"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"
"You cannot, while your will goes against God's will."
"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.
"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."
Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of her difficulties.
Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and established,—yes, not that only, but pure and good,—like Mr. Digby; then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.
Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.
"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her. "I had an errand—and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a pleasant evening, all alone?"
"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.
"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that was your case, eh?"
"Yes, ma'am, it was."
"And did you accomplish it?—what you had to do."
"No, ma'am."
"You must take me into your counsels. See here—how do you like that?"
She had drawn up a chair to the side of Rotha's couch, and opening one of the packages on her lap, transferred it to Rotha's. It was the fashion then for young people to wear woollen stuffs of bright plaid patterns; and this was a piece of chocolate and black with a thread of gold colour; soft and beautiful and rich tinted. "How do you like that?" Mrs. Mowbray repeated; and Rotha answered that she thought it very beautiful.
"Don't you think that would make you a nice school dress? and here—how would this do for company days?"
As she spoke, she laid upon the chocolate plaid another package, containing a dark brown poplin, heavy and lustrous. Poor Rotha looked up bewildered to the lady's face, which was beaming and triumphant.
"Like it?" she said gleefully. "I couldn't tell your taste, you know. I had to go by my own Don't you think that would become you?"
"Me?" said Rotha.
"Yes. You see, we cannot wait for your aunt's slow motions, and you must be clothed. Do you like it, my dear?"
"I like itverymuch—of course—they are most beautiful; but—will aunt Serena give you the money, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I shall not ask her," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "You need not say anything about it, to her or anybody else. It is our affair. Now here is a warm skirt, my dear; I want to keep you warm while you are in my house, and you are not sufficiently armed against the cold weather. I don't want to have you catching any more colds. You see, this is for my interest. Now with that you will be as warm as a toast."
It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb. Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.
"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday—and I will let Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for you?"
"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added—"Yes! I forgot; the one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer."That Mr. Southwode got for me, she had been about to say; but she checked herself. Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did not approve of Mr. Southwode.
"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"
"It remains a question, ma'am."
"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"
"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or two times, and so—she has something against me; and I cannot pray."
"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not pray. The Bible says, pray always."
"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"
"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.
"Well, my dear," she said at last,—"and so you think these words forbid you to pray?"
"Do they not?" said Rotha, "until I could reconcile myself to auntSerena? or at least try."
"What is the matter between you and your aunt?"
"I do not know. I cannot tell what makes her do so."
"Do what?"
"Hide me from the only friend I have got."
"You mean that gentleman? My dear, she may have had very good reasons for that?"
"She could not have good reasons for it," said Rotha flushing.
"My dear, old people often see things that young people do not see, and cannot judge of."
"You do not know Mr. Southwode, ma'am. Anyhow, I do not feel as if I could ever forgive her."
"That makes it difficult for you to go and ask her pardon, hey?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What are you going to do?"
"I do not know," said Rotha sadly.
"It is too late for us to talk longer to-night. I will shew you a Bible to-morrow—stop, there is no time like the present—"
Mrs. Mowbray rose and went to a table from which she brought a little volume. "This will do better," she said. "I have a Bible in which all this, in this book, is arranged in reference columns; but this is more convenient. You can use this with your own Bible, or any Bible. I am going to give you this, my dear." And she fetched a pen as she spoke and entered Rotha's name on the title page, with the date of day and month and year. Then she went on—"Now see, Rotha; here is what will give light on your question. Here are references from every verse in the Bible to other parts and other verses which explain or illustrate it. Find your place,—what is it?—Mat. v. 24, is it?—here; now see, here are references to other passages, and from them you will find references to still others. Take this to-morrow and study it out, and pray, my dear. You cannot get along without praying."
Rotha received the book with an access of pleasure, which expressed itself however mainly in sparkling eyes and the red tinge of excitement in her cheeks. She did say some words of thanks, but they were not fluent, as customary with her when any great degree of delight was pressing for utterance. Then speech was poor. Mrs. Mowbray did not miss it; she could read the signs, and was satisfied. But long after she was asleep, Rotha lay on her cot with eyes wide open, staring at the remains of the fire. What had come to her? what strange, enchantment-like, fabulous, change of circumstances? and this dispenser and contriver of happiness, slumbering peacefully on the bed yonder, what was she but a very fairy of blessing, bringing order out of disorder and comfort out of the very depths of confusion. A home, and a friend, and nice dresses, and study, and books! Two books to-day! Rotha was too happy to sleep.
The next day she began school duties again; but Mrs. Mowbray would not have her join the family at meals, until, as she said, she had something comfortable to wear. Rotha was thankful for the kind thoughtfulness that spared her feelings; and in return bent herself to her appointed tasks with an energy which soon disposed of them. However, they took all her time, for Mrs. Mowbray had introduced her to another part of the school and a much more advanced class of the pupils. This of itself gave her new spirit. The following day Mrs. Mowbray, as she had promised, sent her with one of the under teachers to have her dresses cut out. They went in a carriage, and drove to Mrs. Marble's. Mrs. Marble wore a doubtful countenance.
"Well, itistime you had something warmer, if you've got nothing more made since those lawns. Where's Mr. Digby?"
"In England."
"England! Don't say! And who's taking care of you?"
"Miss Carpenter is in Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Miss Jewett stiffly.
"Mrs. Mowbray, hey? what, the great school? Youarein luck, Rotha. DidMr. Digby put you there?"
"He did not choose the school," said Rotha. "I went to the same place where my cousin went. Mrs. Marble, that's too tight."
"It'll look a great deal handsomer, Rotha. Slim waists are what all the ladies want."
"I can't be pinched," said Rotha, lifting and lowering her shoulders in the exultation of free play. "I would rather be comfortable."
"It does look better, to be snug, Miss Carpenter," said Miss Jewett, taking the mantua-maker's part.
"I don't care," said Rotha. "I must have room to breathe. Make it loose enough, Mrs. Marble, or it will just come back to you to be altered."
"You're as masterful as you just was, and as I always thought you would be," said the mantua-maker. "I suppose you think times is changed."
"They are very much changed, Mrs. Marble," said Rotha calmly. "But I always had my dresses loose."
"And everything else about you!—" muttered the dress-maker. However, she was never an ill-natured woman, and took her orders with tolerable equanimity.
"You are the first young lady I ever saw trying on dresses, who did not want them to fit nicely," Miss Jewett remarked as they were driving away.
"But I could notbreathe!" said Rotha. "I like to be comfortable."
