EDUCATION.
"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, the last day of December, "would you like
to have the little end room?"
Rotha looked up. "Where Miss Jewett sleeps?"
"That room. I am going to place Miss Jewett differently. Would you like
to have it?"
"For myself?"--Rotha's eyes brightened.
"It is only big enough for one. You may have it, if you like. And move
your things into it to-day, my dear. The young ladies who live in this
room will be coming back the day after to-morrow."
With indescribable joy Rotha obeyed this command. The room in question
was one cut off from the end of a narrow hall; very small accordingly;
there was just space for a narrow bed, a wardrobe, a little washstand, a
small dressing table with drawers, and one chair. But it was privacy and
leisure; and Rotha moved her clothes and books and took possession that
very day. Mrs. Mowbray looked in, just as she had finished her
arrangements.
"Are you going to be comfortable here?" she said. "My dear, I thought, in
that other room you would have no chance to study your Bible."
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! I am so delighted."
"There is a rule in Miss Manners' school at Meriden, that at the ringing
of a bell, morning and evening, each young lady should go to her room to
be alone with her Bible for twenty minutes. The house is so arranged that
every one can be alone at that time. It is a good rule. I wish I could
establish it here; but it would do more harm than it would good in my
family. My dear, your aunt has sent word that she wishes to see you."
Rotha's colour suddenly started. "I suppose I know what that means!" she
said.
"The stockings?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What are you going to do?"
"O I am going to take them."
"And, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, kissing Rotha, "pray for grace to do
it _pleasantly_."
Yes, that was something needed, Rotha felt as she went through the
streets. Her heart was a little bitter.
She found her aunt's house in a state of preparation; covers off the
drawing-room furniture, greens disposed about the walls, servants busy.
Mrs. Busby was in her dressing-room; and there too, on the sofa, in mere
wantonness of idleness, for she was not sick, lay Antoinette; a somewhat
striking figure, in a dress of white silk, and looking very pretty
indeed. Also looking as if she knew it.
"Good morning, Rotha!" she cried. "This is the dress I am to wear to-
morrow. I'm trying it on."
"She's very ridiculous," Mrs. Busby remarked, in a smiling tone of
complacency.
"What is to be to-morrow?" Rotha inquired pleasantly. The question
brought Antoinette up to a sitting posture.
"Why don't you know?" she said. "_Don't_ you know? Mamma, is it possible
anybody of Rotha's size shouldn't know what day New Year's is?"
"New Year's! O yes, I remember; people make visits, don't they?"
"Gentlemen; and ladies receive visits. It is the greatest day of all the
year, if you have visitors enough. And I eat supper all day long. We have
a supper table set, and hot oysters, and ice cream, and coffee, and cake;
and I never want any dinner when it comes."
"That is a very foolish way," said her mother. "Did you bring the
stockings, Rotha?"
Silently, she could not say anything "pleasantly" at the moment, Rotha
delivered her package of stockings neatly put up. Mrs. Busby opened and
examined, Antoinette running up to look too.
"Mamma! how ridiculously nice!" she exclaimed. "You never gave me any as
good as those."
"No, I should hope not," said her mother. "Here are eleven pair, Rotha."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Were there not twelve?"
"Yes, ma'am. The other pair I have on."
"They are a great deal too thin for this time of year. Here are some
thicker I have got for you. Sit down and put a pair of these on, and let
me have those."
Every fibre of her nature rebelling, Rotha sat down to unbutton her boot.
It was hard to keep silence, to speak "pleasantly" impossible. Tears were
near. Rotha bent over her boot and prayed for help. And then the thought
came, fragrant and sweet,--I am the servant of Christ; this is an
opportunity to obey and please _him_.
And with that she was content. She put on the coarse stockings, which
felt extremely uncomfortable. But then she could not get her boot on. She
tugged at it in vain.
"It is no use," she said at last. "It will not go on, aunt Serena. I
cannot wear my boots with these stockings."
"The boots must be too small," said Mrs. Busby. She came herself, and
pushed and pinched and pulled at the boot. It would not go on.
"What do you get such tight-fitting boots for?" she said, sitting back on
the floor, quite red in the face.
"They are not tight; they fit me perfectly."
"They won't go on!"
"That is the stockings."
"Nonsense! The stockings are proper; the boots are improper. What did you
pay for them?"
"I did not get them."
"What did they cost, then? I suppose you know."
"Six and a half."
"I can get you for three and a half what will do perfectly," said Mrs.
Busby, rising up from the floor. But she sat down, and did not fetch any
boots, as Rotha half expected she would.
"What are you going to do to-morrow, Rotha?" her cousin asked.
"I don't know. What I do every day, I suppose," Rotha answered, trying to
make her voice clear.
"What is Mrs. Mowbray going to do?"
"I do not know."
"I wonder if she receives? Mamma, do you fancy many people would call on
Mrs. Mowbray?"
"Why not?" Rotha could not help asking.
"O, because she is a school teacher, you know. Mamma, do you think there
would?"
"I dare say. Your father will go, I have no doubt."
"O, because she teaches me. And other fathers will go, I suppose. What a
stupid time they will have!"
"Who?" said Rotha.
"All of you together. I am glad I'm not there."
"I shall not be there either. I shall be up stairs in my room."
"Looking at your Russia leather bag. Why didn't you bring it for us to
see? But your room means three or four other people's room, don't it?"
It was on Rotha's lips to say that she had a room to herself; she shut
them and did not say it. A sense of fun began to mingle with her inward
anger. Here she was in her stockings, unable to get her feet into her
boots.
"How am I to get home, ma'am?" she asked as demurely as she could.
"Antoinette, haven't you a pair of old boots or shoes, that Rotha could
get home in?"
"What should I do when I got there? I could not wear old boots about the
house. Mrs. Mowbray would not like it."
"Nettie, do you hear me?" Mrs. Busby said sharply. "Get something of
yours to put on Rotha's feet."
"If she can't wear her own, she couldn't wear mine--" said Miss Nettie,
unwilling to furnish positive evidence that her foot was larger than her
cousin's. Her mother insisted however, and the boots were brought. They
went on easily enough.
"But these would never do to walk in," objected Rotha. "My feet feel as
if each one had a whole barn to itself. Look, aunt Serena. And I could
not go to the parlour in them."
