Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 31
"What do you think of going by that rule?"
"You mean, for Christ's sake," said Rotha slowly. She knew she was willing to go by any rule for her lover's sake. "Mr. Southwode, I do not think I ever studied it out."
"Shall we study it out now?"
"O yes, please! But you must help me."
"Let us come to particulars. What sorts of things that are bought with money, for instance, do you take most pleasure in?"
Rotha looked up, curious, questioning, wondering, pondering, very honest.
"I do not know what most," she said. "I take so much pleasure in everything. Books especially. And pictures I delight in. And – do not laugh at me, Mr. Digby! I always did, – I take pleasure in nice, pretty, comfortable, becoming, dresses and clothes generally. So do you, don't you?"
It went beyond Mr. Southwode's power of gravity, the quaint frankness of this speech; and he laughed. Rotha joined in the laugh at herself, but looked seriously for the answer.
"It is a comfort to talk to you," he said. "One can get at the point. And here we have it, Rotha. I think your liking of all the things specified is thoroughly justified and perfectly right; and as you suggest, I share it with you. Now comes the question. The word says 'whatsoever'; therefore it covers books and pictures and dresses too. Take then the homeliest instance. Are you willing, in buying a gown or a bonnet or anything else, to do it always, as well as you know how, to the glory of God?"
"How can it be done so?"
"Think. If this is your rule, you will choose such a bonnet or gown as you can best do your work – God's work, – in. Therefore it will not be chosen to give the impression that you wish to excite attention or admiration, or that you wish to impose by your wealth, or that dress occupies a large place in your thoughts; it will be such as suits a refined taste, such as becomes you and sets off your good qualities to the very best advantage; and it will not cost more than is truly necessary for these ends, because the Lord has more important work for his money to do. Perhaps I rather overrate than underrate the importance of good dressing; it is an undoubted power; but really good dressing is done for Christ, as his servant and steward equips herself for his service; but she uses no more of the Lord's silver and gold than is needful, because that would be unfaithfulness in stewardship."
"But that makes dressing a noble art!" cried Rotha. Her eyes had looked eagerly into the speaker's eyes, taking in his words with quick apprehension.
"Carry out the principle into all other lines of action, then; and see what it will make the rest of life."
"'To the glory of God.' The Bible says, eating and drinking?"
"Yes."
"Well how that, Mr. Southwode?"
"And if eating and drinking, then the houses in which we assemble, and the tables at which we sit down."
"Yes, but you are going a little faster than I can follow," said Rotha. "In the first place, it seems to me that people in general do not think as you do."
"I told you so."
"Hardly anybody."
"Hardly anybody!"
"Then, is it not possible – "
"That I am straining the point? You have read the Bible testimony yourself; what do you think?"
Rotha was silent. Could all the Christian world, almost all of it, be wrong, and only Mr. Southwode right? Was the rule indeed to be drawn so close? She doubted. The Bible words, to be sure, – but then, why did not others see them too?
"Read Rom. xii. 1, again."
Rotha read it, and looked up in silence. Mr. Southwode's face wore a slight smile. He did not look, she thought, like a man who felt the poorer for what he had given up.
"Well? – " said he.
"Well. I have read this often," said Rotha. "I know the words."
"Have you obeyed them?"
"I – do – not – know. I am afraid, not."
"When a man has given his body a living sacrifice, has he anything left to give beside?"
"Why not?"
"Think. In that case, his hands are his Master's. They cannot do anything inconsistent with his use of them, or interrupting it, or hindering it. All they do will be, indirectly or directly, for Him."
"Yes – " said Rotha. "But nothing for himself, then?"
"Anything, that will fit him for service, or help him in it."
"But for instance. I am very fond of fancy work," said Rotha.
"Useless fancy work?"
"I am afraid you would call it so."
"Never mind what I call it," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little; for Rotha's frankness and directness were delightful; – "I am not skilled in fancy work, and I speak in ignorance. What do you call it?"
