of two currents, whether in the waters or in the air or the human mind, generally raises a commotion, so this flowing in of light and promise upon the midst of her despair almost broke Rotha's heart. The tears shed this time, however, though abundant, were less bitter; and Rotha raised her head and dashed the drops away, and ran up stairs to fetch her mother's Bible and begin her quest upon the spot. Lying there upon the rug in her aunt's dressing room, she began it.
She began with a careful consideration of the three marked passages. The one in John especially held her. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me."--I do not love Him, thought Rotha, for I do not know Him; but I must begin, I suppose, with keeping his commandments. Now the thing is, to find out what.--
She opened her book at hap hazard, lying on the rug there with it before her. A leaf or two aimlessly turned,--and her eye fell on these words:
"And in that day shall the deaf hear the words of the book, and the eyes of the blind shall see out of obscurity and out of darkness. The meek also shall increase their joy in the Lord, and the poor among men shall rejoice in the Holy One of Israel."
I am poor enough, thought Rotha, while soft warm tears streamed afresh from her eyes;--and deaf enough, and blind enough too, I have been; but meek?--I guess I'm not meek.
Turning over a leaf or two, her eyes were caught by the thirty fifth chapter of Isaiah, and she read it all. There was the promise for the deaf and the blind again; Rotha applied that to herself unhesitatingly; but the rest of the chapter she could not well understand. Except one thing; that the way of the blessed people is a "way of holiness." And also the promise in the last verse, which seemed to be an echo of those words of Jesus--"He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst." And Rotha was so hungry, and so thirsty! She paused just there, and covering her eyes with her hand, made one of the first real prayers, perhaps, she had ever prayed. It was a dumb stretching out of her hands for the food she was starving for; not much more; but it was eagerly put in the name of Christ, and such cries he hears. She turned over a few more leaves and stopped.
"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles; to open the blind eyes, to bring out the prisoners from the prison, and them that sit in darkness out of the prison house."
Who could that be? Rotha knew enough to guess that it could mean but one, even the great Deliverer. And a little further on she saw other words which encouraged her.
"I will bring the blind by a way that they know not; I will lead them in paths they have not known; I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them."
So many promises to the blind, Rotha said to herself; and that means me. I don't think I am meek, but I know I am blind.--Then on the very next leaf she read--
"I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins; return unto me; for I have redeemed thee."
_Redeemed_, that means, bought back, said Rotha; and I know who has done it, too. I suppose that is how he delivered the prisoners out of the prison house. Well, if he has redeemed me, I ought to belong to him,--and I will! I do not know much, but there is another promise; he will bring the blind by a way they have not known, and will make darkness light before them. Now what I have to do,--yes, I am redeemed, and I _will_ be redeemed; and I belong to him who has redeemed me, of course. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them"--what are they?
She thought she must look in the New Testament for them; and not knowing where to look in particular, she turned to the first chapter. It did not seem to contain much that concerned her, till she came to the 21st verse.
"And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins."
Rotha put that together with the "way of holiness," but it seemed to her unspeakably wonderful. In fact, it was hard to believe. Save _her_ from her sins? from pride and anger and self-will and self-pleasing? why, they were inborn; they were in her very blood; they came like the breath of her breathing. Could she be saved from them? Mr. Digby was like that. But a Rotha without anger and pride and self-will--would she know herself? would it be Rotha? and was she quite sure that she desired to be the subject of such a transformation? Never mind; desire it or not, this was the "way of holiness," and there was no other. But about commandments?--
She read the second chapter with an interest that hitherto she had never given to it; so also the third, without finding yet what she was looking for. The second verse, John the Baptist's cry to repentance, she answered by saying that she _had_ repented; that step was taken; what next? In the fourth chapter she paused at the 10th verse. I see, she said, one is not to do wrong even for the whole world; but what must I do that is _right?_ She startled a little at the 19th verse; concluded however that the command to "follow him" was directed only to the people of that time, the apostles and others, who were expected literally to leave their callings and accompany Jesus in his wanderings. The beatitudes were incipient commands, perhaps. But she did not quite understand most of them. At the 16th verse she came to a full pause.