"I don't see but you'll have to, if you can't get your own on. You'll
have worse things than that to do before you die. I wouldn't be a baby,
and cry about it."
For Rotha's lips were trembling and her eyes were suddenly full. Her neat
feet transformed into untidy, shovelling things like these! and her
quick, clean gait to be exchanged for a boggling and clumping along as if
her feet were in loose boxes. It was a token how earnest and true was
Rotha's beginning obedience of service, that she stooped down and laced
the boots up, without saying another word, though tears of mortification
fell on the carpet. She was saying to herself, "If it be possible, as
much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." She rose up and made
her adieux, as briefly as she could.
"Are you not going to thank me?" said Mrs. Busby. A dangerous flash came
from Rotha's eyes.
"For what, aunt Serena?"
"For the trouble I have taken for you, not to speak of the expense."
Rotha was silent, biting in her words, as it were.
"Why don't you speak? You can at least be civil."
"I don't know if I can," said Rotha. "It is difficult. I think my best
way of being civil is to hold my tongue. I must go--Good bye, ma'am!--"
and she staid for no more, but ran out and down the stairs. She paused as
she passed the open parlour door, paused on the stairs, and then went on
and took the trouble to go a few steps back through the hall to get the
interior view more perfectly. The grate was heaped full of coals in a
state of vivid glow, the red warm reflections came from, crimson carpet
and polished rosewood and gilding of curtain ornaments. Antoinette's
piano gave back the shimmer, and the thick rug before the hearth looked
like a nest of comfort. So did the whole room. A feeling of the security
and blessedness of a home came over Rotha. This was home to Antoinette.
It was not home to herself, nor was any other place in all the earth. Not
Mrs. Mowbray's kind house; it was kind, but it was not _home;_ and a keen
wish crept into the girl's heart. To have a home somewhere! Would the
time ever be? Must she perhaps, as her aunt foretold, be a houseless
wanderer, teaching in other people's homes, and having none? Rotha looked
and ran away; and as her feet went painfully clumping along the streets
in Antoinette's big boots, some tears of forlornness dropped on the
pavement. They were hot and bitter.
But I am a servant of Christ--thought Rotha,--I _am_ a servant of Christ;
I have been fighting to obey him this afternoon, and he has helped me. He
will be with me, at any rate; and he can take care of my home and give it
me, if he pleases. I needn't worry. I'll just let him take care.
So with that the tears dried again, and Rotha entered Mrs. Mowbray's
house more light-hearted than she had left it. She took off her
wrappings, and sought Mrs. Mowbray out.
"Madame," she said, looking at her feet, "I wanted you to know, that if I
do not look nice as I should, it is not my fault."
Mrs. Mowbray's eyes likewise went to the boots, and staid there. She had
a little struggle with herself, not to speak what she felt.
"What is the matter, Rotha?"
"You see, Mrs. Mowbray. My boots would not go on over the thick
stockings; so I have had to put on a pair of Antoinette's boots. So if I
walk queerly, I want you to know I cannot help it."
"You have more stockings than that pair, I suppose?"
"Yes, ma'am; enough to last a good while."
"Let me see them."
Mrs. Mowbray examined the thick web.
"Did you and your aunt have a fight over these?"
"No, madame," said Rotha softly.
"How was it then? You put them on quietly, and without remonstrance?"
"Not exactly without remonstrance. But I didn't say much. I did not trust
myself to say much. I knew I should say too much."
"What made you fear that?"
"I was so angry, ma'am."
There came some tears again, dropping from Rotha's eyes. Mrs. Mowbray
drew her down with a sudden movement, into her arms, and kissed her over
and over again.
"My dear," she said with a merry change of tone, "thick stockings are not
the worst things in the world!"
"No, ma'am."
"You don't think so."
"No, ma'am."
"It will be a good check to your vanity, eh?"
"Am I vain, Mrs. Mowbray?"
"I don't know! most people are. Isn't it vanity, that makes you dislike
to see your feet in shoes too large for them?"
"Is it?" said Rotha. "But it is right to like to look nice, Mrs. Mowbray,
is it not?"
"It is right to like to see everything look nice, therefore of course
oneself included."
"Then that is not vanity."
"No,--but vanity is near. It all depends on what you want to look nice
for."
Rotha looked an inquiry.
"What _do_ you want to look nice for?" Mrs. Mowbray asked smiling.
"I suppose," Rotha said slowly, "one likes to have people like one."
"And you think the question of dress has to do with that?"
"Yes, ma'am, I do."
"Well, so do I. But then--_why_ do you want people to like you? What
for?"
"One cannot help it," said Rotha, her eyes opening a little at these
self-evident questions.
"Perhaps that is true. However, Rotha, there are two reasons for it and
lying back of the wish; one is one's own pleasure or advantage simply.
The other is--the honour and service of God."
"How, ma'am? I do not see."
"Just using dress like everything else, as--a means of influence. I knew
a lady who told me that since she was a child, she had never dressed
herself that she did not do it for Christ."
Rotha was silent and pondered. "Mrs. Mowbray, I think that is beautiful,"
she said then.
"So do I, my dear."
"But that would not make me like these boots any better."
"No," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "Naturally. But I think nevertheless,
in the circumstances, it would be better for you to wear them, at least
during some of this winter weather, than to discard them and put on
others. You shall judge yourself. What would be the effect, if, being
known to have plenty of shoes and stockings to cover your feet, you cast
them aside, and I procured you others, better looking?"
"O you could not do that!" cried Rotha.
"If I followed my inclinations, I should do it But what would the
effect be?"
Rotha considered. "I suppose,--I should be called very proud; and you,
madame, very extravagant, and partial."
"Not a desirable effect."
"No, madame. O no! I must wear these things." Rotha sighed.
"Especially as we are both called Christians."
"Yes, madame. There are a good many right things that are hard to do,
Mrs. Mowbray!"
"Else there would be no taking up the cross. But we ought to welcome any
occasion of honouring our profession, even if it be a cross."
Rotha went away much comforted. Yet the clumsy foot gear remained a
constant discomfort to her, every time she put them on and every time she
felt the heavy clump they gave to her gait. Happily, she had no leisure
to dwell on these things.