"Some of it is not of any use," Rotha said thoughtfully; "it is just a putting together of lovely colours. Of course, people must have mats and rugs and cushions and things; and it is pretty work to make them; but they could be bought cheaper, what would do just as well."
"Then the question rises, in view of all these pretty things, – Is it the best use I can make of my time and my money?"
Rotha's fingers drummed upon the table.
"But one must have amusement," she said. "One cannot be always studying."
"Quite true. The question remains, whether this is the best amusement to be had."
"I give that up," said Rotha. "I see what you think."
"Never mind what I think – for once," said he smiling. "Try the question on its own merits."
"I give that up," Rotha repeated. "Except for odds and ends of chances, it does take a fearful amount of time, and money too. But go on, Mr. Digby; I am getting dreadfully interested."
"You can go on without my help."
"But I want it. Please go on."
"You can transfer to eyes and ears and lips and feet what I have said about hands. All would be the Lord's servants. Have I anything else left to give, if I have once given my body a living sacrifice?"
"No. Nothing. But why did I never see that before?"
"What do you think of it, now you do see it?"
"It is grand!" said the girl thoughtfully. "And beautiful. Such a life would be woven all of golden threads. But Mr. Southwode, it would make one different from everybody else in the whole world!"
"Did not Jesus say? 'Ye are not of the world, even as I am not of the world.' And – 'Therefore the world hateth you.'"
"Yes, – " said Rotha slowly – "I see."
"How would you furnish a house, on this principle?" Mr. Southwode went on.
"A house?" Rotha repeated.
"Yes. Suppose the old house at Southwode was to be refurnished; how should we do it? I would like to have everything there please you."
"But on your principle," said Rotha, colouring beautifully, though she laughed, "you would not arrange it to please me at all."
"If my principle were your principle?" – he said with a flash in his eye which was part pleasure and part amusement.
"I never considered the subject," she said shyly.
"Well let us consider it. What are the points to be principally regarded, in furnishing a house?"
Rotha pondered, a good deal amused; this whole discussion was so novel to her. "I suppose," she said, "one ought to aim at a good appearance – according to one's means, – and the comfort of the family that are to live in the house, – and prettiness, – and pleasantness."
"And the Lord's service?"
"I do not see how that comes in."
"I must state another question, then. What are the uses for which the house is intended? what is to be done in it, or what ought to be done?"
"People are to be made comfortable in it; they must see their friends, – and do their work."
"Very well. What work?"
"I do not know. That depends, I suppose."
"But what work is set out in the Bible for every Christian house to do?"
"Mr. Southwode, I do not know. I do not seem to know much of what is in the Bible, at all!"
"After five months of study?" said he kindly. "Well, listen. The Bible bids us not be forgetful to entertain strangers."
"Strangers!"
"That is the word."
"And of course we are to entertain our friends?"
"That may safely be left to people's natural affection. But ourentertainments it bids us keep for the poor and the maimed and the lame and the blind; for people, in short, who can make us no return in kind."
"Does it!"
"Christ said so expressly."
"I remember he did," said Rotha thoughtfully. "But then – but then, Mr.
Southwode, – in that case, people are all abroad!"
He was silent.
"But are we not to have society?"
"Undoubtedly, if we can get it."
"Then we must entertain them."
"According to Christ's rule."
"But then, especially if one is rich, people will say – "
"The question with me is, what the Master will say."
"People will not want to come to see you, will they, on those terms?"
"Those will who care to see us," said Mr. Southwode; "and I confess those are the only ones I care to see. The people who come merely for the entertainment can find that as well elsewhere."
"One thing is certain," said Rotha. "A house could not be furnished to suit both those styles of guests."
"Then the Bible bids us bring the poor that are cast out, to our houses."
"But that you cannot! Not always," said Rotha. "They are not fit for it."
