Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 30

But from what I have said it will appear that Rotha was presently in a contented state of mind; and she went revolving all sorts of things in her thoughts as she walked, laying up stores of material for future conversations, which however she was glad Mr. Southwode did not begin now.

As for Mr. Southwode, he minded his horses, and also minded her; but if he spoke at all it was merely to remark on some rough bit of ground, or some wonderful bit of colour in the evening sky.

"Well, hollo, mister!" cried a hotel hostler as they approached near enough to have the manner of their travelling discernible, – "what ha' you done wi' your waggin?"

"I was unable to do anything with it."

"Where is it then?"

"About five miles off, I judge, lying at the foot of a hill."

"Spilled, hey?"

"It will never hold anything again."

"What's that? what's this?" cried the landlord now, issuing from the lower door of the house; "what's wrong here, sir?"

"I do not know," said Mr. Southwode; "but there has been carelessness somewhere. Either the hostler did his work with his eyes shut, or the leather of the harness gave way, or the iron work of something. The pole fell, as we were going down a steep hill; of course the phaeton is a wreck. I could only save the horses."

The landlord was in a great fume.

"Sir, sir," he stammered and blustered, – "this is your account of it."

"Precisely," said Mr. Southwode. "That is my account of it."

"How in thunder did it happen? It was bad driving, I expect."

"It was nothing of the kind. It was a steep hill, a dropped carriage pole, and a run. You could not expect the horses not to run. And of course the carriage went to pieces."

"Who was in it?"

"I was in it. The lady jumped out, just before the run began."

"Didn't you know enough to jump too?"

"I knew enough not to jump," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little. "By that means I saved your horses."

"And I expect you want me to take that as pay for the carriage! and take your story too. But it was at your risk, sir – at your risk. When I sends out a team, without I sends a man with it, it's at the driver's risk, whoever he is. I expect you to make it good, sir. I can't afford no otherwise. The phaeton was in good order when it went out o' this yard; and I expect you to bring it back in good order, or stand the loss. My business wouldn't keep me, sir, on no other principles. You must make the damage good, if you're a gentleman or no gentleman."

"Take the best supposition, and let me have supper. If you will makethat good, Mr. Landlord, you may add the phaeton to my bill."

"You'll pay it, I s'pose?" cried the anxious landlord, as his guest turned away.

"I always pay my bills," said Mr. Southwode, mounting the steps to the piazza. "Now Rotha, come and have something to eat."

Supper was long since over for the family; the two had the great dining hall to themselves. It was the room in which Rotha had taken her solitary breakfast the morning of her arrival. Now as she and her companion took their seats at one of the small tables, it seemed to the girl that she had got into an enchanted country. Aladdin's vaults of jewels were not a pleasanter place in his eyes, than this room to her to-night. And she had not to take care even of her supper; care of every sort was gone. One thing however was on Rotha's mind.

"Mr. Southwode," she said as soon as they had placed themselves, – "it was not your fault, all that about the phaeton."

"No."

"Then you ought not to pay for it."

"It would be more loss to this poor man, than to me, Rotha, I fancy."

"Yes, but right is right. Making a present is one thing; paying an unjust charge is another. It is allowing that you were to blame."

"I do not know that it is unjust. And peace is worth paying for, if the phaeton is not."

"How much do you suppose it will be?"

"I do not know," he said laughing a little. "Are you anxious, about it?"

Rotha coloured up brightly. "It seems like allowing that you were in the wrong," she said. "And the man was very impertinent."

"I recognize your old fierce logic of justice. Haven't you learned yet that one must give and take a good deal in this world, to get along smoothly? No charge the man can ever make will equal what the broken phaeton is worth to me, Rotha."

CHAPTER XXXI.
DISCUSSIONS

The sitting room, when they came to it after supper, looked as pleasant as a hotel sitting room could. It was but a bare apartment, after the fashion of country hotels; however it was filled with the blaze of a good fire, and that gives a glimmer of comfort anywhere. Moreover it was a private room; they had it to themselves. Now what next? thought Rotha.

