The Letter of Credit

"Where can I get something to eat?"

"I don' know," said the woman indifferently.

"But I must have some breakfast," said Rotha.

"Must you? Well, I don' know how you'll get it. My hands is full."

"You must give it to me," said Rotha firmly. "I will take it cold, or any way you please; but I must have something."

Mrs. Purcell sat silent at her bean picking, and there was a look of defiance on her handsome face which nearly put Rotha's patience to a shameful rout. She hardly knew how to go on; and was extremely glad to see Mr. Purcell come in from the lower kitchen.

"Wet mornin'!" said Mr. Purcell, with a little jerk of his head which did duty for a salutation.

"Mr. Purcell," said Rotha, "I am glad you are come; there is a question to be decided here."

"No there aint; it's decided," put in Mr. Purcell's wife. The man looked as if he would like to be left out of the question; but with a resigned air he asked, "What is it?"

"Whether, while I am in this house, I can have my proper meals, and have them properly."

"You can have your meals, if you'll come to 'em," said Mrs. Purcell, picking her beans.

Rotha was too vexed to speak again, and looked to the man.

"Well – you see," he began conciliatingly, as much towards his wife as towards her, Rotha thought, "you see, Prissy has her work, and she has a lot of it; and she likes to do it reg'lar. It kind o' puts her out, you see, to be gettin' breakfast all along the mornin'. Now she's gettin' her dinner. She's like a spider; – let her alone, and put nothin' in her way, and she'll spin as pretty a web as you'll see; but if you tangle it up, it'll never get straight again."

Mrs. Purcell kept diligently picking her beans over and sweeping them into her pan.

"You do not meet the question yet," said Rotha haughtily.

"Well, you see, the best way would be for you to be along at meal times; when they's hot and ready on the table. Then one more wouldn't make so much difference."

"I have no way of knowing when the meals are ready. If Mrs. Purcell will set by some for me on a plate, and a cup of coffee, I will take it, not good nor hot."

"My victuals aint bad when they's cold," put in Mrs. Purcell here.

"Well, Prissy, can't you do that?" asked her husband.

"You can do it if you like," she said, getting up at last from the table, whence the great heap of beans had disappeared. "It ain't nothin' to me what you do."

Mr. Purcell demanded no more of a concession from his housekeeper, but went forthwith to one cupboard after another and fetched forth a plate and cup and saucer, knife and fork and spoon, and finally bread, a platter with cold fried pork on it, and some butter. He had not washed his hands before shewing this civility; and Rotha looked on in doubtful disgust.

"Where's the coffee, Prissy?"

"The last of it went down your throat. You never leaves a drop in the coffee pot, and wouldn't if there was a half a gallon. What's the use o' askin' me, when you know that?"

"Can I have a glass of milk?" said Rotha.

The milk was furnished, and she began to make a very good breakfast on bread and milk.

"Aint there a bit o' pie, Prissy?" asked Mr. Purcell.

"You've swallowed it. There aint no chance for nothin' when you're round."

Upon which Mr. Purcell laughed and went out, glad no doubt to have the matter of breakfast disposed of without any more trouble. But Rotha eat slowly and thoughtfully. Breakfast was disposed of, but not dinner. How was she to go on? She meditated, tried to gather patience, and at last spoke.

"It is best to arrange this thing," she said. "Meals come three times a day. If you will call me, Mrs. Purcell, I will come. If you will not do that, will you set by things for me?"

"Things settin' round draws the flies. We'd be so thick with flies, we couldn't see to eat."

"What way will you take, then?"

"I don' know!"

All the while she was actively and deftly busy; putting her beans in water, preparing her table, and now sifting flour. Rotha came and stood at one end of the table.

"I should not have thought," she said, "that anybody that loved the gospel of John, would treat me so."

A metallic laugh answered her, which she could not help thinking covered some feeling. The woman's words however were uncompromising.

"I didn't say I loved no gospel of John."

"No, not in words; but the little book tells of itself that somebody has loved it."

"I'll put it away, where it won't tell nothin'."

"My aunt pays you for my board," Rotha went on, "and she expects that you will make me comfortable."

"What does she pay for your board?" said Mrs. Purcell, lifting up her head and flashing her black eyes at Rotha.

"I do not know what. I did not read her letter. You must know."

