Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 17

"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 young heart and revolted her fastidious sense. It was not pleasant; and Rotha, like most others who have no experience of life, was devoted to what was pleasant. She wondered to see the glee and enjoyment with which Mrs. Mowbray moved about among these poor people; a word, and a word of cheer, for every one; her very looks and presence coming like beams of loving light upon their darkness. She seemed to know them almost all.

"How's rheumatism, aunty?" she asked cheerily of a little, wrinkled, yellow old woman, sitting in a rocking chair and hovering near a fire.

"O missus, it's right smart bad! it is surely."

"Where is it now? in your hands, or your feet?"

"O missus, it is all places! 'Pears there aint no place where it aint. It's in my hands, and in my feet, and in my head, and in my back; and I can't sleep o' nights; and the nights is powerful long! so they be."

"Ah, yes; it makes a long night, to have to lie awake aching! I know that by experience. I had rheumatism once."

"Did you, missus! But it warn't so bad as I be?"

"No, not quite, and I was stronger to bear it. You know who is strong to help you bear it, aunty?"

"Yes, missus," said the poor creature with a long sigh; – "I does love de Lord; sartain, I do. He do help. But I be so tired some times!"

"We'll forget all that when we get to heaven, aunty."

There was a faint gleam in the old eyes, as they looked up to her; a faint smile on the withered lips. The rays of that morning light were catching the clouds already!

"Now, aunty, I've brought you some splendid tea. Shall I make you a cup, right off?"

"You wouldn't have time missus – "

"Yes, I would! Time for everything. Here, Sabrina, bring a kettle of boiling water here and put it on the fire; mind, it must boil."

And while the woman went to obey the order, Mrs. Mowbray went on round the room. There were so many to speak to, Rotha thought she would forget the kettle and the tea; but she did not. From the very door which should have let her into another ward, she turned back The kettle was boiling; she ordered several cups; she made the tea, not out of the old woman's particular private store; and then she poured it out, sugared and creamed and gave her her cup; took one herself, and gave the rest to whosoever came for it. They held quite a little festival there round the fire; for Mrs. Mowbray brought out some cake too.

"Now," she said to Rotha as they hurried away, "they will not forget that for a year to come. I always take a cup of tea with aunty Lois."

They went now among the men, distributing the tobacco. Rotha admired with unending admiration, the grace and sweetness and tact with which Mrs. Mowbray knew how to season her gifts; the enormous amount of pleasure she gave and good she did which were quite independent of them. Bent figures straightened up, and dull faces shone out, as she talked. The very beauty which belonged to her in so rare measure, Rotha saw how it was a mighty talent for good when brought thoroughly into the service of Christ. She was a fair human angel going about among those images of want and suffering and hopelessness; her light lingered on them after she had passed on.

"How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray- haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity, before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took the hand.

"Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home."

The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very firm.

"You are not in a hurry to leave us?"

"It's better on de oder side, madam."

"Yes, that is true! And it is good to know there is an 'other side,' isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?"

'"Comfortable – " he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates, waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place."

"Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you."

He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered on which it came.

"Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get home, I'll have all I want; but it's up dere."

"I thought, uncle Bacchus, you would like a very plain page to read the words in that you love. See, I have brought you this. This will almost do without spectacles, hey?"

She produced a New Testament in four thin volumes, of the very largest and clearest type; presenting a beautiful open page. The old man almost chuckled as he received it.

"Dat ar's good!" he said.

"Better than the old one, hey?"

"Dat ar certainly is good," he repeated. "De old un, de words is so torturous small, if I didn't know what dey was, 'pears dey wouldn't be no use to me."

"Well, then I made no mistake this time. Now, uncle Bacchus, I know you take no comfort in tobacco; so I've brought you something else – something you like. Must have something to make Christmas gay, you know."

She put a paper of French bonbons in the old man's hand. He laughed, half at her and half at the sugarplums, Rotha thought; and he bowed again.

"De Lord give madam sumfin' to make her gay!" he said.

"Himself, uncle Bacchus!"