"There is discretion to be observed, certainly. You would not invite a tramp into your drawing room. But I have known two instances, Rotha, in which a miserable and very degraded drunkard was saved to himself and to society, saved for time and eternity, just in that way; by being taken into a gentleman's house, and cared for and trusted and patiently borne with, until his reformation was complete. In those cases the individuals, it is true, had belonged to the respectable and educated classes of society; but at the time they were brought to the gutter."
"That is not easy work!" said Rotha shaking her head.
"Not when you think of Christ's 'Inasmuch'?"
Rotha was silent a while.
"Well!" she said at last, "I see now that the furnishing of a house has more meaning in it than ever I thought."
"You see, I hope also," Mr. Southwode said gently, "that your conditions of comfort and prettiness and pleasantness are not excluded?"
"I suppose not," said Rotha, thinking busily. "The house would do its work better, even its work among these people you have been speaking of, – far better, for being pretty and comfortable and pleasant. I see that. Refinement is not excluded, only luxury."
"Say, only useless luxury."
"Yes, I see that," said Rotha.
"Then the Bible bids us use hospitality without grudging. That is, welcoming to the shelter and comfort of our houses any who at any time may need it. Tired people, homeless people, ailing people, poor people. So the house and the table must be always ready to receive and welcome new guests."
"I see it all, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, lifting her eyes to him.
"There is no finery at Southwode – I might say, nothing fine; there are some things valuable. But the house seems to me to want nothing that the most refined taste can desire. I think you will like it."
"I think I understand the whole scheme of life, as you put it," Rotha went on, shyly getting away from the personal to the abstract. "So far as things can be done, things enjoyed, – books and music and everything, – by a servant of Christ who is always doing his Master's work; so far as they would not hinder but help the work and him; so far you would use them, and there stop."
"Does such a life look to you burdened with restrictions?"
"They do not seem to me really restrictions," Rotha answered slowly. "Taking it altogether, such a life looks to me wide and generous and rich; and the common way poor and narrow."
"How should it be otherwise, when the one is the Lord's way, and the other man's? But people who have not tried do not know that."
"Of course not."
"They will not understand."
"I suppose they cannot."
"And the world generally does not like what it does not understand."
"I should think that could be borne."
"You are not afraid, then?"
"No, indeed," said Rotha. "But I do not mean that I stand just where you do," she added soberly. "With my whole heart I think this is right and beautiful, and I am sure it is happy; and yet, you know," – she went on colouring brightly, "I should like anything because you liked it; and that is not quite enough. But I will study the matter thoroughly now. I never thought of it before – not so."
There was frankness and dignity and modesty in her words and manner, enough to satisfy a difficult man; and Mr. Southwode was too much delighted to even touch this beautiful delicacy by shewing her that he liked it. He answered, with the words, "It is only to follow Christ fully"; and then there was silence. By and by however he began to allow himself some expression of his feelings in certain caresses to the fingers he still held clasped in his own.
"That you should be doing that to my hand!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode, what an extraordinary story it all is!"
"What do you mean?"
"Just think – just think. All this, the whole of it, has really come from my mother's shewing to a stranger precisely one of those bits of hospitality you have been speaking about. I wonder if she knows now? You remember how the words run, – 'Full measure, pressed down, heaped up and running over, shall they give – '" Rotha's eyes filled full, full; she was near losing her self-command.
"Do you forget there are two sides to it?" said Mr. Southwode, taking her in his arms very tenderly.
"It has all been on one side!" cried Rotha.
"Do you make nothing of my part?"
"Nothing at all!" said Rotha between crying and laughing. "You have given – given – given, – as you like to do; you have done nothing but give!"
"It is your turn now – " said he laughing.
Rotha was silent, thinking a great deal more than she chose to put into words.
CHAPTER XXXII.
