to take the tea to them?"
Rotha answered, most sincerely, that she would like to go anywhere with Mrs. Mowbray.
"They think all the world of tea, those poor old women; and they do not get it very good. The tea for them all is brewed in a great kettle and sweetened with molasses, without taking any account of differences of taste," Mrs. Mowbray added laughing; "and many of these old people know what is good as well as I do; and this common tea is dreadful to them. So at Christmas I always carry them a half pound of tea apiece and a pound of loaf sugar; and you have no idea how much they look forward to it."
"Half a pound of tea will last quite a good while," said Rotha.
"How do you know, my dear?"
"I used to get half a pound at a time for mother, and then I used to make it for her always; so I know it will do for a long time, if one is careful."
"So you have been a housekeeper!"
"Not much.--I used to do things for mother."
"Mrs. Busby is her sister?"
"Yes, ma'am; but not like her. O not a bit like her."
"Where was Mrs. Busby in those days?"
"Here. Just where she is now."
"Did she never come to see you?"
"She did not know where we were. Mother never let her know."
"Do you know why not, my dear?"
"She had been so unkind--" Rotha answered in a low voice.
Mrs. Mowbray thought to herself that probably there had been fault on both sides.
"You must try and forget all that, my dear, if there were old grievances. It is best to forgive and forget, and Christmas is a capital time to do it. I never dare think of a grudge against anybody at Christmas. And your aunt seems disposed to be kind to you now."
"No, ma'am, I do not think she does."
"Don't you!"
"No, ma'am. I do not"
"Why, my dear, you must not bear malice."
"What is 'malice'?"
"Well,--ill-will."
"Ill-will--I do not think I wish any harm to her," said Rotha slowly; "but I do not forgive her."
"What do you want to do to her?"
"I do not know. I should like to make her feel ashamed of herself--if I knew how."
"I do not think that lies in your power, my dear; and I would not try. That is a sort of revenge-taking; and all sorts of revenge-taking are forbidden to us. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."
"I do not mean vengeance," said Rotha. "I mean, just punishment--a little bit."
"That is the meaning of the word 'vengeance' in that place;--just punishment; but in your heart, Rotha, it is revenge. Put it away, my dear. It is not the spirit of Christ. You must forgive, if you would be forgiven."
"I do not know how," said Rotha, low and steadily.
"See how Jesus did. When they were nailing him to the cross, he said, 'Father, forgive them.'"
"Yes, but he said too, Mrs. Mowbray,--'they know not what they do.'"
"My dear, nobody knows the evil he does. That does not excuse the evil, but it helps your charity for the sinner. Nobody knows the evil he does. I suppose Mrs. Busby has no notion how much she has hurt you."
Rotha thought, her aunt had as little _care;_ but she did not say it. She was silent a minute, and then asked if the poor people at the Old Coloured Home were all women?
"O no!" Mrs. Mowbray answered. "There are a great many men. I give _them_ a pound of tobacco each; but I prefer not to take that in the carriage with me. It is all up there now, I suppose, waiting for me and to-morrow."
With which the carriage stopped again.
Here it was a bookstore; a large and beautiful one. The light was brilliant; and on every counter and table lay spread about such treasures of printing, engraving, and the book-binder's art, as Rotha had never seen gathered together before. Mrs. Mowbray told her to amuse herself with looking at the books and pictures, while she attended to the business that brought her here; and so began a wonderful hour for Rotha. O the books! O the pictures! what pages of interest! what leaves of beauty! Her eyes were drunk with delight. From one thing to another, with careful fingers and dainty touch she went exploring; sometimes getting caught in the interest of an open page of letterpress, sometimes hanging over an engraving with wondering admiration and sympathy. It seemed any length of time, it was really not more than three quarters of an hour, when Mrs. Mowbray approached her again, having got through her errands. With cheeks red and eyes intent, Rotha was bending over something, the sense of hearing for the present gone into abeyance; Mrs. Mowbray was obliged to touch her. She smiled at Rotha's start.
"What had you there, my dear?"
"All sorts of things, Mrs. Mowbray! Just that minute, I was looking at an atlas."
"An atlas!"
"Yes, the most perfect I ever saw. O beautiful, and with so many things told and taught in it. A delightful atlas! And then, I was looking at the illustrations in the 'Arabian Nights'--I think that was the name."
"You never read it?"
"O no, ma'am. I never had many books to read;--until now."
"Are you reading anything now, in course?"
"I haven't much time, there is so much history to read. But I have begun 'Waverley.'"
"Do you like it?"
"O, a great deal more than I can tell!"