"Different people have different notions of comfort," was the comment, not admiring. But Rotha did not give the matter another thought.
The next day was Sunday. "You will not go to church, dear," Mrs. Mowbray had whispered. "I shall not ask you till you have something to keep you warm. Have you a thick outer coat?"
Rotha explained. Her aunt had been about to get her one two or three weeks ago; then they had had their falling out, and since then she had heard no more on the subject.
"We will get things in order by next Sunday. You can study at home to- day, and maybe that will be the best thing for you."
It was the most welcome order Rotha could have received. She went up to Mrs. Mowbray's room, which she still inhabited, and took Bible and New Testament and her newly acquired possession, which she found bore title, "The Treasury of Scripture Knowledge," and sat down on the couch. It was all so comfortable around her that Rotha paused to look and think and enjoy. Hid away, she felt; safe and secure from all disturbances; her aunt could not worry her, Antoinette could not even look at her; nobody could interfere with her; and the good fairy of her life would come in only to help and shelter her. The warm air; poor Rotha had been inhabiting a region of frost, it must be remembered, material as well as spiritual; the slight sweet perfume that pervaded the room and came, Rotha knew not from what; the pretty, cosy look of the place, furniture, fire, pictures and all;—Rotha sat looking and feeling in a maze of astonishment. That all this should be, geographically, so near Mrs. Busby's house! With a breath of admiring delight, at last Rotha turned to her books. Yes, if she could get that question settled—
She opened her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and found the fifth chapter of Matthew; then the 24th verse. The first reference here was to Mat. xviii. 15-17.
That does not tell me anything, thought Rotha. I cannot go to aunt Serena and tell her her fault; it would be no use; and besides, that is what I have done already, only not so, I suppose.—Then followed a passage from Job and one from Proverbs, which did not, she thought, meet her case. Then in Mark ix. 50 she found the command to "have peace one with another." But what if I cannot? thought Rotha. Next, in Romans, the word was "Recompense to no man evil for evil"; and, "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." This at first caused some exultation, which evaporated upon further reflection. Had it not been possible? If she had been patient, forgiving, sweet; if she had spoken and looked accordingly; would there not have been peace? Her aunt at least would have had nothing against her. Her own cause of grievance would have remained; might she not have forgiven that? A resolute negative answered this gentle suggestion of conscience; like Jonah in the case of his gourd, Rotha said to herself she did well to be angry. At least that Mrs. Busby deserved it; for conscience would not allow the conclusion that she had done "well," at all. It was not as Mr. Digby would have done. He was Rotha's living commentary on the word. She went on. The next passage forbade going to law before unbelievers. Then came a word or two from the first epistle of Timothy; an injunction to "pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands,without wrath—"
Rotha got no further. That arrow struck home. She must not pray with anger in her heart. Then she must forgive, unconditionally; for it would never do to intermit all praying until somebody else should come to a right, mind. Give up her anger! It made Rotha's blood boil to think of it. How could she, with her blood boiling? And till shedid—she might not think to pray and be heard.
O why is it so hard to be a Christian! why is it made so difficult!
Then Rotha's conscience whispered that the difficulty was of her own making; ifshewere all right, that would be all easy. She would go on, she thought, with her comparison of Bible passages; perhaps she would come to something that would help. The next passage referred to was in James.
"But if ye have bitter envying and strife in your hearts, glory not…This wisdom descendeth not from above, but is earthly, sensual, devilish.For where envying and strife are, there is confusion and every evilwork."
"Devilish"! well, I suppose it is, Rotha confessed to herself. "Envying" —I am not envying; but "strife"—aunt Serena and I have that between us. And so "there is confusion and every evil work." I suppose there is. But how am I to help it? I cannot stop my anger.—She went on to the next reference. It was,
"Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed."
The Bible was all against her. Tears began to well up into Rotha's eyes. She thought she would see what the words were about forgiving. Her eye had caught the Lord's prayer on the next leaf. She turned to that place in her reference book. And here, first of all, the words of the prayer itself struck her, and then the 14th and 15th verses below. It was a dead lock! If she could not forgive, she could not be forgiven; sharp and clear the sentence ran; there was no mistaking it, there could be no glossing it over. Rotha's tears silently rose and fell, hot and sorrowful. She did want to be forgiven; but to forgive, no. With tears dripping before her Bible, she would not let them fall on it, she studied a passage referred to, in the 18th of Matthew, where Peter was directed to set no bounds to his overlooking of injuries, and the parable of the unmerciful servant is brought up. Rotha studied that chapter long. The right and the truth she saw clearly; but as soon as she thought of applying them to her aunt Busby, her soul rose up in arms. She has done me the cruelest and the meanest of wrongs, said the girl to herself; cruel beyond all telling; what she deserves is to be well shaken by the shoulders. Go to her and say thatIhave done wrong toherand ask her to forgiveme, and so help her to forget her own doings—I cannot.- -Rotha made a common mistake, the sophistry of passion, which is the same thing as the devil's sophistry. Her confessing and doing right, would have been the very likeliest way to make Mrs. Busby ashamed of herself.
However, Rotha went on with her study. Two passages struck her particularly, in Ephesians and Colossians. The first—"Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." The other to the same purport, in Col. iii. 13.
But he has not forgiven me, cried Rotha in her heart, while the tears poured; he will not forgive me, unless I forgive her.—"But he is ready to forgive you," the very words before her proclaimed. It was a dead lock, nevertheless; and when Mrs. Mowbray came home from church she found, to her surprise, Rotha still bending over her Bible with her tears dripping on the floor. Mrs. Mowbray took off her hat and cloak before she said a word. Then coming to Rotha's side on the couch, she put one arm round her.
"My dear," she said gently, "what is the matter?"
The tone and the touch were so sympathizing, so tender, that Rotha answered by an affectionate, clinging gesture, taking care at the same time that none of her tears fell on Mrs. Mowbray's rich silk. For a little space she made no other answer. When she spoke, it was with a passionate accent.
"Madame, if I am ever to be a Christian, I must be made all over new!"
"That is nothing uncommon," the lady replied.
"It is every one's case. So the Bible says; 'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.'"
"But how am I to get made over all new?" Rotha cried.
"That is the Holy Spirit's work. 'Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.'"
"Then must I ask for him?"
"Certainly."
"But if I do not forgive aunt Serena, it is no use for me to pray?"