Mr. Southwode put a chair for her, gave a little dressing to the fire, and then stood by the mantel-piece with his back towards it, so that his face was in shadow. Probably he was considering Rotha's face, into which the fire shone full. For it was a pleasant thing to look at, with its brightness just now softened by a lovely veil of modesty, and a certain unmistakeable blessedness of content lurking in the corners of the mouth and the lines of the brow. It met all the requirements of a fastidious man. There was sense, dignity, refinement, sensitiveness, and frankness; and the gazer almost forgot what he wanted to do, in the pleasure of looking. Rotha had time to wonder more than once "what next?"

"It seems to me we have a great deal to talk about, Rotha," Mr. Southwode said at last. "And not much time. What comes first?"

"I suppose," said Rotha, "the first thing is, that I must go back to school."

"I suppose you must!" he said. There was an accent about it that made Rotha laugh.

"Why I must of course!" she said. "I do not know anything; – only the beginnings of things."

"Yes," repeated Mr. Southwode, "for a year you must go, I suppose. For a year. – After that, I will not wait any longer. You shall do the rest of your studying with me."

"You know I like that best of all – " she said softly.

"Perhaps I will take you to Germany."

"Germany!" —

"It is a good place to study German. Or to study anything."

"Must one go to France too, to study French?" Rotha asked with a nervous laugh.

"We must not be too long away from home. But a year – or till next summer; school terms end in summer, do they not?"

"In June."

"So, for a year, or for eight months, I shall hardly see you. We must do a great deal of talking to-night."

"Where will you be, Mr. Digby?" Rotha asked timidly, as he took a chair beside her.

"Not far off; but for this interval I shall choose to play the part of guardian, rather than that of lover, before the eyes of the world."

"O yes, indeed!" said Rotha earnestly. "For every reason."

"All the more, I am not going to play the part of guardian to-night. Rotha I think now, it would be as well to return to Mrs. Mowbray for these eight months. Would you like that?"

"O I shall like it very much! if you like it."

"Things are changed, since we talked about it this afternoon."

"Yes! – " said Rotha breathless. And there was something she wanted to say, but at that minute she could not say it. For that minute she could not disturb the sweetness of things as they were. Scruples must wait. Mr. Southwode saw that she was a little disturbed, shy and nervous, albeit there was no doubt that she was very happy. He stretched out his hand and took hers, holding it in a fast steady clasp; as if to assure her of something tangible and real in her new happiness. "Now," said he, "tell me about yourself – about all these years."

"I did tell you, in part."

"Yes. Tell me the other part. I want to have the whole now."

"It would just – annoy you, I am afraid."

"What sort of a home did you have with your aunt?"

"Not pleasant. That was partly my own fault. I was not patient and gentle and quiet – as you told me to be. I got into a kind of a fury, at things and at her."

"What did she do?"

And then Rotha told him the whole story, not sparing herself at all by the way; till he knew pretty well what her life had been these three years, and what part Mrs. Mowbray and what part Mrs. Busby had played in it. Only one thing Rotha did not tell him; the episode of the stockings. He listened in absolute silence, save that now and then he helped her on with a question; holding her hand firmly all the while. And Rotha felt the clasp and knew what it meant, and poured out her heart. After she had done, he was still silent a minute.

"What shall we do to Mrs. Mowbray!" he broke out.

"You cannot do anything to her," said Rotha. "Thanks are nothing; and there is no way of doing the least thing beside; – unless she could be very ill and left to my care; and I do not wish that."

"Perhaps she will give up schooling some day; and we will coax her over to England and make her live with us."

Rotha started and turned upon the speaker one of her brilliant looks. A sort of delight at the thought, and admiration of his thought, with a flush of intense affection which regarded at least two people, made her face like a cluster of diamonds. Mr. Southwode smiled, and then began to talk about that home to which he had alluded. He described it to Rotha; sketched the plan of the house for her; told her about the people of the surrounding country. The house was not magnificent or stately, he said; but large, comfortable, old, and rather picturesque in appearance; standing in the midst of extensive and very lovely grounds, where art had not interfered with nature. He told Rotha he thought she would like it.

Rotha's eyes fell; she made no answer, but was he thought very grave. He went on to tell her about himself and his business. He, and his father and grandfather before him, had been owners of a large manufacturing establishment, the buildings of which made almost a village some three miles from the house, and the workmen in which were very many.