The holidays were ended, and the girls came trooping back from their
various homes or places of pleasure. They came, as usual, somewhat
disorganized by idleness and license. Study went hard, and discipline
seemed unbearable; tempers were in an uncertain and irritable state.
Rotha hugged herself that she had her own little corner room, in which
she could be quite private and removed from all share in the dissensions
and murmurings, which she knew abounded elsewhere. It was a very little
room; but it held her and her books and her modest wardrobe too; and
Rotha bent herself to her studies with great ardour and delight. She knew
she was not popular among the girls; the very fact of her having a room
to herself would almost have accounted for that; "there was no reason on
earth why she should have it," as one of them said; and Mrs. Mowbray was
accused of favouritism. Furthermore, Rotha was declared to be "nobody,"
and known to be poor; there was no advantage to be gained by being her
adherent; and the world goes by advantage. Added to all which, she was
distancing in her studies all the girls near her own age, and becoming
known as the cleverest one in the house. No wonder Rotha had looks
askance and frequently the cold shoulder. Her temperament, however, made
her half unconscious of this, and when conscious, comfortably
independent. She was one of those natures which live a concentrated life;
loving deeply and seeking eagerly the good opinion of a few; to all the
rest of the world careless and superior. She was polite and pleasant in
her manners, which was easy, she was so happy; but she was hardly winning
or ingratiating; too independent; and too outspoken.
The rule was that at the ringing of a bell in the morning all the girls
should rise; and at the ringing of a second bell everybody should repair
to the parlours for prayers and reading the Bible. The interval between
the two bells was amply sufficient to allow the most fastidious dresser
to make her toilette. But the hour was early; and the rousing bell an
object of great detestation; also, it may be said, the half hour given to
the Scriptures and prayer was a weariness if not to the flesh to the
spirit, of many in the family. So it sometimes happened that one and
another was behind time, and came into the parlour while the reading was
going on, or after prayers were over. Mrs. Mowbray remarked upon this
once or twice. Then came an outbreak; which allowed Rotha to see a new
side of her friend's character, or to see it more plainly than
heretofore. It was one morning a week or two after school had begun
again; a cold morning in January. The gas was lit in the parlours; Mrs.
Mowbray was at the table with her books; the girls seated in long lines
around the rooms, each with a Bible.
"Where is Miss Bransome?" Mrs. Mowbray asked, looking along the lines of
faces. "And Miss Dunstable?"
Nobody spoke.
"Miss Foster, will you have the kindness to go up to Miss Bransome and
Miss Dunstable, and tell them we are waiting for them?"
The young lady went. Profound silence. Then appeared, after some delay,
the missing members of the family; they came in and took their seats in
silence.
"Good morning, young ladies!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "Have you slept well?"
"Quite well, madame,"--one of them answered, making an expressive facial
sign to her neighbours on the other side, which Rotha saw and greatly
resented.
"So well that you did not hear the bell?" Mrs. Mowbray went on.
Silence.
"Answer, if you please. Did you hear the bell?"
"I did, madame," came in faint tones from one of the young ladies; and a
still more smothered affirmative from the other.
"Then why were you late?"
Again silence. Profound attention in all parts of the rooms; nobody
stirring.
"It has happened once or twice before. Now, young ladies, please take
notice," said Mrs. Mowbray, raising her voice somewhat. "If any young
lady is not in her place here at seven o'clock, I shall go up for her
myself; and if I go up for her, she will have to come down with me, just
as she is. I will bring you down in your nightgown, if you are not out of
it before I come for you; you shall come down in your night dress, here,
to the parlour. So now you know what you have to expect; and remember, I
always keep my promises."
The silence was awful, Rotha thought. It was unbroken, even by a
movement, until Mrs. Mowbray turned round to her book and took up the
interrupted reading. Very decorously the reading went on and ended; in
subdued good order the girls came to the table and eat their breakfast;
but there were smouldering fires under this calm exterior; and it was to
be expected that when the chance came the fire would break forth.
The chance came that same evening before tea. The girls were gathered,
preparatory to that ceremony, in the warm, well lighted rooms; and as the
custom was, each one had her favourite bit of ornamental work in hand. It
was a small leisure time. No teacher, as it happened, was in the front
parlour where Rotha sat, deep in a book; and a conversation began near
her, in under tones to be sure, which she could not but hear. Several new
scholars had come into the family at the New Year. One of these, a Miss
Farren, made the remark that Mrs. Mowbray had "showed out" that morning.
"Didn't she!" said another girl. "O that's what she is! You'll see.
That's _just_ what she is."
"She is an old cat!"
This last speaker was Miss Dunstable, and the spitefulness of the words
brought Rotha's head up from her book, with ears pointed and sharpened.
"I thought she looked so sweet," the new comer, Miss Farren, remarked
further. "I was quite taken with her at first. I thought she looked so
pleasant."
"Pleasant! She's as pleasant as a mustard plaster, and as sweet as
cayenne pepper. I'll tell you, Miss Farren; you're a stranger; you may
as well know what you have to expect--"
"Hush, girls!"
"What's the matter?" said the Dunstable, looking round. "There's nobody
near. Jewett has gone off into the other room. No, it is a work of
charity to let Miss Farren into the secrets of her prison house, 'cause
there are two sides to every game. Mrs. M. is a tyrannical, capricious,
hypocritical, domineering, fiery old cat. O she's fiery; you have got to
take care how you rise up and sit down; and she's stiff, she thinks
there's only one way and that's her way; and she's unjust, she has
favourites--"
"They all have favourites!" here put in another.
"She has ridiculous favourites. And she is pious, you'll be deluged with
the Bible and prayers; and she's sanctimonious, you won't get leave to
go to the opera or the theatre, or to do anything lively; and she's
stingy, you'll learn that you must take all the potatoes you want the
first time the dish is handed you, for it won't come a second time; and
she's prudish, she won't let you receive visitors; and she's passionate,
she'll fly out like a volcano if you give her a chance; and she's
obstinate, she'll be as good--or as bad--as her word."
By this time Rotha had sprung to her feet, with ears tingling and cheeks
burning, and stood there like Abdiel among the fallen angels, only indeed
that is comparing great things with small She was less patient and
prudent than Abdiel might have been.