"She don't pay nothin' for you!" said the woman scornfully. "That's Mis' Busby! She's a good Christian, and that's the way she does. She'll go to church, and say her prayers regular, and be a very holy woman; but she won't pay nobody nothin' if she can help it; and she thinks us'll do it, sooner 'n lose the place, and she can put you off on us for nothin' – don't ye see? So much savin' to her, and she can put the money in the collection. I don't believe in bein' no Christian! Us wouldn't do the like o' that, and us aint no Christians; and I like our kind better 'n her kind."

Rotha stood petrified.

"You must be mistaken," she said at length. "My aunt may not have mentioned it, but it is of course that she pays you for your time and trouble, as well as for what I cost you."

"You don't cost her nothin'," said Mrs. Purcell. "That's all she cares for. Us knows Mis' Busby. Maybe you don't."

The last words were scornful. Rotha hardly heeded them, the facts of the case had cut her so deep. "Can it be possible!" she exclaimed in a stupefied way. Mrs. Purcell glanced at her.

"You didn't know?"

"Certainly not. Nothing would have made me come, if I had. Nothing would have made me! But I am dependent on my aunt. I have no money of my own." Two bitter tears made their way into Rotha's eyes. "Of course you do not want to take trouble for me," she went on. "I cannot much blame you."

"Me and Joe has to live and get along, as 'tis; and it takes a sight o' work to take care o' Joe. 'Taint feedin' no chicken, to feed Joe Purcell; and Prissy Purcell has a good appetite her own self; and Joe, he won't eat no bread as soon as it's beginnin' to get dry; an' I has to bake bread all along the week. An' Joe, he's always gettin' into the bushes and tearin' his things, and he won't go with no holes in 'em; and nights I has to sit up and put patches. I put patches with my eyes shut, 'cause I's so sleepy I can't hold 'em open. An' he wears the greatest sight o' clothes of any man in Tanfield. He wears three shirts; there's his red flannel one, and one o' unbleached muslin – you know that is warm, next his skin; 'cause he won't have the flannel next his skin; and then there goes a white shirt over all; and the cuffs and the collar must be starched and stiff and shiny, or he aint satisfied. I tells him it aint no use; it won't stay so over five minutes; but anyhow, he is satisfied."

"I shouldn't think it was wholesome to wear so many clothes," said Rotha.

"He thinks 'tis."

"You should coax him out of it."

"Prissy Purcell has tried that, and she won't try it no more. There aint no coaxin' Joe. If he wants to do a thing, he'll do it his own self; and if he don't want to do it, you can't move him."

Rotha paused a minute, to let the subject of Joe Puree 11 drop.

"Well, Mrs. Purcell," she said then, "I am very sorry I am on your hands. I do not know exactly what to do. I will write to my aunt, and tell her how I am situated, and how you are situated; but till her answer comes, how shall we do?"

"She won't send no answer!" said Mrs. Purcell, in a much modified manner however. "Us knows her, Joe and me. She's got what she wants, and she's satisfied. She don't care for my trouble, nor for your trouble. She's great on savin', Mis' Busby is. She don't never pay nothin' she hadn't need to."

"I am very sorry," said Rotha bitterly. "I will see if I can find some way of earning the money, Mrs. Purcell, so that I can pay you for the cost and trouble I put you to. But I must have time for that; and meanwhile, what will you do?"

"Us wouldn't think so much of it," Mrs. Purcell went on, "if she didn't set up for bein' somethin' o' extras. I don't make no count o' no such Christians. Mis' Busby wouldn't miss the Communion! – " And the speaker looked up at Rotha, as if to see what she thought on the subject.

"There are different sorts of Christians," said Rotha. "Meanwhile, how shall we arrange things, Mrs. Purcell?"

"Will all sorts of Christians get to heaven," was Mrs. Purcell's response, the query put with her sharp black eyes as well as with her lips.

"Why no! Of course not. Christians are not all alike; but it is only true Christians whom the Lord will call his own."

"How aint they alike? how is they different?"

"Real Christians? Well – some of them are ignorant, and some are wise. Some have had good teachings and good helpers, and some have had none; it makes a difference."

"I thought they was all one."

"So they are, in the main things. They all love Christ, and trust in his blood, and do his will. So far as they know it, at least. 'Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.' So Jesus said, when he was upon earth."

Mrs. Purcell stopped in what she was doing and looked up at Rotha. "That aint in my 'little blue John,'" she said.

"No, I think the words are in Matthew."

"And aint no other people Christians, but them as is like that?"

"You know what is written in the fourteenth chapter of John – 'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.'"

"And aint there no other sort?" inquired Mrs. Purcell, still peering into Rotha's eyes.

