"My dear," she whispered to Rotha, who attended and helped her, "they think all the world of a bit of cake! They never get it now, you know."
"Don't they get milk?"
"Some of the ladies bought a cow for them, that they might have it and have it good; but it didn't work. The matron took the cream for herself; they had only the blue watery stuff that was left; and when it was attempted to rectify that abuse, somebody discovered that it cost too much to keep a cow."
"What a shame!" cried Rotha indignantly.
"Never mind; you cannot have everything in this world; the Home is a great deal better than being in the streets."
But Rotha did not like the Home. Its forms and varieties of infirmity, disease, and decay, were very disagreeable to her. She had one of those temperaments to which all things beautiful, graceful, and lovely, speak with powerful influences, and which are correspondingly repelled and distressed by the tokens of pain or want or coarse living. All the delight of these women at the sight of Mrs. Mowbray, and all their intense enjoyment of her gifts, manifested broadly and abundantly, could not reconcile Rotha to the sight of their worn, wrinkled faces, bowed forms, bleared eyes, and dulled expression. Every one was not so; but these were the majority. Certainly Rotha had not had a very dainty experience of life during the years of her abode in New York; she had lived where the poorer classes lived and been accustomed to seeing them. But there the sick and infirm were mostly in their houses, where she did not visit them; and the exceptions were noticed one at a time. Here there was an aggregation of infirmity, which oppressed her young heart and revolted her fastidious sense. It was not pleasant; and Rotha, like most others who have no experience of life, was devoted to what was pleasant. She wondered to see the glee and enjoyment with which Mrs. Mowbray moved about among these poor people; a word, and a word of cheer, for every one; her very looks and presence coming like beams of loving light upon their darkness. She seemed to know them almost all.
"How's rheumatism, aunty?" she asked cheerily of a little, wrinkled, yellow old woman, sitting in a rocking chair and hovering near a fire.
"O missus, it's right smart bad! it is surely."
"Where is it now? in your hands, or your feet?"
"O missus, it is all places! 'Pears there aint no place where it aint. It's in my hands, and in my feet, and in my head, and in my back; and I can't sleep o' nights; and the nights is powerful long! so they be."
"Ah, yes; it makes a long night, to have to lie awake aching! I know that by experience. I had rheumatism once."
"Did you, missus! But it warn't so bad as I be?"
"No, not quite, and I was stronger to bear it. You know who is strong to help you bear it, aunty?"
"Yes, missus," said the poor creature with a long sigh;—"I does love deLord; sartain, I do. He do help. But I be so tired some times!"
"We'll forget all that when we get to heaven, aunty."
There was a faint gleam in the old eyes, as they looked up to her; a faint smile on the withered lips. The rays of that morning light were catching the clouds already!
"Now, aunty, I've brought you some splendid tea. Shall I make you a cup, right off?"
"You wouldn't have time missus—"
"Yes, I would! Time for everything. Here, Sabrina, bring a kettle of boiling water here and put it on the fire; mind, it must boil."
And while the woman went to obey the order, Mrs. Mowbray went on round the room. There were so many to speak to, Rotha thought she would forget the kettle and the tea; but she did not. From the very door which should have let her into another ward, she turned back The kettle was boiling; she ordered several cups; she made the tea, not out of the old woman's particular private store; and then she poured it out, sugared and creamed and gave her her cup; took one herself, and gave the rest to whosoever came for it. They held quite a little festival there round the fire; for Mrs. Mowbray brought out some cake too.
"Now," she said to Rotha as they hurried away, "they will not forget that for a year to come. I always take a cup of tea with aunty Lois."
They went now among the men, distributing the tobacco. Rotha admired with unending admiration, the grace and sweetness and tact with which Mrs. Mowbray knew how to season her gifts; the enormous amount of pleasure she gave and good she did which were quite independent of them. Bent figures straightened up, and dull faces shone out, as she talked. The very beauty which belonged to her in so rare measure, Rotha saw how it was a mighty talent for good when brought thoroughly into the service of Christ. She was a fair human angel going about among those images of want and suffering and hopelessness; her light lingered on them after she had passed on.
"How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray- haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity, before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took the hand.
"Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home."
The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very firm.
"You are not in a hurry to leave us?"
"It's better on de oder side, madam."
"Yes, that is true! And it is good to know thereisan 'other side,' isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?"
'"Comfortable—" he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates, waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place."
"Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you."
He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered on which it came.
"Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get home, I'll have all I want; but it's updere."
"I thought, uncle Bacchus, you would like a very plain page to read the words in that you love. See, I have brought you this. This will almost do without spectacles, hey?"
She produced a New Testament in four thin volumes, of the very largest and clearest type; presenting a beautiful open page. The old man almost chuckled as he received it.
"Dat ar's good!" he said.
"Better than the old one, hey?"
"Dat ar certainly is good," he repeated. "De old un, de words is so torturous small, if I didn't know what dey was, 'pears dey wouldn't be no use to me."
"Well, then I made no mistake this time. Now, uncle Bacchus, I know you take no comfort in tobacco; so I've brought you something else—something you like. Must have something to make Christmas gay, you know."
She put a paper of French bonbons in the old man's hand. He laughed, half at her and half at the sugarplums, Rotha thought; and he bowed again.
"De Lord give madam sumfin' to makehergay!" he said.
"Himself, uncle Bacchus!"
"Dat's so, madam!" he replied, as she took his hand to bid him good bye.
This was a much longer colloquy than usual; a few words were all there was time for, generally; and Rotha went on wondering and admiring to see how Mrs. Mowbray could make those few words tell for the pleasure and good of her beneficiaries. At last the whole round was made, the last package disposed of, and Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha found themselves in the carriage again. Rotha for her part was glad; she did not like the Home, as I have said; the sight of the people was painful to her, even with all the alleviations of pleasure. She was glad to be driving away from the place. What did they know of Bagster's Bibles and Russia covered travelling bags? Poor creatures! And Rotha's heart was leaping at thought of her own.
They went in silence for a while.
"Aren't you very tired, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha ventured at last.
"Tired?" said Mrs. Mowbray brightly, rousing herself. "I don't know! I don't stop to think whether I am tired. There will be plenty of time to rest, by and by."
"That does not hinder one from feeling tired now," said Rotha, who did not enjoy this doctrine.
