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<h4 id="id01746" style="margin-top: 2em">L'HOMME PROPOSE.</h4> Mr. Digby thought of it a good deal. He was obliged to recognize the fact, that this friendless child was pouring upon him all the affection of a very passionate nature. Child, he called her in his thoughts, and yet he knew quite well that the time was not distant when Rotha would be a child no longer. And already she loved him with the intensity of a concentrated power of loving. Certainly this was not what Mr. Digby wished, or had in any wise contemplated as possible, and it seemed to him both undesirable and inconvenient; and yet, it is sweet to be loved; and he could not recall that intense look of devotion without a certain thrill. Because of its beauty, he said to himself; but it was also because of its significance. He read Rotha; he knew that she was one of those natures which have a great tendency to concentration of affection; with whom the flow of feeling is apt to be closed in to a narrow channel, and in that channel to be proportionately sweeping and powerful. What training could best be applied to correct this tendency, not happy for the possessor, nor beneficent in its effects upon others? These are the sort of natures that when untrained and ungoverned, use upon occasion the dagger and the poison cup; or which even when not untrained are in danger, in certain cases of shipwreck, of going to pieces altogether. In danger at all times of unwise, inconsiderate acting; as when such a stream meets with resistance and breaks its bounds, spreading waste and desolation where it comes. Truly, he trusted that this little girl's future might be so sheltered and cared for, that no such peril might overtake her; but how could he know? What could he do? and what anyhow was to be the outcome of all this? It was very pleasant to have her love him, but he did not want her to love him too well. At any rate, he could not be her tutor permanently; he had something else to do, and if he had not, the arrangement would be inadmissible. Mrs. Busby would return to town in a few weeks, and then— Yes, there was nothing else to do. Rotha must go under her aunt's care, for the present. How would they agree? Mr. Digby did not feel sure; he had an anticipation that the change would be a sore trial to Rotha. But—it must be made. He lay in his hammock one day, thinking all this over. Rotha was sitting near him drawing. She was always near him when she could be so, though a spaniel is not more unobtrusive. Nor indeed half as much so; for a pet dog will sometimes try to attract attention, which Rotha never did. She was content and happy if she could be near her one friend and glance at him from time to time. And lately Rotha had become extremely fond of her pencil; I might say, of all the studies Mr. Digby put before her. Whatever he wished her to do, she did with a will. But drawing had grown to be a passion with her, and naturally she was making capital progress. She sat absorbed in her work, her eyes intently going from her model to her paper and back again; nevertheless, every now and then one swift glance went in Mr. Digby's direction. No model, living or dead, equalled in her eyes the pleasantness of his face and figure. He caught one of those glances; quick, wistful, watchful, and meeting his eye this time, it softened with an inexplicable sort of content. The young man could have smiled, but that the look somehow gave him a touch of pain. He noticed Rotha more particularly, as she sat at her drawing. He noticed how she had changed for the better, even in the few weeks since they came to Fort Washington; how her face had refined, grown gentle and quiet, and her manners correspondingly. He noticed what a good face it was, full of intelligence and latent power, and present sensitiveness; and furthermore, a rare thing anywhere, how free from self-consciousness. Full of life and of eager susceptibility as Rotha was always, she seemed to have the least recollection of herself and her own appearance. She did not forget her new dresses, for instance, but she looked at them from her own standpoint and not from that of an imaginary spectator. Mr. Digby drew an involuntary sigh, and Rotha looked up again. "You like that work, Rotha," he said. "Very much, Mr. Digby!" He had once told her to be moderate in her expressions, and to say always less than she felt, rather than more. Rotha never forgot, and was sedulously reserved in her manner of making known what she felt. "But Mr. Digby, it is very difficult," she went on. "What?" "To make anything perfect." He smiled. "Very difficult indeed. People that aim so high are never satisfied with what they do." "Then is it better to aim lower?" "By no means! He that is satisfied with himself has come to a dead stand- still; and will get no further." "But