gently.
"She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her. _Please_, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These words came out in a stream.
"My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?"
"Because she wasn't good to mother--she didn't love her--she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like her _dreadfully_, Mr. Digby!"
The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.
"Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means."
"O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?"
"Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!--Rotha!--"
She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age knows better.
"Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike your aunt so? You do not know her."
"O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up to _her?_"
"No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody. Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me, and we will talk this over. Come!"
Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took hers kindly and held it.
"Rotha--my child--I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated gravely.
Rotha thought it practically amounted to that, to place her in her aunt's house; words were not at command. A sort of sob wrung from her breast.
"What do you know about your aunt?"
"Not much,--but too much," Rotha laconically answered.
"Tell me what you know."
"I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to this unanswerable statement, she went on;--"She is a hard woman; she didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were--She has everything in the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her beautiful carriage; and we--we were--you know!--we were--if it hadn't been for you--"
Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr. Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a breaking heart.
Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft, and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all? And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go back.
He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely given place to an expression of helpless despair.
"Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her hand again.
"You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very gently.
"I could not help it. I tried--"
"I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it."
"I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before you."
"It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but because it is not right."
"Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly.
"Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself."
Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but she said nothing.
"You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of yourself, who takes it?"
Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose--nobody," she said.
"Do you think we have such an enemy as we have, and that he will let such an advantage go unimproved? No; when you lose command of yourself Satan takes it,--and uses it."
"What does he do with it?" said Rotha in full astonishment.
"According to circumstances. To tempt you to wrong, or to tempt you to folly; or if neither of those, to break down your mental and bodily powers, so that you shall be weaker to resist him next time."
"Mr. Digby--do you _think_ so?"
"Certainly. And when people go on in a way like this, giving ground to Satan, he takes all they give, until finally he has the whole rule of them. Then they seem to their neighbours to be slaves of passion, or of greed, or of drink; but really they are 'possessed of the devil,' and those are the chains in which he holds them."
"Mr. Digby," said Rotha humbly, "do you think I have been losing ground?"
"I think you have been gaining ground, for a good while."
"I am sorry," she said simply. "But how can I help it, Mr. Digby?"
"You remember," he said. "You must be under one king or the other; there is no middle ground. 'Whosoever committeth sin, is the servant of sin';--but, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha drew a deep sigh, and one or two fresh tears fell.
"Now," said he very gently, "do not let us get excited again, but let us talk quietly. What is all this about?"
"You are sending me away," said Rotha; "and you are all I have got."
"You are not going to lose me. That is settled. Now go on. What next?"
"But I shall not be with you?"
"Not every day, as here. But I hope to see you very often; and you can always write to me if you have anything in particular upon your mind."
"Then," said Rotha, her voice several shades clearer, "you are sending me to be with a person that I don't--respect."
"That is serious! Are you sure you are justified in such an opinion, with no more grounds?"
"I cannot help it," said Rotha. "I do not think I have reason to respect her."
"Then how are you going to get along together?"
"I am sure I do not know."
"Rotha, I may ask this of you. I ask of you to behave as a lady should, in your aunt's house. I ask you to be well-bred and well-mannered always; whatever you feel."
"Do you think I can, Mr. Digby?" said the girl looking earnestly at him.
"I am sure of it."
"But--do I know how?"
"I will give you an unfailing recipe," said Mr. Digby smiling. "'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them'; and for details, study the 13th chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians."
"Is that the chapter about charity?"
"About love. The word means love, not charity."
"Mr. Digby, it is very hard to act as if you loved people
, when you do not."
"True," said he smiling. "That is what the world means by good manners. But what Christians should mean by that term is the real thing."
"And I do not think I can," Rotha went on.
"Do not try to make believe anything. But the courtesy of good manners you can give to everybody."
"If I do not lose command of myself," said Rotha. "I will try, Mr. Digby."
"I think you can do, pretty nearly, Rotha, whatever you try."
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