciously from head to foot.
"The best reason in the world.--Rotha, will you go and get ready?"--and
then as the door closed upon Rotha Mr. Southwode went on.--"Miss
Carpenter has been under my care ever since she lost her mother. I placed
her with her aunt when I was obliged to go abroad, to England; and now I
am come to take her away."
"To take Rotha away?" cried Prissy.
"To take Miss Carpenter away."
"Maybe Mis' Busby don't want her to go."
"Maybe not. But that is of no consequence. Let me have your account,
please."
"Be you goin' to many her?" Prissy asked suddenly.
"That is not a question you have any need to ask."
"I asks it though,"--returned Prissy sturdily. "Be you?"
"No."
"Then I wish you'd go and talk to Mr. Purcell, 'cos I don' know nothin'
about it. If you was goin' to marry her, stands to reason everything else
gives way; folks must get married, if they has a mind to; but if you
aint, I don't see into it, and don't see no sense in it. Mr. Purcell's at
the barn. I wish you'd just go and talk to him."
"I have had trouble enough to find you," said the gentleman; "I shall not
try to find Mr. Purcell. If you wish me to see him, I will wait here till
you bring him."
And so saying, Mr. Southwode deposited his hat on the table and himself
sat down. Prissy gave him glance after glance, unsatisfied and uneasy.
She did long to refer things to Joe; and she saw she could not manage her
unwelcome visiter; so finally she took off her apron and threw it over
her head and set off on a run for the barn. Meanwhile Rotha came down,
all ready for the drive.
"Where are they all?" she exclaimed.
"One gone after the other. I think, Rotha, it will be the pleasantest way
for you, to go out at once to the carriage and wait there for me; if you
will let me be so discourteous. You may as well escape the discussion I
must hold with these people. Where is your luggage?"
"I have only one little trunk, up stairs at the top of the house. The
rest of my things are at aunt Busby's."
"We will not ask her for them. I will take care of your box and bring it
along. And give me this."
He took Rotha's handbag from her hand as he spoke and dismissed her with
a smile; and Rotha, feeling as if all sorts of burdens were lifted from
her at once, went out and went round to where a phaeton was waiting at
the front of the house. And there she stood, with her heart beating;
remembering her sad coming five months before: (but the five months
seemed five years;) thinking of all sorts of incongruous things;
uncertain, curious as what was to be done with her; congratulating
herself that she had _one_ nice dress, her travelling dress, which she
had carefully saved until now; and wondering what she should do for
others, her calicos being a good deal worn and only working dresses at
the best. So she stood waiting; doubtful, yet on the whole most glad;
questioning, yet unable to be anxious; while five minutes after five
minutes passed away. At last came the procession; Prissy in front, her
husband following with Rotha's trunk on his shoulders, Mr. Southwode
bringing up the rear.
"I never thought you'd go like _that_," said Prissy reproachfully. "If
us is poor folks, us has hands clean enough to shake."
"I never meant to go without bidding you good bye, Prissy," said Rotha,
grasping her hand heartily,
"Looks awful like it--" rejoined Mrs. Purcell.
"I shall always remember your kindness to me," Rotha went on.
"Pay and forget!" said Prissy. "It's all paid for now; and it's us as
must give thanks." Then she added in a lower tone, "Where be you goin'
now?"
"To Tanfield first, I suppose."
Prissy looked significantly at Mr. Southwode, who was ordering the
disposition of the trunk, and had evidently more in her thoughts than she
chose to utter. Then Joe came with his hand outstretched for a parting
grasp, his face smiling with satisfaction.
"Well," he said, "we've all done the best we could; and nobody has
anything to be sorry for. But we shall miss you, bad!"
"All he cares for 's the pears!" said his wife. "Come along, Joe; if you
are good, I'll get you some."
The wagon drove off before Rotha could hear Joe's answer. She was gone!
The weary months of imprisonment were done and passed. What was to follow
now?
Rotha could not think, could not care. The phaeton was rolling smoothly
along; she was traversing easily the long stretch of highway she had
looked at so often; her old best friend was in charge of her; Rotha gave
up care. Yet questions would come up in her mind, though she dismissed
them as fast; and her heart kept singing for joy. She did not even ask
whither she was driven.
She was going to the hotel at Tanfield, the same where she had once put
up alone. Here her box was ordered to a room which seemed to have been
made ready for her; and Mr. Southwode remarked that lunch would be ready
presently. Rotha took off her hat and joined him in the private room
where it was prepared. A wood fire was burning, and a table was set, and
the October sun shone in, and Mr. Digby was there reading a paper. Rotha
put her hand upon her eyes; it seemed too much brightness all at once.
Mr. Southwode on his part laid down his paper and looked at her; he was
noticing with fresh surprise the changes that three years had made.
Truly, _this_ was not what he left in Mrs. Busby's care. And there is no
doubt Mr. Southwode as well as Rotha had something to think of; and
questions he had been debating with himself since yesterday came up with
new emphasis and urgency. Nothing of all this shewed. He laid down his
paper, stirred up the fire, gave Rotha an easier chair than the one she
had first chosen, and took a seat opposite her.
"We have got to begin all over again," he smilingly remarked.
"Oh no!" said Rotha. "I do not think so."
"Why? We cannot be said to know one another now, can we?"
"I know you--" said Rotha a little lower.
"Do you? But I do not know you."
"I am just what I used to be," the girl said briskly, raising her head.
"By your own shewing, _not_. The bird I left would have beat its wings
lame against the bars of the cage I found it in."
"I did beat my wings pretty lame at first," said Rotha; "but not in this
cage."
"In what one then?" he asked quickly.
"Oh--after you went away. I mean that time."
"What made the cage at that time?"
"Aunt Serena--and aunt Serena's house."
"I was a little afraid of it. But I could not help myself. What did she
do?"
Rotha hesitated a little.
"I do not think it is any use to go back to it now," she said. "It was
partly my own fault. I had meant fully to do just as you said, and be
polite and quiet and pleasant;--and I could not!"
"And so--?"
"And so, we had bad times. After aunt Serena kept me from seeing you and
bidding you good bye, or even knowing that you were gone, I could not
forgive her. And she knew she had wronged me. And that people do not
forget."
"You thought I had too, eh?"
"No," said Rotha; "not then. I knew it was her doing."
"It was wholly her doing. Whenever I came and asked for you, I was always
told that you were out, or sick in bed, or in some way quite unable to
see me. And my going was extremely sudden, so that I had no time to take
measures; other than to write to you and enclose my address."
"I never got it. And all those times I was always at home, and perfectly
well, and sometimes--"
"Well--what?"
"Sometimes I was standing in the hall up stairs, leaning over the
balusters and listening to your steps in the hall."
Colour rose in Rotha's cheek, and her voice took a tone which told tales;
and Mr. Southwode thought he did begin to recognize his little friend of
old time.
"And then--" Rotha went on, "you know what I used to be, and can guess
that I was not very patient."
"I can guess that. And what are you now?"
She flashed one of her quick looks at him, smiled and blushed. "I have
grown a little older--" she said.
Mr. Southwode quite perceived that. He was inclined to believe that what
he had before him was the ripened fruit which in its green state he had
tried so hard to bring into the sun; grown sweet and rich beyond his
hopes. He turned the conversation however, took up his paper again and
read to Rotha a paragraph concerning some late events in Europe; from
which they went off into a talk leading far from personal affairs, to the
affairs of nations past and present, and branching off into questions of
history and literature. And Mr. Southwode found again the Rotha of old,
only with the change I have above indicated. The talk was lively for an
hour, until lunch was served. It was served for them alone, in the room
where they were. As they took their places at table and the meal began,
for a few minutes there was silence.
"This is like--and not like--the old time," Mr. Southwode remarked
smiling.
"I think it is more 'not like,'" said Rotha.
"Why, pray?"
Rotha hesitated. "I said just now I had not changed; but in some things I
have."
"Grown a little taller."
"A good deal, Mr. Southwode! And that is the least of the changes, I
suppose."
"What are the others? Come, it is the very thing it imports me to know.
And the quicker the better. Tell me all you can."
"About myself?"
"I mean, about yourself!"
"That's difficult."
"I admit it is difficult; but easier for a frank nature, such as yours
used to be, than for another."
Meanwhile he helped her to things on the table, taking care of her in the
manner he used to do in old time. It put a kind of spell upon Rotha. The
old instinct of doing what he wished her to do seemed to be springing up
in its full imperativeness.
"What do you want to know?" she asked doubtfully.
"Everything!"
"Everything is not much, in this case. I have lived most of the time,
till last May, with Mrs. Mowbray; at school."
"What did you do at school?"
"Nothing. I _began_ to do, that is all. I have just begun to learn. Just
began to feel that I was getting hold of things, and that they were
growing most delightful. Then all was broken on ."
"That was last May?"
"Yes."
"Why do you suppose your aunt chose just that time to send you here?"
"I have no idea! She was going to Chicago, she said--"
"You know she did not go?"
"Did not go? She was in New York all this summer?"
"So I understood from herself In New York or near it."
"Then what _did_ she mean by sending me here, Mr. Digby? She did not
know you were coming."
"You think that knowledge would have affected her measures?"
"I know it would!"
"It is an unfruitful subject to inquire into. I am afraid your vacations
can hardly have been pleasant times, spent in your aunt's family?"
"I was not always with her. Quite as often I staid with Mrs. Mowbray--my
dear Mrs. Mowbray! and with her I went to Catskill, and to Niagara, and
to Nahant, and to the Adirondacks. I had great times. It was the next
best thing to--to the old days, when I was with you."
"I should think it would have been much better," Mr. Southwode said,
forbidding the smile that was inclined to come. For Rotha's manner did
not make her words less flattering.
"Do you? Do you not know me better than that, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha,
feeling a little injured.
"I suppose I do! You were always an unreasonable child. But I can
understand how you should regret Mrs. Mowbray."
"Now?" said Rotha. "I do not regret anything now. I am too happy to tell
how happy I am."
"I remember, you are gifted with a great capacity for happiness," Mr.
Southwode said, letting the smile come now.
"It is a good thing," said Rotha. "Sometimes, even this summer, I could
forget my troubles in my flower beds. Did you notice in what nice order
they were, and how many flowers still?"
"I am afraid I did not specially notice."
"Awhile ago they were full of bloom, and lovely. And when I took them in
hand they were a wilderness. Nobody had touched them for ever so long. I
had a job of it. But it paid."
"What else have you done this summer?"
"Nothing else, except study my Bible. It was all the study I had."
"How did you study it? as a disciple? or as an inquirer?"
"O, as a disciple. Can one really _study_ it in any other way?"
"I am afraid so. There is deep study, and there is superficial study, you
know. Then you are a disciple, Rotha?"
"Yes, Mr. Southwode; a sort of one. But I am one."
"When did that come about?"
"Not so very long after you went away. I came to the time that you told
me of, that it would come."
"What time? I do not recollect."
"A time when everything failed me."--Rotha felt somehow disappointed,
that she should remember so much better than he did.
"And then you found Christ?"
"Yes,--after a while."
"What have you been doing for him since then?"
"Doing for him?" Rotha repeated.
"Yes."
"I do not know. Not much. I am afraid, not anything."
"Was that because you thought there was not much to do?"
"N--o," said Rotha thoughtfully; "I did not think _that_. Only nothing
particular for me to do."
"That was a mistake."
"I did not see anything for me to do."
"Perhaps. But the Lord has no servants to be idle. If they do not see
their work, it is either that their eyes are not good, or that they are
looking in the wrong direction."
A silence followed this statement, during which Rotha was thinking.
"Mr. Digby, what do you mean by their eyes being not good?"
"Not seeing clearly."
"And what makes people's eyes dim to see their work?"
"A want of sensitiveness in their optic nerve," he said smiling. "It is
written, you know the words--'He died for all, that they which live
should not live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them'--How has
it been in your case?"
"I never thought of it," Rotha answered slowly. "I believe my head has
been just full of myself,--learning and enjoying."
"I do not want to check either, and the service of Christ does not check
either. I am glad, after all, the _enjoying_ has formed such a part of
your experience."
"With Mrs. Mowbray, how should it not? You know her a little, Mr.
Southwode?"
"Only a little."
"But you cannot know her, for you never needed her. O such a friend as
she is! Not to me only, but to whoever needs her. She goes along life
with her hands full of blessings, and she is forever dropping something
into somebody's lap; if it is not help, it is pleasure; if it is not a
fruit, it is a flower. I never saw anybody like her. She is a very angel
in the shape of a woman; and she is doing angel's work all the day long.
I have seen, and I know. All sorts of help, and comfort, and cheer, and
tenderness, and sympathy; and herself is the very last person' in all the
world she thinks of."
"That's a pretty character," said Mr. Southwode.
"It comes out in everything," Rotha went on. "It is not in giving only;
she is forever making everybody happy, if she can. There are some people
you cannot make happy. But nursing them when they are sick, and
comforting them when they are in trouble, and helping them when they are
in difficulty, and supplying them when they are in need, and if they are
none of those things, then just throwing flowers in their lap,--that is
Mrs. Mowbray. Yes, and she can reprove them when they are wrong, too; and
that is a harder service than either."
"In how many of all these ways has she done you good, Rotha? if I may
ask."
"It is only pleasant to answer, Mr. Digby. In all of them." And Rotha's
eyes filled full, and her cheek took fire.
"Not 'supplying need' also?"
"O yes! O that was one of the first things her kind hand did for me. Mr.
Southwode, do you know, many people criticise her for the use she makes
of her money; they call her extravagant, and indiscreet, and all that.
They say she ought to lay up her money."
"Quite natural."
"But it hurt me sometimes."
"It need not hurt you. There is another judgment, which is of more
importance. 'There is, that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.'
And there is, 'that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich
towards God.' But the world must weigh according to its balances, and
they are too small to take heaven in."
A pause followed. With the going back to Mrs. Mowbray and all the
memories connected with her, a sort of mist of association began to rise
in Rotha's mind, to dim the new brightness of the present time. Uneasy
half recollections of words or manner, or perhaps rather of the
impression that words and manner had left behind them, began to come
floating in upon her joyousness. The silence lasted.
"What did you learn with Mrs. Mowbray?" Mr. Southwode asked at length.
"Beginnings of things," said Rotha regretfully; "only beginnings. I had
not time fairly to learn anything."
"Beginnings of what?"
