"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.Shewould 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.
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 aboutthatat 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 saysshehas 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 anyrightto 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 dothat," 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 peopledoresist 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 donotunderstand 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 youverybusy?" cried the girl.
"Always busy, my dear," said the lady pleasantly. "I am always busy. What is it?"
"Nothing—if you aretoobusy," 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 itrightto 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 itiswrong 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 wordssay?"
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 itsay, my dear? It is always quite safe to conclude thatGod means what he says."
"People don't act as if they thought so."
"What then?"
"Mrs. Mowbray, I don't see how a mancould."
"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 ifyouthought, 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; Iamhis 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 bearno 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;thatwas 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 whenIt 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.
"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 itpleasantly."
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'tyou 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 pleasehim.
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 onMrs. 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 nothome;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,—Iama 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.
"Whatdoyou 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—whydo 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 andMiss 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'sjustwhat 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 allI 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."
"Shehasto 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? BellSavage, 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;myfamily 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.
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.