"Let your light so shine"--That is like Mr. Digby. Everything he does is just beautiful, and shews one how one ought to be. Then according to that, I must not do any wrong at all!--
ust here Rotha heard the latch key in the house door, and knew the family were coming home from church. She seized her Bible and ran off up stairs. There it was necessary to wrap herself in her coverlet again; and shivering a little she put her book on the bed side and knelt beside it. But presently poor Rotha was brought up short in her studies. She had been saying comfortably to herself, reading v. 22,--I have not been "angry without a cause"; and I have not called anybody "Raca," or "Thou fool"; but then it came--
"If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest _that thy brother hath ought against thee_, leave there thy gift... go thy way...first be reconciled... then offer thy gift."
Rotha felt as if she had got a blow. Her aunt had "something against her." But, said Rotha to herself, not the thousandth part of what _I_ have against her. No matter, conscience objected; her charge remains the same, although you may have a larger to set off against it. Then am I to go and make it up with her? I can't do it, said Rotha. I do not wish to do it. I wish her to know that I am angry, and justly angry; if I were to go and ask her pardon for my way of speaking, she would just think I want to make it up with her so that she may get me my new cloak and other things.? And Rotha turned hot and cold at the thought. Yet conscience pertinaciously presented the injunction?"first be reconciled to thy brother." It was a dead lock. Rotha felt that her prayers would not be acceptable or accepted, while a clear duty was knowingly left undone; and do it she would not. At least not now; and how ever, that she could not see. Her heart which had been a little lightened, sank down like lead. O, thought she, is it so hard a thing to be a Christian? Did Mr. Digby ever have such a fight, I wonder, before he got to be as he is now? He does not look as if he ever had fights. But then he is strong.
And Rotha was weak. She knew it. She let her eye run down the page a little further; and it came to these words--
"If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee."..."If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off."...
Duty was plain enough. This luxury of anger at her aunt was a forbidden pleasure; it must be given up; and at the thought, Rotha clutched it the more warmly. So the bell rang for dinner, always early on Sunday. She would rather not have gone down, and did linger; then she heard it rung the second time and knew that was to summon the stragglers. She went down. The rest were at table.
"Mamma," Antoinette was saying, "you must get a new bonnet."
"Why?"
"Mrs. Mac Jimpsey has got a new one, and it is handsomer than yours."
"Wh
at does that signify?" was asked in Mr. Busby's curious husky tones and abrupt utterance.
"O papa, you don't understand such things."
"Nor you neither. You are a little goose."
"Papa! don't you want mamma and me to be as nice as anybody?"
"You are."
"O but Mrs. Mac Jimpsey's bonnet was fifty times handsomer than mamma's. _You_ don't know, but it was."
"Nevertheless, your mamma is fifty times handsomer than Mrs. Mac Jimpsey."
"O papa! but _that_ isn't the thing."
"And Mr. Mac Jimpsey's pocket is some fifty dollars or so emptier than mine. You see, we have a hundred times the advantage, to say the least."
"Papa, gentlemen never understand such things."
"Better for them if the ladies didn't."
"My dear," said Mrs. Busby smoothly, "you do not consider dress a subject of small importance?"
"I have no occasion to think about it, my dear, I am aware."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Busby?"
"It receives such exhaustive consideration from you."
"It cannot be done without consideration; not properly. Good dressing is a distinction; and it requires a careful regard to circumstances, to keep up one's appearance properly."
"What do you think about it, Rotha?" said Mr. Busby.
Rotha was startled, and flushed all over. To answer was not easy; and yet answer she must. "I think it is comfortable to be well dressed," she said.
"Well dressed! but there is the question. What do you mean by 'well dressed'? You see, Antoinette means by it simply, handsomer things than Mrs. Mac Jimpsey."
Antoinette pouted, much incensed at this speech and at the appeal to Rotha generally; and Mrs. Busby brought her lips into firmer compression; though neither spoke. Mr. Busby went on, rather kindly.
"What's the matter, that you didn't go to church to-day? Is Antoinette's bonnet handsomer than yours?"
"It ought to be, Mr. Busby," said the lady of the house here.
"Ought it? Rotha might put in a demurrer. May I ask why?"
"Circumstances are different, Mr. Busby. That is what I said. Proper dressing must keep a due regard to circumstances."
"Mine among the rest. Now I don't see why a bonnet fit for Antoinette's cousin isn't good enough for Antoinette; and the surplus money in my pocket."
"And you would have your daughter dress like a poor girl?"
"Couldn't do better, in my opinion. That's the way not to become one. Fetch me your bonnet, Rotha, and let us see what it is like."