"French, Latin, geometry and algebra, history of course, philosophy,
chemistry,--those were the principal things. I was going into geology,
and I wanted to learn German; but Mrs. Mowbray thought I was doing
enough already."
"Enough, I should think. Music?"
"O no!" said Rotha smiling.
"Drawing?"
"No," said the girl with a sigh this time. "Mrs. Mowbray could not give
me everything you know, for she has others to help. And aunt Serena would
not have heard of such a thing."
"What would you like to do now, Rotha?"
"Do? About what, Mr. Digby?"
"Learning. I suppose you would like to go on in all these paths of
knowledge you have entered?"
Rotha looked towards him a little doubtfully. How did he mean? Himself to
be her teacher again? But his next words explained.
"You would like to go to school again?"
"Yes, of course. I should like it very much."
"Then that is one thing decided."
"Shall I go back to Mrs. Mowbray?" she asked eagerly.
Mr. Southwode hesitated, and delayed his answer.
"I would rather be at a greater distance from Mrs. Busby," he confessed
then.
And Rotha made no answer. Those old impressions and associations were
trooping in. She remembered that Mrs. Mowbray had never favoured the
introduction of Mr. Southwode's name into their conversations; she had a
dim apprehension that her influence would be thrown into Mrs. Busby's
scale, and that possibly both ladies would join to prevent her, Rotha's,
being under Mr. Southwode's protection and management. While not in the
least suspicious, Rotha was too fine strung not to be an acute discerner.
So far her thoughts went distinctly, and it was enough to tie her tongue.
But beyond this, there were lights and shadows hovering on the horizon,
which followed no traceable lines and revealed no recognizable forms, and
yet made her feel that the social atmosphere held or might develope
elements not altogether benign and peaceful. There had been words said or
half said formerly, on one or two occasions, which had given her a clue
she did not now like to follow out; words it would have been comfortable
to forget, only Rotha did not forget. She _had_ forgotten or dismissed
them, but as I said they began to come back. Besides, she was older. She
could see now, simple as she was still, that in the relations between her
and her guardian there was something anomalous; that for a young girl
like her to be under care of a man no older than he, who was neither
brother nor uncle nor any relation at all, and for her to be eating her
bread at his expense, was a state of things which must be regarded as
unusual, and to say the least, questionable. Poor Rotha sat thinking of
this while she went on with her luncheon, and growing alternately hot and
cold as she thought of it; everything being aggravated by an occasional
glance at the friend opposite her, whose neighbourhood was so sweet, and
every line of his face and figure so inexpressibly precious to her. For
it began to dawn upon Rotha the woman, what had been utterly spurned in
idea by Rotha the child, that this anomalous relation could not subsist
always. She must, or he must, find a way out of it; and she preferred
that it should be herself and not he. And the only way out of it that
Rotha could see, was, that she should train herself to become a teacher;
and so, in a very few years, a very few, come to be self-supported. It
struck her heart like a bolt of ice, the thought; for the passionate
delight of Rotha's heart was this very friend, from whom she began to see
that she must separate herself. The greatest comfort at this moment was,
that Mr. Southwode himself looked so composed and untroubled by doubts or
whatever else. Yet Mr. Southwode had his own thoughts the while; and to
conclude from the calmness of his face that his mind was equally
uncrossed by a question, would have been to make a mistake.
"Where then, if not to Mrs. Mowbray's?" Rotha inquired at last, breaking
a long silence.
"Perhaps Boston. How would you like that? Or would you be very sorry not
to return to New York?"
"Yes, sorry," said Rotha, "but I think it may be best. O Boston, or
anywhere, Mr. Southwode! Just what you think wisest. But--I was
thinking--"
Rotha laid down her knife and fork and pushed away her plate. Her heart
began to beat at an uneasy rate, and her voice grew anxious.
"May I give you some fruit?"
"No--I do not care for it--thank you."
"This looks like a good pear. Try."
It was on the whole easier to be doing something with her fingers. Rotha
began to peal the pear.
"You were thinking--?" Mr. Southwode then resumed.
"I?--O yes! I was thinking--" And Rotha's pear and peel went down. "I was
thinking--Mr. Digby, if I knew just what I was going to do, or be
afterwards,--wouldn't it help us to know what I had better study? what
preparation I ought to have?"
"Afterwards? After what?" said Mr. Southwode, without laying down his
pear.
"After I have done with school."
"When do you suppose that will be?"
"I do not know. That of course would depend upon the other question."
"Not necessarily. My wish is that you should be fitted for any situation
in life. A one-sided education is never to be chosen, if one can help it;
and one generally can help it. We can, at any rate. What are you thinking
of doing, Rotha? in that 'afterwards' to which you refer?"
"I have not thought very much about it. But you know I must do
_something_. I suppose teaching would be the best. I dare say Mrs.
Mowbray would take me for one of her helpers, if I were once fitted to
fill the place."
"What put this in your head?"
"I suppose, _first_, some words of aunt Serena. That was her plan for
me."
"I thought it was arranged that I was to take care of you."
"You are doing it," said Rotha gratefully. "But of course you could not
do it always."
"Why not?"
"Why--because--" said Rotha faltering and flushing a little,--"I do not
belong to you in any way. It would not be right."
"My memory is better, it seems, than yours. If I recollect right, you
were given to me by your mother."
"O yes," said Rotha, flushing deeper,--"she did. But I am sure she did
not mean that I should be a charge upon you, after I was able to help
myself."
"You do not fancy that you can 'help yourself' now?"
"No."
"You do not judge that you are empowered to take back her gift?"
"Not exactly. But Mr. Southwode," said Rotha half laughing, "I do not see
how you can keep it. I _must_ do something for myself."
"Not till I give permission. Eat your pear, and leave business to me."
It rather comforted Rotha that this command was given to her;
nevertheless and although the pear was a fine one, she 'chewed the cud of
meditation' along with it. Very inopportunely those words heard long ago
came floating back upon her memory, making her uncomfortable; making her
doubt whether she could possibly remain long under the care that was so
genial to her. Still, the present was too good to be spoiled, albeit the
enjoyment of it was shadowed, by these reflections. I think, rather,
according to some perverse principle of human nature, they made the
enjoyment of it more tremblingly acute. However, the fruit was consumed
in silence; Mr. 'Southwode having, as I hinted, his own thoughts. They
left the table and took seats before the fire.
"Now Rotha," said her guardian, "I should like to know what you have done
in these three years. Are you willing that I should try to find out?"
"By questioning me?" said Rotha laughing and flushing. "It would not be a
new thing, Mr. Digby."
Whereupon Mr. Southwode went into an examination of Rotha's acquirements
and mental standing. It was pleasant enough and easy enough, though it
was searching; it had too much savour of old times about it to be
anything but easy and pleasant. Rotha did not fear it, and so enjoyed it.
And so did her examiner. He found all that he had once known possible and
hoped for her. The quick intelligence of the child he found matured; the
keen apprehension practised; the excellent memory stored, even beyond
what he expected. And then, Rotha's capital powers of reasoning were as
true and clear-sighted as ever, her feeling as just and unperverted; the
thirst for knowledge was more developed and very strong; and the
knowledge already laid up amounted to a stock of surprising amount and
variety.
That was to both parties a very pleasant two hours. Rotha was looking, by
turns, into the face she loved so well and watching the familiar face
play, with the delight of one whose eyes have been long without the sight
of what they loved. Moreover, she was taking up again the various threads
of learning which had slipped from her hand, feeling now that her hold of
them would not loose again. There was a savour of old associations, too,
about this talk, which was very fascinating; and further yet, Rotha had a
subtle consciousness that she was satisfying Mr. Southwode. And he on his
part was making new acquaintance with his little friend of old, and
noticing with a little surprise and much admiration how she had changed
and grown. The face which was always so eager and expressive had taken on
womanly softness and mature richness, without losing a bit of its
changeful fire. The sallow skin had become clear and fine; the lines of
the lips, not less passionate and not less decided than they used to be,
were soft and pure; refinement was in every curve of them, and in all the
face, and all the figure, and in every movement of either; and the deep,
flashing eyes could be innocently merry and sweet too, and constantly
answered him before the lips could speak. As one quarter of an hour sped
on after another, Mr. Southwode grew less and less ready to be relieved
of his charge. Yet, he asked himself, what should he do with her? He did
not entertain the idea Mrs. Purcell had suggested; it was not precisely a
disagreeable idea, and it recurred to him, in the midst of philosophy and
mathematics; it was not a disagreeable idea, but--he had never entertained
it! And he doubted besides if Rotha would easily entertain it. He knew
she was fond of him, fond of being with him; but it was a childish
fondness, he said to himself; it could be nothing else. It was a childish
fondness, too frankly shewn to be anything more or deeper. And Rotha was
very young, had seen nobody, and could not know what she would like. That
she would do anything he asked her, he had little doubt; she would marry
him if he asked her; but Mr. Southwode did not want a wife on those
terms. What should he do with her? Yes, he knew the difficulties, much
better than she knew them; he knew how people would talk, and how under
the circumstances they would have reason to talk; which Rotha knew not.
All which troublesome elements of the relation subsisting between them,
only somehow made Mr. Southwode hold to it the faster. Probably he was by
nature an obstinate man.
Upon the pause which followed the end of her examination came a question
of Rotha.
"Are you going to stay in this country now, Mr. Southwode?"
"My home is in England," he answered, rousing himself out of reverie.
Rotha's heart sank at that; sank sadly. Next came a recoil of her
reason--Yes, you had better go away, if I cling to you in this fashion!
"Why?" was his next counter question. "What makes you ask?"
"I did not know," said Rotha. "I wanted to know. I heard people say you
would live over there."
"What else have you heard people say about me?"
"Not much. Aunt Serena never spoke of you, I think, if she could help it.
I have only heard somebody say that you were very rich--that your home
would be over there now, probably;--and that you would concern yourself
no more about me," Rotha added, in the instinct of truth.
"Kind judgment," said Mr. Southwode; "but in this case not true. The rest
is true, that I have a large property."
He went on to tell Rotha several things about himself; not using many
words, at the same time not making any mystery of it. He told her that
his very large means came from business; that the business was in hands
which made it unnecessary that he should give to the oversight of it more
than a portion of his time. He had a home in England, and he described
it; in the Lake country, surrounded with beautiful scenery. He was very
fond of it, but he was not a fixture there; on the contrary, he went
wherever there was reason for him to go, or work to be done by his going.
"So I am here now, you see." he concluded.
And so, something else may take you back again, and keep you there!
thought Rotha; but she did not say what she thought, nor indeed say
anything. Mr. Southwode's detail, while it interested her terribly, and
in a sort nattered her, also reduced her to a very low feeling of
downheartedness. What was she to him, the poor little American orphan, to
the rich English gentleman? what but just one of his various and probably
many objects of benevolence? What more could she be, in the nature of
things? No; she had been quite right; what she had to do was to equip
herself as speedly as possible for the battle of life, and dash into it
as a teacher; and only remember as a kind of fairy tale the part of her
life when he had been its guardian and protector. Rotha's heart swelled;
yet she would shew nothing of that. She sat still and moveless; too still
and unchanging, in fact, for the supposition that her thoughts were not
whirling round a fixed centre. I do not know how much of this Mr.
Southwode read, I am not sure but the whirl of his own thoughts occupied
him sufficiently. However, when this still silence had lasted a little
while, he broke it up by proposing to take Rotha a drive. "You used to
like it," he remarked. Rotha did not like it less now. She went to get
ready; thinking to herself that it was maybe the very last time. Why had
she come to Tanfield at all? and why had Mr. Southwode sought her out
there? Better if she could have remained as she was, and he no more than
a locked up treasure of the past kept in her memory.
CHAPTER XXX.
DOWN HILL.
The afternoon was on the wane by the time they set out. The afternoon of
a fair day in October. For Rotha's present mood it was almost too fair.
The country around Tanfield is level for a mile or two, and well
cultivated; the hues of the forest at the change of tire leaf are not
seen here. Yet October was not left without witnesses. Here and there a
warm stubble field told of summer gone and harvests gathered; her and
there the yellowing green of a weeping willow proclaimed that autumn was
passing away. Hay ricks carefully covered; wood sheds carefully filled;
now and then a plough upturning the rich soil, and leaving furrows of
ruddy brown creeping over the field; they all told the time of year; and
so did at intervals a great maple tree in its livery of red and green, or
a hickory all in gold, or a great red oak in its dark splendour. There
was no mistaking October; even without the genial, gracious sun which
shed over all the landscape such mellow and mellowing rays. Mr. Southwode
had obtained an easy-going phaeton, with a pair of lively ponies; and
through this level, quiet, rich, farm country they bowled along smoothly
and fast. The pleasure, to Rotha, was so keen that it almost took on the
semblance of pain. "This once," she was saying to herself; "and if only
this once, then why this once?" And then she chid herself, and bade
herself enjoy thoroughly and thankfully what was given her. She tried,
and did not perfectly succeed.
Mr. Southwode was silent on his part, more than usual. Certainly his
reflections were in no sort like Rotha's, as they had no need; yet he was
not clear in his own mind as to the best, or even the possible, issues of
things. He found that he was not willing to entertain for a moment
Rotha's proposition about striking off from his protection and making a
livelihood for herself. Yet it was good sense. In fact, what else could
be done? If Mr. Southwode had had a mother, and so a home, to which he
could have introduced her; that would have been simple enough. She might
have taken the place of a young sister. Failing that, what plan could be
substituted, short of the one Mrs. Purcell had rudely proposed? He had no
idea that Rotha was ready for that. Yes, undoubtedly she loved him, after
another fashion; he was her childhood's friend and guardian and tutor;
and as a child, no doubt, she still paid him reverence and affection. Mr.
Southwode would never take advantage of the power this fact gave him, to
draw Rotha into an alliance which her free mind would not have chosen.
Some men would; many men might; it did not suit him. He could never take
a wife on such doubtful terms. He was not clear that he wanted her on any
terms. Yet oddly, and inconsistently, when he looked at the fine, honest,
thoughtful, sensitive face beside him, something within him said, "I
shall never let you go." It was very inconsistent. How he was to keep
her, he could not see. He did not look at her often, for every look
perplexed him. And Mr. Southwode was not in the least used to being
perplexed. That perplexed him. Meanwhile he kept his horses well in hand
and drove admirably. Over the level roads, through the still air, they
went with the steadiness and almost the swiftness, of a locomotive. It
was glorious driving. Rotha caught her breath with delight.