"Nay, Rotha, if that were true we should be in a bad case indeed. If you read the fifteenth chapter of Luke, you will find that when the prodigal son was returning, his father saw himwhile he was yet a great way off;and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. If you are truly setting yourself to seek God, you will find him; and if you are in earnest in wishing to do his will, he will enable you to do it. You must always ask, my dear. The Bible says, 'the Lord over all is rich unto all—' not, that are perfect, but—'that call upon him.'"
"But it says, 'if ye do not forgive, neither will your heavenly Father forgive you.'"
"True; but he will give you that new nature you say you must have; and then forgiving will be easy."
Rotha looked up, partly comforted. And from that time she prayed for a new nature.
A few days more saw her school dress finished and at home. It looked magnificent to Rotha; far too good for a school dress. But Mrs. Mowbray said no; she must look nice in school as well as anywhere; and that very evening she brought to Rotha a box full of neat collars and cuffs and ruffles; some of plain linen and some of lighter and prettier manufacture. The supply was most abundant; and with these things were some ribbands of various colours and little silk neck ties. Rotha received them in the same mute way of speechless gratitude and delight; and resolved one thing; that Mrs. Mowbray should have nothing to complain of in her, whether regarding school duties or anything else.
Another thing Mrs. Mowbray did for Rotha that week. Calling Antoinette Busby to her, at the close of a lesson, she said, "My dear, among the things sent round from your house for your cousin's use, there is no coat or cloak for cold weather wear. Will you tell your mother, Rotha's coat has not been brought with the rest of her things? Thank you. That is all, my dear."
Antoinette went home in a good deal of a fluster, and told her mother.Mrs. Busby looked impenetrable.
"Now mamma, what are you going to do about it?"
"What did you say?"
"I said nothing. What could I say?"
"Did you see Rotha?"
"No; she is up stairs, getting nursed for her cold."
"Stuff!"
"Well, she had a cold, mamma. Mrs. Mowbray always finds out if the girls are shamming. She is sharp enough."
"Rotha is no more ill than I am."
"Mrs. Mowbray always sends a girl off to her room if she is out of sorts, and coddles her up with pills and tea. She don't do it unless she sees reason."
"Why didn't you ask to see Rotha? It would have looked better."
"I never thought of it," said Antoinette laughing. "Because, really, I didn't want to see her. I should rather think I didn't!"
"You had better ask to-morrow."
"Very well. And what shall I say about the coat?"
"I suppose I shall have to get her one," Mrs. Busby said grimly.
"Then she will want a hat, mamma."
"I'll send your grey plush."
"She won't wear it."
"Mrs. Mowbray will make her.Shewon't hear nonsense."
"Who does, mamma? Not you, I am sure."
Having to do the thing, Mrs. Busby did it well, for her own sake. She would have let Rotha stay within doors all winter; but if she must get her a cloak, it should never be said she got her a poor one. Accordingly, the next day two boxes were sent round to Mrs. Mowbray's; one containing the rejected hat, the other a warm and handsome cloak, which Mrs. Busby got cheap because it was one of the last year's goods, of a fashion a little obsolete. Antoinette asked leave to see Rotha, that same day, and was refused. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to be left quite to herself. So the next time the cousins met was in class, a day or two later. It was a class to which Mrs. Mowbray herself gave a lesson; it was a class of the more advanced scholars; and Antoinette, who had left her cousin in a lower department, among Miss Blodgett's pupils, was exceedingly astonished to see Rotha come in among the young ladies of the family and take her seat in the privileged library where these lessons were given. Yet more was Antoinette astonished at her cousin's transformation. Rotha was dressed well, in the abovementioned chocolate plaid; her linen collar and cuffs were white and pretty like other people's; the dress was well made; Rotha's abundant dark hair, now growing long, was knotted up loosely at the back of her head, her collar was tied with a little cherry coloured bow; and her whole figure was striking and charming. Antoinette, who was an acknowledged beauty, felt a pang of displeasure. In fact she was so much disturbed and annoyed that her mind was quite distracted from the business in hand; she paid little attention to the lesson and rather got into disgrace. Rotha on the contrary, entering the class and enjoying the teaching for the first time, was full of delighted interest; forgot even her new dress and herself altogether; took acute, intelligent part in the discussion that went on, (the 'subject being historical) and at one bound unconsciously placed herself at the head of the class. There was no formal taking rank, but the judgment of all present involuntarily gave her the place. And Mrs. Mowbray herself had some difficulty not to look too often towards the face that always met hers with such sympathy and life in every feature. Many there indeed were interested; yet no eyes shewed such intelligent fire, no lips were so expressive in their play, no interest was so evidently unalloyed with any thought of self- consciousness.
As the girls scattered, after the hour was over, the cousins met.
"Well!" said Antoinette, "what's come over you?"
The tone was not pleasant. Rotha asked her distantly what she meant?
"Why I left you one thing, and I find you another," said Antoinette. "How did you get here?"
"Mrs. Mowbray desired it. I came to school to study, Antoinette. Why should I not be here?"
"But howcouldyou be here? These are the upper girls."
Rotha laughed a little. She felt very gay-hearted.
"And where did you get this?" Antoinette went on, feeling of a fold ofRotha's dress. "What beautiful cashmere! Where did you get it?"
"There came a good fairy to my room one night, and astonished me."
"A fairy!" said Antoinette.
"Yes, the days of fairies are not over. I thought they were, but I was mistaken," said Rotha joyously. "I do not think there is anything much pleasanter, than to have a good fairy come and visit you."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. Good bye—the girls are going out to walk, and I must get ready to go along."
She tripped up the stairs, leaving Antoinette mystified and crestfallen. Under pretence of collecting her books, she lingered in one of the class rooms in the lower story, waiting to see the girls pass out, which they always did, she knew, by the lower door. They came presently in long file. The families that sent their daughters to Mrs. Mowbray's were generally of the wealthier portions of society; and it was a well dressed set that defiled before Antoinette's eyes; too well, for many of them were unbecomingly fine. Antoinette did not recognize her cousin until she was quite out upon the street and turned her face casually to speak to some one behind her. The new cloak, of dark green stun 7, was as handsome as Antoinette's own; and there was no old grey plush hat above it. No such matter; a neat little green hat, perfectly simple, but new and well made and well fitting, shaded a face full of merry sparkle, totally unlike the depressed, cloudy expression Antoinette had been used to despise at home. She told her mother with an injured air what she had seen. Mrs. Busby said nothing. It was vexatious; at the same time she reflected that the credit of all this would redound to herself Nobody but Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha herself knew whence came the dresses and bonnet, and they would not tell, naturally. On the whole the gain was as great as the loss.