"Isn't that troublesome often?" Rotha asked, forgetting herself now.

"No. Why should it be troublesome?"

"I read in the papers so much about strikes, and disagreements between masters and workmen in this country."

"We never had a strike, and we never have disagreements."

"That is nice; but how do you manage? I suppose I can guess! They all do what you tell them."

"I do not tell them anything unreasonable."

"Still, ignorant people do not always know what is reasonable."

"That is true. And it is rather the Golden Rule we go by, than the might of Reason or the reign of Law."

"How do you manage, Mr. Digby?"

"I am not to be Mr. Digby always, I hope?"

"This year – " murmured Rotha.

"This year! I do not mean to ask anything unreasonable of you either; but I would like you to remember that things are changed," he said, amused.

"Yes, I will," said Rotha confusedly – "I will remember; I do remember, but now please tell me about your factory people."

"What about them?"

"O, how you manage; how they do; anything!"

"Well – the hands go to work at six o'clock, and work two hours; or not quite that, for the bell rings in time to let them wash their hands before breakfast; and for that there are rooms provided, with soap and towels and everything necessary. Then they gather in the dining halls, where their breakfast is ready; or if any of them prefer to bring their own food, it is cooked for them. There is no compulsion."

"What do they have for breakfast?"

"Coffee and tea and bread, and porridge with milk or with syrup – all at certain fixed low rates and all of good quality. There are people to cook, and boys and girls to wait upon the tables. They have the time till half past eight, but it is not all used for eating; the last quarter of an hour they stroll about and talk together. At half past eight comes the time for prayers. One of the managers conducts the service in the chapel; the Bible is read, and a hymn is sung, and there is a short prayer. At nine o'clock all hands go back to work."

"They have had an hour's good rest," said Rotha. "You say, in thechapel? have you a chapel for them?"

"In the midst of the mills. It is a pretty little building – in old English rustic style; I think it very pretty."

"I dare say the people enjoy that," said Rotha. "It ought to be pretty, for them. I should think your hands would never want to leave you, Mr. Southwode."

"They never do. And as I told you, there is never a question of strikes. Neither do we ever have a time of bad business. The work done is so thorough and has been so long well known, that we never need to ask for orders. We never lose by making bad debts; and we never give notes, or take them. I say 'we' – I am using the old formula – it is all in my hand now."

"Why are not other people wise enough to make such arrangements and have the same sort of comfort?"

"Men fail to recognize their common humanity with those under them. That has been the basis of our management from the beginning. But the chapel, and the religious influence, are of later date. – I must find a ring for this finger, Rotha."

"A ring!" exclaimed the girl.

"Yes. Is not that the custom here? to make people remember what they have pledged themselves to? – " he said smiling.

"Oh never mind that, Mr. Southwode!" said Rotha hurriedly. "Go on and tell me more about your mill people."

"What shall I tell you?"

"About your ways, – and their ways. When do they have dinner?"

"Between one and two. They have an hour for it. A little after half past one they go to work again and work till six; only they have time allowed them for tea and coffee at half past four."

"There is no drinking, I suppose?"

"Not even of beer. Half the people do their work at their own homes; they bring it in on certain days, when we give them hot tea and coffee and bread and cheese, which they have without paying for it. That saves them from the temptation of the public houses; and there is no such thing as drunkenness known in the community."

"Tea and coffee seem to play a great part," said Rotha.

"So they do. People steadily at work in any mechanical way need frequent refreshment of body, which also in some degree is refreshment of mind; and there, as beer and whiskey are banished, tea and coffee come in happily. I do not know how they would manage without them. – Then in various ways we minister to the people and care for them; so that we are like one big family. When any are sick, they are paid at least half wages all the time; and by clubbing together it is generally made up to full wages. We have hospitals, where they have board and lodging and care in addition to half wages; but there is no compulsion about going to the hospitals. And whenever any of them are in any sort of trouble, they come to us for counsel and sympathy and help; my father knew them all personally, and so do I, and so did my dear mother when she was living. But a mistress is wanted there now, Rotha," Mr. Southwode went on. "I cannot do all I would alone, nor half so well what I do. Your place is ready."