At this rate of progress however the small ex-tent of level country was
soon passed over. They began to get among broken ground and low hills;
hills and round heights covered with tufts of wood growth, now in all the
colours of the gay time of year. Hickories all gold, ashes in sad purple,
bronzed chestnut oaks, yellow birches, and sometimes sober green savins;
and maples in abundance and in brilliant variegation. There were risings
and fallings of ground now, and turning of angles; and as they went the
hills grew higher and set closer upon the road, and the road was often
too steep for the pace the horses had hitherto kept up. Now they must
walk up a hill, and sometimes walk down again.
"Do you know where you are, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, one of these times.
"Not perfectly."
"Is not that a very favourable statement of the case?"
"Let us take an observation," said he, pulling up at the top of the hill.
"There is the west, by the sun. We have kept our backs upon Tanfield
generally; it must lie well to the south, and a little to the east of us.
I am going to take the first turning that promises to bring us round, and
back by another road. There is the railway!--do you see, yonder, its
straight level line? Now I know where we are. That is the Tanfield
railway, running on to the north. We must come about and meet it,
somewhere."
The coming about, however, proved to be a long and gradual process. The
first turning they took did not lead immediately in the desired
direction, only as it were inclined towards it; the second turning was
not more satisfactory. Meanwhile they got deeper among the hills; the
ground was more and more rough; farming land disappeared; rocks and
woodland filled the eye, look where it would; the roads were less
travelled and by no means smooth going any longer. Even so, they were
prettier; the changes of hill and valley, sudden and varied as they were,
gave interest to every foot of the way. All this took time; but nobody
was in a hurry. Rotha was thinking that perhaps it was her last drive
with Mr. Southwode; and Mr. Southwode was thinking, I do not know what;
nor perhaps did he.
The point was found at last where they could turn their faces towards
Tanfield; they were sure of their way when they reached the top of a hill
and saw, spread out before them for many a square mile, the plain country
in which the town stood, and far away in the midst of it could discern
the glinting of the light upon its spires and houses. The sun was very
low; its level rays gave an exquisite illumination to the whole scene,
lighting every rise of ground and every tuft of woodland, and even coming
back from scattered single trees with beautiful defining effect. Mr.
Southwode drew up his horses; and for a few minutes he and Rotha fed
their eyes with what was before them. The sun was just kissing the
horizon.
"That is worth coming all the way for!" he said.
"And we shall not have it but just half a minute longer," said Rotha.
"There--the light is going now. O what a sight it is!--There! now it is
all gone. How far are we from home, do you suppose?"
"By the roads, I do not know; but once at the bottom of this hill we
shall have nothing but level travelling, and the horses go pretty well."
"_Pretty_ well!" said Rotha laughing. "I am wondering then what you would
call very well? We have got to cross the railway, Mr. Southwode. It runs
by the foot of the hill."
"There is no train near," he answered as he put his horses in motion.
They went slowly down the hill, which was rough and steep. The horses
behaved well, setting down their feet carefully, and holding back the
carnage with the instinct or training which seems to be aware what would
be the consequence of letting themselves and it go. But then happened one
of those things against which instinct is no protection and training
cannot provide. Just as a sharp turn in the road was reached, from which
it went on turning round a shoulder of the hill till it reached the lower
ground, this thing happened. It was the worst possible place for an
accident; the descent was steep and rough and winding, the road
disappearing from view behind the turn; and crossed evidently, just a
little further below, by the railway track. The horses at this point came
to a sudden stop. Mr. Southwode alone saw why. Some buckle or pin or
strap, which had to do with the secure holding of the end of the carriage
pole to the harness, was broken or had given way, and the pole had fallen
to the ground. The horses had made an astonished pause, but he knew this
pause would be followed the next instant by a mad headlong rush down the
hill and a swallowing of the plain with their hoofs, if they ever reached
it; which was in u high degree unlikely for them and impossible for the
carriage. Rotha only knew that the horses quietly stopped, and that Mr.
Southwode said quietly,
"Jump, Rotha!"
Yes, he said it quietly; and yet there was something in tone or accent
which left no room for disobedience or even hesitation. That something
was very much the matter, Rotha at once knew; and if there was danger she
did not at all wish to get out of it and leave him to face it alone. She
would rather have sat still and taken what came, so she took it with him.
Moreover she had always been told that in case of a runaway the last
thing to be done is to try to get out of the carriage. All this was full
in her mind; and yet when Mr. Southwode said "Jump," she knew she must
mind him. He offered her no help; but light and active as she was she did
not need it; a step on the wheel and a spring to the ground, and she was
safe. Just for that instant the horses stood still; then followed what
their driver had known would follow. Almost as Rotha's foot touched the
ground they dashed forward, and with one confused rush and whirl she saw
them, phaeton and all, disappear round the turn of the hill.
And there was the railway track to cross! Rotha stood still, feeling
stunned and sick. It was all so sudden. One minute in happy safety and
quiet, beside the person she liked best in the world; only the next
minute alone and desolate, with the sight of him before her eyes hurled
to danger and probable death. Danger? how could anything live to get to
the bottom of that hill at the rate the horses took?
Of the fallen carnage pole Rotha knew nothing, and needed not that to be
assured that the chance of her ever hearing Mr. Southwode speak again was
a very, very slender one. She did not think; she merely knew all this,
with a dumb, blank consciousness; she stood still, mechanically pressing
her hands upon her heart. The noise of the horses' hoofs and the rushing
wheels had been swallowed up by the intervening hill, and the stillness
was simply mocking in its tranquil peacefulness. The sunlight at the
glory of which they had both been looking, had hardly died away from the
landscape; and one of them, most likely, was beyond seeing the light of
earth forevermore. Rotha stood as still as death herself, listening for a
sound that came not, and gradually growing white and whiter. Yet she
never was in any danger of fainting; no sealing of her senses served as a
release to her pain; in full, clear consciousness she stood there, and
heard the silence and saw the sweet fall of the evening light upon the
plain. Only stunned; with a consciousness that was but partially alive to
suffering. I suppose the mind cannot fully take in such a change at once.
She was so stunned, that several minutes passed before she could act, or
move; and it seemed that the silence and peace had long been reigning
over hill and plain, when she roused herself to go down the road.
She went then with dreadful haste, yet so trembling that she could not go
as fast as she would. The horror of what might be at the bottom of the
hill might have kept her for ever upon it; but the need to know was
greater still; and so with an awful fear of what every step might bring
her to, she sped down the hill. She heard no noise; she saw no wreck;
following the winding of the road, which wound fearfully down such a
steep, she came to the railway crossing and passed it, and followed on
still further down; the curve of the road always hiding from her what
might be beyond. Her feet got wings at last; she was shaking in every
joint, yet fairly flew along, being unable to endure the fear and
uncertainty. No trace of any disaster met her eyes; no call for help or
cry to the horses came to her ears; what did the silence portend?
Just at the bottom the road made another sharp turn around a clump of
woodland. Rounding this turn, Rotha came suddenly upon what she sought.
The first glance shewed her that Mr. Southwode was upon his feet; the
second that the horses were standing still. Rotha hardly saw anything
more. She made her way, still running, till she got to Mr. Southwode's
side, and there stopped and looked at him; with white lips apart and eyes
that put an intense question. For though she saw him standing and
apparently well able to stand, the passion of fear could not so
immediately be driven out by the evidence of one sense alone. He met the
urgency of her eyes and smiled.
"I am all right," he said.
"Not hurt?"
"Not in the least."
Looking at her still, for her face had startled him, he saw a change come
over it which was beyond the demands of mere friendly solicitude, even
when very warm. He saw the flash of intense joy in her eyes, and what was
yet more, a quiver in the unbent lovely lines about the mouth. One does
not stop to reason out conclusions at such a time. Mr. Southwode was
still holding the reins of the panting horses, the carriage was a wreck a
few yards off, they were miles away from home; he forgot it all, and
acting upon one of those subtle instincts which give no account of
themselves, he laid one arm lightly around Rotha and bent down and kissed
the unsteady lips.
A sudden flood of scarlet, so intense that it was almost pain, shot over
Rotha's face, and her eyes drooped and failed utterly to meet his. She
had been very near bursting into tears, woman's natural relief from
overstrained nerves; but his kiss turned the current of feeling into
another channel, and the sting of delight and pain was met by an
overwhelming consciousness. Had she betrayed herself? What made him do
that? It was good for Rotha just then that she was no practised woman of
the world, not skilled in any manner of evasion or trick of deceptive
art. If she had been; if she had answered his demonstration with a little
cold, careless laugh, and turned it off with a word of derision; as I
suppose she would if she had not been so utterly true and honest,
according to a woman's terrible instinct of self-preservation, or
preservation of her secret; he would have thought as he had thought
before--she loves me as a child does. But the extreme confusion, and the
lovely abasement of the lowered brow, went to his heart with their
unmistakeable revelation. Instead of releasing her, he put both arms
round her now and gently drew her up to him. But Rotha was by no means so
clear in her mind as by this time he was. She did not understand his
action, and so misinterpreted it. She made a brave effort to relieve him
from what she thought overwrought gratitude.
"That is nothing to thank me for, Mr. Southwode," she said. "Any friend
would have been anxious, in my place."
"True. Were you anxious simply as a friend, Rotha?"
Rotha hesitated, and the hesitation lasted till it amounted to an
eloquent answer; and the arms that held her drew her a little closer.
"But I do not understand--" she managed to say.
"Do you not? I do. I think I can make you understand too."
But his explanations were wordless, and if convincing were exceedingly
confusing to Rotha.
"But Mr. Southwode!--what _do_ you mean?" she managed at last to say,
trying to release herself.
"I mean, that you belong to me, and I belong to you, for the rest of our
lives. That is what I mean."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," said he with a low laugh; "and so are you. When you and I mean a
thing, we mean it."
Rotha wondered that he could mean it, and she wondered how he could know
that she meant it. Had she somehow betrayed herself? and how? She felt
very humble, and very proud at the same time; in one way esteeming at its
full value the woman's heart and life she had to give, as every woman
should; in another way thinking it not half good enough. Shamefaced,
because her secret was found out, yet too honest and noble of nature to
attempt any poor effort at deceit, she stood with lights and shadows
flying over her face in a lovely and most womanly manner; yet mostly
lights, of shy modesty and half veiled gladness and humble
content. Fifty things came to her lips to say, and she could speak none
of them; and she began to wish the silence would be broken.
"How did you know, Mr. Southwode?" she burst forth at last, that question
pressing too hard to be satisfied.
"Know what?" said he.
"I mean--you know what I mean! I mean,--now came you--what made you--
speak as you did? I mean! _that_ isn't it. I mean, what justification did
you think you had?"
Mr. Southwode laughed his low laugh again.
"Do I need justification?"
"Yes, for jumping at conclusions."
"That is the way they say women always do."
"Not in such things!"
"Perhaps not. Certainly _you_ have not done it in this case."
"How came you to do it? Please answer me! Mr. Southwode, are you sure you
know what you mean? You did not think of any such thing when we set out
upon our drive this afternoon?" Rotha spoke with great and painful
difficulty, but she felt she must speak.
"I had thought of it. But Rotha, I was not sure of you."
"In what way?"
"I knew you cared for me, a good deal; but I fancied it was merely a
child's devotion, which would vanish fast away as soon as the right claim
was made to your heart."
"And why do you not think so still?" said Rotha, the flames of
consciousness flashing up to her very brow. But Mr. Southwode only
laughed softly and kissed, both lips and brow, tenderly and reverently,
if very assuredly.
"I have not done anything--" said Rotha, trembling and a little
distressed.
"Nothing, but to be true and pure and natural; and so has come the answer
to my question, which I might not have ventured to ask. Mrs. Purcell
asked me to-day whether I was going to marry you, and I said no; for I
never could have let you marry me with a child's transient passion and
find out afterwards that your woman's heart was not given me. But now I
will correct my answer to Mrs. Purcell, if I have opportunity."
"But," said Rotha hesitating,--"I think in one thing you are mistaken. I
do not think my feeling has really changed, since long ago."
"Did you give me your woman's heart _then?_"
"You think I had it not to give; but I think, I gave you all I had. And
though I have changed, _that_ has not changed."
"I take it," he said. "And what I have to give you, I will let my life
tell you. Now we must try to get home."
Released from the arm that had held her all this while, Rotha for the
first time surveyed the ground. There were the horses, standing quietly
enough after their mad rush down the hill; panting yet, and feeling
nervous, as might be seen by the movement of ears and air of head. And a
few rods behind lay what had been the phaeton; now a thorough and utter
wreck.
"How did it happen?" exclaimed Rotha, in a sudden spasm of dread catching
hold of Mr. Southwode's arm. He told her what had been the beginning of
the trouble.
"What carelessness! But how have you escaped? And how came the carriage
to be such a smash?"
"I knew what was before me, when on the hill the horses made that sudden
pause and I saw the pole on the ground. I knew they would be still only
that one instant. Then I told you to jump. You behaved very well."
"I did nothing," said Rotha. "The tone of your voice, when you said
'Jump!' was something, or had something in it, which I could not possibly
disobey. I did not want to jump, at all; but I had no choice. Then?--"
"Then followed what I knew must come. You saw how we went down the hill;
but happily the road turned and you could not see us long. I do not know
how we went scathless so far as we did; but at last the end of the pole
of the phaeton lodged against some obstacle in the road, stuck fast, and
the carriage simply turned a somersault over it, throwing me out into
safety, and itself getting presently broken almost to shivers."
"Throwing you out into safety!" Rotha exclaimed, turning pale.
"Don't I look safe?" said he smiling.
"And you are as cool as if nothing had happened."
"Am I? On the contrary, I feel very warm about the region of my heart,
and as if a good deal had happened. Now Rotha, we have got to walk home.
How many miles it is, I do not know."
"And I do not care!" said Rotha. "But how came you to keep hold of the
reins all the time? Or did you catch them afterwards?"
"No, I held on to them. It was the only way to save the horses."
"But they were running! How could you?"
"I do not know; only what has to be done, generally can be done. We will
take the rest of the way gently."