must one be always dissatisfied with oneself?" "Yes; if one is ever to grow to a richer growth and bring forth better fruit. And anything that stops growing, begins to die." Rotha gave him a peculiar, thoughtful look, and then went on with her drawing. "Understand me, Rotha," he said, catching the look. "I am talking of the dissatisfaction of a person who is doing his best. The fact that one is dissatisfied when not doing his best, proves simply that feeling is not dead yet. There is no comfort to be drawn from that." Rotha went on drawing and did not look up, this time. Mr. Digby considered how he should say what he wanted to say. "Rotha—" he began, "how is it with that question you were once concerned about? Are you any nearer being a Christian?" "I don't know, sir. I do not think I am." "What hinders?" "I suppose," said Rotha, playing with her pencil absently,—"the old hindrance." "You do not wish to be a Christian." "Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I do. But I—cannot." "I should feel happier about you, if that question were well settled." "Why, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, answering rather something in his tone than in his words, and looking up to get the reply. "Because, Rotha, you take hold hard, where you take hold at all; and you may take hold of something that will fail you." Her eyes, and even a sudden change of colour, put a startled question to him. He smiled as he answered, though again with a reminder of pain which he did not stop to analyse. "No," he said, "I will never fail you, Rotha; never voluntarily; but I have no command over my own life. I would like you to have a trust that could never disappoint you; and there is only One on whom such a trust can be lodged. He who is resting on Christ, is resting on a rock." "I know, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, in a subdued way. "I wish I was on such a rock, too; but that don't change anything." "Do you think you really wish to be a Christian, Rotha?" "Because mother was,—and because you are," she said gravely; "but then, for myself, I do not want it." "What is likely to be the end?" "That don't change anything, either," said Rotha, not too lucidly. "Most true!" said Mr. Digby. "Well, Rotha, I will tell you what I think. I think you are your mother's child, and that you will not be left to your own wilfulness. I am afraid, though, that you may have to go through a bitter experience before the wilfulness is broken; and I want to give you one or two things to remember when it comes." "But why should it come?" said Rotha. "Because I am afraid nothing else will bring you to seek the one Friend that cannot be lost; and I think you are bound to find Him." "But where will you be, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, now plainly much disturbed. "I do not know. I do not know anything about it." "But I could not be so forlorn, if I had you." "Then perhaps you will not have me." At this, however, there came such flashes of changing feeling, of which every change was a variety of pain, in the girl's face, that Mr. Digby's heart was melted. He stretched out his hand and took hers, which lay limp and unresponsive in his grasp, while distressed and startled eyes were fixed upon him. "I know nothing about it," he said kindly. "I have no foresight of any such time. I shall never do anything to bring it about, Rotha. Only, if it came by no doing of mine, I want you to have the knowledge of one or two things which might be a help to you. Do you understand?" She looked at him still silently, trying to read his face, as if her fate were there. He met the look as steadily. On one side, a keen, searching, suspicious, fearful inquiry; on the other a calm, frank, steadfastness; till his face broke into a smile. "Satisfied?" he asked. "Then why do you speak so, Mr. Digby?" she said with a quiver in her lip. "My child, this world is proverbially an uncertain and changing thing." "I know it; but why should you make it more uncertain by talking in that way?" "I do not. I forestall nothing. I merely would like to have you provided with one or two bits of knowledge; a sort of note of the way, if you should need it. You are not superstitious, are you?" "I do not know what is superstitious," said Rotha, her eyes still fixed upon his face with an intentness which moved him, while yet at the same time, he saw, she was swallowing down a great deal of disturbance. "Well," he said, speaking very easily, "it is superstition, when people think that anything beneath the Creator has power to govern the world he has made—or to govern any part of it." "I was not thinking of the government of the world," said Rotha, "Only of a very small part of it,—the affairs of your little life. You were afraid that being prepared for trouble might bring the trouble, in some mysterious way?" The