"Miss Farren," she said, speaking with the calmness of intensity, "there
is not one bit of truth in all that Miss Dunstable has been saying to
you."
The young lady addressed looked in surprise at the new speaker. Rotha's
indignant eyes were sending out angry fires. The other girls looked on
too, in scorn and anger, but some awe.
"Miss Carpenter is polite!" said one.
"Her sort," said another, "What you might expect from her family."
"She is a favourite herself," cried a third. "Of course, Mrs. M. is
smooth as butter to her."
"You may say what you like of me," said Rotha; "but you shall not tell a
stranger all sorts of false things about Mrs. Mowbray, without my telling
her that they are false."
"Don't speak so loud!" whispered a stander-by; but Sotha went on,
overpowering and silencing her opponents for the moment by the moral
force of her passionate utterance,--
"She is as kind as it is possible to be. She is kinder than ever you can
think. She is as generous as a horn of plenty, and there is not a small
thread in all her composition. She knows how to govern, and she will
govern you, if you stay in her house; and she will keep her promises, as
you will find to your cost if you break her laws; but she is good, and
sweet, and bountiful, as a goddess of mercy. And whoever says anything
else of her, you may be sure is not worthy of her Kindness; and speaks
not true, but meanly, falsely, ungratefully, and mischievously!"
Rotha stood and blazed at them; and incensed and resentful as they were,
the others were afraid now to say anything; for Mrs. Mowbray herself had
come into the centre room, and other ears were near, which they did not
wish to arouse. It passed for the time; but the next day another of her
companions attacked Rotha on the subject.
"You made Miss Dunstable awfully angry at you last evening, Rotha."
"I suppose so."
"What did you do it for?"
"Because she was telling a pack of lies!" said Rotha. "I'm not going to
sit by and hear anybody talk so of Mrs. Mowbray. And you ought not; and
nobody ought."
"Miss Dunstable will hate you, I can tell you. She'll be your enemy after
this."
"That is nothing to me."
"Yes, it's all very well to say that, but you won't think so when you
come to find out. She belongs to a very rich family, and she is worth
having for a friend."
"A girl like that?" cried Rotha. "A low spirited, false girl? Worth
having for a friend? Not to anybody who is worth anything herself."
"But she is ever so rich."
"What's that to me? Do you think I am going to sit by and hear Mrs.
Mowbray slandered, or anybody else, because the story teller has plenty
of money? What is her money to me?"
"Well, I don't know," said the other deprecatingly. "It puts things in
her power. Her family is one of the best in New York."
"Then the other members of it are much superior to this one!--that's all
I have got to say."
"But Rotha, she can hurt you."
"How?"
"She can make the other girls treat you ill."
"I can bear as much as that for Mrs. Mowbray, I guess."
"What makes you like her so much?"
Rotha's eyes gave a wondering, very expressive, glance at her
interlocutor.
"Because she is so unspeakably good, and beautiful, and generous. She
is a kind of a queen!"
"She likes to rule."
"She _has_ to rule. What sort of a place would the house be, if she did
not rule?"
"But, Julia Dunstable could do you good, if she liked."
"Could she? How?" said Rotha drily.
"O she could put pleasant things in your way. She gave some of us a
lovely invitation to a Christmas party; we had a royal time; and she asks
the girls every now and then."
"And you would have me be a traitor for the sake of an invitation? Bell
Savage, I do not want invitations from such people."
"La, Rotha, the world is full of such people; you cannot pick and
choose."
"But I will. I will pick and choose those whom I honour with my
friendship. And I can assure you of one thing; _my_ family would be very
much ashamed of such a one belonging to it, as the one you want me to
court. I court nobody. And I will expose a lie wherever I find it, if
it's my business."
I think Rotha forgot at the moment that Mrs. Busby belonged to "her
family." However, Miss Savage was not wrong in supposing that her
interference with Miss Dunstable would come back upon her own head. She
was made to feel that a large number of the girls looked down upon her
and that they refused all community with her. Even from people one does
not care for, this sort of treatment is more or less painful; and it
certainly made Rotha's school days less joyous in some respects than they
might otherwise have been. From one reason and another, the greater
proportion of her companions turned her the cold shoulder. Some for
partisanship, some for subserviency, some to be in the fashion, and
others again for pure envy.
For Rotha sprang forward in her learning and surpassed all who were
associated with her, in their mutual studies. Her partial isolation
contributed, no doubt, to this end; having little social distraction, no
home outside her school walls, and no delight in the things which
occupied most of the minds within them, she bent to her books; drank, and
drank deep, of the "Castalian spring," and with ever increasing
enjoyment. She studied, not to get and keep a high position, or to gain
distinction, or to earn praise or prizes, but for pure pleasure in study
and eagerness to increase knowledge and to satisfy Mrs. Mowbray. So her
progress was not only rapid but thorough; what she gained she kept; and
her mental growth was equal to her physical.
The physical was rapid and beautiful. Rotha shot up tall, and developed
into a very noble-looking girl; intelligent, spirited, sweet and strong
at once. Her figure was excellent; her movement graceful and free, as
suited her character; colour clear and brunette, telling of flawless
health; and an eye of light and force and fire and honesty, which it was
at all times a pleasure to meet, speaking of the active, brave and true
spirit to which it belonged. By degrees, as all this became manifest,
shewed itself also the effect of culture, and the blessing of real
education. Refinement touched every line of Rotha's face, and marked
every movement and every tone. She gained command over her impetuous
nature, not so but that it broke bounds occasionally; yet the habit
became moderation, and something of the beautiful quiet of manner which
Rotha had always admired in Mr. Southwode, did truly now belong to
herself. Mrs. Mowbray had perpetual delight in her. Was it wonderful,
when so many faces were only carelessly obtuse, or stupidly indifferent,
or obstinately perverse, that the mistress should turn to the bright eye
which was sure to have caught her meaning, and watch for the answer from
lips which were sure to give it with rare intelligence.
Those lessons from her beloved teacher were beyond all other lessons
prized and delighted in by Rotha. They gave incentive to a vast deal of
useful reading, more or less directly connected with the subject in hand.
Some of the girls followed out this 'reading extensively; and no one so
much as Rotha. Her great quickness and diligence with her regular lessons
made this possible.
