The Letter of Credit

And not till she was drawing up her fur around her, preparatory to departure, did Mrs. Mowbray refer to the fourth member of the family. Then she said,

"How is your niece, Mrs. Busby? Miss Carpenter?"

"Quite well," Mrs. Busby answered graciously. "I believe she is at her books."

"How does she like going to school?"

"I am afraid I can hardly say. Netta, how does Rotha enjoy her school life?"

"I don't know," said Antoinette. "She doesn't enjoy anything, I should say."

The tone of neither question nor answer escaped the watchful observation of the visiter.

"I think you said she had had no advantages?"

"None whatever, I should say; not what we would call advantages. I suppose she has learned a few common things."

"She is an orphan?"

Mrs. Busby assented. "Lost her mother last summer."

"I should like to have her more under my own eye than is possible as she is now; a mere day scholar. What do you say to letting her become a member of my family? Of course," added Mrs. Mowbray graciously, "I should not propose to you to charge yourself with any additional burden on her account. As she is an orphan, I should make no difference because of receiving her into my family. I have a professional ambition to gratify, and I like to be able to carry out my plans in every detail. I could do better for Antoinette, if you would let me have her altogether; but I suppose that is not to be thought of."

Mrs. Busby wore an air of deliberation. Mr. Busby was understood to mutter something about "very handsome."

"Will you let me have Antoinette?" said the lady smiling. "I think it would do her no harm."

"Antoinette must content herself at home," Antoinette's mother replied.

"I am accustomed to having her under my own wing."

"And that is a privilege you would not yield to any one else. I understand. Well, what do you say about Miss Carpenter?"

Mrs. Busby looked at her husband. Long experience enabled him to guess at what he was desired to say.

"My dear – since Mrs. Mowbray is so kind – it would be a great thing for Rotha the best thing that could happen to her – "

Mrs. Busby turned her eyes to her visiter.

"Since you are so good, Mrs. Mowbray – it is more than I could ask you to do – "

"I shall be very glad to do it. I am nothing if not professional, you know," Mrs. Mowbray said rising and drawing her fur together again. "Then that is settled." – And with gracious deference and sweetness of manner she took her leave.

"That's what I call a good riddance!" exclaimed Antoinette when she was free to express her opinion.

"You will find it a happy relief," added Mr. Busby. "And not a little saving, too."

Mrs. Busby was silent. With all the relief and the saving, there was yet something in the plan which did not suit her. Nevertheless, the relief, and the saving, were undoubted facts; and she held her tongue.

"Mamma, what are you going to do about Rotha's dresses?"

"I will see, when she comes to me with a proper apology."

Of all this nothing was told to Rotha. So she was a little surprised, when next morning Mrs. Mowbray came into the schoolroom and desired to see her after school. But then Mrs. Mowbray's first words were about her cold.

"My dear, you are very hoarse! You can hardly speak. And you feel miserably, I see. I shall sequester you at once. Come with me."

Wondering but obedient, Rotha followed. What was going to happen now? Up stairs, along a ball, up another flight of stairs, past the great schoolrooms, now empty, through a small bedroom, through a large one, along another passage. At last a door is opened, into what, as Rotha enters it, seems to her a domestic paradise. The air deliciously warm and sweet, the walls full of engravings or other pictures, tables heaped with books, a luxuriously appointed bed and dressing tables, (what to Rotha's eyes was enormous luxury) – finally a couch, where she was made to lie down and covered over with a brilliant affghan. Rotha was transported into the strangest of new worlds. Her new friend arranged the pillow under her head, gave her some tasteless medicine; that was a wonderful innovation too, for all Rotha's small experience had been of nauseous rhubarb and magnesia or stinging salts; and finally commanded her to lie still and go to sleep.

"But aunt Serena – ?" Rotha managed to whisper.

"She has made you over to me. You are going to live in my house for the present, where you can carry on your studies better than you could at home, and I can attend to you better. Here you have been losing a month, because I did not know what you properly required. Are you willing to be my child, Rotha? – instead of Mrs. Busby's? – for a time?"

The flash of joy in Rotha's eyes was so eloquent and so bright, that Mrs.

Mowbray stooped down and kissed her.

"I never was Mrs. Busby's child," – the girl must make so much protest.

"Well, no matter; you are not her child now. Lie still, and go to sleep if you can."