"Dat's so, madam!" he replied, as she took his hand to bid him good bye.

This was a much longer colloquy than usual; a few words were all there was time for, generally; and Rotha went on wondering and admiring to see how Mrs. Mowbray could make those few words tell for the pleasure and good of her beneficiaries. At last the whole round was made, the last package disposed of, and Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha found themselves in the carriage again. Rotha for her part was glad; she did not like the Home, as I have said; the sight of the people was painful to her, even with all the alleviations of pleasure. She was glad to be driving away from the place. What did they know of Bagster's Bibles and Russia covered travelling bags? Poor creatures! And Rotha's heart was leaping at thought of her own.

They went in silence for a while.

"Aren't you very tired, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha ventured at last.

"Tired?" said Mrs. Mowbray brightly, rousing herself. "I don't know! I don't stop to think whether I am tired. There will be plenty of time to rest, by and by."

"That does not hinder one from feeling tired now," said Rotha, who did not enjoy this doctrine.

"No, but it hinders one from minding it," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Do all you can for other people, Rotha; it is the greatest happiness you can find in this life."

"Do you think you had as much pleasure in getting those things for me, Mrs. Mowbray, – my bag and my Bible, – and all my things, – as I had, and have, in receiving them?"

Mrs. Mowbray smiled. "Do they give you pleasure?" she asked.

"More than you can think – more than I can tell. I think I am dreaming!"

"Then that gives me pleasure. What are you going to do with your Bible?"

"I am going to study it – " said Rotha slowly; "and I am going to live by it."

"Are you? Have you decided that point?"

"Yes, ma'am. But I am not good yet, Mrs. Mowbray. I do not forgive aunt Serena. It feels to me as if there was a stone where my heart ought to be."

"Have you found that out?" said Mrs. Mowbray without shewing any surprise. "There is help, my child. Look, when you get home, at the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel – I cannot tell you what verse – and you will find it there."

They had no more talk until the carriage stopped at home. And Rotha had no chance then even to open her Bible, but must make herself immediately ready for dinner.

CHAPTER XVIII.
FLINT AND STEEL

That Christmas dinner remained a point of delight in Rotha's memory for ever. The company was small, several of the young ladies having accepted invitations to dine with some friend or acquaintance. It was most agreeably small, to Rotha's apprehension, for she could see more of Mrs. Mowbray and more informally. Everybody was in gala dress and gala humour, nobody more than the mistress of the house; and she had done everything in her power to make the Christmas dinner a gala meal. Flowers and lights were in plenty; the roast turkey was followed by ices, confections and fruits, all of delicious quality; and Mrs. Mowbray's own kind and gracious ministry made everything doubly sweet. Rotha had besides such joy in her heart, that turkey and ices had never seemed so good in her life. The whole day had been rich, full, sweet, blessed; the girl had entered a new sphere where every want of her nature was met and contented; under such conditions the growth of a plant is rapid; and in a plant of humanity it is not only rapid but blissful.

Christmas joys were not done when the dinner was over. The girls who were present, and the one or two under teachers, repaired to the library, Mrs. Mowbray's special domain; and there she exerted herself unweariedly to give them a pleasant evening. Two of them sat down to a game of chess; two of them were allowed to look over some very rare and splendid books of engravings; one or two were deep in fancy work, and one or two amused themselves with a fine microscope. Rotha received her first introduction to the stereoscope. This was no novelty to the rest, and she was left in undisturbed enjoyment; free to look as long as she liked at any view that excited her interest. Which of them did not! At Rotha's age, with her mind just opening rapidly and her intellectual hunger great for all sorts of food, what were not the revelations of the stereoscope to her! Delight and wonder went beyond all power of words to describe them. And with delight and wonder started curiosity. Rotha's first view was a gorge in the Alps.

"Where is it?" she asked. And Mrs. Mowbray told her.

"How high are those hills?"

"Really, I don't know," said her friend laughing. "I will give you a guide book to study."

Rotha thought she would like a guide book. Anything so majestic as the sweep of those mountain lines and the lift of their snowy heads, she had never imagined; nor anything so lovely as the peace of that narrow, meadowy valley at the foot of them.