girl was silent, and her eyes fell to the hand which held hers. What would she do, if ever that hand ceased to be her protection? People of Rotha's temperament receive impressions easily, and to her fancy that hand was an epitome of the whole character to which it belonged. Delicately membered, and yet nervously and muscularly strong; kept in a perfection of care, and graceful as it was firm in movement; yet ready, she knew, to plunge itself into anything where human want or human trouble called for its help. Rotha loved the touch of it, obeyed every sign of it, and admired every action of it; and now as she looked, two big, hot tears fell down over her cheeks. The hand closed a little more firmly upon her fingers. "Rotha—you believe me?" he said. "What, Mr. Digby?" "You believe me when I tell you, that I am never going to leave you or lose you by any will or doing of mine—" "By whose then?" said Rotha quickly. "By nobody's else, either, I promise you—unless by your own." "By mine!" said Rotha, and a faint smile broke upon her troubled face. "Well, you believe me? And now, my child, that is all you and I can do. And nevertheless, a time might come when you might want help and comfort, that is all I am saying; and I want to give you one or two things to remember in case such a time ever does come, and I am not at hand to ask. Get your Bible, and a pencil." He let her hand loose, and Rotha obeyed immediately. "Find the fourth chapter of John, and read to the fourteenth verse." Rotha did so. "What do you think the Lord meant?" Rotha studied, and would have said she "did not know," only she had found by experience that Mr. Digby never would take that answer from her in a case like the present. "I suppose," she said, speaking slowly, and vainly endeavouring to find words that quite suited her,—"he meant—something like— He meant, that he could give her something good, that would last." Mr. Digby smiled. "That would last always, and never fail, nor change, nor wear out its goodness." "But, Mr. Digby, I should not want to stop being thirsty, because I should lose the pleasure of drinking." Mr. Digby smiled again. "Did you think that was what the Lord promised? What would be the use of that 'well of water, springing up into everlasting life'? No, he meant only, that thirst and thirst and thirst as you will, the supply should always be at hand and be sufficient." Rotha gave one of her quick glances of comprehension, which it was always pleasant to meet. "Then go on, and tell me what is this living water which the Lord will give?" "I suppose—do you mean—religion?" she said, after another pause of consideration. "Religion is a rather vague term—people understand very different things under it. But if by 'religion' you mean the knowledge, the loving knowledge, of God,—you are right. Living water, in the Bible, constantly typifies the work of the Holy Spirit in the heart; and what He does, where he is received, is, to shew us Christ." "Then how can people be thirsty, after they have got the knowledge?" inquired Rotha. But Mr. Digby's smile was very sweet this time, and awed her. "After you have once come to know and love a friend," said he, turning his eyes upon Rotha, "are you satisfied, and want to see and hear no more of him?" "Is religion like that?" said Rotha. "Just like that. What the Lord Jesus offers to give us is himself. Now suppose the time come when you greatly desire to receive this gift, what are you going to do?" "I don't know. Pray?" "Certainly. But how? There are different ways of praying; and there is just one way which the Lord promises shall never miss what it asks for." "I don't know but one way," said Rotha. "Are you sure you know one? It takes more than words to make a prayer. But turn to the second chapter of Proverbs. Read the third and fourth and fifth verses." Rotha read, and made no comment. "You see? You understand?" "Yes, Mr. Digby." "'If thou searchest for her as for hid treasures, then shalt thou understand, and find.'—You know how people search for hid treasures?" "Yes." "They leave no stone unturned, they work by night and by day, they think of nothing else, until their object is gained. Mark those two places, Rotha, and mark them in the fly leaf of your Bible, 1. and 2." "Suppose," he went on when she had done this, "suppose you have sought in this way, and the light does not come, and you are in danger of losing heart. Then turn to Hosea, sixth chapter and third verse. There you have an antidote against discouragement. You shall know, 'if you follow on to know the Lord;' if you do not give over seeking and grow tired of praying. 'His going forth is prepared as the morning.' Blessed words!"