"Do not let it draw you away from your studies."
"No, ma'am. There is no danger," said Rotha joyously.
Mrs. Mowbray did not speak again till the carriage stopped at Stewart's. It was the first time Rotha had ever been inside of those white walls; and this visit finished the bewitchment of the evening. At first the size of the place and the numbers of people busy there engrossed her attention; nor did either thing cease to be a wonder; but by degrees one grows accustomed even to wonders. By degrees Rotha was able to look at what was on the counters, as well as what was before them; for a while she had followed Mrs. Mowbray without seeing what that lady was doing. Mrs. Mowbray had a good deal of business on hand. When Rotha began to attend to it, the two had come into the rotunda room and were standing at the great glove counter. Between what was going on there, and what was doing at the silk counters around her, Rotha was fully engaged, and was only recalled to herself by Mrs. Mowbray's voice asking,
"What is your number, Rotha?"
"Ma'am?" said the girl "I did not understand--"
"What is the number of the size of glove you wear?"
"I do not know, ma'am--O, I remember! six and a half."
"Six and a half," Mrs. Mowbray repeated to the shopman; and then proceeded to pull out pairs of gloves from the packages handed her. "There's a dark green, my dear; that is near the shade of your cloak. There is a good colour" throwing down upon the green a dark grey; and a brown followed the green. "Now we want some lighter--do you like that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
More than the mere affirmative Rotha could not say; she looked on bewildered and confounded, as a pair of pearl grey gloves was laid upon the green, the dark, and the brown, and then came a tan-coloured pair, and then a soft ashes of roses. Half a dozen pair of kid gloves! Rotha had never even contemplated such profusion. She received the little packet with only a half-uttered, low, suppressed word of thanks. Then the two wandered away from that room, and found themselves among holiday varieties. Here Rotha was dazzled. Not indeed by glitter; but by the combinations of use and beauty that met her eyes, look where they would. Mrs. Mowbray was making purchases, Rotha did not know of what, it did not concern her; and she was never tempted by vulgar curiosity. She indulged her eyes with looking at everything else. What fans, and dressing boxes and work boxes, and fancy baskets, and hand mirrors, and combs and brushes, and vials of perfumes, and writing cases, and cigar cases, and Japan ware, and little clocks, and standishes, and glove boxes, and papetries, and desks, and jewel cases----
"Have you a handbag for travelling, Rotha?"
The question made her start.
"No, ma'am. I n
ever go travelling."
"You will, some time. How do you like that? Think it is too large?"
Rotha was speechless. Could Mrs. Mowbray remember that she had given her half a dozen pair of gloves that evening already?
"I always like a handbag that will carry something," Mrs. Mowbray went on. "You want room for a book, and room for writing materials; you should always have writing materials in your hand-bag, and stamps, and everything necessary. You never know what you may want in a hurry. I think that is about right; do you?"
"That" was a beautiful brown bag of Russia leather, sweet with the pungent sweetness of birch bark, or of the peculiar process of curing with such bark; and with nickel plated lock and bolts. Rotha flushed high; to speak she was incompetent just then.
"I think it will do then," said Mrs. Mowbray, herself in a high state of holiday glee; preparing, as she was, pleasure for a vast number of persons, rich and poor, young and old; she was running over with a sort of angel's pleasure in giving comfort or making glad. In Rotha's case she was doing both.
"Don't you want to take it home with you, my dear?" she went on. "There will be so many things to send from the store to-night that they will never get to their destination; and I always like to make sure of a thing when I have got it. Though you rarely make a mistake here," she added graciously to the foreman who was waiting upon her.
Rotha took the bag, without a word, for she had not a thing to say; and she dropped her package of gloves into it, for safe keeping and easy transportation. Talk of riches! The thing is comparative. I question if there was a millionaire's wife in the city that night who felt as supremely rich as did Rotha with her bag and her gloves. She tried to say a word of thanks to her kind friend when she got home; but Mrs. Mowbray stopped her.
"Go to bed, my dear," she said, with a kiss, "and don't forget to hang up your stocking. Are you comfortable up there?"
"Yes, ma'am--O yes!" Rotha answered as she went up the stairs.
Comfortable! She was alone in her room, all her roommates having gone somewhere for the holidays; the whole house was warm; and Rotha shut her door, and set her bag on a table, and sat down and looked at it; with her heart growing big. Hang up her stocking! She! Had she not had Christmas enough already?