Meanwhile, it is not to be supposed that Rotha's feet remained
permanently in their coarse habiliments. When the cold and the snows were
gone, and lighter airs and warmer weather came in with spring, Mrs.
Mowbray exchanged the uncomely boots and thick stockings for others which
better suited Rotha's need and comfort. No more animadversions were heard
on the subject from Mrs. Busby, who indeed seemed rather inclined to let
Rotha alone.
And so went by two years; two years of growth and up-building and varied
developement; years of enjoyment and affection and peace. The short
intervals during which she was an inmate of her aunt's family served only
as enhancement of all the rest; foils to the brightness of Mrs. Mowbray's
house, and sharpeners of the appetite that was fed there. Nothing was
ever heard of Mr. Digby, not by Rotha at least; and this was her only
grief. For Rotha was true to her affections; and where she had loved
once, did not forget Once she asked Mrs. Mowbray if it was not strange
she never got any word from Mr. Southwode? "Why should you, my dear?"
Mrs. Mowbray replied, with an impenetrable face.
"Because--I suppose, because I loved him so much," said Rotha innocently;
"and I think he is true."
"He has done a friend's part by you; and now there is nothing more for
him to do. I see no reason why he should write to you."
I do!--thought Rotha; but Mrs. Mowbray's tone did not invite her to
pursue the subject; and she let it thenceforth alone.
CHAPTEK XXII.
A CHANGE.
The two years of smooth sailing along the stream of life, were ended.
What was coming next? But how should the sailor learn navigation, if he
had never anything but calm weather and quiet airs?
It was spring, late in May; when one evening Mrs. Mowbray came into
Rotha's little room, shut the door, and sat down. Rotha looked up from
her book and smiled. Mrs. Mowbray looked down at the book and sighed. A
heavy sigh, it seemed to Rotha, and her smile died away.
"You want to speak to me, madame?" she said, and laid her book away.
"I am going to send you home--" said the lady abruptly.
"Home!--" the word was but half uttered. What was this? The term was not
near at an end.
"You must go, my dear," Mrs. Mowbray went on more softly; for the first
word had been spoken with the sternness of pain. "I must send you all
away from me."
"Whom?"
"All of you! It has pleased heaven to visit me with a great calamity. You
must all go."
"What is it, Mrs. Mowbray?" said Rotha, trembling with a fear to which
she could give no form.
"I do not know, but I think it too probable, that a contagious disease
has broken out in my family. The little Snyders are both ill with scarlet
fever."
"They are at home."
"But Miss Tremont is taken in just the same way, and Miss de Forest is
complaining. I have isolated them both; but I have no choice but to send
all the rest of you away, till I shall know how the thing will go."
Rotha looked terribly blank.
"It is hard, isn't it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, noticing this with a faint
smile; "but it is not best for us to have things go too smooth. I have
had no rubs for two years or more."
That this was a hard "rub" was evident. Mrs. Mowbray sat looking before
her with a troubled face.
"Why is it best for us that things should not go smooth?" Rotha ventured.
To her sense the possible good of this disturbance was not apparent,
while the positive evil was manifold.
"The Lord knows!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "He sees uses, and needs, which we
do not suspect. I am sorry for you, my dear child."
"And I am sorry you are troubled, dear Mrs. Mowbray!"
"I know you are. Your sympathy is very sweet to me.--We have had a
pleasant two years together, have we not?"
"Oh so pleasant!" echoed Rotha, almost in tears. "But--this sickness will
pass over; and then we may come back again, may we not?"
"It is too near the end of term, to come back this spring. It cannot be
before next September now; and that is a long way off. One never knows
what will happen in so many months!"
Rotha had never seen Mrs. Mowbray look or speak so despondently. She was
too utterly downhearted herself to say another word of hope or
confidence. Four months of interval and separation! Four months with her
aunt! What would become of her? What might happen in the mean time?
"When must I go, Mrs. Mowbray?" she asked sadly.
"To-night. Yes, my child, I must send you away from me. You have been a
comfort to me ever since you came into my house; and now I must send you
away." She folded Rotha in her arms and kissed her almost passionately.
Then let her go, and spoke in business tones again.
"Put up whatever you wish to take with you. The carriage will be at the
door at half past eight. I shall go with you."
With which words she departed.
The tears came now, which had been carefully kept back until Mrs. Mowbray
was gone; and it was under a very shower of heavy drops that Rotha folded
and stowed away all her belongings.
Stowed them in her trunk, which Mrs. Mowbray had at once sent up to her
room. Amidst all her tears, Rotha worked like a sprite; she would leave
nothing on her kind friend's hands to do for her, not even anything to
think of. She packed all away, wondering the while why this sudden
interruption to her prosperous course of study and growth should have
been allowed to come; wondering when and how the interrupted course would
be allowed to go on again. Happily she did not know what experiences
would fill the next few months, in which Mrs. Mowbray's fostering care
would not help her nor reach her; nor what a new course of lessons she
would be put upon. Not knowing all this, Rotha shed bitter tears, it is
true, but not despairing. And when the summons came, she was ready, and
joined Mrs. Mowbray in the carriage with calm self-possession restored.
The drive was almost silent. Once Mrs. Mowbray asked if there was
anything Rotha had left to be done for her in her room or in the house?
Rotha said "Nothing; all was done"; and then the carriage rolled on
silently as before; the one of its occupants too busy with grave thoughts
to leave her tongue free, the other sorrowfully wishing she would talk,
yet not daring to ask it. Arrived at the door, however, Mrs. Mowbray
folded the girl in her arms, giving her warm kisses and broken words of
love, and ending with bidding her write often.
"I may be unable to answer you, but do not let that stop you. Write
always; I shall want to hear everything about you."
And Rotha answered, it would be the greatest joy to her; and they parted.
She went in at a somewhat peculiar moment. Half an hour sooner,
Antoinette had returned from a friend's house where she had been dining,
and burst into the parlour with news.
"Mamma!" she exclaimed, before the door was shut behind her,--"Guess what
is coming."
"What?" said her mother calmly. She was accustomed to Antoinette's
superlatives.
"Mr. Southwode is coming back.--"
Now Mrs. Busby did prick up her ears. "How do you know?"