But I am not sure that they did; and I am sure that they did not much
think how they took it. Rather briskly, I fancy, following the horses,
which were restless yet; and with a certain apprehension that there was a
long way to go. On the roads they had travelled at first coming out there
had been frequently a farmhouse to be seen; now they came to none. The
road was solitary, stretching away between tracts of rocky and stony
soil, left to its natural condition, and with patches of wood. But what a
walk that was after all! The mild, mellow October light beautified even
the barren spots of earth, and made the woodland tufts of foliage into
clusters of beauty. As the light faded, the hues of things grew softer; a
spicier fragrance came from leaf and stem; the gently gathering dusk
seemed to fold the two who were walking through it into a more reserved
world of their own. And then, above in the dark bright sky lights began
to look forth, so quiet, so peaceful, as if they were blinking their
sympathy with the wanderers. These did not talk very much, and about
nothing but trifling matters by the way; yet it came over Rotha's mind
that perhaps in all future time she would never have a pleasanter walk
than this. Could life have anything better? And she might have been
right, if she had been like many, who know nothing more precious than the
earthly love which for her was just in its blossoming time. But she was
wrong; for to people given over, as these two were, to the service of
Christ, the joys of life are on an ascending scale; experience brings
more than time takes away; affection, having a joint object beyond and
above each other, does never grow weary or stale, and never knows
disappointment or satiety; and the work of life brings in delicious
fruits as they go, and the light of heaven shines brighter and brighter
upon their footsteps. It can be only owing to their own fault, if to-
morrow is not steadily better than to-day.
But from what I have said it will appear that Rotha was presently in a
contented state of mind; and she went revolving all sorts of things in
her thoughts as she walked, laying up stores of material for future
conversations, which however she was glad Mr. Southwode did not begin
now.
As for Mr. Southwode, he minded his horses, and also minded her; but if
he spoke at all it was merely to remark on some rough bit of ground, or
some wonderful bit of colour in the evening sky.
"Well, hollo, mister!" cried a hotel hostler as they approached near
enough to have the manner of their travelling discernible,--"what ha'
you done wi' your waggin?"
"I was unable to do anything with it."
"Where is it then?"
"About five miles off, I judge, lying at the foot of a hill."
"Spilled, hey?"
"It will never hold anything again."
"What's that? what's this?" cried the landlord now, issuing from the
lower door of the house; "what's wrong here, sir?"
"I do not know," said Mr. Southwode; "but there has been carelessness
somewhere. Either the hostler did his work with his eyes shut, or the
leather of the harness gave way, or the iron work of something. The pole
fell, as we were going down a steep hill; of course the phaeton is a
wreck. I could only save the horses."
The landlord was in a great fume.
"Sir, sir," he stammered and blustered,--"this is _your_ account of it."
"Precisely," said Mr. Southwode. "That is my account of it."
"How in thunder did it happen? It was bad driving, I expect."
"It was nothing of the kind. It was a steep hill, a dropped carriage
pole, and a run. You could not expect the horses not to run. And of
course the carriage went to pieces."
"Who was in it?"
"I was in it. The lady jumped out, just before the run began."
"Didn't you know enough to jump too?"
"I knew enough not to jump," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little. "By
that means I saved your horses."
"And I expect you want me to take that as pay for the carriage! and take
your story too. But it was at your risk, sir--at your risk. When I sends
out a team, without I sends a man with it, it's at the driver's risk,
whoever he is. I expect you to make it good, sir. I can't afford no
otherwise. The phaeton was in good order when it went out o' this yard;
and I expect you to bring it back in good order, or stand the loss. My
business wouldn't keep me, sir, on no other principles. You must make the
damage good, if you're a gentleman or no gentleman."
"Take the best supposition, and let me have supper. If you will make
_that_ good, Mr. Landlord, you may add the phaeton to my bill."
"You'll pay it, I s'pose?" cried the anxious landlord, as his guest
turned away.
"I always pay my bills," said Mr. Southwode, mounting the steps to the
piazza. "Now Rotha, come and have something to eat."
Supper was long since over for the family; the two had the great dining
hall to themselves. It was the room in which Rotha had taken her solitary
breakfast the morning of her arrival. Now as she and her companion took
their seats at one of the small tables, it seemed to the girl that she
had got into an enchanted country. Aladdin's vaults of jewels were not a
pleasanter place in his eyes, than this room to her to-night. And she had
not to take care even of her supper; care of every sort was gone. One
thing however was on Rotha's mind.
"Mr. Southwode," she said as soon as they had placed themselves,--"it was
not your fault, all that about the phaeton."
"No."
"Then you ought not to pay for it."
"It would be more loss to this poor man, than to me, Rotha, I fancy."
"Yes, but right is right. Making a present is one thing; paying an unjust
charge is another. It is allowing that you were to blame."
"I do not know that it is unjust. And peace is worth paying for, if the
phaeton is not."
"How much do you suppose it will be?"
"I do not know," he said laughing a little. "Are you anxious, about it?"
Rotha coloured up brightly. "It seems like allowing that you were in the
wrong," she said. "And the man was very impertinent."
"I recognize your old fierce logic of justice. Haven't you learned yet
that one must give and take a good deal in this world, to get along
smoothly? No charge the man can ever make will equal what the broken
phaeton is worth to me, Rotha."
CHAPTER XXXI.
DISCUSSIONS.
The sitting room, when they came to it after supper, looked as pleasant
as a hotel sitting room could. It was but a bare apartment, after the
fashion of country hotels; however it was filled with the blaze of a good
fire, and that gives a glimmer of comfort anywhere. Moreover it was a
private room; they had it to themselves. Now what next? thought Rotha.
Mr. Southwode put a chair for her, gave a little dressing to the fire,
and then stood by the mantel-piece with his back towards it, so that his
face was in shadow. Probably he was considering Rotha's face, into which
the fire shone full. For it was a pleasant thing to look at, with its
brightness just now softened by a lovely veil of modesty, and a certain
unmistakeable blessedness of content lurking in the corners of the mouth
and the lines of the brow. It met all the requirements of a fastidious
man. There was sense, dignity, refinement, sensitiveness, and frankness;
and the gazer almost forgot what he wanted to do, in the pleasure of
looking. Rotha had time to wonder more than once "what next?"
"It seems to me we have a great deal to talk about, Rotha," Mr. Southwode
said at last. "And not much time. What comes first?"
"I suppose," said Rotha, "the first thing is, that I must go back to
school."
"I suppose you must!" he said. There was an accent about it that made
Rotha laugh.
"Why I must of course!" she said. "I do not know anything;--only the
beginnings of things."
"Yes," repeated Mr. Southwode, "for a year you must go, I suppose. For a
year.-- After that, I will not wait any longer. You shall do the rest of
your studying with me."
"You know I like that best of all--" she said softly.
"Perhaps I will take you to Germany."
"Germany!"--
"It is a good place to study German. Or to study anything."
"Must one go to France too, to study French?" Rotha asked with a nervous
laugh.
"We must not be too long away from home. But a year--or till next summer;
school terms end in summer, do they not?"
"In June."
"So, for a year, or for eight months, I shall hardly see you. We must do
a great deal of talking to-night."
"Where will you be, Mr. Digby?" Rotha asked timidly, as he took a chair
beside her.
"Not far off; but for this interval I shall choose to play the part of
guardian, rather than that of lover, before the eyes of the world."
"O yes, indeed!" said Rotha earnestly. "For every reason."
"All the more, I am not going to play the part of guardian to-night.
Rotha I think _now_, it would be as well to return to Mrs. Mowbray for
these eight months. Would you like that?"
"O I shall like it very much! if you like it."
"Things are changed, since we talked about it this afternoon."
"Yes!--" said Rotha breathless. And there was something she wanted to
say, but at that minute she could not say it. For that minute she could
not disturb the sweetness of things as they were. Scruples must wait.
Mr. Southwode saw that she was a little disturbed, shy and nervous,
albeit there was no doubt that she was very happy. He stretched out his
hand and took hers, holding it in a fast steady clasp; as if to assure
her of something tangible and real in her new happiness. "Now," said
he, "tell me about yourself--about all these years."
"I did tell you, in part."
"Yes. Tell me the other part. I want to have the whole now."
"It would just--annoy you, I am afraid."
"What sort of a home did you have with your aunt?"
"Not pleasant. That was _partly_ my own fault. I was not patient and
gentle and quiet--as you told me to be. I got into a kind of a fury, at
things and at her."
"What did she do?"
And then Rotha told him the whole story, not sparing herself at all by
the way; till he knew pretty well what her life had been these three
years, and what part Mrs. Mowbray and what part Mrs. Busby had played in
it. Only one thing Rotha did not tell him; the episode of the stockings.
He listened in absolute silence, save that now and then he helped her on
with a question; holding her hand firmly all the while. And Rotha felt
the clasp and knew what it meant, and poured out her heart. After she had
done, he was still silent a minute.
"What shall we do to Mrs. Mowbray!" he broke out.
"You cannot do anything to her," said Rotha. "Thanks are nothing; and
there is no way of doing the least thing beside;--unless she could be
very ill and left to my care; and I do not wish that."
"Perhaps she will give up schooling some day; and we will coax her over
to England and make her live with us."
Rotha started and turned upon the speaker one of her brilliant looks. A
sort of delight at the thought, and admiration of _his_ thought, with a
flush of intense affection which regarded at least two people, made her
face like a cluster of diamonds. Mr. Southwode smiled, and then began to
talk about that home to which he had alluded. He described it to Rotha;
sketched the plan of the house for her; told her about the people of the
surrounding country. The house was not magnificent or stately, he said;
but large, comfortable, old, and rather picturesque in appearance;
standing in the midst of extensive and very lovely grounds, where art had
not interfered with nature. He told Rotha he thought she would like it.
Rotha's eyes fell; she made no answer, but was he thought very grave. He
went on to tell her about himself and his business. He, and his father
and grandfather before him, had been owners of a large manufacturing
establishment, the buildings of which made almost a village some three
miles from the house, and the workmen in which were very many.
"Isn't that troublesome often?" Rotha asked, forgetting herself now.
"No. Why should it be troublesome?"
"I read in the papers so much about strikes, and disagreements between
masters and workmen in this country."
"We never had a strike, and we never have disagreements."
"That is nice; but how do you manage? I suppose I can guess! They all do
what you tell them."
"I do not tell them anything unreasonable."
"Still, ignorant people do not always know what is reasonable."
"That is true. And it is rather the Golden Rule we go by, than the might
of Reason or the reign of Law."
"How do you manage, Mr. Digby?"
"I am not to be Mr. Digby always, I hope?"
"This year--" murmured Rotha.
"This year! I do not mean to ask anything unreasonable of you either; but
I _would_ like you to remember that things are changed," he said, amused.
"Yes, I will," said Rotha confusedly--"I will remember; I do remember,
but now please tell me about your factory people."
"What about them?"
"O, how you manage; how they do; anything!"
"Well--the hands go to work at six o'clock, and work two hours; or not
quite that, for the bell rings in time to let them wash their hands
before breakfast; and for that there are rooms provided, with soap and
towels and everything necessary. Then they gather in the dining halls,
where their breakfast is ready; or if any of them prefer to bring their
own food, it is cooked for them. There is no compulsion."
"What do they have for breakfast?"
"Coffee and tea and bread, and porridge with milk or with syrup--all at
certain fixed low rates and all of good quality. There are people to
cook, and boys and girls to wait upon the tables. They have the time till
half past eight, but it is not all used for eating; the last quarter of
an hour they stroll about and talk together. At half past eight comes the
time for prayers. One of the managers conducts the service in the chapel;
the Bible is read, and a hymn is sung, and there is a short prayer. At
nine o'clock all hands go back to work."
"They have had an hour's good rest," said Rotha. "You say, in the
_chapel?_ have you a chapel for them?"
"In the midst of the mills. It is a pretty little building--in old
English rustic style; I think it very pretty."
"I dare say the people enjoy that," said Rotha. "It _ought_ to be pretty,
for them. I should think your hands would never want to leave you, Mr.
Southwode."
"They never do. And as I told you, there is never a question of strikes.
Neither do we ever have a time of bad business. The work done is so
thorough and has been so long well known, that we never need to ask for
orders. We never lose by making bad debts; and we never give notes, or
take them. I say 'we'--I am using the old formula--it is all in my hand
now."
"Why are not other people wise enough to make such arrangements and have
the same sort of comfort?"
"Men fail to recognize their common humanity with those under them. That
has been the basis of our management from the beginning. But the chapel,
and the religious influence, are of later date.--I must find a ring for
this finger, Rotha."
"A ring!" exclaimed the girl.
"Yes. Is not that the custom here? to make people remember what they have
pledged themselves to?--" he said smiling.
"Oh never mind that, Mr. Southwode!" said Rotha hurriedly. "Go on and
tell me more about your mill people."
"What shall I tell you?"
"About your ways,--and their ways. When do they have dinner?"
"Between one and two. They have an hour for it. A little after half past
one they go to work again and work till six; only they have time allowed
them for tea and coffee at half past four."
"There is no drinking, I suppose?"
"Not even of beer. Half the people do their work at their own homes; they
bring it in on certain days, when we give them hot tea and coffee and
bread and cheese, which they have without paying for it. That saves them
from the temptation of the public houses; and there is no such thing as
drunkenness known in the community."
"Tea and coffee seem to play a great part," said Rotha.
"So they do. People steadily at work in any mechanical way need frequent
refreshment of body, which also in some degree is refreshment of mind;
and there, as beer and whiskey are banished, tea and coffee come in
happily. I do not know how they would manage without them.--Then in
various ways we minister to the people and care for them; so that we are
like one big family. When any are sick, they are paid at least half wages
all the time; and by clubbing together it is generally made up to full
wages. We have hospitals, where they have board and lodging and care in
addition to half wages; but there is no compulsion about going to the
hospitals. And whenever any of them are in any sort of trouble, they come
to us for counsel and sympathy and help; my father knew them all
personally, and so do I, and so did my dear mother when she was living.
But a mistress is wanted there now, Rotha," Mr. Southwode went on. "I
cannot do all I would alone, nor half so well what I do. Your place is
ready."
"O do not speak so!" cried Rotha catching her breath. "I wish I were fit
for it."
"Fit for it!" said he, putting his hand under her chin and drawing his
fingers slowly along the delicate outlines, while the blood mounted into
her cheeks and flamed out vividly.
"You make me feel so very small, telling me all these things!" she said.
"They are such grand things! And what am I?"
He lifted her face, not without a little resistance on her part, till he
could reach her lips, and gave his answer there first; gave it tenderly,
and laughingly.
"You are mine," he said; "and what is mine I do not like anybody to find
fault with, except myself."
"I mean it seriously, Mr. Digby--" Rotha made effort to say.