"O do not speak so!" cried Rotha catching her breath. "I wish I were fit for it."

"Fit for it!" said he, putting his hand under her chin and drawing his fingers slowly along the delicate outlines, while the blood mounted into her cheeks and flamed out vividly.

"You make me feel so very small, telling me all these things!" she said.

"They are such grand things! And what am I?"

He lifted her face, not without a little resistance on her part, till he could reach her lips, and gave his answer there first; gave it tenderly, and laughingly.

"You are mine," he said; "and what is mine I do not like anybody to find fault with, except myself."

"I mean it seriously, Mr. Digby – " Rotha made effort to say.

"So do I. And seriously, I want you there very much. I want your help in the schools, and with men, women and children out of the schools. It is pleasant work too. They are always glad to see me; and they will be more glad to see you."

"Never!" said Rotha energetically. "What is the name of the place? you never told me."

"Southwode."

"Southwode! That is pretty."

"I am glad you think so. I will shew you, if I can, a little what the house is like."

He had sketched the ground plan of it before; now he drew the elevation, giving some hints of the surrounding trees and further lines of the landscape; telling her all sorts of quiet details about this room and that room, this and that growth of trees, or plantation, or shrubbery. And Rotha looked on and listened, in a kind of dream witchery of pleasure; absorbed, fascinated, with very fulness of content.

Nevertheless, her mind was not settled on one point, and that a very essential point; and after the evening was over and she was alone in her own room, she thought about it a great deal. She could not think regularly; that was impossible; she was in too great a confusion of emotions; happiness and wonder and strangeness and doubt made a labyrinth; through which Rotha had no clue but a thread of sensitive impulse; a woman's too frequent only leader, or misleader. That thread she held fast to; and made up her mind that certain words in consonance therewith should certainly be spoken to Mr. Digby in the morning. It would not be easy, nor pleasant. No, not at all; but that made no difference. She had taken to her room with her the sketch which Mr. Southwode had made of his home; she would keep that always. It was very lovely to Rotha's eyes. She looked at it fondly, longingly, even with a tear or two; but all the same, one thing she was sure it was right to do, to say; and she would do it, though it drew the heart out of her body. She thought about it for a while, trying to arrange how she should do it; but then went to sleep, and slept as if all cares were gone.

She slept late; then dressed hastily, nervously, thinking of her task. It would be very difficult to speak so that her words would have any chance of effect; but Rotha set her teeth with the resolve that it should be done. Better any pain or awkwardness than a mistake now. Now or never a mistake must be prevented. She went to the sitting room with her heart beating. Mr. Digby was already there, and the new, unwonted manner of his greeting nearly routed Rotha's plan of attack. She stood still to collect her forces. She was sure the breakfast bell would ring in a minute, and then the game would be up. Mr. Southwode set a chair for her, and turned to gather together some papers on the table; he had been writing.

"What o'clock is it?" Rotha asked, to make sure of her own voice.

"Almost breakfast time, if that is what you mean. Are you hungry?"

"I – do not know," said Rotha. "Mr. Digby – "

Mr. Digby knew her well enough and knew the tone of her voice well enough, to be almost sure of what sort of thing was coming. He answered with a matter-of-fact "What, Rotha?"

"I want to say something to you – " But her breath came and went hastily.

Then he came and put his arms round her, and told her to speak.

"It is not easy to speak – what I want to say."

"I am not anxious to make it easy!"

"Why not?" said Rotha, looking suddenly up at him, with such innocent, eager, questioning eyes that he was much inclined to put a sudden stop to her communications. But she had something on her mind, and it was better that she should get rid of it; so he restrained himself.

"Go on, Rotha. What is it?"

"I can hardly talk to you so, Mr. Digby. I think, if I were standing over yonder by the window, with all that space between us, I could manage it better."

"I am not going to put space between us in any way, nor for any reason.

What is this all about?"

"It is just that, Mr. Southwode. I think – I am afraid – I think, perhaps, you spoke hastily to me yesterday, and might find out afterwards that it was not just the best thing – "

"What?"