But to Rotha now-a-days it was all gain. That walk with the girls; how pleasant it was, to go with free step, conscious that there was nothing in her appearance to draw remark or provoke pity. At Rotha's age, perhaps as much as ever, such an immunity is prized and enjoyed. It was such a walk as till then she had never taken in the streets of New York; for even when, two or three years ago, she had gone with her mother, it was with a feeling of being classed with the multitude of the poor and struggling and ill-dressed. So the walking had been mainly in streets where such classes were lodged and at home. Now Rotha went where the buildings were fine and the ways broad, and where the passers-by were gay and splendid. Her breath came freer, her step grew more elastic, the colour rose in her cheeks; and when the little procession returned home, Miss Parsons, who had been in charge of it, remarked to Mrs. Mowbray that she had no idea before what a very handsome girl Miss Carpenter was. And Mrs. Mowbray, when they all gathered to dinner, cast a keen glance at the new member of the company. She was reassured; not a particle of self- consciousness was to be traced in the fine, bright, spirited lace, though the beauty was unquestioned.
That was the first time Rotha had met the family at table. It was a new and highly interesting experience for her. The table was very long; and the mere sight of so many fresh young faces together was inspiriting of itself; of greatest interest to Rotha because these were her companions, fellow pupils, sharers in work and play together. But apart from its living surroundings, the board excited Rotha's keenest attention. The delicacy and order of its arrangements, the beauty of its appointments, the abundance of the supply, the excellence of the material. Everything there was of the best; everything was well cooked and appetizing; it was a simple table, as it should be, but no provision for health or comfort was wanting. Rotha felt herself at home in surroundings that suited her.
Then it was a lively meal; not a bit of stagnation. At Mrs. Busby's the talk at table was about nothing to stir the slightest interest, to any one whose soul was not in a condition to be fed with the very dryest of social husks; the only exceptions being when Mr. and Mrs. Busby got into a debate. A debate always has some elements of interest, if there is any wit on either side of it. Here, the first thing, after the carving was well begun, was the reciting of French anecdotes or sayings or quotations, by each of the scholars in turn; the exercise being superintended by the French teacher, a very imposing person in Rotha's eyes, to whom she had just that day been introduced. It was very amusing to her to hear the differing accent, the varying voices, and to watch the different air and manner of the girls, as Mme. Bonton's voice, uttering "Suivante"—"Suivante"—called them up one after another. She herself, of course, had no little speech prepared. Then the conversation became general, as the business of dining went on its way, and Mrs. Mowbray made part of it very interesting. Altogether, it was a time of delight to Rotha.
Not less so were the hours of study that followed. It was one of her good properties, that she could easily concentrate all her attention on the one thing she happened to have in hand. So study was study to her; deep, absorbing, conquering, and of course triumphing. And when the bell summoned the family to tea, she came fresh for new pleasure to assemble with the rest.
The parlours were cleared of the long table now; only enough of it being left to accommodate the younger scholars who might not be trusted to hold a cup of tea safely. The girls brought their various pieces of fancy work; the rooms were well lighted, well furnished, the walls hung with engravings and paintings, the mantelpieces full of pretty things; it was not like a school, but like a large, elegant family gathering. Here the tea was handed round, with rolls and excellent cake and biscuits. Mrs. Mowbray presently called Rotha to her side, by the big table; and held a little quiet talk with her about the course of the day, introducing her at the same time to several of her schoolmates. I can never tell how the girl's whole nature opened and expanded, like a suddenly blossoming rose, under the genial, kindly atmosphere and culture into which she now came.
Study? She studied with a consuming kind of intensity. Not a teacher that she had to do with, but took delight in her. She gave them absolutely no trouble. She was not a timid girl; so was not, like some, hindered by nervousness from making a fair presentation of herself. Her mind was opening, greedy for the food it got, and taking it in rapidly.
And happy? There was not seemingly a happier girl in the house. Crowding new interests had driven into the background, for the time, the demands of conscience; and Rotha was one of those people whose cup of life is a large one; capacities of heart and intellect alike wide in their possibilities, but if satisfied, making existence very rich. She was quiet enough in manner, never forgetting her beloved model; yet eye and lip and varying colour, and the involuntary movement of head and hand, and foot too, testified to the glad growing life of her soul. Mrs. Mowbray saw it with perpetual satisfaction; it got to be a habit with her that her eye sought and rested on that one unmistakeably honest and loyal member of her family. And Rotha's eye never met hers but there came a sparkle and a look of love into the young face.
All day was a delight now to the girl; beginning with the morning prayers, which to be sure she loved mostly because she heard Mrs. Mowbray's voice in them. Then came breakfast; bright and cheery, with the hope and the work of the day in prospect, and a lively, pretty, pleasant table and company in possession. It was not like school; it was a large family; where all arrangements and supplies were as in the best appointed private house, and the only rules that reigned were the rules of good manners. Then came the brisk walk in the bracing morning air; and then, study. Some lesson hours were particularly interesting to Rotha. Latin she did not like, but French she took to kindly; and Madame Bonton told madame with a satisfied nod of her head, that Miss Carpenter was "not a soap bubble",—high praise, which only a few of the girls ever attained.
Among her schoolmates Rotha made no particular friends. Some of them asked captiously who she was? others remarked critically that she thought herself too good looking; others declared enviously that she was a "favourite." Rotha did not take to any of them; made no confident of any of them; and was felt by most of them to be somehow uncongenial. Those who saw most of her felt this most decidedly. She presently was out of favour with all her roommates.
It was a rule of the house that lights should be all out at ten o'clock. Then one of the under teachers made a progress through the rooms to see that this was done and everybody in bed. Rotha made one of four girls who occupied a large room on the third floor. Each young lady had her own bed, her own press and drawers, and everything comfort called for; of course absolute privacy could not be given. When Rotha had been in her new quarters two or three weeks, there came a collision between her and her fellows in that room. One night Miss Jewett had been round as usual and turned off the gas. As soon as her retreating foot-steps were heard to reenter her own room, at the further end of the passage, one of the girls sprang up and lit the gas again. The burner was near the head of her bed, so that she could see pretty well to read when she was lying down; which to Rotha's great surprise she went on to do for some time— till Rotha fell asleep. The next night the same thing happened, and the next. Rotha became uneasy, and finally could bear it no longer. The fourth time this trick was played, she lifted her voice in protest.
