MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
The next day being again warm, Mr. Digby did not come for Rotha till the
afternoon was far advanced. They took then one of the street cars, which
would bring them to the Park entrance. The way was long and the drive
slow. It was also silent, of necessity; and both parties had leisure for
thoughts, as well as material enough.
Rotha was at first divided between the pleasure of seeing things, and a
somewhat uneasy reflection upon her own appearance. She was not in
general a self-conscious child; very much the reverse; but to-day she was
with Mr. Digby, and she had an exalted idea of the requirements of
everything even remotely connected with him. She was going in his
company; under his charge; how did she look? She was not satisfied on
that point. Mr. Digby himself was always so nice and perfect in his
dress, she said to herself; she ought to be very nice to go with him.
Truly she had put on the best she had; a white cambrick frock; it was
clean and white; but Rotha had none but her everyday brown straw hat, and
she knew _that_ was not "smart"; and her dress, she pondered it as she
went along, she was sure it was very old-fashioned indeed. Certainly it
was not made like the dresses of other girls of her own age, whom she saw
in the car or on the sidewalk. Theirs were ruffled; hers was plain; theirs
generally stood out in an imposing manner; while her own clung in slim
folds around her slim little person. She concluded that she could not be
in any degree what Mrs. Marble called "stylish." The exact meaning of
that word indeed Rotha could not define; undefinedly she felt it to be
something vastly desirable. She decided in her own mind that Mr. Digby
was stylish; which it is true proved that the young girl had a nice
feeling for things; since the fact, which was undoubted, was entirely
unaccompanied by anything in matter or manner of wearing which could take
the vulgar eye. Would he dislike going in public, she wondered, with a
little figure like herself? She hoped not, she thought not; but thought
it with a curious independence, which I am afraid was really born of
pride though it took the semblance of good sense.
Gradually the interest of other figures made Rotha forget her own. They
came out from the poor part of the city where she dwelt; streets grew
wide and shops lofty and imposing; equipages drove along, outstripping
the slow-going car; and in them, what ladies, and what gentlemen, and
what little girls now and then! This was the wonderful New York, at which
she had now and then had a peep; this was something five hundred miles
removed from Jane Street. What sort of human beings were these? and what
sort of life did they live? and did money make all the difference, or was
there some more intrinsic and essential distinction between them and
their fellows in Abingdon Square? At any rate, how very, very much better
off they were!
Mr. Digby's musings had much less to do with the surface of things. I
doubt indeed if he saw ought that was before his eyes, all the way to the
Park. Not even Rotha herself; and yet she was the main subject of his
cogitations. He was feeling that his kindness to Mrs. Carpenter had
brought him into difficulties. The very occasion for this journey to the
Park was bad enough; so disagreeable in fact that he did not like to look
at it, and hardly had looked at it until now; he was going as a man goes
into battle; and a rain of bullets, he thought, would have been easier to
face. How he should accomplish his task he had as yet no idea. But
supposing it done; and supposing all the trouble past for which he had to
prepare Rotha; what then? What was he to do with the charge he had
assumed? He, a young man without a family, with no proper home in the
country of his abode, what was he to do with the care of a girl like
Rotha? how should he manage it? If she had been a little child it would
have been a more simple affair; but fourteen years old is not at all far
removed from seventeen, and eighteen. Where should _her_ home be? and her
future sphere of life? and where was the promised womanly protection
under which he was to place her? He gave a glance at the girl. She was
good material to work upon, that was one alleviation of his task; he had
had some practical proof of it, and now, more carefully than ever before,
he looked for the outward signs and tokens in feature and expression. And
as Rotha had once declared that Mr. Digby's eyes were handsome, he now
privately returned the compliment to hers. Yes, this child, who had an
awkward appearance as to her figure--he did not know then that the effect
was due to her dress--she had undoubtedly fine eyes. Poor complexion, he
said to himself after a second glance, but good eyes. And not merely in
shape and hue; they were full of speculation, full of thought, full of
the possibilities of passion and feeling. There was character in them;
and so there was in the well formed, well closed mouth. _There_ was
refinement too; the lines were not those of an uncultured, low-
conditioned nature; they were fine and beautiful. It had never occurred
to Mr. Digby before to think how Rotha promised to be in the matter of
looks; although he had many a time caught the gleam of intelligent fire
in the course of her recitations and his lesson giving, and once or twice
had seen that passion of one kind or another was at work. He read now
very plainly that his charge, to go back to the old philosophy of human
nature which reckoned man to be composed of the four elements, had a
great deal of the fire and the air in her composition, with little of the
heaviness of the earth, and as little as possible of the lymphatic
quality. It made his task the more interesting, and in so far lightened
it; but it made it at the same time vastly more difficult. Here was a
sensitive, quick, passionate, independent nature to deal with; how ever
should he deal with it? And how ever was he to execute his purpose to-
day? the purpose with which he had brought her, poor child, to this walk
in the Park. Was it not rather cruel, to begin a time of great pain with
a taste of exquisite pleasure? Mr. Digby hardly knew what he would do,
when he left the car with his charge and entered the Park.