"There was a Mr. Lingard at dinner--a prosy old fellow, as tiresome as
ever he could be; but he is English, and knows the Southwodes, and he
told lots about them."
"What?"
"O I don't know!--a lot of stuff. About the business and the property,
and how old Mr. Southwode left it all to this son; and he carries it on
in some ridiculous way that I didn't understand; and the uncle tried to
break the will, and there has been a world of trouble; but now Mr. Digby
Southwode is coming back to New York."
"When?"
"O soon; any day. He may be here any day. And then, mamma--"
"And was the will broken?"
"No, I believe not. At any rate, Mr. Southwode, our Mr. Southwode, has it
all. But he's absurd, mamma; he pays people, workmen, more than they
ought to have; and he sells, or makes them sell, for less; less than the
market price; and he gives away all his income. So Mr. Lingard says."
"He will learn better," said Mrs. Busby.
"Well, mamma, he's coming back; and what will you do?"
"Welcome him," said her mother. "I always liked Mr. Southwode."
"Yes, yes, but I mean, about Rotha. He will look her up, the first thing;
and she will fly ecstatically to meet him--I remember their parting
salute two years ago, and their _meeting_. I don't doubt, will be
equally tender. Mamma, are you prepared to come down with something
handsome in the way of wedding presents?"
"Nonsense!"
"It's _not_ nonsense!" said Antoinette vehemently. "It will be the absurd
truth, before you know where you are; and papa, and you, and I, we shall
all have the felicity of offering congratulations and holding receptions.
If you don't prevent it, mamma! _Can't_ you prevent it? _Won't_ you
prevent it? O mamma! won't you prevent it?"
"Get up, Antoinette"--for the young lady had thrown herself down on the
floor in her urgency, at her mother's feet. "Get up, and take off your
things; you are extremely silly. I have no intention of letting them meet
at all."
"Mamma, how are you going to help it? He will find out where she is at
school--he will go straight there, and then you may depend Rotha will
snap her fingers at you. So will he; and to have two people snapping
their fingers at us will just drive me wild."
Mrs. Busby could not help laughing. At the same time, she as well as
Antoinette regarded the matter from a very serious point of view. She
knew Rotha had grown up very handsome; and all her mother's partiality
did not make her sure that men like Mr. Southwode might not prefer the
sense and grace and spirit which breathed from every look and motion of
Rotha's, to the doll beauty of her own daughter. Yet it was not insipid
beauty either; the face of Antoinette was exceedingly pretty, the smile
very captivating, and the white and peach-blossom very lovely in her
cheeks. But for sense, or dignity, or sympathy with any thoughts high and
noble, if one looked to Antoinette one would look in vain. No matter;
hers was just a style which captivates men, Mrs. Busby knew; even
sensible men,--the only danger as in possible comparison or contrast.
That danger should be avoided.
"Nobody will snap fingers at me," she complacently remarked.
"But how will you help it?"
"I dare say there is no danger. Get up, Antoinette! there is the door
bell."
And then in walked Rotha.
It struck her that her aunt and cousin were a little more than ordinarily
stiff towards her; but of course they had no reason to expect her then,
and the surprise was not agreeable. So Rotha dismissed the matter with a
passing thought and an unbreathed sigh; while she told the cause of her
unlooked-for appearance. Mrs. Busby sat and meditated.
"It is very unfortunate!" she said at last, with her eyebrows
distressingly high.
"What?" said Rotha. "My coming? I am sorry, aunt Serena; as sorry as you
can be. Is my being here _particularly_ inconvenient just at this time?"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Busby, with the same deeply considerative air. "I am
thinking what will be the best way to manage. We have a plan of going to
Chicago--Mr. Busby's family is mostly there, and he wants us to visit
them; we should be gone all June and part of July, for I know Mr. Busby
wants to go further, if once he gets so far; and we may not be back till
the end of July. I don't know what to do with Rotha."
Not a word of this plan had Antoinette ever heard before, but she kept
wise silence; only her small blue eyes sparkled knowingly at the fire.
Rotha was silent too at first, with vexation.
"I am very sorry--" she repeated.
"Yes," said Mrs. Busby. "I thought I could leave you in safe quarters
with Mrs. Mowbray for a week or two after school broke up; now that
possibility is out of the question. Well, we will sleep upon it. Never
mind, Rotha; don't trouble yourself. I shall find some way out of the
difficulty. I always do."
These words were spoken with so much kindness of tone that they quite
comforted Rotha as to the immediate annoyance of being in the way. She
went up to her little third-story room, threw open the blinds, to let the
stars look in, and remembered that neither she nor yet her aunt Busby was
the guide of her fortunes. Yet, yet,--what a hard change this was! All
the pursuits in which she had taken such delight, suddenly stopped; her
peaceful home lost; her best friend separated from her. It was difficult
to realize the fact that God knew and had allowed it. Yet no harm, no
real harm, comes to his children, unless they bring it upon themselves;
so this change could not mean harm. How could it mean good? Sense saw
not, reason could not divine; but faith said "yes"; and in the quietness
of that confidence Rotha went to sleep.
At breakfast the ladies' faces had regained their wonted brightness.
"I have settled it all!" Mrs. Busby announced, when her husband had left
the breakfast table and the room. Rotha looked up and waited; Antoinette
did not look up; therefore it may be presumed she knew what was coming.
"I am going to send Rotha to the country while we are gone."
"Where in the country?" asked the person most concerned.
"To my place in the country--my place at Tanfield. _I_ have a place in
the country."--Mrs. Busby spoke with a very alert and pleased air.
"Tanfield--" Rotha repeated with slow recollection. "O I believe I know.
I think I have heard of Tanfield."
"Of course. It is the old place where I lived when I was a girl; and a
lovely place it is."
"And just think!" put in Antoinette. "Isn't it funny? I have never seen
it."
"Who is there?" Rotha asked.
"O the old house is there, and the garden; and somebody who will make you
very comfortable. I will take care that she makes you comfortable. I
shall see about that."
"Who is that? old Janet?" asked Antoinette.
"No. Janet is not there?"
"Who then, mamma?"
"Persons whom I have put in charge."
"Do I know them?"
"You know very little about them--not enough to talk."
"Mamma! As if one couldn't talk without knowing about things! Who is it,
mamma? I want to know who will have the care of Rotha."