It all worked oddly with Rotha. To the majority of natures, great pleasure is found to work adversely to the entertaining of serious thoughts or encouraging religious impressions. With her, grief seemed to muddle all her spiritual condition, and joy cleared it up. She sat looking at her treasures, looking mentally at the wonderful good things that surrounded her, contrasted with her previous unhappiness; and the whole generous truth of her nature was aroused. She ought to be such a good girl! And by "goodness" Rotha did not mean an orderly getting of her lessons. Conscience went a great deal further, enlightened by the examples she had known of what was really good. Yes, her mother would have forgiven her aunt; and Mr. Digby would never have been ill-mannerly to her; and supposing him for once to be in such a condition of wrong, he would go straight forward, she knew, to make amends, own the fault and ask pardon. Further than that; for on both their parts such feeling and action would have been but the outcome of their habitual lowly and loving obedience to God. That she ought to be like them, Rotha knew; and tears of sorrow rushed to her eyes to think she was not. "The goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance," was the thought working in her; although she did not clothe it in the Bible words.
What hindered?
"My ugly temper," said Rotha to herself; "my wickedness and badness."
What help?
Yes, there was help, she knew, she believed. She brought her Bible and turned to the marked passages, brushing away the tears that she might see to read them. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them--" Well, said Rotha, I will keep them from this time on.--Forgive and all? said something in her heart. _Yes_, forgive and all. I will forgive!--But you cannot?--Then I will ask help.
And she did. Earnestly, tearfully, ardently, for a long time. She felt as if her heart were a stone. She had to go to bed at last, feeling no better. But that she would be a true servant of God, Rotha was determined.
So came Christmas morning on; clear, cold, bright and still. Rotha awaked at the bell summons. Her first thought was of last night's determination, to which she held fast; the next thought was, that it was Christmas day, and she must look at her gloves and Russia leather bag. She sprang up, and had half dressed herself before she remarked, lying on the empty bed opposite her own, some peculiar-looking packages done up as usual in brown paper. They must belong to Mrs. Mowbray and have got there by mistake, she thought; and she went over to verify her supposition. No, to her enormous surprise she saw her own name.
More Christmas things! Rotha hurried her dressing; she dared not stop to open anything till that was done; and then an inner voice said, You will not have much time for your prayers. Her heart beating, she turned away and knelt down. And she would not cut short her prayers, either. She besought help to forgive; she asked earnestly to be made "a new creature"; for the old creature, she felt, would never forgive, to the end of time. She rose then, brushing the moisture from her eyes, and went over to look at those mysterious packages. One was light, square, and shallow; the other evidently a book, and heavy. She opened the lesser package first. Behold, a dozen cambrick handkerchiefs, and upon them a little bright blue silk neck tie. Rotha needed those articles very much; she was ready to scream for joy. The other package now; hands trembling unfolded it. Brown paper, silk paper,--and one of Bagster's octavo Bibles with limp covers was revealed. Rotha was an ardent lover of the beautiful and the perfect; her own Bible was an old volume, much worn by handling, bearing the marks of two generations' use and wear; this was the perfection of a book in every respect. Rotha was struck dumb and still, and nothing but tears could give due vent to her feelings; they were tears of great joy, of repentance, of new purpose, and of very conscious inability to do anything of herself that would be good. She had sunk on her knees to let those tears have the accompaniment of prayer; she rose up again and clasped the Bible in her arms, in heartiest love to it.
Breakfast was late that morning, and she had time for examining her gifts and for getting a little composed before she had to go down stairs. She went then quite sedately to all appearance. It was to her as if the world had turned round two or three times since last night; other people, however, she observed, had not at all lost their heads and were very much as usual; except that they were dressed for going to church, and had the pleasant freedom of holiday times in their looks and manner. Only Mrs. Mowbray was really festive. She was sparkling with spirits, and smiling with the joy of doing kindness, past and future. Rotha sat next her at the table; and there was a gleam of amusement and intelligence in her eye as she asked her, over her coffee cup, whether Santa Claus had come down her chimney? She gave Rotha no time to answer, but ran on with a question to some one else; only a few minutes after, as she put a chop upon Rotha's plate, gave her a look full of affectionate kindness which said that she understood all and no words were necessary.
It was time to go to church when breakfast and prayers were over. Immediately after church, Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha took a carriage and drove out to the Old Coloured Home; all the packages of tea and sugar going along; as also a perfect stack of sponge cakes. Arrived at the place, Mrs. Mowbray's first demand was to know whether "the milk" had been delivered, and where "the tobacco" was. Then followed a scene, a succession of scenes rather, that could never be forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray went all through the rooms, dealing out to each poor creature among the women a half pound package of tea, a pound of sugar, a half pint of milk, and a sizeable sponge cake.
"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