They went in at the great Fifth Avenue entrance; and for a few minutes he
was engaged in piloting himself and her through the crowd of coming and
going carriages; but when they reached quiet going and a secure footpath,
he looked at her. It smote him. Such an expression of awakened delight
was in her face; such keen curiosity, such simplicity and fulness of
enjoyment. Rotha was at a self-conscious age, but she had forgotten
herself; two years old is not more free from self-recollection. They
walked along slowly, the girl reviewing everything in the lively show
before her; lips parting sometimes for a smile, but with no leisure for a
word. Her companion watched her. They walked on and on; turned now hither
and now thither; Rotha remained in a maze, only mechanically following
where she was led.
It was a fine afternoon, and all the world was out. Carriages, riders,
foot travellers; everywhere crowds of people. Where was Mr. Digby going
to make the communication he had come here to make? He doubted about it
now, but if he spoke, where should it be? Not in this crowd, where any
minute some acquaintance might see him and speak to him. With some
trouble he sought out a resting place for Rotha from whence she could
have a good view of one angle of a much travelled drive, and at the same
time both of them were in a sort hid away from observation. Here they sat
down; but if Rotha's feet might rest, her companion's mind was further
and further from any such point of comfort. They had exchanged hardly any
words since they set out; and now the difficulty of beginning what he had
to say seemed greater than ever. There was a long silence. Rotha broke
it; she did not know that it had been long.
"Mr. Digby--there are a great many things I do not understand."
"My case too, Rotha."
"Yes, but you understand a great many things that I don't."
"What is troubling you now, with a sense of ignorance?"
"I see in a great many carriages two gentlemen dressed just alike,
sitting together; they are on the back seat always, and they always have
their arms folded, just alike; what are they?"
"Not gentlemen, Rotha; they are footmen, or grooms."
"What's the difference?"
"Between footmen and grooms?"
"No, no; between a gentleman and a man that isn't a gentleman?"
"You asked me that once before, didn't you?"
"Yes; but I don't make it out."
"Why do you try?"
"Why Mr. Digby, I like to understand things."
"Quite right, too, Rotha. Well--the difference is more in the feelings
and manners than in anything else."
"Not in the dress?"
"Certainly not. Though it is not like a gentleman to be improperly
dressed."
"What is 'improperly dressed.'"
"Not nice and neat."
"Nice and neat--_clean_ and neat, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Then a gentleman may have poor clothes on?"
"Of course."
"Can anybody be _poor_ and be a gentleman?"
"Not _anybody_, but a gentleman may be poor, certainly, without ceasing
to be a gentleman."
"But if he was poor to begin with--could he be a gentleman then?"
"Yes, Rotha," said her friend smiling at her; "money has nothing to do
with the matter. Except only, that without money it is difficult for a
boy to be trained in the habits and education of a gentleman."
"Education?" said Rotha.
"Yes."
"You said, 'feeling and manners.'"
"Well, yes. But you can see for yourself, that without education it would
be hardly possible that manners should be exactly what they ought to be.
A gentleman should give to everybody just that sort of attention and
respect which is due; just the right words and the right tone and the
fitting manner; how can he, if he does not understand his own position in
the world and that of other people? and why the one and the other are
what they are."