"It is not necessary you should know at present. Rotha can tell you, when
she has tried them."
"I suppose I shall have the care of myself," said Rotha; to whom all this
dialogue somehow sounded unpromising. To her remark no answer was made.
"Mamma, what will Rotha do there, all by herself?"
"She will have people all round her."
"She don't know them. You mean the Tanfield people?"
"Who else should live at Tanfield. I was one of the Tanfield people
myself once."
"What sort of people are they, mamma?"
"Excellent people."
"Country people!--"
"Country people can be a very good sort. You need not sneer at them."
"I remark that you have not been anxious to go back and see them, mamma."
Rotha was dumb meanwhile, and during a longer continuance of this sort of
talk; with a variety of feelings at work in her, among which crept a
certain flavouring of suspicion. Was she to be _alone_ in her mother's
old home at Tanfield? Alone, with companions that could not be
companions? Was it any use to question her aunt further? She feared not;
yet the questions would come.
"What sort of persons are those in the house, aunt Serena?"
"Quite sufficient to take good care of you. A man and his wife. Honest
people, and kind."
"Servants!"
"In so far as they are serving me."
Antoinette again pressed to be told who they were, was again put off.
From the little altercation resulting, Mrs. Busby turned to Rotha with a
new theme.
"You will not want your New York wardrobe there,--what will you do? Leave
your trunk here? That will be best, I think, till you come back again."
"O no," said Rotha hastily. "I will take it with me."
"You will not want it, my dear. Summer is just here; what, you need up
there is some nice calico dresses; those will be just the thing. I will
get some for you this very day, and have them cut out; and then you can
take them and make them up. It will give you something to do. Your winter
wardrobe would be of no service to you there, and to carry it back and
forward would be merely trouble and risk."
"To leave it here would be risk."
"Not at all. There will be somebody in charge of the house."
"I prefer to have the charge of my own clothes myself."
"My dear, I am not going to take it from you; only to guard the things
for you while you are away. They would be out of place in the summer and
at Tanfield."
"Some would; but they are all mixed up," said Rotha, trying to keep her
patience, though the blood mounted into her cheeks dangerously.
"They can be separated," said Mrs. Busby coolly. "When your trunks come,
I will do that for you."
Not if I am alive! thought Rotha; but she remembered the old word--"If it
be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably--" and she held her
tongue. However, later in the day when Mrs. Busby came in after buying
the calicos, the proposition was renewed. She came to Rotha and demanded
the keys of the boxes.
"Thank you, aunt Serena--I would rather do what I want done, myself."
"Very well," said Mrs. Busby pleasantly; "but if you will give me the
keys, I will see what I think ought to be done. I can judge better than
you can."
"I would rather not," said Rotha. "If you please, and if you do not mind,
ma'am, I would rather nobody went into my trunk but myself."
"Don't be a child, Rotha!"
"No, aunt Serena. I remember that I am one no longer."
"But I wish to have your keys--do you understand?"
"Perfectly; and I do not wish to give them. You understand that."
"Your wish ought to give way to mine," said Mrs. Busby severely.
"Why?" said Rotha, looking at her with a frank face.
"Because you are under my care, and I stand in the place of a mother to
you."
Hot words sprang to Rotha's lips, hot and passionate words of denial; but
she did not speak them; her lips opened and closed again.
"Do you refuse me?" Mrs. Busby asked, after waiting a moment.
"Entirely!" said Rotha looking up again.
"Then you defy me!"
"No, I mean nothing of the kind. You are asking a thing which no one has
a right to ask. I am simply holding my rights; which I will do."
"So shall I hold mine," said Mrs. Busby shortly; "and you do not seem to
know what they are. Your trunk will not leave this house; you may make
such arrangements as it pleases you. And I shall give myself no further
trouble about one who is careless what annoyance she makes me. I had
intended to accompany you myself and see you comfortably settled; but it
appears that nothing I could do would be of any pleasure to you. I shall
let you go without me and make your own arrangements."
With which speech Mrs. Busby ended the interview; and Rotha was left to
think what she would do next.
Her trunk must be left behind. It was too plain that here power was on
the side of her aunt. Without coming to downright fighting, this point
could not be carried against her. Rotha longed to go and talk to Mrs.
Mowbray; alas, that was not to be thought of. Mrs. Mowbray's hands and
head were full, and her house was a forbidden place. How swiftly
circumstances can whirl about in this world! Yesterday a refuge, to-day a
danger. Rotha must leave her trunk. But many things in it she must not
leave. What to do? I will not deny that her thoughts were bitter for a
while. A little matter! Yes, a little matter, compared with Waterloo or
Gravelotte; but _not_ a little matter to a girl in every day life and
having a girl's every day liking for being neat and feeling comfortable.
And right is right; and the infringing of right is hard to bear, perhaps
equally hard, whether it concerns a nation's boundaries or a woman's
wardrobe. If Rotha had been more experienced, perhaps the wisdom of doing
nothing would have suggested itself; but she was young and did not know
what to do. So she laid out of her trunk certain things; her Bible and
Scripture Treasury; her writing materials; her underclothes; and her
gloves. If Rotha had a weakness, it was for neat and _suitable_ gloves.
The rest of her belongings she locked up carefully, and sat down to await
the course of events.
It was swift, as some intuition told her it would be. There was no more
disputing. Mrs. Busby let the subject of the trunk drop, and was as
benign as usual; which was never benign except exteriorly. She was as
good as her word in purchasing calicos; brought home what seemed to Rotha
an unnecessary stock of them; and that afternoon and the next day kept a
dress-maker cutting and basting, and Rotha at work to help. These cut and
basted dresses, as they were finished, Mrs. Busby stowed with her own
hands in a little old leather trunk. Then, when the last one went in, she
told Rotha to bring whatever she wished to have go with her.
"To put in that?" Rotha asked.
"Certainly. It will hold all you want."
Rotha struggled with herself with the feeling of desperate indignation
which came over her; struggled, grew red and grew pale, but finally did
go without another word; and brought down, pile by pile, her neat under
wardrobe. Mrs. Busby packed and packed. Her trunk was leather, and
strong, but its capacities were bounded by that very strength.
"All these!" she exclaimed in a sort of despair. "There is no use
whatever in having so much linen under wear."