"Of Christians? Certainly not. Not of real Christians. How could there be?"

"Then I don't believe there aint none."

"O yes, there are! Many, many. True believers and servants of the Lord Jesus."

"Then Prissy Purcell never see one of 'em," said the woman decidedly.

It shot through Rotha's mind, how careful she must be. This woman's whole faith in Christianity might depend on how she behaved herself. She stood soberly thinking, and then came back to the immediate matter in hand.

"I will pay you, Mrs. Purcell, for my cost and trouble, if ever I can," she said. "That is all I can say. I would go away, if I could. I do not want to be here."

"It's hard on you, that's a fact," said the woman. "Well, us won't make it no harder, Joe and me. We aint starvin'. Joe, he's money laid up; and us always has victuals to eat; victuals enough; and good, what they is, for Joe won't have nothin' else. I don' know if you can like 'em. But I can't go up all them stairs."

"I will take care of my own room. Cannot you call me when dinner is ready, in some way?"

"Joe can holler at you. He can go out and holler."

"I'll have my window open, and I shall hear. And some day, Mrs. Purcell, I will pay you."

"All right," said the woman, whose face was completely cleared up and looked pleasanter than Rotha could ever have believed possible. "Prissy Purcell will get you a good dinner."

So the storm was laid; and Rotha went slowly up stairs, feeling devoutly thankful for that, but very, very sorrowful on her own account. Her, fancy was busy, all the while she was putting her room in order, with the possible future; feeling utterly doubtful of her aunt, in every possible respect, and very sad and depressed in view of her condition and in view of the extreme difficulty of mending it. Then flashed into her mind what she had been saying down stairs; and then, what she had been reading and thinking last night. To do her work, to trust the Lord, and to be content, were the duties that lay nearest to hand.

The duties were far easier to see than to fulfil; however, Rotha took hold of the easiest first, and prayed her way toward the others. She got out her sewing; obviously, Mrs. Busby knew what she was about when she provided those calico dresses. The stuff was strong and troublesome to sew; the needle went through hard. Rotha sewed on it all day; and indeed for many days more. She kept at her work diligently, as I said, praying her way toward perfect trust and quiet content. In her solitude she made her Bible her companion; one may easily have a worse; and setting it open at some word of command or promise, she refreshed herself with a look at it from time to time, and while her needle flew, turned over the words in her mind and wrought them into prayer. And indeed Rotha had loved her Bible before; but after two weeks of this way of life she loved it after a new fashion, such as she had never known. It became sweet inexpressibly, and living; so that she seemed to hear the words spoken to her from heaven. And those days of solitary work grew into some of the loveliest days Rotha had ever seen. She would take her "Treasury," choose some particular thought or promise to start with, and from that go through a series of passages, explaining, elucidating, illustrating, enjoining, conditioning, applying, the original word. The care of her room, and carrying water up and down, gave her some exercise; not enough; but Rotha would not indulge herself with out of door amusement till her mantua making was done.

She hoped for some temporary release from her prison when Sunday came. She was disappointed. May sent another pouring rain, and no going out was to be thought of.

"Where do you go to church? when the sun shines," asked Rotha, as she sat at the breakfast-table and looked at the rain driving past the window. Silence answered her at first.

"Where do you go, Joe?" repeated his wife, with a laugh. "Us is wicked folks, Miss Carpenter. Joe, he don't like to tell on hisself; but 'taint no worse to tell 'u not to tell. So Prissy Purcell thinks."

"Warn't the Sabbath made for rest?" Joe inquired now, with a gleam in his eyes.

"For rest from our own work," said Rotha wonderingly.

"Prissy and me, we haint no other; and it's a blessin' we haven't, for we get powerful tired at that. Aint that so, Prissy?"

"Don't you go to church anywhere?"

"Aint anywheres to go!" said Joe. "Aint no church nowheres, short o' Tanfield; and there's a difficulty. Suppos'n' I tackled up the bosses and went to Tanfield; by the time we got there, and heerd a sermon, and come back, and untackled, and put the hosses up and cleaned myself again, my day o' rest 'ud be pretty much nowhere. An' I don' know which sermon I'd want to hear, o' the three, if I was there. I aint no Episcopal; and I never did hold with the Methody's; and 'tother man, I'd as lieve set up a dip candle and have it preach to me. Looks like it, too."

Rotha was in silent dismay. Tanfield was too far to go on foot and alone. Not even Sunday? I am afraid a good part of that Sunday was wasted in tears.