"Miss Entable," said she, "what you are doing is against the rules."
She spoke clearly enough, though with a moderated voice; but not the least attention was paid to her remonstrance. One of her three companions was asleep; the second giggled; the reader took no notice. Rotha grew hot. What was she to do? Not give way. To give way in the face of opposition was never Rotha's manner. She slipped out of bed and came near the one where the reader lay.
"Miss Entable, it is against rules, what you are doing."
"Mind your own business," said the other shortly.
"I am minding it," returned Rotha. "It is my business to keep Mrs.Mowbray's rules, and not to help break them; and I will not."
"Will not what? You want to curry favour with old Mowbray—that's what you do. I have no patience with such meanness!"
"You had better go and tell her what we are doing," said the third girl scornfully.
"Miss Mc Pherson," said Rotha, her voice trembling a little with wrath,"I think Mrs. Mowbray trusts you. How can you bear to be false to trust?"
"Stuff!"
"Cant!"
"Nobody asks your opinion about it. Who are you?" said the Mc Pherson, who in her own opinion was somebody.
"Nor do I ask yours," said Rotha. "I will not help you break madame's rules. The light is one fourth part mine; and my part shall not burn after hours."
With which deliverance she turned off the gas. Words of smothered rage and scorn followed her as she went back to bed; and the next day Rotha was plainly ostracised by a large part of her school-mates.
The next evening the gas was lighted again after ten o'clock.
"Now you Carpenter," said the reader, "I am not going to stand any of your ill manners. You will let the gas alone, if you please."
"I cannot let it alone," said Rotha. "I should be a sharer in your dishonour."
"Dishonour! well, let it alone, or I'll—"
"What, Miss Entable?"
"Mc Pherson and I will put you in bed and tie you there; and Jennings will help. We are three against one. So hold your tongue."
Rotha reflected. It did not suit her feeling of self-respect to be concerned in a row. She raised herself on one elbow.
"I do not choose to fight," she said; "that is not my way. But if you do not put the gas out, I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must make somebody watch to see that her orders are observed."
Now there arose a storm; rage and contempt and reviling were heaped on Rotha's head. "Informer!"—"Spy!"—"Mean tell tale!"—were some of the gentle marks of esteem bestowed on her.
"I am not an informer," said Rotha, when she could be heard; "I am not going to mention any names. I will only tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must charge somebody to see that her orders are observed."
"Orders! She is a mean, pinching, narrow-minded, low, school ma'am. You should see how it is at Mrs. De Joyce's. The girls have liberty—they receive their friends—they go to the opera—they have little dances— they do just what they like. Mrs. De Joyce is such a lady! it is another thing. I am not going to stay in this mean house after this term is out."
"Mary Entable!" said Rotha, rising up on her elbow and speaking with blazing eyes; "are you not ashamed of yourself? Mrs. Mowbray, who has just been so kind to you! so generous! so good! How long is it since she was nursing you through a terrible sickness—nursing you night and day— entertaining your mother and your sister for ten days, in her crowded house. Do you dare call her narrow? Answer me one thing, if you can; did your mother and sister bear the expense of their stay here, or did she? Answer me, if you have a fraction of a soul in you!—Aren't you ashamed! I should think you would cover up your face in the bedclothes, and never look at anybody again!"
Leaning on her elbow, raised so up in her bed, Rotha had delivered herself of the foregoing; in a moderated voice it is true, but with a cutting energy and directness. The other three girls were at first silent, partly with astonishment, Rotha's usual manner was so contained.
"You may do as you like," she went on more composedly, "but help you I will not in your wrong ways. If the gas is lighted again after ten o'clock, I shall take my measures. I come of an honest family."
That last cut was too much. The storm of abuse burst forth again; but Rotha wrapped herself in her coverlets and said no more. The gas was not relighted that evening. However, in the nature of the case it followed that lawless girls would not be long kept in check by the influence of one whom they regarded so lightly as these did Rotha. A fortnight later, the latter came to Mrs. Mowbray one day when she was alone in the library.
"Well, my child—what is it?" said the kind voice she had learned to love devotedly. Mrs. Mowbray was arranging some of the displaced books in the bookcases, and spoke with only a fleeting glance at the person approaching her, to see who it was.
"May I speak to you, madame?"
"Yes—speak. What is it?"
"I do not know how to say what I want to say."
"Straight out, my child. Straight out is best. What is the matter?"
"Nothing, with me, madame. But—if it would not give too much trouble—I thought I would like it very much if I could be put in another room."
"Sleeping room?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Why?"—Mrs. Mowbray's quick hands were busy all the while she was talking; putting up and pulling down. Rotha hesitated.
"Madame, before I answer I should like to ask another question. What ought I to do if I see something done which you have forbidden?"
A quick sharp glance came her way now.
"What have you seen?"
"That is just what I do not know whether I ought to tell you. I thought, perhaps it would be the best way for me to go where I could not see it."
"Why?" said Mrs. Mowbray dryly.
"Then I should not be sharing the wrong. I suppose, more than that is not my affair. I am afraid it would be troublesome to move me."
"Any change is troublesome in a house like this," the lady answered; and Rotha stood still, not knowing how to go on. Mrs. Mowbray stepped up on the library steps to arrange some books on the upper shelves; and till she came down she did not speak again.
"You are quite right to mention no names and give no stories," she said then. "I always doubt an informer. And you are quite right also in refusing to countenance what is wrong. I will give you another room, my dear." She took Rotha in her arms and kissed her repeatedly. "Have I found a friend?" she said.
"You, madame?" said Rotha. "I cannot do anything foryou;but you have done everything for me."
"You can give me love and truth that is all we any of us can give to one another, isn't it? The ways of shewing may be different.—Where are you going to spend the holidays?" she said with a change of tone.
"I don't know, madame. I have not thought about it."
"Will you spend them with me?"
Joy flamed up in Rotha's eyes and lips and cheeks. "O madame!—if I may."
"I expect half a dozen of the young ladies will stay with me. Here is a note that came for you, from your aunt."
She gave Rotha an open note to read. It contained the request that Rotha might spend the time between Christmas and New Year's Day at her house, but not those days. Rotha read and looked up.
"Write," said Mrs. Mowbray, "and say to your aunt that I have invited you and that you have accepted the invitation, for the whole holidays."