Could she? Not at once. Is it possible to tell the sort of Elysium in which the child was lapped? Softness and warmth and ease and rest, andhiding, and such beauty and such luxury! Mrs. Mowbray left the room presently; and Rotha lay still under her affghan, looking from one to another point of delight in the room, wondering at this suddenly entered fairyland, comforted inexpressibly by the assurance that she was taken out of her aunt's house and presence, happy in the promise of the new guardianship into which she had come. What pretty pictures were on the walls, all around her, over her head; here was a lady, there a lovely little girl; here a landscape; there a large print shewing a horse which a smith is just about shoeing, and a little foal standing by. And so her eye wandered, from one to another, every one having its peculiar interest for Rotha. Then the books. How the books were piled up, on the floor, on the dressing-table, on benches, on the mantelpiece; there was a kind of overflow and breaking wave of literary riches which seemed to have scattered its surplus about this room. And there were trinkets too, and pretty useful trifles, and pretty things of use that were not trifles. Rotha had always lived in a very plain way; her father's house had shewed no far-off indication of this sort of life. Neither had her aunt's house. Plenty of means was not wanting there; the house had money enough; what it lacked was the life. No love of the beautiful; no habit of elegant surroundings; no literary taste that had any tide or flow whatsoever, much less overflow. No art, and no associations. Everything here had meaning, and indications of life, or associations with it; with mental life especially. What exactly it was that charmed her, Rotha could not have told; she could not have put all this into words; yet she felt all this. The girl had come into a new atmosphere, where for the first time her soul seemed to draw free breath. It was, by its affinities, her native air. Certainly in the company of Mr. Southwode all this higher part of her nature had been fed and fostered, and with him too she was at home; but she had seen him only in Mrs. Marble's house or in the lodgings at Fort Washington.

It was long before Rotha could sleep. She waked as the day was declining and the room growing dusky. A maid came in and lit the fire, which presently sparkled and snapped and sent forth jets of flame which lit up the room with a red illumination. Rotha recognized, she thought, the sort of coal which Mr. Digby had sent in for her mother, and hailed the sight; but she was mistaken, a little; it was kennal coal, not Liverpool. It snapped and shone, and the light danced over pictures and books and curtains; and Rotha wondered what would come next.

What came next was Miss Blodgett, followed by the maid bearing a tray. The tray was placed on a stand by the couch, and Rotha was informed that this was her dinner. Mrs. Mowbray wished her to keep quite quiet and live very simply until this cold was broken up. Rotha raised herself on her couch and looked in astonishment at what was before her. A hot mutton chop, a roll, a cup of tea, and some mashed potatoe. A napkin was spread over the tray; and there was a little silver salt cellar, and a glass of water, and a plate of rice pudding. Ah, surely Rotha was in fairyland; and never was there so beneficent and so magnificent a fairy in human shape. Miss Blodgett saw her arranged to her mind, and left her to take her dinner in peace and at leisure; which Rotha did, almost ready to cry for sheer pleasure. When had dinner been so good to her? Everything was so hot and so nice and so prettily served. Rotha lay down again feeling half cured already.

However, such well-grounded colds as she had taken are not disposed of in a minute; and Rotha's kept her shut up for yet several days more. Wonders went on multiplying; for a little cot bed was brought into the room, (which Rotha found was Mrs. Mowbray's own) and made up there for her occupancy; and there actually she slept those nights. And Mrs. Mowbray nursed her; gave her medicine, by night and by day; sent her dainty meals, and allowed her to amuse herself with anything she could find. Rotha found a book suited to her pleasure, and had a luxurious time of it. Towards the end of the second day, Mrs. Mowbray came into the room; a little while before dinner.

"How do you do?" she said, standing and surveying her patient.

"Very well, ma'am; almost quite well."

"You will be glad to be let out of prison?"

"It is a very pleasant prison."

"I do not think any prison is pleasant. What book have you got there?

Mrs. Sherwood. Do you like it?"

"O very much, ma'am!"

"My dear, your aunt has sent your trunk, at my request; and Miss Blodgett has unpacked it to get at the things you were wanting. But there is only one warm dress in it. Is that your whole ward robe?"

"What dress is that? what sort, I mean?"

"Grey merino, I believe."

"It is not mine," said Rotha flushing. "It is Antoinette's. They tried it on, but it did not fit me. I told aunt Serena I would rather wear my own old one."

"That is the one you are wearing now?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"My dear, is that your whole supply for the winter?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I observe you have a nice supply of under wear."

"Yes, ma'am. That was got for me by somebody else; not my aunt."

"Have you other relations then, besides Mrs. Busby?"

"No, ma'am. But I have a friend."

"May I know more, since you have begun to confide in me? Who is this friend?"

"It is the friend mother trusted me to, when she – when she – "

"Yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mowbray gently. "Why does not this friend take care of you then, instead of leaving you to your aunt?"

"O he does take care of me," cried Rotha; "but he is in England; he is not here. He had to go home because his father was very ill – dying, I suppose."