"So do I. And seriously, I want you there very much. I want your help in
the schools, and with men, women and children out of the schools. It is
pleasant work too. They are always glad to see me; and they will be more
glad to see you."
"Never!" said Rotha energetically. "What is the name of the place? you
never told me."
"Southwode."
"Southwode! That is pretty."
"I am glad you think so. I will shew you, if I can, a little what the
house is like."
He had sketched the ground plan of it before; now he drew the elevation,
giving some hints of the surrounding trees and further lines of the
landscape; telling her all sorts of quiet details about this room and
that room, this and that growth of trees, or plantation, or shrubbery.
And Rotha looked on and listened, in a kind of dream witchery of
pleasure; absorbed, fascinated, with very fulness of content.
Nevertheless, her mind was not settled on one point, and that a very
essential point; and after the evening was over and she was alone in her
own room, she thought about it a great deal. She could not think
regularly; that was impossible; she was in too great a confusion of
emotions; happiness and wonder and strangeness and doubt made a
labyrinth; through which Rotha had no clue but a thread of sensitive
impulse; a woman's too frequent only leader, or misleader. That thread
she held fast to; and made up her mind that certain words in consonance
therewith should certainly be spoken to Mr. Digby in the morning. It
would not be easy, nor pleasant. No, not at all; but that made no
difference. She had taken to her room with her the sketch which Mr.
Southwode had made of his home; she would keep that always. It was very
lovely to Rotha's eyes. She looked at it fondly, longingly, even with a
tear or two; but all the same, one thing she was sure it was right to do,
to say; and she would do it, though it drew the heart out of her body.
She thought about it for a while, trying to arrange how she should do it;
but then went to sleep, and slept as if all cares were gone.
She slept late; then dressed hastily, nervously, thinking of her task. It
would be very difficult to speak so that her words would have any chance
of effect; but Rotha set her teeth with the resolve that it should be
done. Better any pain or awkwardness than a mistake now. Now or never a
mistake must be prevented. She went to the sitting room with her heart
beating. Mr. Digby was already there, and the new, unwonted manner of his
greeting nearly routed Rotha's plan of attack. She stood still to collect
her forces. She was sure the breakfast bell would ring in a minute, and
then the game would be up. Mr. Southwode set a chair for her, and turned
to gather together some papers on the table; he had been writing.
"What o'clock is it?" Rotha asked, to make sure of her own voice.
"Almost breakfast time, if that is what you mean. Are you hungry?"
"I--do not know," said Rotha. "Mr. Digby--"
Mr. Digby knew her well enough and knew the tone of her voice well
enough, to be almost sure of what sort of thing was coming. He answered
with a matter-of-fact "What, Rotha?"
"I want to say something to you--" But her breath came and went hastily.
Then he came and put his arms round her, and told her to speak.
"It is not easy to speak--what I want to say."
"I am not anxious to make it easy!"
"Why not?" said Rotha, looking suddenly up at him, with such innocent,
eager, questioning eyes that he was much inclined to put a sudden stop to
her communications. But she had something on her mind, and it was better
that she should get rid of it; so he restrained himself.
"Go on, Rotha. What is it?"
"I can hardly talk to you so, Mr. Digby. I think, if I were standing over
yonder by the window, with all that space between us, I could manage it
better."
"I am not going to put space between us in any way, nor for any reason.
What is this all about?"
"It is just that, Mr. Southwode. I think--I am afraid--I think, perhaps,
you spoke hastily to me yesterday, and might find out afterwards that it
was not just the best thing--"
"What?"
"I--for you," said the girl bravely; though her cheeks burned and every
nerve in her trembled. He could feel how she was trembling. "I think--
maybe,--you might find it out after a while; and I would rather you
should find it out at once. I propose,"--she went on hurriedly, forcing
herself to say all she had meant to say;--"I propose, that we agree to
let things be as if you had not said it; let things be as they were--for
a year,--until next summer, I mean. And _then_, if you think it was not a
mistake, you can tell me."
She had turned a little pale now, and her lip quivered slightly. And
after a slight pause, which Mr. Southwode did not break, she went on,--
"And, in the mean time, we will let nobody know anything about it."
"I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray the first five minutes I am in her company,"
he said.
Rotha looked up again, but then her eyes fell, and the strained lines of
brow and lips relaxed, and the colour rose.
"About Mrs. Busby, you shall do as you please. You do not know me yet,
Rotha--my little Rotha! Do you think I would say to any woman what I said
to you yesterday, and not know my own mind?"
"No--" Rotha said softly. "But I thought I was so unfit I do not know
what I thought! only I knew I must speak to you."
"You are a brave girl," said he tenderly, "and my very darling." And he
allowed himself the kisses now. "Was that all, Rotha?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"You have nothing else on your mind?"
"No."
"Then come to breakfast. It is always bad to go to breakfast with
anything on your mind. It is only on _my_ mind that it is so long to next
June!"
Rotha however was very willing it should be so. She wanted all these
months, to study, to work, to think, to make herself as ready as she
could be for what was before her.
The train could not take them until eleven o'clock. After breakfast Rotha
sat for a time meditating, no longer on troublesome subjects, while Mr.
Southwode finished the letter he had begun earlier. As he began to fold
up his paper, she came out with a question.
"Mr. Southwode, what do you think I had better specially study this
winter?"
He did not smile, for if the question was put like a child, the work he
knew would be done like a woman. He asked quietly,
"What is your object in going to school at all?"
The answer lingered, till his eyes looked up for it; then Rotha said,
while a lovely flush covered the girl's face,--
"That you may not be ashamed of me."
"That contingency never came under my consideration," he said, commanding
his gravity.
"But indeed it did under mine!"
"Allow me to ask a further question. After that, do you expect to make it
the main business of your life to please me?"
"I suppose so," said Rotha, flushing deeper but speaking frankly, as her
manner was. "It would be nothing new."
"I should think that would come to be terribly monotonous!" he said with
feigned dryness.
"On the contrary!" said Rotha. "That is just what saves life from
monotony." And then her colour fairly flamed up; but she would not
qualify her words.
"Right in principle," he said, smiling now, "but wrong in application."
"How, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, a little abashed.
He threw his letter on one side, came and sat down by her, and putting
his arm round her shoulders, answered first by one of those silent
answers which--sometimes--say so much more than anything spoken.
"I should be a sorry fellow," he said, "if I did not estimate those words
at their full value, which to me is beyond value. I know you of old, and
how much they mean. But, Rotha, this is not to be the rule of your
life,--nor of mine."
"Why not?" she asked shyly.
"Because we are both servants of another Master, whom we love even better
than we love each other."
Did they? Did _she?_ Rotha leaned her head upon her hand and queried. Was
she all right there? Or, as her heart was bounding back to the allegiance
she had so delighted to give to Mr. Digby, might she be in danger of
putting that allegiance first? He would not do the like. No, he would
never make such a mistake; but she?--Mr. Southwode went on,
"That would put life at a lower figure than I want it to be, for you or
for myself. No, Christ first; and his service, and his honour, and his
pleasure and his will, first. After that, then nothing dearer, and
nothing to which we owe more, than each of us to the other."
As she was silent, he asked gently, "What do you say to it, Rotha?"
"Of course you are right. Only--I am afraid I have not got so far as you
have."
"You only began the other day. But we are settling principles. I want
this one settled clearly and fully, so that we may regulate every
footstep by it."
"Every footstep?" Rotha repeated, looking up for a glance.
"You do not understand that?"
"No."
"It is the rule of all my footsteps. I want it to be the rule of all
yours. Let me ask you a question. In view of all that Christ has done for
us, what do we owe him?"
"Why--of course--all," said Rotha looking up.
"What does 'all' mean? There is nothing like defining terms."
"What can 'all' mean _but_ all?"
"There is a general impression among many Christians that the whole does
not include the parts."
"Among Christians?"
"Among many who are called so."
"But how do you mean?"
"Do you know there is such a thing as saying 'yes' in general, and 'no'
in particular? What in your understanding of it, does 'all' include?"
"Everything, of course."
"That is my understanding of it. Then we owe to our Master all we have?"
"Yes--" said Rotha with slight hesitation. Mr. Southwode smiled.
"That is certainly the Bible understanding of it. 'For the love of Christ
constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then
were all dead; and that he died for all, that they which live should not
henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them and
rose again.'"
"But how much is involved in that 'living to him'?"
"Let us find out, if we can. Turn to Lev. xiv. and read at the 14th
verse. These are the directions for the cleansing of a leper who has been
healed of his leprosy." He gave her his Bible, and she read.
"'And the priest shall take some of the blood of the trespass offering,
and the priest shall put it upon the tip of the right ear of him that is
to be cleansed, and upon the thumb of his right hand, and upon the great
toe of his right foot. And the priest shall take some of the log of oil,
and pour it into the palm of his own left hand, and shall sprinkle of the
oil with his finger seven times before the Lord: and of the rest of the
oil that is in his hand shall the priest put upon the tip of the right
ear of him that is to be cleansed, and upon the thumb of his right hand,
and upon the great toe of his right foot, upon the blood of the trespass
offering.'"
"I do not see the meaning of that," said Rotha.
"Yet it is very simple.--Head and hand and foot, the whole man and every
part of him was cleansed by the blood of the sacrifice; and whereever the
redeeming blood had touched, there the consecrating oil must touch also.
Head and hand and foot, the whole man was anointed holy to the Lord."
"_Upon the blood of the trespass offering_. O I see it now. And how
beautiful that is! and plain enough."
"Turn now to Rom. xii. 1."
"'I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye
present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to the Lord.'"
"You understand?"
"Partly; I think, only partly."
"The priests of old offered whole rams and bullocks upon the altar as
tokens and emblems of the entireness with which the worshipper was given
to God; the whole offering was consumed by fire and went up to heaven in
smoke and fume, all except the little remainder of ashes. We are to be
_living_ sacrifices, as wholly given, but given in life, and with our
whole living powers to be used and exist for God."
"Yes," said Rotha. "I see it now."
"Are you glad to see it?"
"I think I am. It makes me catch my breath a little."
"Why?"
"It must be difficult to live so."
"Not if we love Christ. Indeed if we love him much, it is impossible to
live any other way."
"I understand so far," Rotha said after a pause; "but I do not quite know
what you are coming to."
"I am coming to something serious; for I do not know whether in this
matter you will like what I like."
In Rotha's eyes there flashed an innocent unconscious response to this
speech, saying plainly that she could like nothing else! It was so
innocent and so unconscious, and withal so eloquent of the place he held
with her, that Mr. Southwode could have smiled; did smile to himself; but
he would not be diverted, nor let her, from the matter in hand; which, as
he said, was serious. He wished to have it decided on its own merits too;
and perceived there would be some difficulty about that. Rotha's nature
was so passionately true to its ruling affection that, as he knew, that
honest glance of her eyes had told but the simple truth. Mr. Southwode
looked grave, even while he could willingly have returned an answer in
kind to her eyes' sweet speech. But he kept his gravity and his composed
manner, and went on with his work.
"Read one more passage," he said. "1 Cor-vi. 20."
"'Ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body and in
your spirit, which are God's.' That is again just like the words in
Leviticus," said Rotha;--"head and hand and foot redeemed, and head and
hand and foot belonging to the Redeemer."
"Exactly," said Mr. Southwode. "That is not difficult to recognize. The
question is, will we stand to the bargain?"
"Why?"
"It costs so much, to let it stand."
"It has not cost _you_ much," said Rotha. "I should not say, by your
face, it has cost you anything."
"It has cost me all I have."
"Well, in a way--"
"Truly," he said, meeting her eyes. "I do not count anything I have my
own."
"But in practice--"
"In practice I use it all, or I try to use it all, for my Master; in such
way as I think he likes best, and such as will best do his work and
honour his name."
"And you do not find that disagreeable or hard," said Rotha. "That is
what I said."
"Neither disagreeable nor hard. On the contrary. I am sure there is no
way of using oneself and one's possessions that gets so much enjoyment
out of them. No, not the thousandth part."
"Then what do you mean by its 'costing so much'?"
"Read 1 Cor. x. 31."
"'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the
glory of God.'" Rotha read, and this time did not look up.
"What do you think of going by that rule?"
"You mean, for Christ's sake," said Rotha slowly. She knew she was
willing to go by any rule for her lover's sake. "Mr. Southwode, I do not
think I ever studied it out."
"Shall we study it out now?"
"O yes, please! But you must help me."
"Let us come to particulars. What sorts of things that are bought with
money, for instance, do you take most pleasure in?"
Rotha looked up, curious, questioning, wondering, pondering, very honest.
"I do not know what _most_," she said. "I take so much pleasure in
everything. Books especially. And pictures I delight in. And--do not
laugh at me, Mr. Digby! I always did,--I take pleasure in nice, pretty,
comfortable, becoming, dresses and clothes generally. So do you, don't
you?"
It went beyond Mr. Southwode's power of gravity, the quaint frankness of
this speech; and he laughed. Rotha joined in the laugh at herself, but
looked seriously for the answer.
"It is a comfort to talk to you," he said. "One can get at the point. And
here we have it, Rotha. I think your liking of all the things specified
is thoroughly justified and perfectly right; and as you suggest, I share
it with you. Now comes the question. The word says 'whatsoever';
therefore it covers books and pictures and dresses too. Take then the
homeliest instance. Are you willing, in buying a gown or a bonnet or
anything else, to do it always, as well as you know how, to the glory of
God?"
"How can it be done so?"
"Think. If this is your rule, you will choose such a bonnet or gown as
you can best do your work--God's work,--in. Therefore it will not be
chosen to give the impression that you wish to excite attention or
admiration, or that you wish to impose by your wealth, or that dress
occupies a large place in your thoughts; it _will_ be such as suits a
refined taste, such as becomes you and sets off your good qualities to
the very best advantage; and it will not cost more than is truly
necessary for these ends, because the Lord has more important work for
his money to do. Perhaps I rather overrate than underrate the importance
of good dressing; it is an undoubted power; but really good dressing is
done for Christ, as his servant and steward equips herself for his
service; but she uses no more of the Lord's silver and gold than is
needful, because that would be unfaithfulness in stewardship."
"But that makes dressing a noble art!" cried Rotha. Her eyes had looked
eagerly into the speaker's eyes, taking in his words with quick
apprehension.
"Carry out the principle into all other lines of action, then; and see
what it will make the rest of life."
"'To the glory of God.' The Bible says, eating and drinking?"