"Is it as good really, Mrs. Mowbray, as it looks here?" she asked.

"It is better. Don't you think colour goes for anything? and the sound of a cowbell, and the rush of the torrents that come from the mountains?"

"I can hear cowbells and the rush of brooks here," said Rotha.

"It sounds different there."

Slowly and unwillingly and after long looking at it, Rotha laid the Swiss valley away. Her next view happened to be the ruins of the Church at Fountain's Abbey; and with that a new nerve of pleasure seemed to be stirred. This was something in an entirely new department, of knowledge and interest both. "How came people to let such a beautiful church go to ruin?"

Mrs. Mowbray went back to the Reformation, and Henry the Eighth, and the monkish orders; and the historical discussion grew into length. Then a very noble view of the Fountain's Abbey cloisters opened a new field of inquiry; and Rotha's eye gazed along the beautiful arches with an awed apprehension of the life that once was lived under them; gazed and marvelled and queried.

"That was an ugly sort of life," she said at last; "why do I like to look at these cloisters, Mrs. Mowbray?"

Mrs. Mowbray laughed. "I suppose your eye finds beauty in the lines of the architecture."

"Are they beautiful?"

"People say so, my dear."

"But do you think they are?"

"My dear, I must confess to you, I never paid much attention to architecture. I never asked myself the question."

"I do not think there is any beauty about them," said Rotha; "but somehow I like to look at them. I like to look at them very much."

"Here is another cloister," said Mrs. Mowbray; "of Salisbury cathedral.

The arches and lines here are less severe. How do you like that?"

"Not half so well," Rotha answered, after making the comparison. "I think Fountain's Abbey is beautiful, compared with this."

"It is called, I believe, one of the finest ruins in England. My dear, if you want to study architecture, I shall turn you over to Mr. Fergusson's book. It is in the corner stand in the breakfast room – two octavo volumes. There you can find all your questions answered."

Which Rotha did not however find to be the case, though Fergusson in after days was a good deal studied by her in her hours of leisure. For this evening it was enough, that she went to her room with the feeling that the world is very rich in things to be seen and things to be known; a vast treasure house of wonders and beauties and mysteries; which mysteries must yet have their hidden truth and solution, delightful to search for, delightful to find. Would she some day see the Alps? and what dreadful things cloisters and the life lived in them must have been! Her eye fell on her Russia leather bag, in which she had placed her Bible for safe keeping; and her thoughts went to the Bible. That told how people should live to serve God; and it was not by shutting themselves up in cloisters. How then? That question she deferred.

But took it up again the next day. It was a rainy day; low clouds and thick beat of the rain storm against the windows and upon the street. Rotha was well pleased. Good so; yesterday had held novelty and excitement enough for a week; to-day she could be quiet, study Fergusson on architecture, perhaps; and at all events study the life question in her beautiful Bible. She had the morning to herself after breakfast, and her room to herself; the patter and beat of the rain drops made her feel only more securely safe in her solitude and opportunity. Rotha took her Bible lovingly in her hands and slowly turned over the leaves to find the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel. And unquestionably, the great beauty of the book, of the paper and the limp covers and the type, did help her pleasure and did give an additional zest to the work she was about. Nevertheless, Rotha was in earnest, and it was work. The chapter, when she found it, was an enigma to her. She read on and on, understanding but very dimly what might be meant under the words; till she came to the notable promise and prophecy beginning with the twenty fourth verse. Then her eyes opened, and lingered, slowly going over item after item of the help promised to humanity's wants, and then she read: —

"A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you; and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh." —

It struck Rotha with a strange sort of surprise, the words meeting so exactly the thought and want of her own heart. Did He who gave that promise, long ago, know so well what she would be one day thinking and feeling? But that was the very help she needed; all she needed; if the heart of stone within her were gone, all the rest would fall into train. Rotha waited no longer, but poured out a longing, passionate prayer that this mighty change might be wrought in her. Even with tears she prayed her prayer. She had resolved to be a Christian; yet she was not one; could not be one; till a heart of flesh took the place of that impassive induration which was where a heart should be. As she rose from her knees, she thought she would follow out this subject of a hard heart, and see what else the Bible said of it. She applied to her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge"; found the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel, and the twenty sixth verse. The first reference sent her to the eleventh chapter of the same book, where she found the promise already previously given.