END OF SCHOOL TERM
That same evening, just when Mrs. Mowbray was set free from a lesson hour, and the library was left to her sole occupation, a gentleman and lady were announced. The next minute Rotha was in her arms. Whatever she felt, the girl's demeanour was very quiet; her reception, on the other hand, was little short of ecstatic. Then Mrs. Mowbray gave a gracious, if somewhat distant, greeting to Rotha's companion; and then looked, with an air of mystified expectancy, to see what was coming next.
"I have brought Miss Carpenter back to you, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode began.
"Where did you find her?"
"I found her at Tanfield."
"Tanfield!" – Mrs. Mowbray looked more and more puzzled.
"And now, I am going to ask you to take care of her, till next June."
"Till next June – " Mrs. Mowbray repeated.
"The school year ends then, does it not?"
"May I ask, what is to be done with her after next June?"
"I will take her into my own care."
"What does Mrs. Busby say to that?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired, still doubtful and mystified.
"She says nothing," said Rotha. "She has nothing to say. She never had any right to say what I should do, except the right Mr. Southwode gave her." She felt a secret triumph in the knowledge that now at least Mrs. Mowbray would have to accept Mr. Southwode and make the best she could of him.
"Have you come from Mrs. Busby now?"
"No, madame; Mr. Southwode brought me straight here."
And then followed of course the story of the past five months. Rotha gave it as briefly as she could, slurring over as much as possible her aunt's action and motives, and giving a bare skeleton of the facts. Mrs. Mowbray's mystified expression did not clear away.
"Chicago?" she said. "I do not think Mrs. Busby has been to Chicago. My impression is strong, that she has been in or near New York, all summer."
"So she was, madame."
Mrs. Mowbray considered things with a grave face.
"I have a request to make," Mr. Southwode began then; "a request which I hope Mrs. Mowbray will receive as of purely business character, and in no wise occasioned by curiosity. May I be informed, at a convenient time, what has been paid by Mrs. Busby to this house, on Miss Carpenter's account?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Mowbray.
"No bills for schooling? or board?"
"Nothing at all. Antoinette's bills I have rendered, and they have been paid. I have never presented any bill for Miss Carpenter, and none has ever been asked for."
Rotha exclaimed, but Mr. Southwode went on —
"You will allow me to ask for it now."
Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtfully at the speaker.
"By what right could I put Mrs. Busby's obligations upon you? How could I account to her?"
"Count them my obligations," he said pleasantly. "I do not wish Miss Carpenter to leave any debts behind her, when she goes from her own country to mine. I will be much obliged, if you will have the account made out in my name and sent to me."
Mrs. Mowbray bowed a grave acknowledgment. "I had better speak to Mrs.
Busby first," she said.
"As you please about that," said Mr. Southwode rising.
"But next June!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "You are not going to take her away next June? I want her for a year longer at least. I want her for two years. That is one of the difficulties I have to contend with; people will not leave their children with me long enough to let me finish what I have begun. It would be much better for Rotha to stay with me another year. Don't you think so?"
"I am afraid a discussion on that point would not turn out in your favour, madame," he said. "Miss Carpenter is able to represent my part in it; I will leave it to her."
And he took leave. But when it came to Rotha's turn, he sealed all his pretensions by quietly kissing her; it was done deliberately, not in a hurry; and Rotha knew it was on purpose and done rather for her sake than his own. And when he was gone, she stood still by the table, flushed and proud, feeling that she was claimed and owned now before all the world. There ensued a little silence, during which Mrs. Mowbray was somewhat uneasily arranging some disarranged books and trifles on the great library table; and Rotha stood still.
"My dear," said the former at last, "am I to congratulate you?"
"There is no occasion, madame," said Rotha.
"What then did Mr. Southwode mean?" said Mrs. Mowbray, stopping her work and looking up much displeased.
"O yes, – I beg your pardon, – if you mean that," said Rotha, while the blood mounted into her cheeks again.
"Are you going to marry Mr. Southwode?"
"He says so, madame."
"But what do you say?"