"He?" repeated Mrs. Mowbray. "A gentleman?"

"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got those things for me."

"What is his name, my dear?"

"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."

"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a young gentleman."

"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can forgive her for it, – never, never!"

"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"

"Mr. Digby took me to her," said Rotha, her eyes filling, while they sparkled at the same time. "He said it was best for me to be there, under her care, as he had no home where he could take me. But if he had known, he never would have left me with her. I know he would not. He would have taken care of me some other way."

"What has Mr. Southwode done for you, that you should have such trust in him?"

But Rotha somehow did not want to go into this subject in detail.

"He did everything for us that a friend could do; he taught me, and he took care of mother; and mother left me in his charge."

"Where was Mrs. Busby?"

"Just where she is now. She did not know we were here."

"Why was that?"

Rotha hesitated. "Mother did not like to tell her," she said, somewhat obscurely.

"And she left you in this gentleman's care."

"Yes."

"And he put you under your aunt's care."

"Yes, for the present. But I was to tell him if anything went wrong; and I have never been able to speak a word to him since. Nor to write, because he had not given me his address."

"Mr. Southwode is an Englishman. It is probable, if his father is dead, that he will make his home in England for the future."

Rotha was silent. She thought Mr. Digby would not forget her, or fail in his promises; but she kept her views to herself.

"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?"

Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous masses of books in something like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep it, my dear."

"O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rushing into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully.

"I dare say. It is the old story – 'When the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?"

"Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and in the fifth chapter of Matthew, – here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar – '"

"I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?"

"Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly.

"Yes, but what has she done?"

"I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him."

"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous offence."

"It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst."

"She might have thought she had good reasons."

"She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in her power."

"Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs. Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and it leaves you a great deal more comfortable."

"You cannot always do that," said Rotha.

"And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it?

Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?"

"It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently," said Rotha.

"It occurs to me – Those words you began to quote, – they run, I think, 'If thy brother hath ought against thee.' Is that the case here?"

"Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry – very angry; but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an apology; and I was so angry I could not."

"And do you feel so now?" Mrs. Mowbray asked after a slight pause.

"Just the same."

"Do you think you are a Christian, Rotha?"

"No, ma'am. I know – a Christian does His commandments," the girl answered low.

"Do you want to be a Christian?"

"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"

"You cannot, while your will goes against God's will."

"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.

"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."

Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of her difficulties.

Then came her dinner. Such a nice dinner it was; and served with a delicacy and order which charmed Rotha. She eat it alone, but missing nothing; having a sense of shelter and hiding from all roughnesses of people and things, that was infinitely soothing. She eat her dinner, and hoped for Mrs. Mowbray's return. Waiting however in vain. Mrs. Mowbray came not. The room was bright; the fire burned; the cheerful shine was upon everything; Rotha was full of comfort in things external; if she only could settle and quiet this question in her heart. Yes, this question was everything. Were she but a child of God, secure and established, – yes, not that only, but pure and good, – like Mr. Digby; then, all would be right. Then she would be happy. With that question unsettled, Rotha did not feel that even Mrs. Mowbray could make her so.

Late in the evening Mrs. Mowbray came. Her arms were full of packages.

"I could not get free before," she said, as she shut the door behind her. "I had an errand – and then company kept me. Well, my dear! have you had a pleasant evening, all alone?"

"I like to be alone sometimes," Rotha replied a little evasively.

"Do you! Now I like company; unless I have something to do. Perhaps that was your case, eh?"

"Yes, ma'am, it was."

"And did you accomplish it? – what you had to do."

"No, ma'am."

"You must take me into your counsels. See here – how do you like that?"

She had drawn up a chair to the side of Rotha's couch, and opening one of the packages on her lap, transferred it to Rotha's. It was the fashion then for young people to wear woollen stuffs of bright plaid patterns; and this was a piece of chocolate and black with a thread of gold colour; soft and beautiful and rich tinted. "How do you like that?" Mrs. Mowbray repeated; and Rotha answered that she thought it very beautiful.

"Don't you think that would make you a nice school dress? and here – how would this do for company days?"

As she spoke, she laid upon the chocolate plaid another package, containing a dark brown poplin, heavy and lustrous. Poor Rotha looked up bewildered to the lady's face, which was beaming and triumphant.

"Like it?" she said gleefully. "I couldn't tell your taste, you know. I had to go by my own Don't you think that would become you?"

"Me?" said Rotha.

"Yes. You see, we cannot wait for your aunt's slow motions, and you must be clothed. Do you like it, my dear?"

"I like it very much – of course – they are most beautiful; but – will aunt Serena give you the money, Mrs. Mowbray?"