The smile and the glance of her sweet eye were bewitching. Rotha felt as if she could have stooped down and kissed her very garments.
Those holidays were a never-to-be-forgotten time in Rotha's life. Christmas eve, and indeed a day before, there was a great bustle and rush of movement in the house, almost all the boarders sweeping away to their various homes. Their example was followed by the under teachers; only Miss Blodgett remained; and a sudden lull took place of the rush. A small table was drawn out in the middle room; and Mrs. Mowbray came to dinner with a face, tired indeed, but set for play. The days of the ordinary weeks were always thick set with business; the weight of business was upon every heart; now it was unmitigated holiday. Nobody knew better how to play than Mrs. Mowbray; it was in her very air and voice and words. Perhaps some of this was assumed for the sake of others; a large portion of it was unquestionably real. The table was festive, that Christmas eve; flowers dressed it; the dessert was gay with confections and bonbons, as well as ice cream; and there was a breath of promise and anticipation in Mrs. Mowbray's manner that infected the dullest spirits there. And some of the girls were very dull! But Rotha's sprang up as if she had been in paradise.
"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Blodgett?"
Miss Blodgett bridled and smiled and was understood to express her opinion that she was "too old."
"'Too old!' My dear Miss Blodgett! One is never too old to be happy. I intend to be as happy as ever I can. I shall hang upmystocking; and I expect everybody to put something in it."
"You ought to have let us know that beforehand, madame," said MissBlodgett.
"Let you know beforehand!" said Mrs. Mowbray, while her eye twinkledmischievously: "My dear friend! I don't want any but free-will offerings.You didn't think I was going to levy black mail? did you? Miss Blodgett!I thought you knew me better."
Whether she were in jest or in earnest, Rotha could not make up her mind. She was laughing at Miss Blodgett, that Rotha saw; but was it all nonsense about the stocking and the gifts? Mrs. Mowbray's sweet eyes were dancing with fun, her lips wreathed with the loveliest archness; whatever she meant, Rotha was utterly and wholly bewitched. She ran on for some little time, amusing herself and the girls, and putting slow Miss Blodgett in something of an embarrassment, she was so much too quick for her.
"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Emory?"
Miss Emory in her turn smiled and bridled, and seemed at a loss how to answer.
"Miss Eutable?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Certainly. We will all hang up our stockings. Do you think by the chimney is the best place, Louisa?"
The girl addressed was a little girl, left in Mrs. Mowbray's care while her parents were in Europe. She dimpled and declared she supposed one place was as good as another.
"But you believe Santa Claus comes down the chimney?"
"I always knew better, Mrs. Mowbray."
"You did! You knew better! She knew better, Miss Blodgett. We are growing so wise in this generation. Here's little Miss Farrar does not believe in Santa Claus. I think that's a great loss. Miss Carpenter, what do you think about it? Do you think it is best to let the cold daylight in upon all our dreams?"
"The sun is not cold, madame."
"But the sun leaves no mystery."
"I do not like mystery, madame?"
"You don't? I think the charm of the stocking hung up, is the mystery. To listen for the sound of the reindeers' feet on the roof, to hear the rustle of the paper packages as Santa Claus comes down the chimney—there is nothing like that! I used to lie and listen and cover up my eyes for fear I should look, and be all in a tremble of delight and mystery."
"I should have looked," said Rotha.
"You must never look at Santa Claus. He don't like it."
"But I always knew it was no Santa Claus."
"Do you think you, and Miss Farrar here, are the happier for being so wise?"
"I do not know," said Rotha laughing. "I cannot help it."
"Mrs. Mowbray," said Miss Blodgett, "Miss Carpenter is the only young lady in the house who says 'do not' instead of don't; have you noticed?"
"My dear Miss Blodgett! don't you go to preaching up preciseness. Life is too short to round all the corners; and there are too many corners. You must cut across sometimes. I say 'don't,' myself."
She went now into a more business-like inquiry, how the several young ladies present expected to spend the next day; and as they rose from table, asked Rotha if she would like to drive out with her immediately. She had business to attend to.
The drive, and the business, of that Christmas eve remained a vision of unalloyed pure delight in Rotha's memory for ever. The city was brightly lighted, at least where she and Mrs. Mowbray went; the streets were full of a gay crowd, gay as one sees it at no other time of all the year but around the holidays; everybody was buying or had bought, and was carrying bundles done up in brown paper, and packages of all sizes and shapes; and everybody's face looked as if there were a pleasant thought behind it, for everybody was preparing good for somebody else. Mrs. Mowbray was on such errands, Rotha immediately saw. And the shops were such scenes of happy bustle; happy to the owners, for they were driving a good trade; and happy to the customers, for every one was getting what he wanted. A large grocer's was the first place Mrs. Mowbray stopped at; and even here the scene was exceedingly attractive and interesting to Rotha. It was not much like the little corner grocery near Jane Street, where she once used to buy half pounds of tea and pecks of potatoes for her mother; although the mingled scents of spices and cheese did recall that to mind; the spices and the cheese here were better, and the odours correspondingly. Rotha never lost the remembrance, nor ever entered a large house of this kind again in her life without a sweeping impression of the mysterious bustle and joy of that Christmas eve.
Mrs. Mowbray had various orders to give. Among them was one specially interesting to Rotha. She desired to have some twenty or thirty pounds of tea done up in half pound packages; also as many pounds of sugar; loaf sugar. As she and Rotha were driving off she explained what all this was for. "It is to go to my poor old people at the Coloured Home," she said. "Did you ever hear of the Old Coloured Home? I suppose not That is an institution for the care of worn-out old coloured people, who have nobody to look after them. They expect to see me at Christmas. Would you like to go with me to-morrow, after church, when I go to take the tea to them?"
Rotha answered, most sincerely, that she would like to go anywhere withMrs. Mowbray.
"They think all the world of tea, those poor old women; and they do not get it very good. The tea for them all is brewed in a great kettle and sweetened with molasses, without taking any account of differences of taste," Mrs. Mowbray added laughing; "and many of these old people know what is good as well as I do; and this common tea is dreadful to them. So at Christmas I always carry them a half pound of tea apiece and a pound of loaf sugar; and you have no idea how much they look forward to it."
"Half a pound of tea will last quite a good while," said Rotha.
"How do you know, my dear?"
"I used to get half a pound at a time for mother, and then I used to make it for her always; so I know it will do for a long time, if one is careful."
"So you have been a housekeeper!"