The next morning brought a fresh difficulty. It suddenly flashed upon Rotha that she must have some clothes washed.

That she should ask Mrs. Purcell to do it, was out of the question. That she should hire somebody else to do it, was equally out of the question. There remained – her own two hands.

Her hands. Must she put them into the wash tub? Must they be roughened and reddened by hard work in hot and cold water? I am afraid pride had something to say here, besides the fastidious delicacy of refinement to which for a long while Rotha bad been accustomed, and which exactly suited the nature that was born with the girl. She went through a hard struggle and a painful one, before she could take meekly what was put upon her. But it was put upon her; there was no other way; and there is no mistake and no oversight in God's dealings with his children. What he does not want them to do, he does not give them to do. It cost Rotha a good while of her time that morning, but at last she did see it, and then she accepted it. If God gave it to her to do, there could be no evil in the doing of it, and no hurt, and no disgrace. What she could do for God, was therewith lifted up out of the sphere of the low and common. Even the censers of Korah's wicked company were holy, because they had been used for the Lord; much more simple service from a believing heart. After a while Rotha's mind swung quite clear of all its embarrassments, and she saw her duty clear and took it up willingly. She went down at once then to the kitchen, where Mrs. Purcell was flying about with double activity. It certainly seemed that the rest of the Sunday had added wings to her heels.

"Do you wash this morning, Mrs. Purcell?"

"Yes. I aint one o' them as likes shovin' it off till the end o' the week. If I can't wash Monday, Prissy Purcell aint good to live with."

"When will be a convenient time for me to do my washing?"

"Ha' you things to wash?"

"Yes, I am sorry to say. You will lend me a tub, and a little soap, won't you?"

"I don' know whether I will or not. Suppos'n you've got the tub, do you know how to get your things clean? I don' believe you never done it."

"No, I have never done it. But I can learn."

"I guess it'd be more trouble to learn you, than to do the things. You fetch 'em here, and I'll do 'em my own self."

"But I cannot pay you a cent for it, Mrs. Purcell; not now, at least.

You'll have to take it on trust, if you do this for me."

"All right," said Prissy. "You go fetch the things, 'cause I'm bound to have my tubs out o' the way before dinner."

Rotha obeyed, wondering and thankful. The woman was entirely changed towards her; abrupt and unconventional, certainly, in manner and address, but nevertheless shewing real care and kindness; and shewing moreover what a very handsome woman she could be. Her smile was frank and sweet; her face when at rest very striking for its fine contour; and her figure was stately. Moreover, she was an uncommonly good cook; so that the viands, though plain, were made both wholesome and appetizing. In that respect Rotha did not suffer; the exclusive companionship of two such ignorant and unrefined persons was a grievance on the other hand which pressed harder every day.

She kept herself busy. When her dresses were done, she began to spend hours a day out of doors.

The sweet things in the flower borders which were choked and hindered by wild growth and weeds, moved her sympathy; she got a hoe and rake and fork from Mr. Purcell and set about a systematic clearing of the ground. It was a spacious curve from one gate to the other; and all the way went the flower border at one side of the road, and all the way on the other side, except where the house came in. Rotha could do but a little piece a day; but the beauty and pleasantness of that lured her on to spend as much time in the work as she could match with the necessary strength. It was so pretty to see the flowers in good circumstances again! Here a sweet Scotch rose, its graceful growth covered with wild-looking, fair blossoms; here a bed of lily of the valley; close by a carpet of lovely moss pink, which when cleared of encumbering weedy growth that half hid it, fairly greeted Rotha like a smile whenever she went out. And periwinkle also ran in a carpet over the ground, green with purple stars; daffodils were passing away, but pleasant yet to see; and little tufts of polyanthus and here and there a red tulip shewed now in all their delicate beauty, scarcely seen before. Hypericum came out gloriously, when an intrusive and overgrown lilac bush was cut away; and syringa was almost as good as jessamine, Rotha thought; little red poppies began to lift their slender heads, and pansies appeared, and June roses were getting ready to bloom. And as long as Rotha could busy herself in the garden work, she was happy; she forgot all that she had to trouble her; even when Prissy Purcell came out to see and criticise what was going on.

"What are you doin' all that for?" the latter asked one day, after standing some time watching Rotha's work. "Are you thinkin' Mis' Busby'll come by and by?"

