"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 auntSerena 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."
"Werethere, 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 mustknowit 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 Iwashappy, 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, whatisit? 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 beveryrich 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 isright, 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.
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 askme!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 theydon'tlive; 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?"
"Notthat, 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. Hewasnice 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 kindnessfromeverybody 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; andI would buy our old home, and we would go away from this place and nevercome back to it. I would have somebody to do the work that I do, too; andI 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.
"Wemusttake 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 tome?"
"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 toyou."
"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 facenow?"
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 Idont 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?"
"Hedon'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, Idon'tlike him to bring oysters here!"
"Why shouldn't he, if he likes? I am sorry to see such pride in you,Rotha. It isveryfoolish, 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."
"Askhim!" cried Rotha. "I guess I will! What makes you think he is coming again, mother?"
"It would be like him."
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, "Ithink 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 arightto 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?"
"Thereisa 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.