"Then I don't see how poor people can be ladies and gentlemen," said
Rotha discontentedly.
"Being poor has nothing to do with it, except so far."
"But that's far enough, Mr. Digby."
He heard the disappointed ambition in the tone of the girl's words.
"Rotha," he said kindly, "whoever will follow the Bible rules of good
manners, will be sure to be right, as far as that goes."
"Can one follow them without being a Christian?"
"Well no, hardly. You see, the very root of them is love to one's
neighbour; and one cannot have that, truly and universally, without
loving Christ first."
"Then are all gentlemen Christians?"
The young man laughed a little at her pertinacity.
"What are you so much concerned about it, Rotha?"
"I was just thinking."--
And apparently she had a good deal of thinking to do; for she was quite
silent for some time. And Mr. Digby on his part went back to his problem,
how was he to tell Rotha what he had promised to tell her? From their
somewhat elevated and withdrawn position, the moving scene before them
was most bright and gay. An endless procession of equipages--beautiful
carriages, stately horses, pompous attendants, luxurious pleasure-takers;
one after another, and twos and threes following each other, a continuous
stream; carriages of all sorts, landaus, Victorias, clarences, phaetons,
barouches, close coaches, dog carts, carryalls, gigs, buggies. Now and
then a country affair, with occupants to match; now a plain wagon with a
family of children having a good time; now an old gentleman and his wife
taking a sober airing; then a couple of ladies half lost in the depths of
their cushions, and not having at all a good time, to judge by their
looks; and then a young man with nobody but himself and a pair of fast
trotting horses, which had, and needed, all his attention; and then a
whirl of the general thing, fine carriages, fine ladies, fine gentlemen,
fine servants and fine horses; in all varieties of combination. It was
very pretty; it was very gay; the young foliage of early summer was not
yet discouraged and dulled by the heat and the dust; the air was almost
country sweet, and flowers were brilliant in one of the plantations
within sight. How the world went by!--
Mr. Digby had half forgotten it and everything else, in his musings, when
he was aroused, and well nigh startled, by a question from Rotha.
"Mr. Digby--can I help my will?"
He looked down at her. "What do you mean, Rotha?"
"I mean, can I help my will? I asked mother one day, and she said I had
better ask you."
Rotha's eyes came up to his face with their query; and whatever it might
import, he saw that she was in earnest. Grave and intent the girl's fine
dark eyes were, and came up to his eyes with a kind of power of search.
"I do not think I understand you."
"Yes, you do. If I do not like something--do not want to be something--
can I help my will?"
"What do you not want to be?" said Mr. Digby, waiving this severe
question in mental philosophy.
"Must I tell you?"
"Not if you don't like; but I think it might help me to get at your
difficulty, and so to get at the answer you want."
"Mr. Digby, can a person want to do something, and yet not be willing?"
"Yes," said he, in growing surprise.
"Then, can he _help_ not being willing?"
"What is the case in hand, Rotha? I am wholly in the dark. I do not know
what you would be at."
To come nearer to the point was not Rotha's wish and had not been her
purpose; she hesitated. However, the subject was one which exercised her,
and the opportunity of discussing her difficulty with Mr. Digby was very
tempting. She hesitated, but she could not let the chance go.
"Mother wishes I would be a Christian," she said low and slowly. "And I
wish I could, to please her; but I do not want to. Can I help my will?
and I am not willing."
There was a mixture of defiance and desire in this speech which instantly
roused the somewhat careless attention of the young man beside her.
Anything that touched the decision of any mortal in the great question of
everlasting life, awoke his sympathies always to fullest exercise. It was
not his way, however, to shew what he felt; and he answered her with the
same deliberate calm as hitherto. Nobody would have guessed the quickened
pulses with which he spoke.
"Why do you not want to be a Christian, Rotha?"
"I do not know," she answered slowly. "I suppose, I want to be free."
"Go on a little bit, and tell me what you mean by being 'free.'"
"Why--I mean, I suppose,--I _know_ I mean, that I want to do what I like."
"You are taking the wrong way for that."
"Why, I could not do what I liked if I was a Christian, Mr. Digby?"
"A Christian, on the contrary, is the only person in this world, so far
as I know, who can do what he likes."