"No, but it hinders one from minding it," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Do all you can for other people, Rotha; it is the greatest happiness you can find in this life."
"Do you think you had as much pleasure in getting those things for me, Mrs. Mowbray,—my bag and my Bible,—and all my things,—as I had, and have, in receiving them?"
Mrs. Mowbray smiled. "Do they give you pleasure?" she asked.
"More than you can think—more than I can tell. I think I am dreaming!"
"Then that givesmepleasure. What are you going to do with yourBible?"
"I am going to study it—" said Rotha slowly; "and I am going to live by it."
"Are you? Have you decided that point?"
"Yes, ma'am. But I am not good yet, Mrs. Mowbray. I do not forgive aunt Serena. It feels to me as if there was a stone where my heart ought to be."
"Have you found that out?" said Mrs. Mowbray without shewing any surprise. "There is help, my child. Look, when you get home, at the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel—I cannot tell you what verse—and you will find it there."
They had no more talk until the carriage stopped at home. And Rotha had no chance then even to open her Bible, but must make herself immediately ready for dinner.
That Christmas dinner remained a point of delight in Rotha's memory for ever. The company was small, several of the young ladies having accepted invitations to dine with some friend or acquaintance. It was most agreeably small, to Rotha's apprehension, for she could see more of Mrs. Mowbray and more informally. Everybody was in gala dress and gala humour, nobody more than the mistress of the house; and she had done everything in her power to make the Christmas dinner a gala meal. Flowers and lights were in plenty; the roast turkey was followed by ices, confections and fruits, all of delicious quality; and Mrs. Mowbray's own kind and gracious ministry made everything doubly sweet. Rotha had besides such joy in her heart, that turkey and ices had never seemed so good in her life. The whole day had been rich, full, sweet, blessed; the girl had entered a new sphere where every want of her nature was met and contented; under such conditions the growth of a plant is rapid; and in a plant of humanity it is not only rapid but blissful.
Christmas joys were not done when the dinner was over. The girls who were present, and the one or two under teachers, repaired to the library, Mrs. Mowbray's special domain; and there she exerted herself unweariedly to give them a pleasant evening. Two of them sat down to a game of chess; two of them were allowed to look over some very rare and splendid books of engravings; one or two were deep in fancy work, and one or two amused themselves with a fine microscope. Rotha received her first introduction to the stereoscope. This was no novelty to the rest, and she was left in undisturbed enjoyment; free to look as long as she liked at any view that excited her interest. Which of them did not! At Rotha's age, with her mind just opening rapidly and her intellectual hunger great for all sorts of food, what were not the revelations of the stereoscope to her! Delight and wonder went beyond all power of words to describe them. And with delight and wonder started curiosity. Rotha's first view was a gorge in the Alps.
"Where is it?" she asked. And Mrs. Mowbray told her.
"How high are those hills?"
"Really, I don't know," said her friend laughing. "I will give you a guide book to study."
Rotha thought she would like a guide book. Anything so majestic as the sweep of those mountain lines and the lift of their snowy heads, she had never imagined; nor anything so lovely as the peace of that narrow, meadowy valley at the foot of them.
"Is it as good really, Mrs. Mowbray, as it looks here?" she asked.
"It is better. Don't you think colour goes for anything? and the sound of a cowbell, and the rush of the torrents that come from the mountains?"
"I can hear cowbells and the rush of brooks here," said Rotha.
"It sounds different there."
Slowly and unwillingly and after long looking at it, Rotha laid the Swiss valley away. Her next view happened to be the ruins of the Church at Fountain's Abbey; and with that a new nerve of pleasure seemed to be stirred. This was something in an entirely new department, of knowledge and interest both. "How came people to let such a beautiful church go to ruin?"
Mrs. Mowbray went back to the Reformation, and Henry the Eighth, and the monkish orders; and the historical discussion grew into length. Then a very noble view of the Fountain's Abbey cloisters opened a new field of inquiry; and Rotha's eye gazed along the beautiful arches with an awed apprehension of the life that once was lived under them; gazed and marvelled and queried.
"That was an ugly sort of life," she said at last; "why do I like to look at these cloisters, Mrs. Mowbray?"
Mrs. Mowbray laughed. "I suppose your eye finds beauty in the lines of the architecture."
"Are they beautiful?"
"People say so, my dear."
"But do you think they are?"
"My dear, I must confess to you, I never paid much attention to architecture. I never asked myself the question."
"I do not think there is anybeautyabout them," said Rotha; "but somehow I like to look at them. I like to look at themverymuch."
"Here is another cloister," said Mrs. Mowbray; "of Salisbury cathedral.The arches and lines here are less severe. How do you like that?"
"Not half so well," Rotha answered, after making the comparison. "I thinkFountain's Abbeyisbeautiful, compared with this."
"It is called, I believe, one of the finest ruins in England. My dear, if you want to study architecture, I shall turn you over to Mr. Fergusson's book. It is in the corner stand in the breakfast room—two octavo volumes. There you can find all your questions answered."
Which Rotha did not however find to be the case, though Fergusson in after days was a good deal studied by her in her hours of leisure. For this evening it was enough, that she went to her room with the feeling that the world is very rich in things to be seen and things to be known; a vast treasure house of wonders and beauties and mysteries; which mysteries must yet have their hidden truth and solution, delightful to search for, delightful to find. Would she some day see the Alps? and what dreadful things cloisters and the life lived in them must have been! Her eye fell on her Russia leather bag, in which she had placed her Bible for safe keeping; and her thoughts went to the Bible. That told how people should live to serve God; and it was not by shutting themselves up in cloisters. How then? That question she deferred.