"Not much.—I used to do things for mother."
"Mrs. Busby is her sister?"
"Yes, ma'am; but not like her. O not a bit like her."
"Where was Mrs. Busby in those days?"
"Here. Just where she is now."
"Did she never come to see you?"
"She did not know where we were. Mother never let her know."
"Do you know why not, my dear?"
"She had been so unkind—" Rotha answered in a low voice.
Mrs. Mowbray thought to herself that probably there had been fault on both sides.
"You must try and forget all that, my dear, if there were old grievances. It is best to forgive and forget, and Christmas is a capital time to do it. I never dare think of a grudge against anybody at Christmas. And your aunt seems disposed to be kind to you now."
"No, ma'am, I do not think she does."
"Don't you!"
"No, ma'am. I do not"
"Why, my dear, you must not bear malice."
"What is 'malice'?"
"Well,—ill-will."
"Ill-will—I do not think I wish any harm to her," said Rotha slowly; "but I do not forgive her."
"What do you want to do to her?"
"I do not know. I should like to make her feel ashamed of herself—if I knew how."
"I do not think that lies in your power, my dear; and I would not try. That is a sort of revenge-taking; and all sorts of revenge-taking are forbidden to us. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."
"I do not mean vengeance," said Rotha. "I mean, just punishment—a little bit."
"That is the meaning of the word 'vengeance' in that place;—just punishment; but in your heart, Rotha, it is revenge. Put it away, my dear. It is not the spirit of Christ. You must forgive, if you would be forgiven."
"I do not know how," said Rotha, low and steadily.
"See how Jesus did. When they were nailing him to the cross, he said,'Father, forgive them.'"
"Yes, but he said too, Mrs. Mowbray,—'they know not what they do.'"
"My dear, nobody knows the evil he does. That does not excuse the evil, but it helps your charity for the sinner. Nobody knows the evil he does. I suppose Mrs. Busby has no notion how much she has hurt you."
Rotha thought, her aunt had as littlecare;but she did not say it. She was silent a minute, and then asked if the poor people at the Old Coloured Home were all women?
"O no!" Mrs. Mowbray answered. "There are a great many men. I givethema pound of tobacco each; but I prefer not to take that in the carriage with me. It is all up there now, I suppose, waiting for me and to-morrow."
With which the carriage stopped again.
Here it was a bookstore; a large and beautiful one. The light was brilliant; and on every counter and table lay spread about such treasures of printing, engraving, and the book-binder's art, as Rotha had never seen gathered together before. Mrs. Mowbray told her to amuse herself with looking at the books and pictures, while she attended to the business that brought her here; and so began a wonderful hour for Rotha. O the books! O the pictures! what pages of interest! what leaves of beauty! Her eyes were drunk with delight. From one thing to another, with careful fingers and dainty touch she went exploring; sometimes getting caught in the interest of an open page of letterpress, sometimes hanging over an engraving with wondering admiration and sympathy. It seemed any length of time, it was really not more than three quarters of an hour, when Mrs. Mowbray approached her again, having got through her errands. With cheeks red and eyes intent, Rotha was bending over something, the sense of hearing for the present gone into abeyance; Mrs. Mowbray was obliged to touch her. She smiled at Rotha's start.
"What had you there, my dear?"
"All sorts of things, Mrs. Mowbray! Just that minute, I was looking at an atlas."
"An atlas!"
"Yes, the most perfect I ever saw. O beautiful, and with so many things told and taught in it. A delightful atlas! And then, I was looking at the illustrations in the 'Arabian Nights'—I think that was the name."
"You never read it?"
"O no, ma'am. I never had many books to read;—until now."
"Are you reading anything now, in course?"
"I haven't much time, there is so much history to read. But I have begun'Waverley.'"
"Do you like it?"
"O, a great deal more than I can tell!"
"Do not let it draw you away from your studies."
"No, ma'am. There is no danger," said Rotha joyously.
Mrs. Mowbray did not speak again till the carriage stopped at Stewart's. It was the first time Rotha had ever been inside of those white walls; and this visit finished the bewitchment of the evening. At first the size of the place and the numbers of people busy there engrossed her attention; nor did either thing cease to be a wonder; but by degrees one grows accustomed even to wonders. By degrees Rotha was able to look at what was on the counters, as well as what was before them; for a while she had followed Mrs. Mowbray without seeing what that lady was doing. Mrs. Mowbray had a good deal of business on hand. When Rotha began to attend to it, the two had come into the rotunda room and were standing at the great glove counter. Between what was going on there, and what was doing at the silk counters around her, Rotha was fully engaged, and was only recalled to herself by Mrs. Mowbray's voice asking,
"What is your number, Rotha?"
"Ma'am?" said the girl "I did not understand—"
"What is the number of the size of glove you wear?"
"I do not know, ma'am—O, I remember! six and a half."
"Six and a half," Mrs. Mowbray repeated to the shopman; and then proceeded to pull out pairs of gloves from the packages handed her. "There's a dark green, my dear; that is near the shade of your cloak. There is a good colour" throwing down upon the green a dark grey; and a brown followed the green. "Now we want some lighter—do you like that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
More than the mere affirmative Rotha could not say; she looked on bewildered and confounded, as a pair of pearl grey gloves was laid upon the green, the dark, and the brown, and then came a tan-coloured pair, and then a soft ashes of roses. Half a dozen pair of kid gloves! Rotha had never even contemplated such profusion. She received the little packet with only a half-uttered, low, suppressed word of thanks. Then the two wandered away from that room, and found themselves among holiday varieties. Here Rotha was dazzled. Not indeed by glitter; but by the combinations of use and beauty that met her eyes, look where they would. Mrs. Mowbray was making purchases, Rotha did not know of what, it did not concern her; and she was never tempted by vulgar curiosity. She indulged her eyes with looking at everything else. What fans, and dressing boxes and work boxes, and fancy baskets, and hand mirrors, and combs and brushes, and vials of perfumes, and writing cases, and cigar cases, and Japan ware, and little clocks, and standishes, and glove boxes, and papetries, and desks, and jewel cases——
"Have you a handbag for travelling, Rotha?"
The question made her start.
"No, ma'am. I never go travelling."
"You will, some time. How do you like that? Think it is too large?"
Rotha was speechless. Could Mrs. Mowbray remember that she had given her half a dozen pair of gloves that evening already?
