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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id05190" style="margin-top: 2em">DISCUSSIONS.</h4> 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 the chapel? 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 be living 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. "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 our entertainments 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. <h4 id="id05499" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XXXII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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