But took it up again the next day. It was a rainy day; low clouds and thick beat of the rain storm against the windows and upon the street. Rotha was well pleased. Good so; yesterday had held novelty and excitement enough for a week; to-day she could be quiet, study Fergusson on architecture, perhaps; and at all events study the life question in her beautiful Bible. She had the morning to herself after breakfast, and her room to herself; the patter and beat of the rain drops made her feel only more securely safe in her solitude and opportunity. Rotha took her Bible lovingly in her hands and slowly turned over the leaves to find the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel. And unquestionably, the great beauty of the book, of the paper and the limp covers and the type, did help her pleasure and did give an additional zest to the work she was about. Nevertheless, Rotha was in earnest, and itwaswork. The chapter, when she found it, was an enigma to her. She read on and on, understanding but very dimly what might be meant under the words; till she came to the notable promise and prophecy beginning with the twenty fourth verse. Then her eyes opened, and lingered, slowly going over item after item of the help promised to humanity's wants, and then she read:—
"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh."——
It struck Rotha with a strange sort of surprise, the words meeting so exactly the thought and want of her own heart. Did He who gave that promise, long ago, know so well what she would be one day thinking and feeling? But that was the very help she needed; all she needed; if the heart of stone within her were gone, all the rest would fall into train. Rotha waited no longer, but poured out a longing, passionate prayer that this mighty change might be wrought in her. Even with tears she prayed her prayer. She had resolved to be a Christian; yet she was not one; could not be one; till a heart of flesh took the place of that impassive induration which was where a heart should be. As she rose from her knees, she thought she would follow out this subject of a hard heart, and see what else the Bible said of it. She applied to her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge"; found the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel, and the twenty sixth verse. The first reference sent her to the eleventh chapter of the same book, where she found the promise already previously given.
"And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony-heart out of their flesh, and I will give them an heart of flesh;that they may walk in my statutes, and keep mine ordinances, and do them;and they shall be my people, and I will be their God."
That is it! thought Rotha. I knew I could not be a Christian while I felt so as I do. I could not keep the commandments either. If I had a new heart, I suppose I could forgive aunt Serena fast enough. God must be very willing to take people's stony heart away, or he would not promise it so twice over. O my dear "Scripture Treasury"! how good you are!
Following its indications, she came next to a word of the prophet Zechariah, accusing the people of obduracy:—"They refused to hearken, and pulled away the shoulder, and stopped their ears, that they should not hear. Yea, they made their hearts as an adamant stone, lest they should hear the law, and the words which the Lord of hosts hath sent in his spirit by the former prophets"—
Over this passage Rotha lingered, pondering. Could it be true that she herself was to blame for the very hardness of heart she wanted to get rid of? Had she "refused to hearken and pulled away the shoulder and stopped her ears"? What else had she done? when those "former prophets" to her, her mother, and Mr. Digby, had set duty and truth before her? They set it before her bodily, too; and how fair their example had been! and how immoveable she! Rotha lost herself for a while here, longing for her mother, and crying in spirit for her next friend, Mr. Digby; wondering at his silence, mourning his absence; and it was when a new gush of indignation at her aunt seemed to run through all her veins, that she caught herself up and remembered the work in hand, and slowly and sorrowfully came back to it. How angry she was at Mrs. Busby this minute! what a long way she was yet, with all her wishes and resolves, from the loving tenderness of heart which would forgive everything. She went on, hoping always for more light, and willing to take the sharpest charges home to herself. Yet the next reference startled her.
"Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth; and forthwith they sprang up because they had no deepness of earth: and when the sun was up, they were scorched;"—
Was it possible, that she had been like that very bad ground? Yes, she knew the underlying rock too well. Then in her case there was special danger of a flash religion, taken up for the minute's sense of need or perception of advantage merely, and not rooted so that it would stand weather. Hers should not be so; no profession of being a Christian would she make, till it was thorough work; till at last she could forgive her aunt's treachery; it would be pretty thorough if she could do that! But how long first? At present Rotha thought of her aunt in terms that I will not stop to detail; in which there was bitter anger and contempt and no love at all. She knew it, poor child; she felt the difficulty; her only sole hope was in the power of that promise in Ezekiel, which she blessed in her heart, almost with tears. That way there was an outlook towards light; no other way in all her horizon. She would see what more the Bible had to say about it.
Going on in her researches, after another passage or two she came to those notable words, also in Ezekiel,—
"Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit: for why will ye die, O house of Israel?"
Make herself a new heart? how could she? she could not; and yet, here the words were, and they must mean something. And to be sure, she thought, a man is said to build him a new house, who gets the carpenter to make it, and never himself puts hand to tool. But cast away her transgressions?—thatshe could do, and she would. From that day forth. The next passage was in the fifty first psalm; David's imploring cry that the Lord would "create" in him "a new heart"; and then the lovely words in Jeremiah:— "After those days, saith the Lord, I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts; and will be their God, and they shall be my people."
Rotha shut her book. That was the very thing wanted. When the law of God should bein her heartso, then all would be right, and all would be easy too. It is easy to do what is in one's heart. What beautiful words! what exquisite promises! what tender meeting of the wants of weak and sinful men! Rotha saw all this, and felt it. Ay, and she felt that every vestige of excuse was gone for persistence in wrong; if God was so ready to put in his hand of love and power to make things right. And one more passage made this conclusively certain. It was the thirteenth verse of the eleventh chapter of Luke.
The morning's work was a good one for Rotha. She made up her mind. That, indeed, she had done before; now she took her stand with a clearer knowledge of the ground and of the way in which the difficulties were to be met. By a new heart, nothing less; a heart of flesh; which indeed she could not create, but which she could ask for and hope for; and in the mean time she must "cast away from her all her transgressions." No compromise, and no delay. As to this anger at her aunt,—well, it was there, and she could not put it out; but allow it and agree to it, or give it expression, that she would not do.
She cast about her then for things to be done, neglected duties. No studies neglected were on her conscience; there did occur to her some large holes in the heels of her stockings. Rotha did not like mending; however, here was duty. She got out the stockings and examined them. A long job, and to her a hateful one, for the stockings had been neglected. Rotha had but a little yarn to mend with; she sat down to the work and kept at it until she had used up her last thread. That finished the morning, for the stockings were fine, and the same feeling of duty which made her take up the mending made her do it conscientiously.
The evening was spent happily over the stereoscope and Fergusson onArchitecture. Towards the end of it Mrs. Mowbray whispered to her,
"My dear, your aunt wishes you to spend a day with her; don't you think it would be a good plan to go to-morrow? A thing is always more graceful when it is done without much delay."
Rotha could but acquiesce.
"And make the best of it," Mrs. Mowbray went on kindly; "and make the best ofthem. There is a best side to everybody; it is good to try and get at it. The Bible says 'Overcome evil with good.'"
"Can one, always?" said Rotha.
"I think one can always—if one has the chance and time. At any rate, it is good to try."
"But don't you think, ma'am, one must feel pleasant, before one can act pleasant?"
"Feel pleasant, then," said Mrs. Mowbray smiling. "Can't you?"