—— "I do not know what they mean," said Rotha. "Do you know how the morning is prepared?" "No, sir." "Do you know why the sun rises when morning comes?" "It wouldn't be morning, if he didn't rise, would it?" "No. Well, when the time comes," said Mr. Digby laughing. "Do you know why the sun rises? and why does he not rise where he went down?" "No—" said Rotha, her eyes kindling with intelligent curiosity. Whereupon Mr. Digby turned himself out of his hammock, and coming to the table gave Rotha her first lesson in astronomy; a lesson thoroughly given, and received by her with an eagerness and a delight which shewed that knowledge to her was like what the magnet is to the iron. She forgot all about the religious bearing of the new subject till the subject itself was for that time done with. Then Mr. Digby's questions returned into the former channel. "You see now, Rotha, how the morning is 'prepared,' do you?" "Yes, Mr. Digby," she answered joyously. "And sure to come. If the earth goes on turning round, it cannot help coming. Even so: the Lord's coming is prepared and sure, for any one who persistently seeks him. Keep on towards the east and you will certainly see the sun rise." "Yes," said Rotha, "I see. It is beautiful." "Mark that No. 3 in the fly leaf! But Rotha, remember, anybody truly in earnest and searching 'as for hid treasure,' will be willing to give up whatever would render the search useless." "Yes, of course. But what would?" said Rotha, though she was thinking more of the improvised planetarium with which her imagination had just been delighted. "Turn once more to the fourteenth of John and read the 21st verse." But Mr. Digby himself gave the words. "'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him.'" "That is somebody who has found the treasure, I think, Mr. Digby; it is 'he that loveth me.'" "Quite true; nevertheless, Rotha, it remains a fact that nobody who is not willing to do the Lord's will, can come to the knowledge of him." "Mr. Digby, why are wrong things so easy, and right things so hard?" "They are not." "I thought they were," said Rotha in surprise. "Am I worse than other people?" "It all depends upon where you stand, Rotha. Would you find it easy to do something that would cause me great pain?" "No, Mr. Digby,—impossible." "I believe it," he said. "Then just put the case that you loved Christ much better than you do me; which would be the hard and the easy things then?" Rotha was silent. But the whole conversation had rather given new food for the meditations it had interrupted and which had occasioned it. Where was all this to end?—the young man asked himself. And when should it end, in so far as the immediate state of things was concerned? As soon as possible! his judgment said. Rotha was already clinging to him with a devotion that would make the parting a hard business, even now; every week would make it harder. Besides, he had other work to do, and could not permanently play tutor. As soon as Mrs. Busby came home he would go to her and broach the matter. That would be, for the present, the best plan he could hit upon. A week or two more— Which calculations, like so many others of human framing, came to nothing. A day or two later, driving in the Park one evening, a pair of unruly horses coming at a run round a corner dashed into the little phaeton which held Mr. Digby and Rotha, and threw them both out. The phaeton was broken; Rotha was unhurt; Mr. Digby could not stand up. He believed it was a sprain, he said; no more; but one foot was unmanageable. A carriage was procured, he was assisted into it, Rotha took her place beside him, and the coachman was ordered to drive slowly. A silent pair they were for some distance; and both faces very pale. Rotha was the first one to speak. "Mr. Digby—does it hurt much?" "Rather, just now," he said forcing a smile. "Rotha, are you all right?" "O yes. What can I do, Mr. Digby?" "There is nothing to be done, till we get home." For which now Rotha waited in an impatience which seemed to measure every yard of the way. Arrived at last, Mr. Digby was assisted out of the phaeton, and with much difficulty into the house. Here he himself examined the hurt, and decided that it was only a sprain; no doctor need be sent for. "Is a sprain bad?" asked Rotha, when the assistants had withdrawn. "Worse than a broken bone, sometimes." Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cushions of the lounge; sweat stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great pain. "Where is Mrs. Cord?" "She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I do for you, Mr. Digby?" "You cannot—" "O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr. Digby!"—Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression. "Salt and water is the thing,—but the boot must come off. You cannot get it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife that lies on my table over yonder." Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen foot had made the leather very tight. "I cannot manage it," said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. "I cannot get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve this leather." "Mr. Digby, may I try?" "You cannot do it, child." But the answer was given in the exhaustion of pain, and the young man lay back with closed eyes. Rotha did not hold herself forbidden. She took the knife, and carefully, tenderly, and very skilfully, she managed to free the suffering foot. It took time, but not more, nor so much, as would have been needed to send for a doctor. "Thank you!—that is great relief. Now the salt and water, Rotha." With a beating heart, beating with joy, Rotha flew to get what was wanted; flew only outside the door though, for in the room her motions had no precipitation whatever. She came staidly and steadily, and noiselessly. It was necessary to cut open also the stocking, to get that off, but this was an easier matter; and then Rotha's fingers applied the cold salt and water, bathing softly and patiently, with fingers that almost trembled, they were so glad to be employed. For a long time this went on. "Rotha—" "Yes, Mr. Digby," said the girl eagerly. "What o'clock is it?" "Seven, just." "You have had no tea." "Nor you, either. Will you have some now, Mr. Digby?" "You will. The foot is a great deal easier now, Rotha. Lay a wet cloth over the ankle and let it alone for a while; and have some tea, dear." Rotha obeyed, moving with the utmost delicacy of soft and quiet movements. She made the foot comfortable; rang the bell, and desired the kettle to be brought; and noiselessly arranged the table when the servant had set the tea things upon it She made the tea then; and had just cut a slice of bread and put it upon the toasting fork, when the door opened and in came Mrs. Cord, her arms full of cloths and vials and a basin of water. Rotha dropped the toasting fork and sprang towards her. "What do you want?" she said. "What are you going to do?" Her accent and action were so striking, that the woman paused, startled. "There's a sprained ankle here—I'm coming to see it." "No, you are not," said Rotha with great decision. "I have done all that is necessary, and I am going to do all that is necessary. I can do it as well as anybody; and I do not want you. You may carry all those things away, Mrs. Cord. Mr. Digby is asleep; he is better." "You don't want me, maybe, Rotha, but Mr. Digby does. I've got what he wants here, and I knows my business. My business is to take care of him." She would have passed on. "Stand back!" said Rotha, barring her way. "I tell you, he don't want you, and you are not coming. Stand back! Take your things away. I will manage all that is done here myself. You may go!"—The tone and action were utterly and superbly imperious. The woman paused again, yielding before the slight girl, as matter always does yield to mind. "What new sort o' behaviour is this?" she said however in high offence. "You to tell me what I'm to do and not do! You're takin' a good deal upon you, my young lady!" "I take it," said Rotha, supremely. "Go! and send the girl here, if you please. I heard her go up stairs just now. I want her to make a piece of toast." Mrs. Cord greatly displeased, withdrew, after a glance at the closed eyelids on the sofa. The eyelids however were not so fast closed as they might be; Rotha's first words, spoken somewhat more emphatically than usual, had roused Mr. Digby out of his light slumber, and he had seen and heard all that passed. He had seen it with not a little amusement; at the same time it had given him new matter for thought. This was Rotha in a new character. He had known indeed before, in a measure, the intense nature of the girl; yet in his presence her manner was always subdued, except in the passion of grief that burst all bounds. But this was passion of another sort, and in that concentration of force which draws out a kind of spiritual electricity from its possessor. He saw how it had magnetized Mrs. Cord, and rendered her bulkiness passive. He had been intensely amused to see the large woman standing face to face with the slim girl, checked and indeed awed by the subtle lightning fire which darted from Rotha's eyes and seemed to play about her whole person. Mrs. Cord was fairly cowed, and gave way. And Rotha's bearing; instead of a poor, portionless little girl, she might have been a princess of the house royal, if she were judged of by her mien and manner. There was nothing assumed or affected about it; the demonstration was pure nature, Mr. Digby saw well enough; but what sort of a creature was this, to whom such a demonstration could be natural? There was force enough there, he saw, to bring the whole machinery into disorder and ruin, if the force were not well governed and well guided, and the machinery wisely managed. Who was to do this? Mrs. Busby? Mr. Digby was not