"I – for you," said the girl bravely; though her cheeks burned and every nerve in her trembled. He could feel how she was trembling. "I think – maybe, – you might find it out after a while; and I would rather you should find it out at once. I propose," – she went on hurriedly, forcing herself to say all she had meant to say; – "I propose, that we agree to let things be as if you had not said it; let things be as they were – for a year, – until next summer, I mean. And then, if you think it was not a mistake, you can tell me."

She had turned a little pale now, and her lip quivered slightly. And after a slight pause, which Mr. Southwode did not break, she went on, —

"And, in the mean time, we will let nobody know anything about it."

"I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray the first five minutes I am in her company," he said.

Rotha looked up again, but then her eyes fell, and the strained lines of brow and lips relaxed, and the colour rose.

"About Mrs. Busby, you shall do as you please. You do not know me yet, Rotha – my little Rotha! Do you think I would say to any woman what I said to you yesterday, and not know my own mind?"

"No – " Rotha said softly. "But I thought I was so unfit I do not know what I thought! only I knew I must speak to you."

"You are a brave girl," said he tenderly, "and my very darling." And he allowed himself the kisses now. "Was that all, Rotha?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"You have nothing else on your mind?"

"No."

"Then come to breakfast. It is always bad to go to breakfast with anything on your mind. It is only on my mind that it is so long to next June!"

Rotha however was very willing it should be so. She wanted all these months, to study, to work, to think, to make herself as ready as she could be for what was before her.

The train could not take them until eleven o'clock. After breakfast Rotha sat for a time meditating, no longer on troublesome subjects, while Mr. Southwode finished the letter he had begun earlier. As he began to fold up his paper, she came out with a question.

"Mr. Southwode, what do you think I had better specially study this winter?"

He did not smile, for if the question was put like a child, the work he knew would be done like a woman. He asked quietly,

"What is your object in going to school at all?"

The answer lingered, till his eyes looked up for it; then Rotha said, while a lovely flush covered the girl's face, —

"That you may not be ashamed of me."

"That contingency never came under my consideration," he said, commanding his gravity.

"But indeed it did under mine!"

"Allow me to ask a further question. After that, do you expect to make it the main business of your life to please me?"

"I suppose so," said Rotha, flushing deeper but speaking frankly, as her manner was. "It would be nothing new."

"I should think that would come to be terribly monotonous!" he said with feigned dryness.

"On the contrary!" said Rotha. "That is just what saves life from monotony." And then her colour fairly flamed up; but she would not qualify her words.

"Right in principle," he said, smiling now, "but wrong in application."

"How, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, a little abashed.

He threw his letter on one side, came and sat down by her, and putting his arm round her shoulders, answered first by one of those silent answers which – sometimes – say so much more than anything spoken.

"I should be a sorry fellow," he said, "if I did not estimate those words at their full value, which to me is beyond value. I know you of old, and how much they mean. But, Rotha, this is not to be the rule of your life, – nor of mine."

"Why not?" she asked shyly.

"Because we are both servants of another Master, whom we love even better than we love each other."

Did they? Did she? Rotha leaned her head upon her hand and queried. Was she all right there? Or, as her heart was bounding back to the allegiance she had so delighted to give to Mr. Digby, might she be in danger of putting that allegiance first? He would not do the like. No, he would never make such a mistake; but she? – Mr. Southwode went on,

"That would put life at a lower figure than I want it to be, for you or for myself. No, Christ first; and his service, and his honour, and his pleasure and his will, first. After that, then nothing dearer, and nothing to which we owe more, than each of us to the other."

As she was silent, he asked gently, "What do you say to it, Rotha?"

"Of course you are right. Only – I am afraid I have not got so far as you have."

"You only began the other day. But we are settling principles. I want this one settled clearly and fully, so that we may regulate every footstep by it."

"Every footstep?" Rotha repeated, looking up for a glance.

"You do not understand that?"

"No."

"It is the rule of all my footsteps. I want it to be the rule of all yours. Let me ask you a question. In view of all that Christ has done for us, what do we owe him?"

"Why – of course – all," said Rotha looking up.

"What does 'all' mean? There is nothing like defining terms."

"What can 'all' mean but all?"

"There is a general impression among many Christians that the whole does not include the parts."

"Among Christians?"

"Among many who are called so."

"But how do you mean?"