"You do not know how difficult it is," said Rotha.
"Perhaps I do. Hearts are alike."
"O no, Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha in sudden protest.
"Not in everything. But fallen nature is fallen nature, my dear; one person's temptations may be different from another's, but in the longing to do our own pleasure and have our own way, we are all pretty much alike. None of us has anything to boast of. What you despise, is the yielding to a temptation which does not attack you."
Rotha's look at her friend was intelligent and candid. She said nothing.
"And if you can meet hatred with love, it is ten to one you can overcome it. Wouldn't that be a victory worth trying for?"
Rotha knew the victory over herself was the first one to be gained. But she silently acquiesced; and after breakfast next morning, with reluctant steps, she set forth to go to her aunt's in Twenty-third Street. She had been in a little doubt how to dress herself. Should she wear her old things? or subject the new ones to her aunt's criticism? But Antoinette had seen the pretty plaid school dress; it would be foolish to make any mystery of it. She dressed herself as usual.
Mrs. Busby and her daughter were in the sitting room up stairs. Rotha had knocked, modestly, and as she went in they both lifted up their heads and looked at her, with a long look of survey. Rotha had come quite up to them before her aunt spoke.
"Well, Rotha,—so it is you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have you come to see me at last?"
"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Mowbray said you wished it."
"What made you choose to-day particularly?"
"Nothing. Mrs. Mowbray said—"
"Well, go on. What did Mrs. Mowbray say?"
"She said you wanted to have me come, some day, and she thought I had better do it to-day."
"Yes. Did she give no reason?"
"No. At least—"
"At least what?"
Rotha had no skill whatever in prevarication, nor understood the art.Nothing occurred to her but to tell the truth.
"Mrs. Mowbray said a thing was more graceful that was done promptly."
The slightest possible change in the set of Mrs. Busby's lips, the least perceptible air of her head, expressed what another woman might have told by a snort of disdain. Mrs. Busby's manner was quite as striking, Rotha thought. Her own anger was rising fast.
"O, and I suppose she is teaching you to do things gracefully?" saidAntoinette. "Mamma, the idea!"
"It did not occur to her or you that I might like to see my niece occasionally?" said Mrs. Busby.
Rotha bit her lips and succeeded in biting down the answer.
"We have not grown very gracefulyet," Antoinette went on. "It is usually thought civilized to answer people."
"You had better take off your things," Mrs. Busby said. "You may lay them up stairs in your room."
"Is there any reason which makes this an inconvenient day for me to be here?" Rotha asked before moving to obey this command.
"It makes no difference. The proper time for putting such a question, if you want to do thingsgracefully, is before taking your action, while the answer can also be given gracefully, if unfavourable."
Rotha went slowly up stairs, feeling that or any other place in the house better than the room where her aunt was. She went to her little cold, cheerless, desolate-looking, old room. How she had suffered there! how thankful she was to be in it no more! how changed were her circumstances! Could she not be good and keep the peace, this one day? She had purposed to be very good, and calm, like Mr. Digby; and now already she felt as if a bunch of nettles had been drawn all over her. What an unmanageable thing was this temper of hers. She went down stairs slowly and lingeringly. The two looked at her again as she entered the room; now that her cloak was off, the new dress came into view.
"Where did you get that dress, Rotha?" was her aunt's question.
"Mrs. Mowbray got it for me."
"Does she propose to send me the bill by and by?"
"Of course not! Aunt Serena, Mrs. Mowbray never does mean things."
"H'm! What induced her then to go to such expense for a girl she never saw before?"
"I suppose she was sorry for me," said Rotha, with her heart swelling.
"Sorry for you! May I ask, why?"
"You know how I was dressed, aunt Serena; and you know how the other girls in school dress."
"I know a great many of them have foolish mothers, who make themselves ridiculous by the way they let their children appear. It is a training of vanity. I should not have thought Mrs. Mowbray would lend herself to such nonsense."
"But you do not think Antoinette has a foolish mother?" Rotha could not help saying. Mrs. Busby's daughter was quite as much dressed as the other girls. That she ought not to have made that speech, Rotha knew; but she made it. So much satisfaction she must have. It remained however completely ignored.
"Who made your dress?" Mrs. Busby went on.
"A dress-maker. One of the ladies went with me to have it cut."
"What did you do Christmas?" Antoinette inquired. In reply to which,Rotha gave an account of her visit to the Old Coloured Home.
"Just like Mrs. Mowbray!" was Mrs. Busby's comment. "She has no discretion."
"Why do you say that, aunt Serena?"
"Such an expenditure of money for nothing. What good would a little tea and a little tobacco do those people? It would not last more than a week or two; and then they are just where they were before."
"But it did not cost so very much," objected Rotha.
"Have you reckoned it up? Fifty or sixty half-pounds of tea, fifty or sixty pounds of sugar,—why, the sugar alone would be five or six dollars; and the tobacco, and the carriage hire; and I don't know what beside. All for nothing. That woman does not know what to do with money."
"But is it not something, to make so many poor people happy, if even only for a little while?"
"It would be a great deal better to give them something to do them good; a flannel petticoat, now, or a pair of warm socks. That would last. Or putting the money in the funds of the Institution, where it would go to their daily needs. I always think of that."
"Wouldit go to their daily needs? Some ladies got a cow for them once; and it just gave the matron cream for her tea, and they got no good of it."
"I don't believe that at all!" exclaimed Mrs. Busby. "I know the matron; Mrs. Bothers; I know her, for I recommended her myself. I have no idea she would be guilty of any such impropriety. It is just the gossip in the house, that Mrs. Mowbray has taken up in her haste and swallowed."
Rotha tried to hold her tongue. It was hard.
"Did Mrs. Mowbray giveyouanything Christmas?" Antoinette asked, pushing her inquiries. Rotha hesitated, but could find no way to answer without admitting the affirmative.
"What?" was the immediate next question; and even Mrs. Busby looked with ill-pleased eyes to hear Rotha's next words. It seemed like making her precious things common, to tell of them to these unkind ears. Yet there was no help for it.
"She gave me a travelling hand-bag."
"What sort?"
"Russia leather."
"There, mamma!" Antoinette exclaimed. "Isn't that Mrs. Mowbray all over?When a morocco one, or a canvas one, would have done just as well."