Rotha coloured high and sat still. Indeed her aunt said, "Nonsense! do no such thing." But Mr. Busby repeated, "Fetch it, fetch it. We are talking in the abstract; I cannot convict anybody in the abstract."
"But it is Sunday, Mr. Busby."
"Well, my dear, what of that? The better day, the better deed. I am trying to bring you and Antoinette to a more Christian mind in respect of bonnets; that's good work for Sunday. Fetch your bonnet, Rotha."
"Do no such thing, Rotha," said her aunt. "Mr. Busby is playing; he does not mean his words to be taken literally. You would not send her up three pair of stairs to gratify your whim, when another time would do just as well?"
"My dear, I always mean my words to be taken literally. I do not understand your arts of rhetoric. I will send Rotha up stairs, if she will be so obliging as to gratify my whim."
He looked at Rotha as he spoke, and Rotha half rose from her seat; when Antoinette suddenly dashed past her, saying, "I will fetch it"--and ran off up stairs. Rotha sat down again, much confounded at this benevolence, and wondering what that was not benevolent might lie beneath it. Mrs. Busby pursed up her mouth and looked at nobody. Presently Antoinette came down again. In her hand she held a little grey plush hat, somewhat worn but very jaunty, with a long grey feather, curled round it. This hat she held out on the tips of her fingers for her father's inspection. Rotha's eyes grew large with astonishment. Mrs. Busby's lips twitched. Antoinette looked daring and mischievous. Mr. Busby innocently surveyed the grey plush and feather.
"So that is what you call a hat for a poor girl?" he said. "It seems to me, if I remember, that is very like one you used to wear, Nettie."
"Yes, papa, it is; but this is Rotha's."
"Mrs. Busby, was this your choice?"
"Yes, Mr. Busby."
"Then of course this is proper for Rotha. Now will you explain to me why it is not equally proper for Antoinette? But this is not what I should have called a hat for a poor girl, my dear."
"Mr. Busby, while Rotha lives with us, it is necessary to have a certain conformity--there cannot be _too_ much difference made."
"Hum--ha!" said the bewildered man. Rotha by this time had got her breath.
"That is not my hat however, Mr. Busby," she said, with cheeks on fire.
"Yes, it is your hat," said Antoinette. "Do you think I am saying what is not true? It is your hat, and nobody else's."
"It is _your_ hat. I have seen you wear it."
"I have given it to you. It is your hat."
"I don't take it," said Rotha. "Your things do not suit me, as your mother has just said. You may do what you like with it; but you do not give it to me!"
Mr. Busby looked from one to the other.
"Do you expect me to buy new everything for you?" Mrs. Busby asked now. "Is it not good enough? I suppose it is much better than any hat you ever had before in your life."
"But it is not mine," said Rotha. "It never was given to me. I never heard anything of it until now, when Antoinette fetched it because she did not want Mr. Busby to see what sort of a hat I really had. Thank you! I do not take it."
"But it is yours!" cried Antoinette. "I have given it to you. Do you think I would wear it, after giving it away?"
"If it was convenient, you would," said Rotha.
"You may lay your account with not having any hat, then, unless you wear this," said Mrs. Busby. "You may take your choice. If you receive Antoinette's kindness so, you must not look for mine."
"Your kindness, and hers, are the very strangest sort I ever heard of in my life," said Rotha.
"What am I to understand by all this?" asked the perplexed Mr. Busby, looking from the hat to the faces of the speakers.
"Only, that I never heard of that hat's being intended for me until this minute," said Rotha.
"Rotha," said her aunt quietly, "you may go up stairs."
"What did you bring it down for, Nettie?"
"Because you took an insane fancy to see Rotha's bonnet, papa; so I brought it."
"That is not true, Mr. Busby," Rotha said, standing up to go.
"It is not your hat?"
"No, sir."
"Mr. Busby, if you would listen to Antoinette's words," said his wife with her lips very compressed, "you would understand things. Rotha, I said you might go."
Which Rotha did, Antoinette at the same moment bursting into tears and flinging the hat on the dinner table.