"Yes."
"Well how that, Mr. Southwode?"
"And if eating and drinking, then the houses in which we assemble, and
the tables at which we sit down."
"Yes, but you are going a little faster than I can follow," said Rotha.
"In the first place, it seems to me that people in general do not think
as you do."
"I told you so."
"Hardly anybody."
"Hardly anybody!"
"Then, is it not possible--"
"That I am straining the point? You have read the Bible testimony
yourself; what do you think?"
Rotha was silent. Could all the Christian world, almost all of it, be
wrong, and only Mr. Southwode right? Was the rule indeed to be drawn so
close? She doubted. The Bible words, to be sure,--but then, why did not
others see them too?
"Read Rom. xii. 1, again."
Rotha read it, and looked up in silence. Mr. Southwode's face wore a
slight smile. He did not look, she thought, like a man who felt the
poorer for what he had given up.
"Well?--" said he.
"Well. I have read this often," said Rotha. "I know the words."
"Have you obeyed them?"
"I--do--not--know. I am afraid, not."
"When a man has given his body a living sacrifice, has he anything left
to give beside?"
"Why not?"
"Think. In that case, his hands are his Master's. They cannot do anything
inconsistent with his use of them, or interrupting it, or hindering it.
All they do will be, indirectly or directly, for Him."
"Yes--" said Rotha. "But nothing for himself, then?"
"Anything, that will fit him for service, or help him in it."
"But for instance. I am very fond of fancy work," said Rotha.
"Useless fancy work?"
"I am afraid you would call it so."
"Never mind what I call it," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little; for
Rotha's frankness and directness were delightful;--"I am not skilled in
fancy work, and I speak in ignorance. What do you call it?"
"Some of it is not of any use," Rotha said thoughtfully; "it is just a
putting together of lovely colours. Of course, people must have mats and
rugs and cushions and things; and it is pretty work to make them; but
they could be bought cheaper, what would do just as well."
"Then the question rises, in view of all these pretty things,--Is it the
best use I can make of my time and my money?"
Rotha's fingers drummed upon the table.
"But one must have amusement," she said. "One cannot be always studying."
"Quite true. The question remains, whether this is the best amusement to
be had."
"I give that up," said Rotha. "I see what you think."
"Never mind what I think--for once," said he smiling. "Try the question
on its own merits."
"I give that up," Rotha repeated. "Except for odds and ends of chances,
it does take a fearful amount of time, and money too. But go on, Mr.
Digby; I am getting dreadfully interested."
"You can go on without my help."
"But I want it. Please go on."
"You can transfer to eyes and ears and lips and feet what I have said
about hands. All would be the Lord's servants. Have I anything else left
to give, if I have once given my body a living sacrifice?"
"No. Nothing. But why did I never see that before?"
"What do you think of it, now you do see it?"
"It is grand!" said the girl thoughtfully. "And beautiful. Such a life
would be woven all of golden threads. But Mr. Southwode, it would make
one different from everybody else in the whole world!"
"Did not Jesus say? 'Ye are not of the world, _even as I am not of the
world_.' And--'Therefore the world hateth you.'"
"Yes,--" said Rotha slowly--"I see."
"How would you furnish a house, on this principle?" Mr. Southwode went
on.
"A house?" Rotha repeated.
"Yes. Suppose the old house at Southwode was to be refurnished; how
should we do it? I would like to have everything there please you."
"But on your principle," said Rotha, colouring beautifully, though she
laughed, "you would not arrange it to please me at all."
"If my principle were your principle?"--he said with a flash in his eye
which was part pleasure and part amusement.
"I never considered the subject," she said shyly.
"Well let us consider it. What are the points to be principally regarded,
in furnishing a house?"
Rotha pondered, a good deal amused; this whole discussion was so novel to
her. "I suppose," she said, "one ought to aim at a good appearance--
according to one's means,--and the comfort of the family that are to live
in the house,--and prettiness,--and pleasantness."
"And the Lord's service?"
"I do not see how that comes in."
"I must state another question, then. What are the uses for which the
house is intended? what is to be done in it, or what ought to be done?"
"People are to be made comfortable in it; they must see their friends,--
and do their work."
"Very well. What work?"
"I do not know. That depends, I suppose."
"But what work is set out in the Bible for every Christian house to do?"
"Mr. Southwode, I do not know. I do not seem to know much of what is in
the Bible, at all!"
"After five months of study?" said he kindly. "Well, listen. The Bible
bids us not be forgetful to entertain strangers."
"Strangers!"
"That is the word."
"And of course we are to entertain our friends?"
"That may safely be left to people's natural affection. But our
_entertainments_ it bids us keep for the poor and the maimed and the
lame and the blind; for people, in short, who can make us no return in
kind."
"Does it!"
"Christ said so expressly."
"I remember he did," said Rotha thoughtfully. "But then--but then, Mr.
Southwode,--in that case, people are all abroad!"
He was silent.
"But are we not to have society?"
"Undoubtedly, if we can get it."
"Then we must entertain them."
"According to Christ's rule."
"But then, especially if one is rich, people will say--"
"The question with me is, what the Master will say."
"People will not want to come to see you, will they, on those terms?"
"Those will who care to see _us_," said Mr. Southwode; "and I confess
those are the only ones I care to see. The people who come merely for the
entertainment can find that as well elsewhere."
"One thing is certain," said Rotha. "A house could not be furnished to
suit both those styles of guests."
"Then the Bible bids us bring the poor that are cast out, to our houses."
"But that you cannot! Not always," said Rotha. "They are not fit for it."
"There is discretion to be observed, certainly. You would not invite a
tramp into your drawing room. But I have known two instances, Rotha, in
which a miserable and very degraded drunkard was saved to himself and to
society, saved for time and eternity, just in that way; by being taken
into a gentleman's house, and cared for and trusted and patiently borne
with, until his reformation was complete. In those cases the individuals,
it is true, had belonged to the respectable and educated classes of
society; but at the time they were brought to the gutter."
"That is not easy work!" said Rotha shaking her head.
"Not when you think of Christ's 'Inasmuch'?"
Rotha was silent a while.
"Well!" she said at last, "I see now that the furnishing of a house has
more meaning in it than ever I thought."
"You see, I hope also," Mr. Southwode said gently, "that your conditions
of comfort and prettiness and pleasantness are not excluded?"
"I suppose not," said Rotha, thinking busily. "The house would do its
work better, even its work among these people you have been speaking
of,--far better, for being pretty and comfortable and pleasant. I see
that. Refinement is not excluded, only luxury."
"Say, only _useless_ luxury."
"Yes, I see that," said Rotha.
"Then the Bible bids us use hospitality without grudging. That is,
welcoming to the shelter and comfort of our houses any who at any time
may need it. Tired people, homeless people, ailing people, poor people.
So the house and the table must be always ready to receive and welcome
new guests."
"I see it all, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, lifting her eyes to him.
"There is no finery at Southwode--I might say, nothing fine; there are
some things valuable. But the house seems to me to want nothing that the
most refined taste can desire. I think you will like it."
"I think I understand the whole scheme of life, as you put it," Rotha
went on, shyly getting away from the personal to the abstract. "So far as
things can be done, things enjoyed,--books and music and everything,--by
a servant of Christ who is always doing his Master's work; so far as
they would not hinder but help the work and him; so far you would use
them, and there stop."
"Does such a life look to you burdened with restrictions?"
"They do not seem to me really restrictions," Rotha answered slowly.
"Taking it altogether, such a life looks to me wide and generous and
rich; and the common way poor and narrow."
"How should it be otherwise, when the one is the Lord's way, and the
other man's? But people who have not tried do not know that."
"Of course not."
"They will not understand."
"I suppose they _cannot_."
"And the world generally does not like what it does not understand."
"I should think _that_ could be borne."
"You are not afraid, then?"
"No, indeed," said Rotha. "But I do not mean that I stand just where you
do," she added soberly. "With my whole heart I think this is right and
beautiful, and I am sure it is happy; and yet, you know,"--she went on
colouring brightly, "I should like anything because you liked it; and
that is not quite enough. But I will study the matter thoroughly now. I
never thought of it before--not so."
There was frankness and dignity and modesty in her words and manner,
enough to satisfy a difficult man; and Mr. Southwode was too much
delighted to even touch this beautiful delicacy by shewing her that he
liked it. He answered, with the words, "It is only to follow Christ
fully"; and then there was silence. By and by however he began to allow
himself some expression of his feelings in certain caresses to the
fingers he still held clasped in his own.
"That you should be doing that to my hand!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode,
what an extraordinary story it all is!"
"What do you mean?"
"Just think--just think. All this, the whole of it, has really come from
my mother's shewing to a stranger precisely one of those bits of
hospitality you have been speaking about. I wonder if she knows now? You
remember how the words run,--'Full measure, pressed down, heaped up and
running over, shall they give----'"
Rotha's eyes filled full, full; she was near losing her self-command.
"Do you forget there are two sides to it?" said Mr. Southwode, taking her
in his arms very tenderly.
"It has all been on one side!" cried Rotha.
"Do you make nothing of my part?"
"Nothing at all!" said Rotha between crying and laughing. "You have
given--given--given,--as you like to do; you have done nothing but give!"
"It is your turn now--" said he laughing.
Rotha was silent, thinking a great deal more than she chose to put into
words.
CHAPTER XXXII.
END OF SCHOOL TERM.
That same evening, just when Mrs. Mowbray was set free from a lesson
hour, and the library was left to her sole occupation, a gentleman and
lady were announced. The next minute Rotha was in her arms. Whatever she
felt, the girl's demeanour was very quiet; her reception, on the other
hand, was little short of ecstatic. Then Mrs. Mowbray gave a gracious, if
somewhat distant, greeting to Rotha's companion; and then looked, with an
air of mystified expectancy, to see what was coming next.
"I have brought Miss Carpenter back to you, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode
began.
"Where did you find her?"
"I found her at Tanfield."
"Tanfield!"--Mrs. Mowbray looked more and more puzzled.
"And now, I am going to ask you to take care of her, till next June."
"Till next June--" Mrs. Mowbray repeated.
"The school year ends then, does it not?"
"May I ask, what is to be done with her after next June?"
"I will take her into my own care."
"What does Mrs. Busby say to that?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired, still doubtful
and mystified.
"She says nothing," said Rotha. "She has nothing to say. She never had
any right to say what I should do, except the right Mr. Southwode gave
her." She felt a secret triumph in the knowledge that now at least Mrs.
Mowbray would have to accept Mr. Southwode and make the best she could of
him.
"Have you come from Mrs. Busby now?"
"No, madame; Mr. Southwode brought me straight here."
And then followed of course the story of the past five months. Rotha gave
it as briefly as she could, slurring over as much as possible her aunt's
action and motives, and giving a bare skeleton of the facts. Mrs.
Mowbray's mystified expression did not clear away.
"Chicago?" she said. "I do not think Mrs. Busby has been to Chicago. My
impression is strong, that she has been in or near New York, all summer."
"So she was, madame."
Mrs. Mowbray considered things with a grave face.
"I have a request to make," Mr. Southwode began then; "a request which I
hope Mrs. Mowbray will receive as of purely business character, and in no
wise occasioned by curiosity. May I be informed, at a convenient time,
what has been paid by Mrs. Busby to this house, on Miss Carpenter's
account?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Mowbray.
"No bills for schooling? or board?"
"Nothing at all. Antoinette's bills I have rendered, and they have been
paid. I have never presented any bill for Miss Carpenter, and none has
ever been asked for."
Rotha exclaimed, but Mr. Southwode went on----
"You will allow me to ask for it now."
Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtfully at the speaker.
"By what right could I put Mrs. Busby's obligations upon you? How could I
account to her?"
"Count them my obligations," he said pleasantly. "I do not wish Miss
Carpenter to leave any debts behind her, when she goes from her own
country to mine. I will be much obliged, if you will have the account
made out in my name and sent to me."
Mrs. Mowbray bowed a grave acknowledgment. "I had better speak to Mrs.
Busby first," she said.
"As you please about that," said Mr. Southwode rising.
"But next June!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "You are not going to take her away
next June? I want her for a year longer at least. I want her for two
years. That is one of the difficulties I have to contend with; people
will not leave their children with me long enough to let me finish what I
have begun. It would be much better for Rotha to stay with me another
year. Don't you think so?"
"I am afraid a discussion on that point would not turn out in your
favour, madame," he said. "Miss Carpenter is able to represent my part in
it; I will leave it to her."
And he took leave. But when it came to Rotha's turn, he sealed all his
pretensions by quietly kissing her; it was done deliberately, not in a
hurry; and Rotha knew it was on purpose and done rather for her sake than
his own. And when he was gone, she stood still by the table, flushed and
proud, feeling that she was claimed and owned now before all the world.
There ensued a little silence, during which Mrs. Mowbray was somewhat
uneasily arranging some disarranged books and trifles on the great
library table; and Rotha stood still.
"My dear," said the former at last, "am I to congratulate you?"
"There is no occasion, madame," said Rotha.
"What then did Mr. Southwode mean?" said Mrs. Mowbray, stopping her work
and looking up much displeased.
"O yes,--I beg your pardon,--if you mean _that_," said Rotha, while the
blood mounted into her cheeks again.
"Are you going to marry Mr. Southwode?"
"He says so, madame."
"But what do _you_ say?"
"I always say the same that Mr. Southwode says," Rotha replied demurely,
while at the same time she was conscious of having to bite in an
inclination to laugh.
"My dear, let us understand one another. When I saw him two or three days
ago, he did not even know where you were."
"No, ma'am. He found me."
"Have you had any communication with him during these years of his
absence?"
"No, madame."
"Did you know, when Mr. Southwode went away, three years ago, that he had
any such purpose, or wish?"
"He had no such purpose, or wish, I am sure."
"Then, my dear, how has this come about?"
"I do not know, madame."
Rotha felt the movings within her of a little rebellion, a little
irritation, and a great nervous inclination to laugh; nevertheless her
manner was sobriety itself.
"My dear, I seem to be the only one in the world to take care of you; and
that is my excuse for being so impertinent as to ask these questions. You
will bear with me? I _must_ take care of you, Rotha!"
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! There can be no questions you might not
ask me."
"I am a little troubled about you, my dear child. This is very sudden."
"Yes, ma'am," said Rotha slowly,--"I suppose it is."
"And I do not like such things to be done hurriedly."
"No."
"People ought to have time to know their own minds."
"Yes."