"And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony-heart out of their flesh, and I will give them an heart of flesh; that they may walk in my statutes, and keep mine ordinances, and do them; and they shall be my people, and I will be their God."

That is it! thought Rotha. I knew I could not be a Christian while I felt so as I do. I could not keep the commandments either. If I had a new heart, I suppose I could forgive aunt Serena fast enough. God must be very willing to take people's stony heart away, or he would not promise it so twice over. O my dear "Scripture Treasury"! how good you are!

Following its indications, she came next to a word of the prophet Zechariah, accusing the people of obduracy: – "They refused to hearken, and pulled away the shoulder, and stopped their ears, that they should not hear. Yea, they made their hearts as an adamant stone, lest they should hear the law, and the words which the Lord of hosts hath sent in his spirit by the former prophets" —

Over this passage Rotha lingered, pondering. Could it be true that she herself was to blame for the very hardness of heart she wanted to get rid of? Had she "refused to hearken and pulled away the shoulder and stopped her ears"? What else had she done? when those "former prophets" to her, her mother, and Mr. Digby, had set duty and truth before her? They set it before her bodily, too; and how fair their example had been! and how immoveable she! Rotha lost herself for a while here, longing for her mother, and crying in spirit for her next friend, Mr. Digby; wondering at his silence, mourning his absence; and it was when a new gush of indignation at her aunt seemed to run through all her veins, that she caught herself up and remembered the work in hand, and slowly and sorrowfully came back to it. How angry she was at Mrs. Busby this minute! what a long way she was yet, with all her wishes and resolves, from the loving tenderness of heart which would forgive everything. She went on, hoping always for more light, and willing to take the sharpest charges home to herself. Yet the next reference startled her.

"Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth; and forthwith they sprang up because they had no deepness of earth: and when the sun was up, they were scorched;" —

Was it possible, that she had been like that very bad ground? Yes, she knew the underlying rock too well. Then in her case there was special danger of a flash religion, taken up for the minute's sense of need or perception of advantage merely, and not rooted so that it would stand weather. Hers should not be so; no profession of being a Christian would she make, till it was thorough work; till at last she could forgive her aunt's treachery; it would be pretty thorough if she could do that! But how long first? At present Rotha thought of her aunt in terms that I will not stop to detail; in which there was bitter anger and contempt and no love at all. She knew it, poor child; she felt the difficulty; her only sole hope was in the power of that promise in Ezekiel, which she blessed in her heart, almost with tears. That way there was an outlook towards light; no other way in all her horizon. She would see what more the Bible had to say about it.

Going on in her researches, after another passage or two she came to those notable words, also in Ezekiel, —

"Cast away from you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed; and make you a new heart and a new spirit: for why will ye die, O house of Israel?"

Make herself a new heart? how could she? she could not; and yet, here the words were, and they must mean something. And to be sure, she thought, a man is said to build him a new house, who gets the carpenter to make it, and never himself puts hand to tool. But cast away her transgressions? —that she could do, and she would. From that day forth. The next passage was in the fifty first psalm; David's imploring cry that the Lord would "create" in him "a new heart"; and then the lovely words in Jeremiah: – "After those days, saith the Lord, I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts; and will be their God, and they shall be my people."

Rotha shut her book. That was the very thing wanted. When the law of God should be in her heart so, then all would be right, and all would be easy too. It is easy to do what is in one's heart. What beautiful words! what exquisite promises! what tender meeting of the wants of weak and sinful men! Rotha saw all this, and felt it. Ay, and she felt that every vestige of excuse was gone for persistence in wrong; if God was so ready to put in his hand of love and power to make things right. And one more passage made this conclusively certain. It was the thirteenth verse of the eleventh chapter of Luke.