"I always like a handbag that will carry something," Mrs. Mowbray went on. "You want room for a book, and room for writing materials; you should always have writing materials in your hand-bag, and stamps, and everything necessary. You never know what you may want in a hurry. I think that is about right; do you?"
"That" was a beautiful brown bag of Russia leather, sweet with the pungent sweetness of birch bark, or of the peculiar process of curing with such bark; and with nickel plated lock and bolts. Rotha flushed high; to speak she was incompetent just then.
"I think it will do then," said Mrs. Mowbray, herself in a high state of holiday glee; preparing, as she was, pleasure for a vast number of persons, rich and poor, young and old; she was running over with a sort of angel's pleasure in giving comfort or making glad. In Rotha's case she was doing both.
"Don't you want to take it home with you, my dear?" she went on. "There will be so many things to send from the store to-night that they will never get to their destination; and I always like to make sure of a thing when I have got it. Though you rarely make a mistake here," she added graciously to the foreman who was waiting upon her.
Rotha took the bag, without a word, for she had not a thing to say; and she dropped her package of gloves into it, for safe keeping and easy transportation. Talk of riches! The thing is comparative. I question if there was a millionaire's wife in the city that night who felt as supremely rich as did Rotha with her bag and her gloves. She tried to say a word of thanks to her kind friend when she got home; but Mrs. Mowbray stopped her.
"Go to bed, my dear," she said, with a kiss, "and don't forget to hang up your stocking. Are you comfortable up there?"
"Yes, ma'am—O yes!" Rotha answered as she went up the stairs.
Comfortable! She was alone in her room, all her roommates having gone somewhere for the holidays; the whole house was warm; and Rotha shut her door, and set her bag on a table, and sat down and looked at it; with her heart growing big. Hang up her stocking! She! Had she not had Christmas enough already?
It all worked oddly with Rotha. To the majority of natures, great pleasure is found to work adversely to the entertaining of serious thoughts or encouraging religious impressions. With her, grief seemed to muddle all her spiritual condition, and joy cleared it up. She sat looking at her treasures, looking mentally at the wonderful good things that surrounded her, contrasted with her previous unhappiness; and the whole generous truth of her nature was aroused. She ought to be such a good girl! And by "goodness" Rotha did not mean an orderly getting of her lessons. Conscience went a great deal further, enlightened by the examples she had known of what was really good. Yes, her mother would have forgiven her aunt; and Mr. Digby would never have been ill-mannerly to her; and supposing him for once to be in such a condition of wrong, he would go straight forward, she knew, to make amends, own the fault and ask pardon. Further than that; for on both their parts such feeling and action would have been but the outcome of their habitual lowly and loving obedience to God. That she ought to be like them, Rotha knew; and tears of sorrow rushed to her eyes to think she was not. "The goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance," was the thought working in her; although she did not clothe it in the Bible words.
What hindered?
"My ugly temper," said Rotha to herself; "my wickedness and badness."
What help?
Yes, there was help, she knew, she believed. She brought her Bible and turned to the marked passages, brushing away the tears that she might see to read them. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them—" Well, said Rotha, I will keep them from this time on.—Forgive and all? said something in her heart.Yes, forgive and all. I will forgive!—But you cannot?—Then I will ask help.
And she did. Earnestly, tearfully, ardently, for a long time. She felt as if her heart were a stone. She had to go to bed at last, feeling no better. But that she would be a true servant of God, Rotha was determined.
So came Christmas morning on; clear, cold, bright and still. Rotha awaked at the bell summons. Her first thought was of last night's determination, to which she held fast; the next thought was, that it was Christmas day, and she must look at her gloves and Russia leather bag. She sprang up, and had half dressed herself before she remarked, lying on the empty bed opposite her own, some peculiar-looking packages done up as usual in brown paper. They must belong to Mrs. Mowbray and have got there by mistake, she thought; and she went over to verify her supposition. No, to her enormous surprise she saw her own name.
More Christmas things! Rotha hurried her dressing; she dared not stop to open anything till that was done; and then an inner voice said, You will not have much time for your prayers. Her heart beating, she turned away and knelt down. And she would not cut short her prayers, either. She besought help to forgive; she asked earnestly to be made "a new creature"; for the old creature, she felt, would never forgive, to the end of time. She rose then, brushing the moisture from her eyes, and went over to look at those mysterious packages. One was light, square, and shallow; the other evidently a book, and heavy. She opened the lesser package first. Behold, a dozen cambrick handkerchiefs, and upon them a little bright blue silk neck tie. Rotha needed those articles very much; she was ready to scream for joy. The other package now; hands trembling unfolded it. Brown paper, silk paper,—and one of Bagster's octavo Bibles with limp covers was revealed. Rotha was an ardent lover of the beautiful and the perfect; her own Bible was an old volume, much worn by handling, bearing the marks of two generations' use and wear; this was the perfection of a book in every respect. Rotha was struck dumb and still, and nothing but tears could give due vent to her feelings; they were tears of great joy, of repentance, of new purpose, and of very conscious inability to do anything of herself that would be good. She had sunk on her knees to let those tears have the accompaniment of prayer; she rose up again and clasped the Bible in her arms, in heartiest love to it.
Breakfast was late that morning, and she had time for examining her gifts and for getting a little composed before she had to go down stairs. She went then quite sedately to all appearance. It was to her as if the world had turned round two or three times since last night; other people, however, she observed, had not at all lost their heads and were very much as usual; except that they were dressed for going to church, and had the pleasant freedom of holiday times in their looks and manner. Only Mrs. Mowbray was really festive. She was sparkling with spirits, and smiling with the joy of doing kindness, past and future. Rotha sat next her at the table; and there was a gleam of amusement and intelligence in her eye as she asked her, over her coffee cup, whether Santa Claus had come down her chimney? She gave Rotha no time to answer, but ran on with a question to some one else; only a few minutes after, as she put a chop upon Rotha's plate, gave her a look full of affectionate kindness which said that she understood all and no words were necessary.
It was time to go to church when breakfast and prayers were over. Immediately after church, Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha took a carriage and drove out to the Old Coloured Home; all the packages of tea and sugar going along; as also a perfect stack of sponge cakes. Arrived at the place, Mrs. Mowbray's first demand was to know whether "the milk" had been delivered, and where "the tobacco" was. Then followed a scene, a succession of scenes rather, that could never be forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray went all through the rooms, dealing out to each poor creature among the women a half pound package of tea, a pound of sugar, a half pint of milk, and a sizeable sponge cake.