"My dear, is it certain that Mr. Southwode knows his?"
"I should not like to ask him, madame," said Rotha, while the corners of
her mouth twitched. "He is not that kind of man. And there is nobody else
to ask him. I am afraid we shall have to let it stand."
Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtful and ill at ease.
"Mr. Southwode is a very rich man,--" she remarked after a minute or two.
"What then, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha asked quickly.
"And, my dear, you have only known him as a little girl," the lady went
on, waiving the question.
"What of _that_, madame?"
"You can hardly be said to know him at all."
"It is too late to speak of that now," said Rotha, laying her gloves
together and taking off her scarf. "But I saw more as a child, than most
people have a chance to see as grown-up people."
"My dear, I am concerned about your welfare, in this most important step
of your life. Have you accepted this gentleman out of gratitude?"
"I do not think he would want me, madame, on those terms, if he thought
so."
"Yes, he would, perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Men make that mistake
sometimes. But you--you must not make a mistake now, my dear!"
As Rotha was silent, Mrs. Mowbray rose and came to her where she was
standing by the table, and put her arms fondly round the girl.
"You know," she said, kissing her repeatedly, "I love you, Rotha. I
cannot let you run into danger, if I can help it; and so I put my hand
in, perhaps unwarrantedly."
"Never, dear Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha gratefully. "You cannot. You may
say anything."
"You are one of those people with whom impulse is strong; and such people
often do in a minute what they are sorry for all their lives."
"I hope that tendency has been a little sobered in me," said Rotha.
"Perhaps not much."
"Well, won't you give me a little comfort about this matter?" said Mrs.
Mowbray, still holding her close and looking at her. "What are you going
to marry this man--this gentleman--for?"
But to answer this question, to any but one person, was foreign to all
Rotha's nature. She could not do it. The blood flashed to cheek and brow,
making its own report; all that Rotha said, was,
"He wishes it, madame."
"And are you to do everything that Mr. Southwode wishes?"
Rotha said nothing, yet this time Mrs. Mowbray got an answer. There was a
little unconscious flash of the girl's eye, as for half a second it
looked up, which swift as it was, told the whole story. Mrs. Mowbray knew
enough of human nature and of the human countenance, to read all she
wanted to know in that look. All as far as Rotha was concerned, that is.
And that was the principal thing; Mr. Southwode ought to know his own
mind, and was at any rate at his own risk; and furthermore it was not
Mrs. Mowbray's business to take care of him. And as regarded Rotha, she
now saw, there was nothing to be done.
"Then I must lose you!" she said with a sigh and kissing Rotha again. "My
dear, I want nothing but your happiness; but I believe I am a little
jealous of Mr. Southwode, that he has got you so easily."
Easily! Well, Rotha could not explain that, nor discuss the whole matter
at all with Mrs. Mowbray. She went up to her room, feeling glad this talk
was over.
And then things fell immediately into school train. And of all in the
house, there was no such diligent worker as Rotha during the months of
that school term. She was not only diligent. Mrs. Mowbray greatly admired
the quiet dignity and the delicate gravity of her manner. She was grave
with a wonderful sweet gravity, compounded of a happy consciousness of
what had been given her, and a very deep sense of what was demanded of
her. Her happiness, or rather the cause of it, for those months remained
secret. Nobody in the house, excepting Mrs. Mowbray, knew anything about
it; and if anybody surmised, there was nothing in Rotha's quiet, reserved
demeanour to embolden any one to put questions. All that Antoinette and
Mrs. Busby knew was, that Mr. Southwode had found Rotha and brought her
back. "Like his impudence!" Antoinette had said; but Mrs. Busby
compressed her lips and said nothing. Both of them kept aloof.
Mr. Southwode himself was little seen by Rotha during those months. He
came sometimes, as a guardian might; and there did arise in the house a
subdued murmur of comment upon Rotha's very distinguished-looking
visiter. Once or twice he took her out for a drive; however, he during
that winter played the part of guardian, not of lover, before the eyes of
the world; as he had said he would. When spring came, Mr. Digby went
home, and was gone three months; not returning till just before the
school term closed.
The story is really done; but just because one gets fond of people one
has been living with so long, we may take another look or two at them.
School was over, and the girls were gone, and the teachers were
scattered; the house seemed empty. Mrs. Mowbray found Rotha one day
gathering her books together and trifles out of her desk. She stood and
looked at her, lovingly and longingly.
"And now your school days are ended!" she said, with a mixed expression
which spoke not only of regret but had a slight touch of reproach in it.
"O no indeed!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode used always to be teaching me
something, and I suppose he always will."
"I wish I could have you two years more! I grudge you to anybody else for
those two years. But I suppose it is of no use for me to talk."
Rotha went off smiling. It was no use indeed! And Mrs. Mowbray turned
away with a sigh.
Down stairs, a few hours later, Mr. Southwode was sitting in the little
end room back of the library--Mrs. Mowbray's special sanctuary. He was
trying to see what was the matter with a cuckoo clock which would not
strike. The rooms were all in summer order; sweet with the fragrance of
India matting, which covered the floors; cool and quiet in the strange
stillness of the vacation time. Mrs. Mowbray was a wonderful housekeeper;
everything in her house was kept in blameless condition of purity; the
place was as fresh and sweet as any place in a large city in the month of
July could be. It was July, and warm weather, and the summer breeze blew
in at the windows near which Mr. Southwode was sitting, with a fitful,
faint freshness, pushing in the muslin curtains which were half open.
There was the cool light which came through green India jalousies, but
there was light enough; and everywhere the eye could look there was
incentive to thought or suggestion for conversation, in works of arts,
bits of travel, reminiscences of distant friends, and tributes from
foreign realms of the earth. Books behind him, books before him, books on
the table, books on the floor, books in the corners, and books in a great
revolving bookstand. There was a dainty rug before the fireplace; there
were dainty easy chairs large and small; there was a lovely India screen
before the grate; and there was not much room left for anything else when
all these things were accommodated. Mr. Southwode however was in one of
the chairs, and a cuckoo clock, as I said, on his knees, with which he
was busy.
Then came a light step over the matting of the library, and Rotha entered
the sanctuary. She came up behind his chair and laid her two hands on his
shoulder, bending down so as to speak to him more confidentially. There
came to Mr. Southwode a quick recollection of the first time Rotha had
ever laid her hand on his shoulder, when her mother was just dead; and
how in her forlorn distress the girl had laid her head down too. He
remembered the feeling of her thick locks of wavy hair brushing his
cheek. Now the full locks of dark hair were bound up, yet not tightly; it
was a soft, natural, graceful style, which indeed was the character of
all Rotha's dressing; she had independence enough not to be unbecomingly
bound by fashion. Mr. Southwode knew exactly what was hanging over his
shoulder, though he did not look up. I may say, he saw it as well as if
he had.
"I do not know how to speak to you," Rotha began abruptly. "You do not
like me to call you 'Mr. Southwode.'"
"No."
"But I do not think I know your Christian name."
"My name is Digby."
"That is your surname--your half surname, I thought."
"Yes, but I was christened Digby. That is my name. I took the surname
Digby afterwards in compliance with the terms of a will, and legally my
name is Digby Digby; but I am of course by birth Southwode."
"Then if I called you 'Digby,' it would sound as if I were simply
dropping the 'Mr.' and calling you by your surname; and that is very
ugly. It does not sound respectful."
"Drop the respect."
"But I cannot!" cried Rotha, laughing a little. "I have heard women speak
so, and it always seemed to me very ungraceful. Fancy aunt Serena saying
'Busby' to her husband! She always says so carefully 'Mr. Busby'--"
"She is a woman of too much good taste to do otherwise."
"She _has_ a good deal," said Rotha, "in many ways. Then what will you
think of me, if _I_ do 'otherwise'?"
"You are not logical this afternoon," said Mr. Southwode laughing. "Am I
an equivalent for Mr. Busby, in your imagination?"
"Will you make that clock go?"
"I think so."
There was a little pause. Rotha did not change her position, and Mr.
Southwode went on with his clock work.
"What shall I do about aunt Serena?" Rotha then began again, in a low
voice.
"In what respect?"
"Must I ask her to come here?--Monday, I mean?"
"Do you wish to have her come?"
"Oh no, indeed!"
"Then I do not see the 'must.'"
"But they are dying to come."
"Have they asked? If so, there is no more to be said."
"O they have not asked in so many words. But they have done everything
_but_ ask. Aunt Serena even proposed that I should come there--just
fancy it!"
"And be married from her house?"
"Yes."
"I am glad it did not occur to you to agree to the proposal."
"Agree!--But what ought I to do?"
"State the arguments, for and against."
"Well!--I cannot help feeling that it would not be pleasant to have
them."
"That is my feeling."
"But then, one ought to forgive people?"
"Forgiveness is one thing, and reinstating in forfeited privileges is
another. I have forgiven Mrs. Busby, I hope; but only her repentance
could restore her to my respect. I have seen no sign of repentance."
"That involves, and means, punishment."
"Involuntary--and unavoidable."
"I am sorry for aunt Serena!"
"So am I," said Mr. Southwode laughing; "but I do not see why, to save
her from being punished, I should punish myself."
Through the rooms behind them now came another step, and Mrs. Mowbray
presently entered the little room, which was full when the three were in
it. She was in a white summer robe, her hair in its simple coil at the
back of her head shewing the small head and its fine setting to great
advantage. Nothing more elegant, more sweet, more gracious can be
imagined, than her whole presence. It was not school time; duty was not
laying a heavy hand of pressure upon her heart and brain; there was the
loveliest expression of rest, and good will, and sparkling sympathy, and
ready service, in her whole face and manner. She sat down, and for a
while the talk flowed on in general channels, full of interest and
vitality however; Mrs. Mowbray had learned to know Mr. Southwode by this
time, and had thoroughly accepted him; in fact I think she liked him
almost as well as she liked Rotha. The talk went on mainly between those
two. Rotha herself was silent when she could be so. She was grave and
soft, full of a very fair dignity; evidently her approaching marriage was
a somewhat awful thing to her; and though her manner was simple and frank
as a child in her intercourse with Mr. Southwode, yet after the fashion
of her excitable nature the sensitive blood in her cheeks answered every
allusion to Monday, or even the mention of her bridegroom's name when he
was not by, or the sound of his step when he came. Mrs. Mowbray was
delighted with her; nothing could be more sweet than this delicate
consciousness which was grave and thoughtful without ever descending to
shyness or hardening to reserve. As for Mr. Southwode, he saw little of
it, Rotha was so exactly herself when she was with him; yet now as the
talk went on between him and Mrs. Mowbray his eye wandered continually to
the eyes which were so downcast, and the quiet withdrawn figure which
held itself a little more back than usual.
"And what are your movements?" inquired Mrs. Mowbray at length. "Do you
go straight home?"
"I think we shall take a roundabout way through Switzerland and Germany,
and stay there awhile first."
"You are carrying away from me my dearest pupil," said Mrs. Mowbray. "She
has never been anything but a blessing in my house, ever since she came
into it. If she is as good to you as she has been to me, you will have
nothing left to ask for. But I grudge her to you!"
"I find that very pardonable," said Mr. Southwode with a smile.
"I was dreadfully set against you at first," Mrs. Mowbray went on, with a
manner between seriousness and archness. "I tried hard to make out to my
satisfaction that Rotha had accepted you only out of gratitude--in which
case I should have made fight; but I found I had no ground to stand on."
Here Rotha made a diversion. She came, as Mrs. Mowbray finished her
speech, and kneeled down on a cushion at her feet, laying one hand in her
friend's hand.
"Mrs. Mowbray--_this_ vacation we shall not be there but next summer, if
all's well, you will come and spend the whole time at Southwode?"
"Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "I never know a year beforehand what
will become of me!"
"But I said, if all's well?"
"What Rotha petitions for, I petition for also, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr.
Southwode added; "and this time with double urgency, for I ask on her
account and on mine too."
"You will come," said Rotha. "And," she went on, laying her other hand on
Mrs. Mowbray's shoulder,--"And some day, you know, you will give up
schooling; and then--then--Mr. Southwode says, you must come and live the
rest of your days with us. He says the house is big enough, and you shall
have a separate establishment to yourself, if you like."
Mrs. Mowbray looked silently at the eager face so near her, and her eyes
gathered a little moisture, a tendency which probably she repelled.
"I expect to die in harness,"--she said, while the two pair of eyes
looked steadily into one another.
"In one way--but not in school harness! Don't say anything about it; but
when you stop work--this work--your home is there."
The beautiful lips trembled a little, but Mrs. Mowbray would not give
way.
"That would be a delightful dream!" she said. "Thank you, my dear. When I
am tired out with people and things, I will think of this and be
refreshed. Now will you bring Mr. Southwode in to tea?"
She rose and swept on before them, leading the way. Her self-command had
been successful. Rotha was less in training, and several tears dropped
from her eyes as she followed through the library. She was a little
disappointed, and the girl's heart was full. Her eager affection had not
got the answer it wanted. Rotha did not mistake her friend's manner; she
did not think Mrs. Mowbray was without feeling because she would not shew
feeling; nor that her appeal had not met a response due and full, because
the response was not given in words. She knew that probably Mrs. Mowbray
could not trust herself to put it in words. Nevertheless, she felt a
little thrown back and disappointed, and "Monday" was near; and I suppose
she felt what any girl feels at such a time, the want of a mother. Rotha
had nobody but Mrs. Mowbray, and she was parting from her. Two or three
tears fell before she could prevent it. And then Mr. Southwode, who had
been watching her, and could read her feelings pretty well, stretched out
his hand, took one of hers and drew it through his arm. It was a little
thing, but done, as some people can do things, in a way that quite took
it out of the category. There was in it, somehow, an assurance of mutual
confidence, of understanding, and sympathy, and great tenderness. He had
not looked at her, nor spoken, but Rotha's step grew lighter immediately;
and in quiet content she followed Mrs. Mowbray up stairs and down and
along passages and through one room after another. The tea table was not
set in the great dining rooms; they too were sweet with fresh matting,
and lay in summer coolness and emptiness, giving a long dusky vista
towards the front windows, where the blinds shaded the light and muslin
curtains shielded from the dust of the streets. But in the smaller end
room at the back the great windows were open, and the sea breeze came in
fitfully, and the colours of the evening sky were discernible, and there
the table was prepared. What a table! Mrs. Mowbray had gathered all sorts
of delicacies together; cold birds, and fruit, and dainty India
sweetmeats, and rich cheese of best English make, and a cold ham;
together with some very delicate warm tea cakes, which I am afraid Mr.