"As I said," returned Mrs. Busby. "Mrs. Mowbray does not know what to do with money. When are you going travelling, Rotha?"
"I do not know. Some time in my life, I suppose."
"What a ridiculous thing to give her!" pursued Antoinette.
"Yes, I think so," her mother echoed. "Do not let yourself be deluded, Rotha, by presents of travelling bags or anything else. Your future life is not likely to be spent in pleasuring. What I can do for you in the way of giving you an education, will be all I can do; then you will have to make a living and a home for, yourself; and the easiest way you can do it will be by teaching. I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray to educate you for some post in which perhaps she can put you by and by; she or somebody else. So pack up your expectations; you will not need to do much of other sorts of packing."
"You forget there is another person to be consulted, aunt Serena."
"What other person?" said Mrs. Busby raising her head and fixing her observant eyes upon Rotha.
"Mr. Southwode."
"Mr. Southwode!" repeated the lady coldly. "I am ignorant what a stranger like him has to say about our family affairs."
"He is not a stranger," said Rotha hotly. "He is the person I know best in the world, and love best. He is the person to whom I belong; that mother left me to; and it is for him, not for you, to say what I shall do, or what I shall be."
Imprudent Rotha! But passion is always imprudent.
"Very improper language!" said Mrs. Busby coldly. "When a young lady speaks so of a young gentleman, what are we to think?"
"I am not a young lady," said Rotha; "and he is not a young gentleman; at least, not very young; and you may think the truth, which is what I say."
"Do you mean that you have arranged to marry Mr. Southwode?" said the lady, fixing her keen little eyes upon Rotha's face.
Rotha's face flamed, with mingled indignation and shame; she deigned no answer.
"She doesn't speak, mamma," said Antoinette mischievously. "You may depend, that's the plan. Rotha and Mr. Southwode! I declare, that's too good! So that's the arrangement!"
"I am so ashamed that I cannot speak to you," said Rotha in her passion and humiliation. "How can you say such wicked things! I wish Mr. Southwode was here to give you a proper answer."
"What, you think he would take your part?" said her aunt.
"He always did. He would now. He will yet, aunt Serena."
"That is enough!" said Mrs. Busby, becoming excited a little on her part. "Hush, Antoinette; I will have no more of this very unedifying conversation. But you, Rotha, may as well know that you will never see Mr. Southwode again. He is engaged in England with the affairs of his father's business; he will probably soon marry; and then there is no chance whatever that he will ever return to America. So you had best consider whether it is worth while to offend the friends you have left, for the sake of one who is nothing to you any more."
"I know Mr. Southwode better than that," was Rotha's answer. But the girl's face was purple with honest shame.
"You expect he will come back and make you his wife?" said Mrs. Busby scornfully.
"I expect he will come back and take care of me. You might as well talk of his making that pussy cat his wife. I am just a poor girl, and no more. But he will take care of me. I know he will, if I have to wait ten years first."
"How old are you now?"
"Sixteen, almost."
"Then in ten years you will be twenty six. My dear, there is only one way in which Mr. Southwode could take care of you then; he must make you his wife, or leave it to somebody else to take care of you. He knows that as well as I do; and so he put you in my hands. Now let us make an end of this disgraceful scene. Before ten years are past, you will probably be the wife of somebody else. All this talk is very foolish."
Rotha thought itwas, but also thought the fault was not in her part of it. She sat glowing with confusion; she felt as if the blood would verily start through her skin; and angry in proportion. Still she was silent, though Antoinette laughed.
"What a farce, mamma! To think of Rotha being in love with Mr.Southwode!"
"Hold your tongue, Nettie."
"To love, and to be in love, are two things," said Rotha hotly. "I do not know what being in love means; Idoknow the other."
"O mamma!—she doesn't know what it means!"
"I told you to be quiet, Antoinette."
"I didn't hear it, mamma. But I think you might reprove Rotha for saying what is not true."
"That is what I never do," said Rotha.
Mrs. Busby here interfered, and ordered Rotha to go up stairs to her room and stay there till she could command herself. Rotha went.
"Mamma," said Antoinette then, "I do believe it is earnest about her andMr. Southwode. In her mind, I mean. Did you see how she coloured?"
"I should not be at all surprised," said, Mrs. Busby.
"When is he coming back, mamma?"
"I cannot say. I think he does not know himself. He writes that he is very busy at present."
"But he will come back, you think?"
"He says so. Antoinette, say nothing—not a word more—about him to Rotha. She has got her head turned, and it is best she should hear nothing whatever about him. I shall take good care that she never sees him again."
"Mamma,hedon't care for her?"
"Of course not. He is too much a man of the world."
There was silence.
"Mamma," Antoinette began after a pause, "do you think Rotha is handsome?"
"She is very well," said Mrs. Busby in an indifferent tone.
"They think at school, that is, the teachers do, that she is a beauty."
"I dare say they have told her so."
"And you see how Mrs. Mowbray has dressed her up."
"I would not have sent her there, if I had known how it would be.However, I could not arrange for her so cheaply anywhere else."
"What would you do, mamma, if Mr. Southwode were coming back?"
"I should know, in that case. He will not come yet a while. NowAntoinette, let this subject alone."
"Yes, mamma. You are a clever woman. I don't believe even Mr. Southwode could manage you."
"I can manage Mr. Southwode!" said Mrs. Busby contentedly.