"I always say the same that Mr. Southwode says," Rotha replied demurely, while at the same time she was conscious of having to bite in an inclination to laugh.
"My dear, let us understand one another. When I saw him two or three days ago, he did not even know where you were."
"No, ma'am. He found me."
"Have you had any communication with him during these years of his absence?"
"No, madame."
"Did you know, when Mr. Southwode went away, three years ago, that he had any such purpose, or wish?"
"He had no such purpose, or wish, I am sure."
"Then, my dear, how has this come about?"
"I do not know, madame."
Rotha felt the movings within her of a little rebellion, a little irritation, and a great nervous inclination to laugh; nevertheless her manner was sobriety itself.
"My dear, I seem to be the only one in the world to take care of you; and that is my excuse for being so impertinent as to ask these questions. You will bear with me? I must take care of you, Rotha!"
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! There can be no questions you might not ask me."
"I am a little troubled about you, my dear child. This is very sudden."
"Yes, ma'am," said Rotha slowly, – "I suppose it is."
"And I do not like such things to be done hurriedly."
"No."
"People ought to have time to know their own minds."
"Yes."
"My dear, is it certain that Mr. Southwode knows his?"
"I should not like to ask him, madame," said Rotha, while the corners of her mouth twitched. "He is not that kind of man. And there is nobody else to ask him. I am afraid we shall have to let it stand."
Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtful and ill at ease.
"Mr. Southwode is a very rich man, – " she remarked after a minute or two.
"What then, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha asked quickly.
"And, my dear, you have only known him as a little girl," the lady went on, waiving the question.
"What of that, madame?"
"You can hardly be said to know him at all."
"It is too late to speak of that now," said Rotha, laying her gloves together and taking off her scarf. "But I saw more as a child, than most people have a chance to see as grown-up people."
"My dear, I am concerned about your welfare, in this most important step of your life. Have you accepted this gentleman out of gratitude?"
"I do not think he would want me, madame, on those terms, if he thought so."
"Yes, he would, perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Men make that mistake sometimes. But you – you must not make a mistake now, my dear!"
As Rotha was silent, Mrs. Mowbray rose and came to her where she was standing by the table, and put her arms fondly round the girl.
"You know," she said, kissing her repeatedly, "I love you, Rotha. I cannot let you run into danger, if I can help it; and so I put my hand in, perhaps unwarrantedly."
"Never, dear Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha gratefully. "You cannot. You may say anything."
"You are one of those people with whom impulse is strong; and such people often do in a minute what they are sorry for all their lives."
"I hope that tendency has been a little sobered in me," said Rotha.
"Perhaps not much."
"Well, won't you give me a little comfort about this matter?" said Mrs. Mowbray, still holding her close and looking at her. "What are you going to marry this man – this gentleman – for?"
But to answer this question, to any but one person, was foreign to all Rotha's nature. She could not do it. The blood flashed to cheek and brow, making its own report; all that Rotha said, was,
"He wishes it, madame."
"And are you to do everything that Mr. Southwode wishes?"
Rotha said nothing, yet this time Mrs. Mowbray got an answer. There was a little unconscious flash of the girl's eye, as for half a second it looked up, which swift as it was, told the whole story. Mrs. Mowbray knew enough of human nature and of the human countenance, to read all she wanted to know in that look. All as far as Rotha was concerned, that is. And that was the principal thing; Mr. Southwode ought to know his own mind, and was at any rate at his own risk; and furthermore it was not Mrs. Mowbray's business to take care of him. And as regarded Rotha, she now saw, there was nothing to be done.
"Then I must lose you!" she said with a sigh and kissing Rotha again. "My dear, I want nothing but your happiness; but I believe I am a little jealous of Mr. Southwode, that he has got you so easily."
Easily! Well, Rotha could not explain that, nor discuss the whole matter at all with Mrs. Mowbray. She went up to her room, feeling glad this talk was over.