"Do you know there is such a thing as saying 'yes' in general, and 'no' in particular? What in your understanding of it, does 'all' include?"

"Everything, of course."

"That is my understanding of it. Then we owe to our Master all we have?"

"Yes – " said Rotha with slight hesitation. Mr. Southwode smiled.

"That is certainly the Bible understanding of it. 'For the love of Christ constraineth us; because we thus judge, that if one died for all, then were all dead; and that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him which died for them and rose again.'"

"But how much is involved in that 'living to him'?"

"Let us find out, if we can. Turn to Lev. xiv. and read at the 14th verse. These are the directions for the cleansing of a leper who has been healed of his leprosy." He gave her his Bible, and she read.

"'And the priest shall take some of the blood of the trespass offering, and the priest shall put it upon the tip of the right ear of him that is to be cleansed, and upon the thumb of his right hand, and upon the great toe of his right foot. And the priest shall take some of the log of oil, and pour it into the palm of his own left hand, and shall sprinkle of the oil with his finger seven times before the Lord: and of the rest of the oil that is in his hand shall the priest put upon the tip of the right ear of him that is to be cleansed, and upon the thumb of his right hand, and upon the great toe of his right foot, upon the blood of the trespass offering.'"

"I do not see the meaning of that," said Rotha.

"Yet it is very simple. – Head and hand and foot, the whole man and every part of him was cleansed by the blood of the sacrifice; and whereever the redeeming blood had touched, there the consecrating oil must touch also. Head and hand and foot, the whole man was anointed holy to the Lord."

"Upon the blood of the trespass offering. O I see it now. And how beautiful that is! and plain enough."

"Turn now to Rom. xii. 1."

"'I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to the Lord.'"

"You understand?"

"Partly; I think, only partly."

"The priests of old offered whole rams and bullocks upon the altar as tokens and emblems of the entireness with which the worshipper was given to God; the whole offering was consumed by fire and went up to heaven in smoke and fume, all except the little remainder of ashes. We are to beliving sacrifices, as wholly given, but given in life, and with our whole living powers to be used and exist for God."

"Yes," said Rotha. "I see it now."

"Are you glad to see it?"

"I think I am. It makes me catch my breath a little."

"Why?"

"It must be difficult to live so."

"Not if we love Christ. Indeed if we love him much, it is impossible to live any other way."

"I understand so far," Rotha said after a pause; "but I do not quite know what you are coming to."

"I am coming to something serious; for I do not know whether in this matter you will like what I like."

In Rotha's eyes there flashed an innocent unconscious response to this speech, saying plainly that she could like nothing else! It was so innocent and so unconscious, and withal so eloquent of the place he held with her, that Mr. Southwode could have smiled; did smile to himself; but he would not be diverted, nor let her, from the matter in hand; which, as he said, was serious. He wished to have it decided on its own merits too; and perceived there would be some difficulty about that. Rotha's nature was so passionately true to its ruling affection that, as he knew, that honest glance of her eyes had told but the simple truth. Mr. Southwode looked grave, even while he could willingly have returned an answer in kind to her eyes' sweet speech. But he kept his gravity and his composed manner, and went on with his work.

"Read one more passage," he said. "1 Cor-vi. 20."

"'Ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are God's.' That is again just like the words in Leviticus," said Rotha; – "head and hand and foot redeemed, and head and hand and foot belonging to the Redeemer."

"Exactly," said Mr. Southwode. "That is not difficult to recognize. The question is, will we stand to the bargain?"

"Why?"

"It costs so much, to let it stand."

"It has not cost you much," said Rotha. "I should not say, by your face, it has cost you anything."

"It has cost me all I have."

"Well, in a way – "

"Truly," he said, meeting her eyes. "I do not count anything I have my own."

"But in practice – "

"In practice I use it all, or I try to use it all, for my Master; in such way as I think he likes best, and such as will best do his work and honour his name."

"And you do not find that disagreeable or hard," said Rotha. "That is what I said."

"Neither disagreeable nor hard. On the contrary. I am sure there is no way of using oneself and one's possessions that gets so much enjoyment out of them. No, not the thousandth part."

"Then what do you mean by its 'costing so much'?"

"Read 1 Cor. x. 31."

"'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'" Rotha read, and this time did not look up.