What followed, Rotha did not know. She climbed the many stairs with a heavy heart. It was war to the knife now. She was sure her aunt would never forgive her. And, much worse, she did not see how she was ever to forgive her aunt. And yet--"if thy neighbour hath ought against thee"--. Rotha had far more against _her_, she excused herself, in vain. The one debt was not expunged by the other. And, bitter as her own grievances seemed to her, there was a score on the other side. Not so would Mr. Digby have received or returned injuries. Rotha knew it. And as fancy represented to her the quiet, manly, dignified sweetness which always characterized him, she did not like the retrospect of her own behaviour. So true it is, that "whatsoever doth make manifest is light." No discourse could have given Rotha so keen a sense of her own failings as that image of another's beautiful living. What was done could not be undone; but the worst was, Rotha was precisely in the mood to do it over again; so though sorry she was quite aware that she was not repentant.
It fo
llowed that the promises for which she longed and to which she was stretching out her hands, were out of reach. Clean out of reach. Rotha's heart was the scene of a struggle that took away all possibility of comfort or even of hope. She had no right to hope. "If thy hand offend thee, cut it off"--but Rotha was not so minded. The prospect was dark and miserable. How could she go on living in her aunt's house? and how could she live anywhere else? and how could she bear her loneliness? and how could she get to the favour of that one great Friend, whose smile is only upon them that are at least trying to do his commandments? It was dark in Rotha's soul, and stormy.
It continued so for days. In the house she was let alone, but so thoroughly that it amounted to domestic exile or outlawry. She was let alone. Not forbidden to take her place at the family table, or to eat her portion of the bread and the soup; but for all social or kindly relations, left to starve. Mr. Busby's mouth had been shut somehow; he was practically again a man of papers; and the other two hardly looked at Rotha or spoke to her. Antoinette and she sometimes went to school together and sometimes separate; it was rather more lonely when they went together. In school they hardly saw each other. So days went by.
CHAPTER XV.
MRS. MOWBRAY.
"How is that Carpenter girl doing?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired one day of Miss Blodgett, as they met in one of the passages.
"I have been wanting to speak to you about her, madame. She knows all I can teach her in that class."
"Does she! Her aunt told me she had had no advantages. Does she study?"
"I fancy she has no need to study much where she is. She has been further."
"How does she behave?"
"Perfectly well. She does not look to me happy."
"Not happy! Is her cousin kind to her? She is cousin to that pretty Busby, you know."
"I think she hardly speaks to her. Not here, I mean."
Mrs. Mowbray passed on. But that very afternoon, when school was breaking up, Miss Blodgett asked Rotha to wait a few minutes. The girls were all gone in a trice; Miss Blodgett herself followed; and Rotha was left alone. She waited a little while. Then the door opened and the figure which had such a fascination for her appeared. The face looked gentler and kinder than she had seen it before; this was not school time. Mrs. Mowbray came in and sat down by Rotha, after giving her her hand.
"Are you quite well, my dear?" was her instant question after the greeting. "You are hoarse."
Rotha said she had caught a little cold.
"How did you do that?"
"I think it was sitting in a cold room."
"Were you obliged to sit in a cold room?"
Rotha hesitated. "It was pleasanter there," she said with some embarrassment.
"You never should sit in a cold room. What did you want to be in a cold room for?"
Rotha hesitated again. "I wanted to be alone."
"Studying?"
"Not my lessons,"--said Rotha doubtfully.
"Not your lessons? If you and I were a little better acquainted, I should ask for a little more confidence. But I will not be unreasonable."
Rotha glanced again at the sweet face, so kindly now with all its penetrating acuteness and habit of authority; so sweet with its smile; and confidence sprang forth at the instant, together with the longing for help. Did not this look like a friend's face? Where else was she to find one? Reserve gave way.
"I was studying my duty," she said softly.
"Your duty, my dear? Was the difficulty about knowing it, or about doing it?"
"I think--about doing it."
"Is it difficult?"
"Yes," said Rotha from the bottom of her heart.
Mrs. Mowbray read the troubled brow, the ingenuous mouth, the oppressed manner; and her soul went forth in sympathy to her little perplexed human sister. But her next words were a departure, and in a different tone.
"You have never been to school before, your aunt tells me?"
"No, ma'am," said Rotha, disappointed somehow.
"Are you getting along pleasantly?"
"Not very pleasantly," Rotha allowed, after a pause.
"Does Miss Blodgett give you too hard work to do?"
"O no, ma'am!" Rotha said with a spark more of spirit. "I have not anything to do. I know it all already."
"You do! Where did you learn it?"
"Mother used to teach me--and then a friend used to teach me."
"What, my dear? It is important that I should know."
