pleasantness."
"And the Lord's service?"
"I do not see how that comes in."
"I must state another question, then. What are the uses for which the house is intended? what is to be done in it, or what ought to be done?"
"People are to be made comfortable in it; they must see their friends,--and do their work."
"Very well. What work?"
"I do not know. That depends, I suppose."
"But what work is set out in the Bible for every Christian house to do?"
"Mr. Southwode, I do not know. I do not seem to know much of what is in the Bible, at all!"
"After five months of study?" said he kindly. "Well, listen. The Bible bids us not be forgetful to entertain strangers."
"Strangers!"
"That is the word."
"And of course we are to entertain our friends?"
"That may safely be left to people's natural affection. But our _entertainments_ it bids us keep for the poor and the maimed and the lame and the blind; for people, in short, who can make us no return in kind."
"Does it!"
"Christ said so expressly."
"I remember he did," said Rotha thoughtfully. "But then--but then, Mr. Southwode,--in that case, people are all abroad!"
He was silent.
"But are we not to have society?"
"Undoubtedly, if we can get it."
"Then we must entertain them."
"According to Christ's rule."
"But then, especially if one is rich, people will say--"
"The question with me is, what the Master will say."
"People will not want to come to see you, will they, on those terms?"
"Those will who care to see _us_," said Mr. Southwode; "and I confess those are the only ones I care to see. The people who come merely for the entertainment can find that as well elsewhere."
"One thing is certain," said Rotha. "A house could not be furnished to suit both those styles of guests."
"Then the Bible bids us bring the poor that are cast out, to our houses."
"But that you cannot! Not always," said Rotha. "They are not fit for it."
"There is discretion to be observed, certainly. You would not invite a tramp into your drawing room. But I have known two instances, Rotha, in which a miserable and very degraded drunkard was saved to himself and to society, saved for time and eternity, just in that way; by being taken into a gentleman's house, and cared for and trusted and patiently borne with, until his reformation was complete. In those cases the individuals, it is true, had belonged to the respectable and educated classes of society; but at the time they were brought to the gutter."
"That is not easy work!" said Rotha shaking her head.
"Not when you think of Christ's 'Inasmuch'?"
Rotha was silent a while.
"Well!" she said at last, "I see now that the furnishing of a house has more meaning in it than ever I thought."
"You see, I hope also," Mr. Southwode said gently, "that your conditions of comfort and prettiness and pleasantness are not excluded?"
"I suppose not," said Rotha, thinking busily. "The house would do its work better, even its work among these people you have been speaking of,--far better, for being pretty and comfortable and pleasant. I see that. Refinement is not excluded, only luxury."
"Say, only _useless_ luxury."
"Yes, I see that," said Rotha.
"Then the Bible bids us use hospitality without grudging. That is, welcoming to the shelter and comfort of our houses any who at any time may need it. Tired people, homeless people, ailing people, poor people. So the house and the table must be always ready to receive and welcome new guests."
"I see it all, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, lifting her eyes to him.
"There is no finery at Southwode--I might say, nothing fine; there are some things valuable. But the house seems to me to want nothing that the most refined taste can desire. I think you will like it."
"I think I understand the whole scheme of life, as you put it," Rotha went on, shyly getting away from the personal to the abstract. "So far as things can be done, things enjoyed,--books and music and everything,--by a servant of Christ who is always doing his Master's work; so far as they would not hinder but help the work and him; so far you would use them, and there stop."
"Does such a life look to you burdened with restrictions?"
"They do not seem to me really restrictions," Rotha answered slowly. "Taking it altogether, such a life looks to me wide and generous and rich; and the common way poor and narrow."
"How should it be otherwise, when the one is the Lord's way, and the other man's? But people who have not tried do not know that."
"Of course not."
"They will not understand."
"I suppose they _cannot_."
"And the world generally does not like what it does not understand."
"I should think _that_ could be borne."
"You are not afraid, then?"
"No, indeed," said Rotha. "But I do not mean that I stand just where you do," she added soberly. "With my whole heart I think this is right and beautiful, and I am sure it is happy; and yet, you know,"--she went on colouring brightly, "I should like anything because you liked it; and that is not quite enough. But I will study the matter thoroughly now. I never thought of it before--not so."
There was frankness and dignity and modesty in her words and manner, enough to satisfy a difficult man; and Mr. Southwode was too much delighted to even touch this beautiful delicacy by shewing her that he liked it. He answered, with the words, "It is only to follow Christ fully"; and then there was silence. By and by however he began to allow himself some expression of his feelings in certain caresses to the fingers he still held clasped in his own.
"That you should be doing that to my hand!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode, what an extraordinary story it all is!"
"What do you mean?"
"Just think--just think. All this, the whole of it, has really come from my mother's shewing to a stranger precisely one of those bits of hospitality you have been speaking about. I wonder if she knows now? You remember how the words run,--'Full measure, pressed down, heaped up and running over, shall they give----'"
Rotha's eyes filled full, full; she was near losing her self-command.
"Do you forget there are two sides to it?" said Mr. Southwode, taking her in his arms very tenderly.
"It has all been on one side!" cried Rotha.
"Do you make nothing of my part?"
"Nothing at all!" said Rotha between crying and laughing. "You have given--given--given,--as you like to do; you have done nothing but give!"
"It is your turn now--" said he laughing.
Rotha was silent, thinking a great deal more than she chose to put into words.
CHAPTER XXXII.
END OF SCHOOL TERM.
That same evening, just when Mrs. Mowbray was set free from a lesson hour, and the library was left to her sole occupation, a gentleman and lady were announced. The next minute Rotha was in her arms. Whatever she felt, the girl's demeanour was very quiet; her reception, on the other hand, was little short of ecstatic. Then Mrs. Mowbray gave a gracious, if somewhat distant, greeting to Rotha's companion; and then looked, with an air of mystified expectancy, to see what was coming next.
"I have brought Miss Carpenter back to you, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode began.
"Where did you find her?"
"I found her at Tanfield."
"Tanfield!"--Mrs. Mowbray looked more and more puzzled.
"And now, I am going to ask you to take care of her, till next June."
"Till next June--" Mrs. Mowbray repeated.
"The school year ends then, does it not?"
"May I ask, what is to be done with her after next June?"
"I will take her into my own care."
"What does Mrs. Busby say to that?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired, still doubtful
and mystified.
"She says nothing," said Rotha. "She has nothing to say. She never had any right to say what I should do, except the right Mr. Southwode gave her." She felt a secret triumph in the knowledge that now at least Mrs. Mowbray would have to accept Mr. Southwode and make the best she could of him.
"Have you come from Mrs. Busby now?"
"No, madame; Mr. Southwode brought me straight here."
And then followed of course the story