And then things fell immediately into school train. And of all in the house, there was no such diligent worker as Rotha during the months of that school term. She was not only diligent. Mrs. Mowbray greatly admired the quiet dignity and the delicate gravity of her manner. She was grave with a wonderful sweet gravity, compounded of a happy consciousness of what had been given her, and a very deep sense of what was demanded of her. Her happiness, or rather the cause of it, for those months remained secret. Nobody in the house, excepting Mrs. Mowbray, knew anything about it; and if anybody surmised, there was nothing in Rotha's quiet, reserved demeanour to embolden any one to put questions. All that Antoinette and Mrs. Busby knew was, that Mr. Southwode had found Rotha and brought her back. "Like his impudence!" Antoinette had said; but Mrs. Busby compressed her lips and said nothing. Both of them kept aloof.
Mr. Southwode himself was little seen by Rotha during those months. He came sometimes, as a guardian might; and there did arise in the house a subdued murmur of comment upon Rotha's very distinguished-looking visiter. Once or twice he took her out for a drive; however, he during that winter played the part of guardian, not of lover, before the eyes of the world; as he had said he would. When spring came, Mr. Digby went home, and was gone three months; not returning till just before the school term closed.
The story is really done; but just because one gets fond of people one has been living with so long, we may take another look or two at them.
School was over, and the girls were gone, and the teachers were scattered; the house seemed empty. Mrs. Mowbray found Rotha one day gathering her books together and trifles out of her desk. She stood and looked at her, lovingly and longingly.
"And now your school days are ended!" she said, with a mixed expression which spoke not only of regret but had a slight touch of reproach in it.
"O no indeed!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode used always to be teaching me something, and I suppose he always will."
"I wish I could have you two years more! I grudge you to anybody else for those two years. But I suppose it is of no use for me to talk."
Rotha went off smiling. It was no use indeed! And Mrs. Mowbray turned away with a sigh.
Down stairs, a few hours later, Mr. Southwode was sitting in the little end room back of the library – Mrs. Mowbray's special sanctuary. He was trying to see what was the matter with a cuckoo clock which would not strike. The rooms were all in summer order; sweet with the fragrance of India matting, which covered the floors; cool and quiet in the strange stillness of the vacation time. Mrs. Mowbray was a wonderful housekeeper; everything in her house was kept in blameless condition of purity; the place was as fresh and sweet as any place in a large city in the month of July could be. It was July, and warm weather, and the summer breeze blew in at the windows near which Mr. Southwode was sitting, with a fitful, faint freshness, pushing in the muslin curtains which were half open. There was the cool light which came through green India jalousies, but there was light enough; and everywhere the eye could look there was incentive to thought or suggestion for conversation, in works of arts, bits of travel, reminiscences of distant friends, and tributes from foreign realms of the earth. Books behind him, books before him, books on the table, books on the floor, books in the corners, and books in a great revolving bookstand. There was a dainty rug before the fireplace; there were dainty easy chairs large and small; there was a lovely India screen before the grate; and there was not much room left for anything else when all these things were accommodated. Mr. Southwode however was in one of the chairs, and a cuckoo clock, as I said, on his knees, with which he was busy.
Then came a light step over the matting of the library, and Rotha entered the sanctuary. She came up behind his chair and laid her two hands on his shoulder, bending down so as to speak to him more confidentially. There came to Mr. Southwode a quick recollection of the first time Rotha had ever laid her hand on his shoulder, when her mother was just dead; and how in her forlorn distress the girl had laid her head down too. He remembered the feeling of her thick locks of wavy hair brushing his cheek. Now the full locks of dark hair were bound up, yet not tightly; it was a soft, natural, graceful style, which indeed was the character of all Rotha's dressing; she had independence enough not to be unbecomingly bound by fashion. Mr. Southwode knew exactly what was hanging over his shoulder, though he did not look up. I may say, he saw it as well as if he had.