"Mother taught me history, and geography, and grammar, and little things. Then a gentleman taught me more history, and arithmetic, and algebra, and Latin, and natural history--"
"The gentleman was the friend you spoke of?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you like to study, Rotha?"
"O yes, ma'am! when it _is_ study, and I can understand it."
"I suppose your aunt did not know about all this home study?"
"She knew nothing about me," said Rotha.
"Then where has your home been, my dear?"
"Here,--for two years past. Before that, it was in the country."
Mrs. Mowbray was silent a bit.
"My dear, I think the first thing you should do should be, to take care of that cold. Will you?"
"I do not know how, ma'am," said Rotha, for the first time lifting her eyes with something like a smile to the lady's face.
"Does Mrs. Busby know that you have taken cold?"
"I do not know, ma'am."
"Will you take some medicine, if I give you some?"
"If you please, ma'am."
Mrs. Mowbray sent a servant for a certain box, and proceeded to choose out a vial which she gave to Rotha, instructing her how to use it.
"And then, some time when we know each other better," she went on, "perhaps you will tell me about that difficulty of duty, and let me see if I can help you."
"O thank you, ma'am!" was spoken so earnestly that Mrs. Mowbray saw the matter must be much on the young girl's heart.
That same evening did Mrs. Mowbray make a call on Mrs. Busby.
She came in with her gracious, sweet, dignified manner, which always put everybody upon his best behaviour in her presence; as gracious as if she had come for the sole pleasure of a talk with Mrs. Busby; as sweet as if she had had no other object in coming but to give her and her family pleasure. And so she talked. She talked public news and political questions with Mr. Busby, with full intelligence, but with admirable modesty; she bewitched him out of his silence and dryness into being social and conversible; she delighted him with his own unwonted performance. With Mrs. Busby she talked Antoinette, for whom she had at the same time brought a charming little book, which compliment flattered the whole family. She talked Antoinette and Antoinette's interests, but not Antoinette alone; with a blessed kind of grace she brought in among the other things relations and anecdotes the drift and bearing of which was away from vanity and toward soul health; stories which took her hearers for the moment at least out of the daily and the trivial and the common, into the lofty and the noble and the everlasting. Even Mr. Busby forgot his papers and cases and waked up to human interests and social gentleness; and even Mrs. Busby let the lines of her lips relax, and her eyes glistened with something warmer than a steely reflection. Antoinette bloomed with smiles. Rotha was not in the room.
And not till she was drawing up her fur around her, preparatory to departure, did Mrs. Mowbray refer to the fourth member of the family. Then she said,
"How is your niece, Mrs. Busby? Miss Carpenter?"
"Quite well," Mrs. Busby answered graciously. "I believe she is at her books."
"How does she like going to school?"
"I am afraid I can hardly say. Netta, how does Rotha enjoy her school life?"
"I don't know," said Antoinette. "She doesn't enjoy anything, I should say."
The tone of neither question nor answer escaped the watchful observation of the visiter.
>
"I think you said she had had no advantages?"
"None whatever, I should say; not what we would call advantages. I suppose she has learned a few common things."
"She is an orphan?"
Mrs. Busby assented. "Lost her mother last summer."
"I should like to have her more under my own eye than is possible as she is now; a mere day scholar. What do you say to letting her become a member of my family? Of course," added Mrs. Mowbray graciously, "I should not propose to you to charge yourself with any additional burden on her account. As she is an orphan, I should make no difference because of receiving her into my family. I have a professional ambition to gratify, and I like to be able to carry out my plans in every detail. I could do better for Antoinette, if you would let me have _her_ altogether; but I suppose that is not to be thought of."
Mrs. Busby wore an air of deliberation. Mr. Busby was understood to mutter something about "very handsome."
"Will you let me have Antoinette?" said the lady smiling. "I think it would do her no harm."
"Antoinette must content herself at home," Antoinette's mother replied. "I am accustomed to having her under my own wing."
"And that is a privilege you would not yield to any one else. I understand. Well, what do you say about Miss Carpenter?"
Mrs. Busby looked at her husband. Long experience enabled him to guess at what he was desired to say.
"My dear--since Mrs. Mowbray is so kind--it would be a great thing for Rotha the best thing that could happen to her--"
Mrs. Busby turned her eyes to her visiter.
"Since you are so good, Mrs. Mowbray--it is more than I could ask you to do--"
"I shall be very glad to do it. I am nothing if not professional, you know," Mrs.