Rotha was silent.
"It is _much_ better to have fewer things, and let them be washed as
often as necessary. A family would want a caravan at this rate."
"This is Mrs. Mowbray's way," said Rotha.
"Mrs. Mowbray's way is not a way to be copied, unless you are a
millionaire. She is the most extravagant woman I ever met, without
exception."
"But aunt Serena, it costs no more in the end, whether you have a dozen
things for two years, and comfort, or half a dozen a year, and
discomfort."
"You don't know that you will live two years to want them."
"You don't know that you will live one, for that matter," said
Antoinette, who always spoke her mind, careless whom the words touched.
"At that rate, mamma, we ought to do like savages,--have one dress and
wear it out before getting another; but it strikes me that would be
rather disagreeable."
"You will not find anybody at Tanfield to do all this washing for you,"
Mrs. Busby went on.
"I shall have no more washing done than if I had fewer things," Rotha
said.
"Then there is no sort of use in lugging all these loads of linen up
there just to bring them back again. The trunk will not hold them. Here,
Rotha--take back these,--and these, and these--"
Rotha received them silently; silently carried them up stairs and came
down for more. She was in a kind of despair. Her Bible and most precious
belongings she had put carefully in her travelling bag, rejoicing in its
beauty and security.
"Mamma," said Antoinette now, "does Rotha know when she is going?"
"I do not know."
"Well, that's funny. I should think you would tell her. Why it's almost
time for her to put on her bonnet."
Rotha's eyes went from one to the other. She was startled.
"I am going to send you off by the night train to Tanfield,"--Mrs. Busby
said without looking up from the trunk.
"The _night_ train!" exclaimed Rotha.
"It is the best you can do. It brings you there by daylight. The night
train is as pleasant as any."
"If you have company"--said Rotha.
"And if the cars don't run off nor anything," added Antoinette. "All the
awful accidents happen in the night."
"I would not have Rotha go alone," said Mrs. Busby grimly; "but she don't
want my companionship."
Rotha would have been glad of it; however, she did not say so. She stood
confounded. What possible need of this haste?
"Put your things away, Rotha," said Mrs. Busby glancing up,--"and come
down to dinner. You must leave at seven o'clock, and I have had dinner
early for you."
The dinner being early, Mr. Busby was not there; which Rotha regretted.
From him she hoped for at least one of his dry, sensible remarks, and
possibly a hint of sympathy. She must go without it. Dinner had no taste,
and the talk that went on no meaning. Very poor as this home was, it was
better than an unknown country, and uncongenial as were her companions,
she preferred them to nobody. Gradually there grew a lump in her throat
which almost choked her.
Meantime she was silent, seemed to eat, and did quietly whatever she was
told She put up sandwiches in a paper; accepted an apple and some figs;
looked curiously at the old basement dining room, which she had never
liked, but which had never seemed to her so comfortable as now; and at
last left it to get herself ready. Taking her Russia bag in her hand, she
seemed to grasp Mrs. Mowbray's love; and it comforted her.
Her aunt and she had a silent drive through the streets, already dark and
lamp-lit. All necessary directions were given her by the way, and a
little money to pay for her drive out from Tanfield. Then came the
confusion of the Station--not the Grand Central by any means; the bustle
of getting her seat in the cars; her aunt's cold kiss. And then she was
alone, and the engine sounded its whistle, and the train slowly moved
away into the darkness.
For a while Rotha's mind was in a tumult of confusion. If Mrs. Mowbray
knew where she was at that minute! She had had no chance to write to her.
If she only knew! What then? she could not help matters. O but she could!
Mrs. Mowbray could always find help. Love that would not rest, energy
that would not tire, a power of will that would not be denied, and a
knowledge and command of men and things which enabled her always to lay
her hand on the right means and apply them; all this belonged to Mrs.
Mowbray, and made her the most efficient of helpers. But just now,
doubtless, the affairs of her own house laid full claim to all her
energies; and then, she did not know about Rotha's circumstances. How
strange, thought Rotha, that she does not--that things should have come
together so that she cannot! I seem to be cut off designedly from her,
and from everybody.
There crept slowly into her heart the recollection that there was One who
did know the whole; and if there were design in the peculiar collocation
of events, as who could doubt, it was _His_ design. This gave a new view
of things. Rotha looked round on the dingy car, dingy because so dimly
lighted; filled, partly filled, with dusky figures; and wondered if one
there were so utterly alone as she, and marvelled greatly why she had
been brought into such a strange position. Separated from everything!
Then her Russia bag rebuked her, for her Bible was in it. Not separated
from God, whose message was there; perhaps, who knows? she was to come
closer to him, in the default of all other friends. She remembered the
words of a particular psalm which not long ago had been read at morning
prayers and commented on by Mrs. Mowbray; it came home to her now.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My
help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth."
If he made heaven and earth, he surely can manage them. And Mrs. Mowbray
had said, that whoever could honestly adopt and say those first words of
the psalm, might take to himself also all the following. Then how it went
on!--
"He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not
slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep."
The tears rushed into Rotha's eyes. So he would watch the night train in
which she journeyed, and let no harm come to it without his pleasure. The
words followed,--
"The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand; the
sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall
preserve thee from all evil, he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall
preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even
for evermore."
It was to Rotha as if she had suddenly seen a guard of angels about her.
Nay, better than that. She was a young disciple yet, she had not learned
all the ins and outs of faith; but this night her journey was sweet to
her. The train rumbled along through the darkness; but "darkness and the
light are alike to him," she remembered. Now and then the cars stopped at
a village or wayside station; and a few lights shone upon boards and
platforms and bits of wall; sometimes shone from within a saloon where
refreshments were set out; there were switches to be turned on or off;
there was a turn-out place where the train waited three quarters of an
hour for the down train. All the same! Rotha remembered that switches and
turnouts made no manner of difference, no more than the darkness, if the
Lord was keeping her. It was somehow a sweet kind of a night that she
had; not alone nor unhappy; faith, for the moment at least, laying its
grasp on the whole wide realm of promise and resting satisfied and quiet
in its possessions. After a while she slept and dozed, waking up
occasionally to feel the rush and hear the rumble of the cars, to
remember in whose hand she was, and then quietly to doze off again.