"I shall not ask her," said Mrs. Mowbray laughing. "You need not say anything about it, to her or anybody else. It is our affair. Now here is a warm skirt, my dear; I want to keep you warm while you are in my house, and you are not sufficiently armed against the cold weather. I don't want to have you catching any more colds. You see, this is for my interest. Now with that you will be as warm as a toast."

It was a beautiful petticoat of scarlet cloth; soft and thick. Rotha looked at the pile of things lying on her lap, and was absolutely dumb. Mrs. Mowbray bent forward and kissed her cheek.

"I think you will be well enough to go out by Saturday – and I will let Miss Jewett go with you to a dress-maker and have these things made up at once. Is there any particular dress-maker who is accustomed to work for you?"

"No," Rotha said first, and then immediately added – "Yes! I forgot; the one who made my summer dresses, that I had in the summer." That Mr. Southwode got for me, she had been about to say; but she checked herself. Some fine instinct made her perceive that the mention of that gentleman's name was not received with absolute favour. She thought Mrs. Mowbray did not approve of Mr. Southwode.

"And now, my dear," said that lady, as she swept away the packages of goods from Rotha's lap, "what about your question of conscience?"

"It remains a question, ma'am."

"Not settled yet? What makes the difficulty?"

"I told you, ma'am. I did not speak quite as I ought to my aunt, one or two times, and so – she has something against me; and I cannot pray."

"Cannot pray, my dear! that is dreadful. I should die if I could not pray. The Bible says, pray always."

"But it says, here, 'if thy brother hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.'"

"Let me see that place," said Mrs. Mowbray. She sat down beside Rotha and took the little Testament out of her hand, and considered the passage.

"Well, my dear," she said at last, – "and so you think these words forbid you to pray?"

"Do they not?" said Rotha, "until I could reconcile myself to aunt Serena? or at least try."

"What is the matter between you and your aunt?"

"I do not know. I cannot tell what makes her do so."

"Do what?"

"Hide me from the only friend I have got."

"You mean that gentleman? My dear, she may have had very good reasons for that?"

"She could not have good reasons for it," said Rotha flushing.

"My dear, old people often see things that young people do not see, and cannot judge of."

"You do not know Mr. Southwode, ma'am. Anyhow, I do not feel as if I could ever forgive her."

"That makes it difficult for you to go and ask her pardon, hey?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What are you going to do?"

"I do not know," said Rotha sadly.

"It is too late for us to talk longer to-night. I will shew you a Bible to-morrow – stop, there is no time like the present – "

Mrs. Mowbray rose and went to a table from which she brought a little volume. "This will do better," she said. "I have a Bible in which all this, in this book, is arranged in reference columns; but this is more convenient. You can use this with your own Bible, or any Bible. I am going to give you this, my dear." And she fetched a pen as she spoke and entered Rotha's name on the title page, with the date of day and month and year. Then she went on – "Now see, Rotha; here is what will give light on your question. Here are references from every verse in the Bible to other parts and other verses which explain or illustrate it. Find your place, – what is it? – Mat. v. 24, is it? – here; now see, here are references to other passages, and from them you will find references to still others. Take this to-morrow and study it out, and pray, my dear. You cannot get along without praying."

CHAPTER XVI.

SCHOOL

Rotha received the book with an access of pleasure, which expressed itself however mainly in sparkling eyes and the red tinge of excitement in her cheeks. She did say some words of thanks, but they were not fluent, as customary with her when any great degree of delight was pressing for utterance. Then speech was poor. Mrs. Mowbray did not miss it; she could read the signs, and was satisfied. But long after she was asleep, Rotha lay on her cot with eyes wide open, staring at the remains of the fire. What had come to her? what strange, enchantment-like, fabulous, change of circumstances? and this dispenser and contriver of happiness, slumbering peacefully on the bed yonder, what was she but a very fairy of blessing, bringing order out of disorder and comfort out of the very depths of confusion. A home, and a friend, and nice dresses, and study, and books! Two books to-day! Rotha was too happy to sleep.

The next day she began school duties again; but Mrs. Mowbray would not have her join the family at meals, until, as she said, she had something comfortable to wear. Rotha was thankful for the kind thoughtfulness that spared her feelings; and in return bent herself to her appointed tasks with an energy which soon disposed of them. However, they took all her time, for Mrs. Mowbray had introduced her to another part of the school and a much more advanced class of the pupils. This of itself gave her new spirit. The following day Mrs. Mowbray, as she had promised, sent her with one of the under teachers to have her dresses cut out. They went in a carriage, and drove to Mrs. Marble's. Mrs. Marble wore a doubtful countenance.