Rotha found her room too cold to stay in, after the first heat of her wrath had passed off. The only warm place that she knew of, beside her aunt's dressing room, was the parlour; and after a little hesitation and shivering, she softly crept down the stairs. The warm, luxurious place was empty, of people, that is; and before the glowing grate Rotha sat down on the rug and looked at the situation. Or she looked at that and the room together; the latter made her incensed. It was so full of luxury. The soft plush carpet, the thick rug on which she was crouching; how they glowed warm and rich in the red shine of the fiery grate; how beautiful the crimson ground was, and how dainty the drab tints of the flowers running over it. How stately the curtains fell to the floor with their bands of drab and crimson; and the long mirror between them, redoubling all the riches reflected in it. What a magnificent extension table, really belonging in the dining room, but doing duty now as a large centre table, only it was shoved up in one corner; and upon it the gas fixture stood, with its green glass shaft and its cut glass shade full of bunches of grapes. Nothing else was on the table; not a book; not a trinket; and so all the rest of the room was bare of everythingbutfurniture. The furniture was elegant; but the chairs stood round the sides of the room with pitiless regularity and seemed waiting for somebody that would never come. Empty riches! nothing else. At Mrs. Mowbray's Rotha was in another world, socially and humanly. Books swarmed from the shelves and lay on every table; pictures hung on the walls and stood on the mantelpieces; here and there some lovely statuette delighted the eye by its beauty or the mind by its associations; flowers were sure to be in a glass or a dish somewhere; and all over there were traces of travel and of cultivation, in bits of marble, or bits of bronze, or photographs, or relics, telling of various ages and countries and nationalities. Here, in Mrs. Busby's handsome rooms, the pretty hanging lamps were exceedingly new, and they were the only bronze to be seen. Rotha studied it all and made these comparisons for a while, in a vague, purposeless reverie, while she was getting warm; but then her thoughts began to come to a point. Everything and everybody in this house was utterly unsympathetic to her; animate or inanimate; was this her home? In no sense of the word. Had not her aunt just informed her, in effect, that she had no home; that if she lived to grow up she must make her own way and earn her own bread, or have none. Antoinette would grow up to all this luxury, and in all this luxury; while she would be penniless, and homeless. Had she brought this upon herself? Well, she might have been more conciliating; but in her heart of hearts Rotha did not wish she had been other than she had been. A home or friends to be gained only by subserviency and truckling, she did not covet. There came a little whisper of conscience here, suggesting that a medium existed between truckling and defiance; that it was a supposable case that one might be so pure and fair in life and spirit, that the involuntary liking and respect of friends and acquaintances would follow of necessity. Was not Mr. Digby such a person? did not Mrs. Mowbray win good-will wherever she appeared? and Rotha was just enough to acknowledge to herself that her own demeanour had been nothing less than love-winning. Alas, how could she help it, unless she were indeed made over new; a different creature. How else could she bear what must be borne in this house? But in this house she was an outcast; they would have nothing to do with her more than to see her through her schooling; there was no shelter or refuge here to which she could ever look. Nor did she care for it, if only Mr. Digby would come again. Was he lost to her? Had he really forgotten her? would he forget his promise? Rotha did not believe it; her faith in him was steadfast; but she did conceive it possible that business and circumstances might keep him where his promise would be rendered of little avail; and her heart was wrung with distress at the thought of this possibility. Distress, which but for Mrs. Mowbray would have been desolation. Even as it was, Rotha felt very desolate, very blank; and she remembered again what Mr. Digby had said, about a time that might come when all other help would fail her and she would bedrivento seek God. All help had not failed yet; Mrs. Mowbray was a blessed good friend; but she was all, and Rotha had no claim upon her. I will not wait to bedriven, she thought; I will not wait to be driven by extremity; things are bad enough as it is; I will seek God now.—I have been seeking him.— Mr. Digby said I must keep on seeking, until I found. I will. But in the mean time I choose. I choose I will be a Christian, and that means, a servant of Jesus. I will be his servant, no matter what he bids me do. From this time on, I will be his servant. And then, some time, he will keep his word and take the stony heart out of me, and give me a new heart; a heart of flesh, I wonder how I came to be so hard!——
It was a step in advance of all Rotha had made yet. It wasthestep, which introduces a sinner into the pathway of a Christian; before which that path is not entered, however much it may be looked at and thought desirable. Rotha had made her choice and given her allegiance; for she at once told it to the Lord and asked his blessing.
And then, forthwith, came the trial of her sincerity. The cross was presented to her; which the Lord says those must take up and bear daily who would follow him. People think that crosses start up in every path; it is a mistake; they are only found in the way of following Christ and in consequence of such following. They are things that may be taken up and carried along; thatmustbe, if the Christian follows his Master; but that he may escape if he will turn aside from following him and go with the world. They are of many kinds, but all furnished by the world and Satan without, or by self-will within. The form which the cross took on this occasion for Rotha was of the latter kind. Conscience whispered a reminder—"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath ought against thee—" And instantly Rotha's whole soul rose up in protest. Make an apology to her auntnow?Humble herself to confess herself wrong, when the wrong done to her was so manyfold greater? Bend to the hardness that would crush her? Justify another's evil by confessing her own? Self-will gave her an indignant "Impossible!" And conscience with quiet persistence held forth the cross. Rotha put both hands to her face and swayed up and down, with a kind of bodily struggle, which symbolized that going on in her mind. It was hard, it was hard! Nature cried out, with a repulsion that seemed unconquerable, against taking up this cross; yet there it was before her, in the inexorable hands of conscience, and Grace said, "Do it; take it up and bear it." And Nature and Grace fought. But all the while, down at the bottom of the girl's heart, was a certain knowledge that the cross must be borne; a certain prevision that she would yield and take it up; that she must, if her new determination meant anything; and Rotha felt she could not afford to let it vanish in air. She struggled, rebelled, repined, and ended with yielding. Her will submitted, and she said in her heart, "I must, and I will."
There came a sort of tired lull over her then, which was grateful, after the battle. She consideredwhenshe should do this thing, which it was so disagreeable to do. She could not quite make up her mind; but at the first opportunity, whenever that might be. Before she left the house at any rate, if even she had to make the opportunity she wanted.
Then she thought she would return to her little cold room again, before anybody found her in the parlour. She was thoroughly warmed up, she had no more thinking to do just then; and if need be she would lay herself on the bed and cover herself with blankets, and so wait till luncheon time. As she went up stairs, something happened that she did not expect; there stole into her heart as it were a rill of gladness, which swelled and grew. "Yes, Jesusismy King, she thought, and I am his child. O I don't care now for anything, for Jesus is my King, and He will help and take care." She went singing that Name in her heart all the way up stairs; for the first time in her life the sweetness of it was sweet to her; for the first time, the strength of it was something to lean upon. Ay, she was right; she had stepped over the narrow boundary line between the realm of the Prince of this world and the kingdom of Christ. She had submitted herself to the one Ruler; she was no longer under the dominion of the other. And with her first entrance into the kingdom of the Prince of peace, she had stepped out of the darkness into the light, and the air of that new country blew softly upon her. O wonderful! O sweet! O strange!—that such a change should be so quickly made, and yet so hard to make. Rotha had not fought all her battles nor got rid of all her enemies, but that the latter should have no moredominionover her she felt confident. She was a different creature from the Rotha who had fled down stairs an hour or two before in wrath and bitterness.