sure yet what manner of person Mrs. Busby was; and he felt more than ever anxious to find out. And now a sprained ankle! Meanwhile, Rotha having driven her adversary from the field, was making peaceful arrangements. She had sent the toast to be made; seeing that Mr. Digby's eyes were open, she carefully renewed the salt water application to his ankle; poured out a cup of tea, and brought it with the plate of toast to his side; where she sat down, the cup in one hand, the plate in the other. "What now, Rotha?" said he. "Your tea, Mr. Digby. I hope it is good." She looked and spoke as gentle as a dove, albeit full of energetic alertness. "And do you propose to enact dumb waiter?" "If you want me to be dumb," she said. He laughed. "Rotha, Rotha! this is a bad piece of work!" he said; but he did not explain what he meant.—"That won't do. Call Marianne and let her shove the table up to the sofa here—one corner of it." "I like to hold the things, Mr. Digby, if you will let me." "I don't like it. Call Marianne, Rotha, and we will take our tea together. I am not a South Sea Islander." "Suppose you were,—what then?" asked Rotha as she rang the bell. "Then I suppose I should think it proper for the ladies of the family to take tea after I had done." The tea time was an occasion of unmitigated delight to Rotha, because she could wait upon her protector. He was suffering less now, and except that he was a prisoner seemed just as usual. After tea, however, he lay still, with closed eyes again; and Rotha had nothing to do but take care of his ankle and look at him. She thought it had never struck her before, what a beautiful person he was. I use the word advisedly, and that I may justify it I will try, what I believe I have not done before, to describe Mr. Digby. He was not at all one of a class, or like what one sees every now and then; in fact the combination of points in his appearance was very unusual. His features were delicately regular and the colour of skin fair; but all thought of weakness or womanishness was shut out by the very firm lines of the lips and chin and the gravity of the brow. His hair was light and curly, and a fair moustache graced the upper lip; not overhanging it, but trained into long soft points right and left. He wore no English whiskers nor beard. Again, his hands were small and delicate, and the whole person of rather slight build, as far as outline and contour were concerned; but the joints were well knit and supple, and all the muscles and sinews as if made of steel. Rather slow and easy, generally, in movement, he could shew the spring and power of a cat, when it was necessary; nature and training having done their best. He was habitually a grave person; the gravity was sweet, but very decided, and even when crossed by a smile it was not lost. So at least Rotha had always seen him. There were several reasons for this; one being the yet unhealed wound left by the death of his mother, to whom he had been devotedly attached, and another the sudden death a year or more ago of the lady he was to have married. The world knew nothing of these things, and set Mr. Digby down as a ridiculously sober man, for a man in his circumstances. They gave him also largely the reputation of haughtiness; while no one had more gentle and brotherly sympathy with every condition of humankind, or shewed it more graciously. He got the reputation partly, perhaps, by his real separateness from the mass of men, and his real carelessness about the things in which they take concern; more, however, it came from the feeling of inferiority in his presence, which most people find it hard to forgive a man. He was a welcome guest wherever he appeared; but very few were acquainted with his real tastes and powers and inner nature, even as Rotha knew them. She knew something of them. She did not misjudge him; but on the contrary dwelt on everything that belonged to him with a kind of worshipping admiration. So she sat and looked at him this evening, and thought she had never known before how beautiful he was; and the evening was not slow to her, nor long, though it was utterly silent. By and by came in Mrs. Cord, again with her hands full. "I beg your pardon—can I do anything for you, sir?" "No, thank you. I have had all the care I needed." Rotha's heart had beat fearfully, and now it swelled in triumph. "I have some liniment here, sir, that is an excellent thing for a sprain—if a sprain it is; I wasn't allowed to examine." "Nothing so good as salt and water. Mrs. Cord, let them make up a bed in the next room for me. I had better not go up stairs." So the nurse was dismissed, and Rotha confirmed in her office, to her great joy. <h4 id="id01920" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XI.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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