Southwode, being an Englishman, did not appreciate properly.
"Do not think this is our usual and ordinary tea!" Rotha said laughing.
"All this extreme luxury is on your account."
"Rotha and I dine early, these summer days," said Mrs. Mowbray; "and I
did not wish to starve you when I asked you to stay to tea. This is not
dinner, nor any meal that deserves a name--but perhaps you will kindly
put up with it, in place of dinner."
"Dinner!" said Mr. Southwode. "This looks festive!"
"O we are always festive in vacation time," said Rotha joyously. "In
other houses people call in numbers to help them make merry; here we are
merry when the people go!"
They were softly merry round that board. Rotha had got back her gayety,
and Mrs. Mowbray was the most charming of hostesses. No one could take
such care of her guests; no one could make the time pass so pleasantly;
no one had such store of things to tell or to talk of, that were worth
the while, and that at the same time were not within the reach of most
people; no one had a more beautiful skill to give the conversation a turn
that might do somebody good, without in the least allowing it to droop in
interest. To-day there was no occasion for this particular blessed
faculty to be called into exercise; she could let the talk run as it
would; and it ran delightfully. In general society Mr. Southwode was very
apt to play a rather quiet part; keeping the ball going indeed, but doing
it rather by apt suggestion and incentive applied to other people; this
evening he came out and talked, as Rotha was accustomed to hear him;
seconding Mrs. Mowbray fully, and making, which I suppose was partly his
purpose, an engrossing entertainment for Rotha.
Following a little pause which occurred in the conversation, Mrs. Mowbray
broke out,--
"What are you going to do about Mrs. Busby?"
The question was really addressed to Rotha; but as Rotha did not
immediately answer, Mr. Southwode took it up, and asked "in what
respect?"
"Is she to be invited?"
"I was just talking to Mr. Southwode about it," said Rotha. "Why should
she be invited? It would be no pleasure to any one."
"It would be a pleasure to her."
"I do not think it, Mrs. Mowbray! O yes, she would like to come; but
_pleasure_--it would be pleasure to nobody. I know she wants to come."
"Well, my dear, and she is your mother's sister. Always keep well with
your relations. Blood is thicker than water."
"I do not think so!" cried Rotha. "I do not feel it so. If she were not
my mother's sister, I would not care; she would be nothing to me, one way
or another; it is _because_ she is my mother's sister that she is so
exceedingly disagreeable. If people who are your relations are
disagreeable, it is infinitely worse than if they were not relations. It
is the relationship that puts them at such an unapproachable distance.
You are near to me, Mrs. Mowbray, and my aunt Serena is a thousand miles
away."
"It is best the world should not know that, my dear. Do you not agree
with me, Mr. Southwode?"
"Better still, that there should be nothing to know," he answered
somewhat evasively.
"Yes!" said Rotha; "and if I could have been good and gentle and sweet
when I first went to her, things might have been different; but I was
not. I suppose I was provoking."
"Cannot you make up the breach now?"
"I have not the wish, Mrs. Mowbray. I see no change in aunt Serena; and
unless she could change, I can only wish she were not my mother's sister.
I have forgiven her; O I have forgiven her!--but love and kinship are
another thing."
"My dear, it would not hurt you, much, to let her come. I know she would
feel it a gratification."
"I know that well enough."
"Always gratify people when you can innocently."
"How far?" said Rotha, laughing now in the midst of a little vexation. "I
know they are just aching for an invitation to Southwode. There has been
enough said to let me see that."
"That must be as your husband pleases."
"_That_ must be as my wife pleases," said Mr. Southwode with a smile.
Poor Rotha passed both hands hastily over her face, as if she would wipe
away the heat and the colour; then letting them fall, turned her face
full to the last speaker.
"Mr. Southwode, you do not want to see them there!"
"Miss Rotha, I do not. But--if you do, I do."
"That throws all the responsibility upon me."
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that is what men always like to do--get
rid of responsibility--if they can find somebody else to put it on."
"Ever since Adam's day--" Mr. Southwode added.
"Is there any possible reason why aunt Serena, and Mr. Busby and
Antoinette, should be asked to come to Southwode? If there is any
_reason_ for it, I have no more to say; but I do not see the reason."
"She is your mother's sister--" Mrs. Mowbray repeated.
"And that fact it is, which puts her so far from me. Just that fact."
"Maybe it will do her good," suggested Mrs. Mowbray.
Rotha laughed a short, impatient laugh. "How should it?" she asked.
"You never can tell how. My dear, it is not good to have breaches in
families. Always heal them up, if you can."
Rotha turned in despair to Mr. Southwode.
"Mrs. Mowbray is right, in principle," he said. "I entirely agree with
her. The only question is, whether a breach which remains a breach by the
will of the offending party alone, ought to be covered over and condoned
by the action of the injured party."
"You must forgive,--" said Mrs. Mowbray.
"Yes; and forgiveness implies a readiness to have the breach bridged over
and forgotten. I think it does not command or advise that the offender be
treated as if he had repented, so long as he does not repent."
"I have no doubt Mrs. Busby repents," said Mrs. Mowbray.
"I have no doubt she is sorry."
"I know she is," said Rotha; "but she would do it again to-morrow."
"What has she done, after all? My dear, human nature is weak."
"I know it is," said Rotha eagerly; "and if I thought it would do her the
least bit of good, as far as I am concerned, I would be quite willing to
ask her to Southwode. I do not at all wish to give her what I think she
deserves."
"I am afraid I do," said Mr. Southwode; "and that is a disposition not to
be indulged. Let us give her the chance of possible good, and ask her,
Rotha."
"Then I must ask her here Monday."
"I suppose I can stand that."
There was a little pause.
"Well," said Rotha, "if you think it is better, I do not care. It will be
a punishment to her,--but perhaps it would be a worse punishment to stay
away."
"Now," said Mrs. Mowbray, "there is another thing. Don't you think Rotha
ought to wear a veil?"
Mrs. Mowbray was getting mischievous. Her sweet blue eyes looked up at
Mr. Southwode with a sparkle in them.
"Why should I wear a veil?" said Rotha.
"It is the custom."
"But I do not care in the least for custom. It's a nonsensical custom,
too."
"Brides are supposed to want a shield between them and the world," Mrs.
Mowbray went on. She loved to tease, yet she never teased Rotha; one
reason for which, no doubt, was that Rotha never could be teased. She
could laugh at the fun of a suggestion, without at all making it a
personal matter. But now her cheeks shewed her not quite unconcerned.
"The world will not be here," she replied. "I understand, in a great
crowd it might be pleasant, and as part of a pageant it is pretty; but
here there will be no crowd and no pageant; and I do not see why there
should be a veil."
"It is becoming--" suggested Mrs. Mowbray.
"But one cannot continue to wear a veil; and why should one try to look
preternaturally well just for five minutes?"
"They are five minutes to be remembered," said Mrs. Mowbray, while both
Rotha's hearers were amused.
"I would rather they should be remembered to my advantage than to my
disadvantage," the latter persisted. "It would be pitiful, to set up a
standard which in all my life after I never could reach again."
"It is a very old institution"--Mrs. Mowbray went on, while the mischief
in her eyes increased and her lips began to wreathe in lines of loveliest
archness; Rotha's cheeks the while growing more and more high-coloured.
"Rebecca, you know, when she saw her husband from a distance, got down
respectfully from her camel and put on her veil."
"That was after her marriage," said Rotha. "That was not at the wedding
ceremony."
"I fancy there was nothing that we could call a wedding ceremony," Mr.
Southwode remarked. "Perhaps we may say she was married by proxy, when
her family sent her away with blessings and good wishes. Her putting on
her veil at the sight of Isaac shewed that she recognized him for her
husband."
"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it was the old sign of the woman's being under
subjection."
"And under protection--" added Mr. Southwode.
"But it does not mean anything _now_," Rotha said quickly. Mrs. Mowbray
laughed, and Mr. Southwode could not prevent a smile, at the naive energy
of her utterance.
"You need not think I am afraid of it," Rotha said, facing them bravely.
"When I was only a little girl, and very wayward, I never wanted to do
anything that would displease Mr. Digby. It is not likely I should begin
now."
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, with every feature in a quiver of
mischief,--"do you think you have given over being wayward?" And Rotha's
earnest gravity broke into laughter.
"I think after all," said Mr. Southwode demurely, "all that old meekness
was because in your conscience you thought I was right."
"N--o," said Rotha slowly, looking at him,--"I do not think it was."
"And you would fight me now, if I tried to make you do something you
thought was wrong."
"Would I?" Rotha said. But her eyes' swift glance said more, which he
alone got the benefit of; an innocent glance of such trust and love and
such utter scorn of the suggested possibility, that Mr. Southwode did not
for a minute or two know very well what he or anybody else was doing.
"We have wandered away from the question," said Mrs. Mowbray.
"What is the question?" he asked.
"Why, the veil! I believe in the value of symbols, for keeping up the
ideas of the things symbolized. Don't you?"
"Unquestionably."
"Well--don't you propose, Mr. Southwode, to maintain the Biblical idea of
subjection in your family?"
"As well without the veil as with it."
"I see!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "I shall have to succumb; and Rotha will have
her own way. But I did want to see her in a veil. We have had a great
deal of trouble over that dress, Rotha and I!"
To Rotha's relief however, Mr. Southwode did not ask why or how, but let
the conversation drift on to other subjects.
As they were returning through the long course of rooms and passages to
the library, Mrs. Mowbray as before leading the way; in one of the lower
rooms, dimly lighted, Rotha's steps lingered. She came close to her
companion's side and spoke in a lowered tone, timidly.
"Digby--will _you_ ask aunt Serena to come to Southwode?"
"No, my darling," said he, drawing her up to him;--"I will not."
"Then--I?"
"You, and no other. And without my name coming in at all."
"It will not hold for half as much."
"It must. You are the mistress of the house. And besides,--it may be very
well that you, who have been injured, should shew your forgiveness; but I
am under no such necessity."
"You, who have not been injured, do _not_ forgive her?" said Rotha,
laughing a little.
"Yes, I forgive her; but I do not propose to reward her."
"You like me to do it?"
"I like you to do it."
They stood still a moment.
"Digby," said Rotha again, with a breath of anxiety, "_do_ you care how I
am dressed Monday?"
"Do I?--Yes."
He had both arms round her now, and was looking down into her changing
face.
"You do not think it need be costly, do you? Mrs. Mowbray has a notion
that it ought to be rich."
"Will you let me choose it?"
Rotha hesitated, looked down and looked up.
"It is all yours--" she said, somewhat vaguely, but he understood her.
"Only, remember that I am a poor girl, and it _ought_ not to be costly."
"Mrs. Digby Southwode will not be a poor girl," he said, with caresses
which shewed Rotha how sweet the words were to him.
"But you know our principle," said Rotha. "I had a mind to wear just my
travelling dress; but Mrs. Mowbray said you would not like that, and I
must be in white."
"I think I would like you to be in white," he said.
_________
And everybody declared that was a pretty wedding; the prettiest, some
said, that ever was seen. There were not many indeed to say anything
about it; the Busbys were there, and one or two of Rotha's school
friends, and one or two of Mrs. Mowbray's family, and two or three of the
teachers, who thought a great deal of Rotha. These were gathered in the
library, with the clergyman who was to officiate. Then, entering the
library from the drawing room, came Rotha, on Mr. Southwode's arm. She
was in white to be sure, with soft-flowing draperies; there was not a
hard line or a harsh outline about her. The sleeves of her robe opened
and fell away at the elbow, and the arms beneath were half covered with
the white gloves. Or rather, one of them; for only one glove was on. The
other was carried in the left hand which Rotha had providently left bare.
Her young friends were a little shocked at such irregularity, and even
Mrs. Mowbray was annoyed; but Rotha came in too quietly, calmly,
gracefully, not to check every feeling but one of contented admiration.
Her cheek was not pale, and her voice did not falter, and her hand did
not tremble; nor was there apparently any feeling of self-consciousness
whatever to trouble the beautiful dignified calm. It was the calm of
intensity however, not of apathy; and one or two persons noticed
afterwards that Rotha was trembling.
When congratulations had been spoken and Rotha went to get ready for
travelling, the little company thinned off. Her young friends went to
help her; then Mrs. Mowbray too slipped away; then Mr. Southwode
disappeared; and the rest collected at the front windows to see Rotha go.
After which final satisfaction Mrs. Busby and her daughter walked home
silently.
"Mamma," said Antoinette when they were alone at home, "didn't you think
Rotha would have a handsomer wedding dress? I thought she would have
white silk at least, or satin; and she had only a white muslin!"
"India muslin--" said Mrs. Busby rather grim.
"Well, India muslin; and there was a little embroidered vine all round
the bottom of it; but what's India muslin?"
"It looks well on a good figure," said Mrs. Busby.
"I suppose Rotha has what you would call a good figure. But no lace,
mamma! and no veil!"
"There was lace on her sleeves--and handsome."
"O but nothing remarkable. And no veil, mamma?"
"Wanted to shew her hair--" said Mrs. Busby. It had been a sour morning's
work for the poor woman.
"And not a flower; not a bouquet; not a bit of ornament of any kind!"
Antoinette went on. "What is the use of being married so? And I know if
_I_ was going to be married, I would have a better travelling bonnet.
Just a common little straw, with a ribband round it! Ridiculous."
"Men are very apt to like that kind of thing," said her mother.
"Are they? Why are they. And if they are, why don't we wear them?
Mamma!--isn't it ridiculous to see how taken up Mr. Southwode is with
Rotha?"
"I did not observe that he was so specially 'taken up,'" Mrs. Busby said.
"O but he had really no eyes for anybody else; and he and I used to be
good friends once. Of course, Mr. Southwode is never _empress?_--but I
saw that she could not move without his knowing it; and if a chair was
half a mile off he would put it out of her way. Mamma--I think _I_ should
like to be married."
"Don't be silly, Antoinette! Your turn will come."
"Will it? But mamma, I want somebody every bit as good as Mr. Southwode."
Silence.
"Mamma," Antoinette began again, "did he ask you to come to Southwode?"
"No." Short.
"Only Rotha?"
Mrs. Busby made no reply. Another pause.
"Mamma, you said you could manage Mr. Southwode;--and you didn't do it!"
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A Letter of Credit" ***
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