It was very cold up stairs. She lay down and covered herself with blankets and went to sleep.
She was called to luncheon; got up and smoothed her hair as well as she could with her hands, and thought over what she had to do. She had to set her teeth and go at it like a forlorn-hope upon a battery, but she did not flinch at all.
Mr. Busby was at luncheon, which was unusual and she had not counted upon. He was gracious.
"How do you do, Rotha? Bless me, how you have improved! grown too, I declare."
"There was no need of that, papa," said Antoinette, who was going to be a dumpy.
"What has Mrs. Mowbray done to you? I really hardly know you again."
"Fine feathers, papa."
"Mrs. Mowbray has been very kind to me," Rotha managed to get in quietly.
"She's growing handsome, wife!" Mr. Busby declared as he took his seat at the table.
"You shouldn't say such things to young girls, Mr. Busby," said his wife reprovingly.
"Shouldn't I? Why not? It is expected that they will hear enough of that sort of thing when they get a little older."
"Why should they, Mr. Busby?" asked Rotha, innocently curious.
"Yes indeed, why should they?" echoed her aunt.
"Why should they? I don't know. As I said, it is expected. Young ladies usually demand such tribute from their admirers."
"To tell them they are handsome?" said Rotha.
"Yes," said Mr. Busby looking at her. "Ladies like it. Wouldn't you like it?"
"I should not like it at all," said Rotha colouring with a little excitement. "I don't mind your saying so, Mr. Busby; you have a right to say anything you like to me; but if any stranger said it, I should think he was very impertinent."
"You don't know much yet," said Mr. Busby.
"There is small danger that Rotha will ever be troubled with that sort of impertinence," said Mrs. Busby, with that peculiar air of her head, which always meant that she thought a good deal more than she spoke out at the minute.
"Maybe," returned her husband; "but she is going to deserve it, I can tell you. She'll be handsomer than ever Antoinette will."
Which remark seemed to Rotha peculiarly unlucky for her just that day.Mrs. Busby reddened with displeasure though she held her tongue.Antoinette was not capable of such forbearance.
"Papa!" she said, breaking out into tears, "that is very unkind of you!"
"Well, don't snivel," said her father. "You are pretty enough, if you keep a smooth face; but don't you suppose there are other people in the world handsomer? Be sensible."
"It is difficult not to be hurt, Mr. Busby," said his wife, pressing her lips together.
"Mamma!" cried Antoinette in a very injured tone, "he called me 'pretty'?"
"Aint you?" said her father, becoming a little provoked. "I thought you knew you were. But Rotha is going to be a beauty. It is no injury to you, my child."
"You seem to forget it may be an injury to Rotha, Mr. Busby."
Whether Mr. Busby forgot it, or whether he did not care, he made no reply to this suggestion.
"Inevertell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on severely.
"Well, I don't think she will. Not her style."
"Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter.
"Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette's?" asked the mother.
"Skin isn't everything. My dear, don't be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie's a pretty little girl, and I am glad of it; but don't you go to making a fool of her by making her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you; but that wasn't what I married you for."
Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice, for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self- command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby, and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible.
"What's the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don't be silly.I don't believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."
"You've said enough to please Rotha!" Antoinette sobbed.
"And it is unnecessary to be constantly comparing your daughter with some one else," said Mrs. Busby. "Can't we talk of some other subject, more useful and agreeable?"
Then Rotha summoned up her courage, with her heart beating.
"May I speak of another subject?" she said. "Aunt Serena, I have been wanting to tell you—I have been waiting for a chance to tell you—that I want to beg your pardon."
Mrs. Busby made no answer; it was her husband who asked, "For what?"
"To-day, sir, and a good while ago when I was here—different times—I spoke to aunt Serena as I ought not; rudely; I was angry. I have been wanting to say so and to beg her pardon."
"Well, that's all anybody can do," said Mr. Busby. "Enough's said about that. It's very proper, if you spoke improperly, to confess it and make an apology; that's all that is necessary. At least, as soon as Mrs. Busby has signified that she accepts the apology."
But Mrs. Busby signified no such thing. She kept silence.
"My dear, do you want Rotha to say anything more? Hasn't she apologized sufficiently?"
"I should like to know first," Mrs. Busby began in constrained tones, "what motive prompted the apology?"
"Motive!—" Mr. Busby began; but Rotha struck in.
"My motive was, that I wanted to do right; and I knew it was right that I should apologize."
"Then your motive was not that you were sorry for what you said?" Mrs.Busby inquired magisterially.
Rotha was so astonished at this way of receiving her words that she hesitated.
"I am sorry, certainly, that I should have spoken rudely," she said.
"But not sorry for what you said?"
"You are splitting hairs, my dear!" said Mr. Busby impatiently.
"Let her answer—" said his wife.
"I do not know how to answer," said Rotha slowly, and thinking how to choose her words. "I am sorry for my ill-manners and unbecoming behaviour; I beg pardon for that. Is there anything else to ask pardon for?"
"You do not answer."
"What else can I say?" Rotha returned with some spirit. "I am not apologizing for thoughts or feelings, but for my improper behaviour. Shall I not be forgiven?"
"Then yourfeelingis not changed?" said the lady with a sharp look at her.
Rotha thought, It would be difficult for her feeling to change, under the reigning system. She did not answer.
"Pish, pish, my dear!" said the master of the house,—"you are splitting straws. When an apology is made, you have nothing to do but to take it. Rotha has done her part; now you do yours. Has Santa Claus come your way this year, Rotha?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he bring you, hey?"
"Mrs. Mowbray gave me a Bible."
"A Bible!" Mrs. Busby and her daughter both exclaimed at once; "you said a bag?"
"I said true," said Rotha.
"She gave you a Bible and a bag too?"
"Yes."
"What utter extravagance! Had you no Bible already?"
"I had one, but an old one that had no references."
"What did you want with references! That woman is mad. If she gives to everybody on the same scale, her pocket will be empty enough when the holidays are over."
"But she gets a great deal of pleasure that way—" Rotha ventured.
"You do, you mean."
"Well, I am not so rich as Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Busby said; "but I must remember you, Rotha." And he rose and went to a large secretary which stood in the room; for that basement room served Mr. Busby for his study at times when the table was not laid for meals. Three pair of eyes followed him curiously. Mr. Busby unlocked his secretary, opened a drawer, and took out thence a couple of quires of letter paper: 'sought out then some envelopes of the right size, and put the whole, two quires of paper and two packages of envelopes, into Rotha's astonished hands.