"I do not know how to speak to you," Rotha began abruptly. "You do not like me to call you 'Mr. Southwode.'"
"No."
"But I do not think I know your Christian name."
"My name is Digby."
"That is your surname – your half surname, I thought."
"Yes, but I was christened Digby. That is my name. I took the surname Digby afterwards in compliance with the terms of a will, and legally my name is Digby Digby; but I am of course by birth Southwode."
"Then if I called you 'Digby,' it would sound as if I were simply dropping the 'Mr.' and calling you by your surname; and that is very ugly. It does not sound respectful."
"Drop the respect."
"But I cannot!" cried Rotha, laughing a little. "I have heard women speak so, and it always seemed to me very ungraceful. Fancy aunt Serena saying 'Busby' to her husband! She always says so carefully 'Mr. Busby' – "
"She is a woman of too much good taste to do otherwise."
"She has a good deal," said Rotha, "in many ways. Then what will you think of me, if I do 'otherwise'?"
"You are not logical this afternoon," said Mr. Southwode laughing. "Am I an equivalent for Mr. Busby, in your imagination?"
"Will you make that clock go?"
"I think so."
There was a little pause. Rotha did not change her position, and Mr.
Southwode went on with his clock work.
"What shall I do about aunt Serena?" Rotha then began again, in a low voice.
"In what respect?"
"Must I ask her to come here? – Monday, I mean?"
"Do you wish to have her come?"
"Oh no, indeed!"
"Then I do not see the 'must.'"
"But they are dying to come."
"Have they asked? If so, there is no more to be said."
"O they have not asked in so many words. But they have done everythingbut ask. Aunt Serena even proposed that I should come there – just fancy it!"
"And be married from her house?"
"Yes."
"I am glad it did not occur to you to agree to the proposal."
"Agree! – But what ought I to do?"
"State the arguments, for and against."
"Well! – I cannot help feeling that it would not be pleasant to have them."
"That is my feeling."
"But then, one ought to forgive people?"
"Forgiveness is one thing, and reinstating in forfeited privileges is another. I have forgiven Mrs. Busby, I hope; but only her repentance could restore her to my respect. I have seen no sign of repentance."
"That involves, and means, punishment."
"Involuntary – and unavoidable."
"I am sorry for aunt Serena!"
"So am I," said Mr. Southwode laughing; "but I do not see why, to save her from being punished, I should punish myself."
Through the rooms behind them now came another step, and Mrs. Mowbray presently entered the little room, which was full when the three were in it. She was in a white summer robe, her hair in its simple coil at the back of her head shewing the small head and its fine setting to great advantage. Nothing more elegant, more sweet, more gracious can be imagined, than her whole presence. It was not school time; duty was not laying a heavy hand of pressure upon her heart and brain; there was the loveliest expression of rest, and good will, and sparkling sympathy, and ready service, in her whole face and manner. She sat down, and for a while the talk flowed on in general channels, full of interest and vitality however; Mrs. Mowbray had learned to know Mr. Southwode by this time, and had thoroughly accepted him; in fact I think she liked him almost as well as she liked Rotha. The talk went on mainly between those two. Rotha herself was silent when she could be so. She was grave and soft, full of a very fair dignity; evidently her approaching marriage was a somewhat awful thing to her; and though her manner was simple and frank as a child in her intercourse with Mr. Southwode, yet after the fashion of her excitable nature the sensitive blood in her cheeks answered every allusion to Monday, or even the mention of her bridegroom's name when he was not by, or the sound of his step when he came. Mrs. Mowbray was delighted with her; nothing could be more sweet than this delicate consciousness which was grave and thoughtful without ever descending to shyness or hardening to reserve. As for Mr. Southwode, he saw little of it, Rotha was so exactly herself when she was with him; yet now as the talk went on between him and Mrs. Mowbray his eye wandered continually to the eyes which were so downcast, and the quiet withdrawn figure which held itself a little more back than usual.