"Why, do you?" said Rotha, looking at him.
"Yes," said he smiling. "Always."
"But I thought--"
"You thought a Christian was a sort of a slave."
"Yes. Or a servant. A servant he is; and a servant is not free. He has
laws to mind."
"And you think, by refusing the service you get rid of the laws? That's a
mistake. The laws are over you and binding on you, just the same, whether
you accept them or not; and you have got to meet the consequences of not
obeying them. Did you never think of that?"
"But it is different if I _promised_ to obey them," said Rotha.
"How different?"
"If I promised, I must do it."
"If you do not promise you must take the consequences of not doing it.
You cannot get from under the law."
"But how can you do whatever you like, Mr. Digby?"
"There comes in your other mistake," said he. "I can, because I am free.
It is you who are the slave."
"I? How, Mr. Digby?"
"You said just now, you wished you could be a Christian, but you could
not. Are you free to do what you wish?"
"But can I help my will?"
The gentleman took out of his pocket a slim little New Testament which
always went about with him, and put it into Rotha's hands open at a
certain place, bidding her read.
"'Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in
my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth,
and the truth shall make you free.'"
Rotha stopped and looked up at her companion.
"Go on," he bade her; and she read further.
"'They answered him, We be Abraham's seed, and were never in bondage to
any man: how sayest thou, Ye shall be made free?
"'Jesus answered them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whosoever
committeth sin is the servant of sin. And the servant abideth not in the
house forever: but the Son abideth ever. If the Son therefore shall make
you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha looked at the words, after she had done reading.
"Mr. Digby," she said then again, "can I help my will?"
"No," said he, "for you are a poor bond-slave. But see what is written
there. What you cannot do, Christ can."
"Why don't he do it, then?" she said defiantly.
"You have not asked him, or wished him to do it."
"But why shouldn't he do it without my asking, or wishing, if he can?"
"It is not his way. He says, 'Ask, and ye shall receive'; but he promises
nothing to those who do not apply to him. And the application must be in
good earnest too, Rotha; not the form of the thing, but the truth.
'Blessed are they that _hunger and thirst_ after righteousness; for they
shall be filled.'"
"Then, if I asked him, could he change my will?"
"He says, he can make you free. It was one thing he came to do; to
deliver people from the bondage of sin and the power of Satan."
"The power of Satan!" said Rotha. "I am not under _his_ power!"
"Certainly you are. There are only two parties in the world; two
kingdoms; those who do not belong to the one, belong to the other."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, now much exercised, "I hate the devil as
much as you do."
"Don't help, Rotha. 'From the power of Satan to God,' is the turn people
take when they become Christians."
"What makes you think I am under his power?"
"Because I see you are not under the rule of Christ. And because I see
you are doing precisely what Satan would have you do."
"What?" said Rotha.
"Refusing the Lord Jesus Christ, or putting off accepting him."
Rotha was silent. Her breast was heaving, her breath coming thick and
short. Mr. Digby's conclusions were very disagreeable to her; but what
could she say?
"I can't help my will," she said doggedly.
"You see you are not honest with yourself. You have just learned that
there is a remedy for that difficulty."
"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, "how is it that you can do what you like?"
He smiled down at her, a pleasant, frank smile, which witnessed to the
truth of his words and wrought more with Rotha than the words themselves;
while the eyes that she admired rested on her with grave penetration.
"There is an old promise the Lord gave his people a great while ago; that
in the new covenant which he would make with them in Christ, he would
write all his laws in their hearts. He has done that for me."
"You mean--" said Rotha.
"Yes, go on, and say what you think I mean."
"You mean,--that what you like to do, is just what God likes you to do."
"And never anything else, Rotha," he said gravely.
"Well, Mr. Digby," said Rotha slowly, "after all, you have given up
yourself."
"And very glad to be rid of that personage."
"But I don't want to give up myself."
"I see."
And there followed a long silence. Mr. Digby did not wish to add anything
to his words, and Rotha could not to hers; and they both sat in
meditation, until the girl's lighter humour got away from the troublesome
subject altogether. Watching her, Mr. Digby saw the pleased play of
feature which testified to her being again absorbed in the scene before
her; her eye was alive, her lip moved with a coming and going smile.