"There, my dear," said he, "that will be of use to you."
"What is she to do with it, papa?" Antoinette asked in an amused manner."Rotha has nobody to write letters to."
"That may be. She will have writing to do, however, of some kind. You write themes in school, don't you?"
"But then, what are the envelopes for, papa? We don't put our compositions in envelopes."
"Never mind, my dear; the envelopes belong to the paper. Rotha can keep them till she finds a use for them."
"They won't match other paper, papa," said Antoinette. But Rotha collected her wits and made her acknowledgments, as well as she could.
"Has Nettie shewn you her Christmas things?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it will please you to see them. You are welcome, my dear."
Rotha carried her package of paper up stairs, wondering what experiences would till out the afternoon. Her aunt and cousin seemed by no means to be in a genial mood. They all went up to the dressing room and sat down there in silence; all, that is, except Mr. Busby. Rotha's thoughts went with a spring to her bag and her books at Mrs. Mowbray's. Two o'clock, said the clock over the chimney piece. In three hours more she might go home.
Mrs. Busby took some work; she always had a basket of mending to do. Apologies did not seem to have wrought any mollification of her temper. Antoinette went down to the parlour to practise, and the sweet notes of the piano were presently heard rumbling up and down. Rotha sat and looked at her aunt's fingers.
"Do you know anything about mending your clothes, Rotha?" Mrs. Busby at last broke the silence.
"Not much, ma'am."
"Suppose I give you a lesson. See here—here is a thin place on the shoulder of one of Mr. Busby's shirts; there must go a patch on there. Now I will give you a patch—"
She sought out a piece of linen, cut a square from it with great attention to the evenness of the cutting, and gave it to Rotha.
"It must go from here to here—see?" she said, shewing the place; "and you must lay it just even with the threads; it must be exactly even; you must baste it just as you want it; and then fell it down very neatly."
Rotha thought, as she did not wear linen shirts, that this particular piece of mending was rather for her aunt's account than for her own. Lay it by the threads! a good afternoon's work.
"I have no thimble,—" was all she said.
Mrs. Busby sought her out an old thimble of her own, too big for Rotha, and it kept slipping off.
The rest of the history of that afternoon is the history of a patch. How easy it is, to an unskilled hand, to put on a linen patch by a thread, let anyone who doubts convince herself by trying. Rotha basted it on, and took it off, basted it on again and took it off again; it would not lie smooth, or it would not lie straight; and when she thought it would do, and shewed it to her aunt, Mrs. Busby would point out that what straightness there was belonged only to one side, or that there was a pucker somewhere. Rotha sighed and began again. She did not like the job. Neither had she any pleasure in doing it for her aunt. Her impatience was as difficult to straighten out as the patch itself, but Rotha thought it was only the patch. Finally, and it was not long first, either, she began to grow angry. Was her aunt trying her, she questioned, to see if she would not forget herself and be ill-mannerly again? And then Rotha saw that the cross was presented to her anew, under another form. Patience, and faithful service, involving again the giving up of her own will. And here she was, getting angry already. Rotha dropped her work and hid her face in her hands, to send up one silent prayer for help.
"You won't get your patch done that way," said Mrs. Busby's cold voice.
Rotha took her hands down and said nothing, resolved that here too she would do what it was right to do. She gave herself to the work with patient determination, and arranged the patch so that even Mrs. Busby said it was well enough. Then she received a needle and fine thread and was instructed how to sew the piece on with very small stitches. But now the difficulty was over. Rotha had good eyes and stitched away with a good will; and so had the work done, just before the light failed too much for her to see any longer. She folded up the shirt, with a gleeful feeling that now the afternoon was over. Antoinette came up from her practising, or whatever else she had been doing, just as Rotha rose.
"Aunt Serena," said the girl, and she said it pleasantly, "my stockings some of them want mending, and I have no darning cotton. If you would give me a skein of darning cotton, I could keep them in order."
"Do you know how?"
"Yes, ma'am, I know how to do that. Mother taught me. I can darn stockings."
Mrs. Busby rummaged in her basket and handed to Rotha a ball of cotton yarn.
"This is too coarse, aunt Serena," Rotha said after examining it.
"Too coarse for what?"
"To mend my stockings with."
"It is not too coarse to mend mine."
"But it would not go through the stitches of mine," said Rotha looking up. "It would tear every time."
"How in the world did you come to have such ridiculous stockings? Such stockings are expensive. I do not indulge myself with them; and I might, better than your mother."
"Poor people always think they must have things fine, I suppose," said Antoinette. "I wonder what sort of shoes she has, to go with the stockings?"
The blood flushed to Rotha's face; and irritation pricked her to retort sharply; yet she did not wish to speak Mr. Digby's name again. She hesitated.
"Whose nonsense was that?" asked Mrs. Busby; "yours, or your mother's? I never heard anything equal to it in my life. I dare say they are Balbriggans. I should not be at all surprised!"
"I do not know what they are," said Rotha, striving to hold in her wrath, "but they are not my mother's nonsense, nor mine."
"Whose then?" said Mrs. Busby sharply.
Rotha hesitated.
"Mrs. Mowbray's!" cried Antoinette. "It is Mrs. Mowbray again! Mamma, I should think you would feel yourself insulted. Mrs. Mowbray is ridiculous! As if you could not get proper stockings for Rotha, but she must put her hand in."
"I think it is very indelicate of Mrs. Mowbray; and Rotha is welcome to tell her I say so," Mrs. Busby uttered with some discomposure. Rotha's discomposure on the other hand cooled, and a sense of amusement got up. It is funny, to see people running hard after the wrong quarry; when they have no business to be running at all. However, she must speak now.
"It is not Mrs. Mowbray's nonsense either," she said. "Mr. Southwode got them for me."
"Mr. Southwode!"—Mrs. Busby spoke out those two words, and the rest of her mind she kept to herself.
"Mamma," said Antoinette, "Mr. Southwode is as great a goose as other folks. But then, gentlemen don't know things—how should they?"
"You are a goose yourself, Antoinette," said her mother.
"Have you no cotton a little finer? I mean a good deal finer?" saidRotha, going back to the business question.