"It amuses you, does it not?" he said.
"O yes!" Rotha exclaimed with a long breath. "I wish mother could see
it."
"She can," said Mr. Digby. "We will have a carriage and take her out. I
don't know why I never thought, of it before."
"A carriage? For mother? And bring her here?" said Rotha breathless.
"Yes, to-morrow, if the day is good. It will refresh her. And meanwhile,
Rotha, I am afraid we must leave this scene of enchantment."
Rotha had changed colour with excitement and delight; now she rose up
with another deep sigh.
"There are more people than ever," she remarked; "more carriages. Mr.
Digby, I should think they would be perfectly happy?"
"What makes you think they are not?" said he amused.
"They don't look so."
"They are accustomed to it. They come every day or two."
"Does that make it less pleasant?"
"It takes off the novelty, you know. Most pleasures are less pleasant
when the novelty is gone."
"Why?"
Mr. Digby smiled again. "You never found it so?" he said.
"No. I remember when we were at Medwayville, everything I liked to do, I
liked it more the more I did it."
"You are of a happy temperament. What did you use to like to do there?"
"O a load of things!" said Rotha sighing. "I liked our old dog, and my
kittens; and riding about; and I liked very much going to the hay field
and getting into the cart with father and riding home. And then--"
But Rotha's words stopped suddenly, and her companion looking down at her
saw that her eyes were brimming full of tears, and her face flushed with
the emotion which almost mastered her. A little kind pressure of the hand
he held was all the answer he made; and then they made their way through
the crowd and got into the cars to go home.
He had not discharged his commission; how could he? Things had taken a
turn which made it almost impossible. It must be done another day. Poor
child! The young man's mind was filled with sympathy and compassion, as
he looked at Rotha sitting beside him and noted how her aspect had
changed and brightened; just with this afternoon's pleasure and the new
thoughts and mental stir and hope to which it had given rise. Poor child!
what lay before her, that she dreamed not of, yet must face and meet
inevitably. That in the near future; and beyond--what? No friend but
himself in all the world; and how was he to take care of her? The young
man felt a little pity for himself by the way. Truly, a girl of this
sort, brimfull of mental capacity and emotional sensitiveness, was a
troublesome legacy for a young man situated as he was. However, his own
trouble got not much regard on the present occasion; for his heart was
burdened with the sorrow and the tribulation coming upon these two, the
mother and daughter. And these were but two, in a world full of the like
and of far worse. He remembered how once, in the sight of the tears and
sorrowing hearts around him and in view of the great flood of human
miseries of which they were but instances and reminders, "Jesus wept;"
and the heart of his servant melted in like compassion. But he shewed
none of it, when he came with Rotha into her mother's presence again; he
was calm and composed as always.
"Mrs. Carpenter," he said, as he found himself for a moment alone with
her, Rotha having run off to change her dress,--"you did not tell me your
sister's name. I think I ought to know it."
"Her name?" said Mrs. Carpenter starting and hesitating. What did he want
to know her sister's name for? But Mr. Digby did not look as if he cared
about knowing it; he had asked the question indifferently, and his face
of careless calm reassured her. She answered him at last.
"Her name is Busby."
It was characteristic of Mr. Digby that his features revealed no
quickening of interest at this; for he was acquainted with a Mrs. Busby,
who was also the wife of a lawyer in the city. But he shewed neither
surprise nor curiosity; he merely said in the same unconcerned manner and
tone,
"There may be more Mrs. Busby's than one. What is her husband's name?"
"I forget--It begins with 'A.' I know; but I can't think of it. I can
think of nothing but the name of that old New York baker they used to
speak of--Arcularius."
"Will Archibald do?"
"That is it!"
Mr. Digby could hardly believe his ears. Mrs. Archibald Busby was very
well known to him, and he was a welcome and tolerably frequent visiter at
her house. Was it possible? he thought; was it possible? Could that woman
be the sister of this? and such a sister? Nothing in her or in her house
that he had seen, looked like it. He made neither remark nor suggestion
however, but took quiet leave, after his wont, and went away; after
arranging that a carriage should come the next day to take Mrs. Carpenter
to the Park.