"My aunt? No indeed!" said Rotha looking up with a flush. "I have no idea when I shall see my aunt again; and certainly I do not expect to see her here."

"Somebody else, then?"

"Why no! There is nobody to come."

"Didn't you never have a beau?" said Prissy Purcell, stooping down and speaking lower.

"A what?" said Rotha turning to her.

"A beau. A young man. Most girls does, when they're as good-lookin' as you be. You know what I mean. Didn't you never keep company with no one?"

"Keep company!" said Rotha, half vexed and half amused. "Mrs. Purcell, I was a little girl only just a few days ago."

"But you're as handsome as a red rose," insisted Mrs. Purcell. "Didn't you never yet see nobody you liked more 'n common?"

Rotha looked at her again, and then went on forking up her ground. "Yes," she said; "but people a great deal older than myself, Mrs. Purcell. Now see how that beautiful stem of white lilies is choked and covered up. A little while longer and we shall have a lovely head of white blossom bells there."

"Older 'n your own self?" repeated Mrs. Purcell softly.

"What? – O yes!" said Rotha laughing; "a great deal older than myself. Not what you are thinking about. I have been a school girl till I came here, Mrs. Purcell."

"Then Mis' Busby didn't send you here to keep you away from no one?"

Again Rotha looked in the woman's face, a half startled look this time. "No one, that I know," she answered. But a strange, doubtful feeling therewith came over her, and for a moment she stood still, with her eye going off to the gate and the road, musing. If it were so! – and a terrible impatience swelled in her breast. Ay, if it were so, there was no help for her. She could not get away, and nobody could come to her, because nobody knew and nobody would know where she was. Even supposing that so unimportant a person as poor little Rotha Carpenter were not already and utterly forgotten. That was most probable, and anything different was not to be assumed. Continued care for her would have forwarded some testimonials of its existence, in letters or messages. Who should say that it had not? was the next instant thought. They would have come to her aunt, and her aunt would never have delivered them.

This sort of speculation, natural enough, is besides very exasperating. It broke up Rotha's peace for that day and took all the pleasure out of her garden work. She went on pulling up weeds and forking up the soil, but she did the one with a will and the other with a vengeance; staid out longer than usual, and came in tired.

"Joe," said Mrs. Purcell meanwhile in the solitude of her kitchen, "I'll bet you a cookie, Mis' Busby's up to some tricks!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

INQUIRIES

The weeks went on now without any change but the changes of the season. Rotha's flower borders bloomed up into beauty; somewhat old-fashioned beauty, but none the worse for that. Hypericum and moss pink faded away; the roses blossomed and fell; sweet English columbines lifted their sonsy heads, pale blue and pale rose, and dark purple; poppies sprang up, as often in the gravel road as in the beds; lilies came and went; the laburnum shook out its clusters of gold; old honeysuckles freshened out and filled all the air with the fragrance of their very sweet flowers. Rotha's tulip tree came into blossom, and was a beautiful object from her high window which looked right into the heart of it. Rotha grew very fond of that tulip tree. There were fruits too. The door in the fence, which she had noticed on her first expedition to the barnyard, was found to be the entrance to a large kitchen garden. Truly, Joe Purcell cultivated few vegetables; cabbages however were in number and variety, also potatoes, and that resource of the poor, onions.

The fruits were little cared for; still, there were numbers of purple raspberry bushes trained along the fence, which yielded a good supply of berries; there were strawberry beds, grown up with weeds, where good picking was to found if any one wanted to take the trouble. Gooseberries were in great profusion, and currants in multitude. Old cherry trees, which shaded parts of the garden disadvantageously for the under growth, yielded a magnificent harvest of Maydukes, white hearts and ox hearts; and pear trees and mulberry trees were not wanting, promising later crops. Mr. and Mrs. Purcell had paid little attention to these treasures; Joe hadn't time, he said; and Prissy wouldn't be bothered with gathering berries after all the rest she had to do. Rotha made it her own particular task to supply the little family with fruit; and it was one of the pieces of work she most enjoyed. Very early, most often, while the sun's rays yet came well aslant, she set off for the old garden with her basket on her arm; and brought in such loads of nature's riches that Joe and his wife declared they had never lived so in their lives. It was lonely but sweet work to Rotha to gather the fruit. The early summer mornings are some of the most wonderful times of the year, for the glory and fulness and freshness of nature; the spirit of life and energy abroad is catching; and sometimes Rotha's heart sang with the birds. For she had a happy faculty of living in the present moment, and throwing herself wholly into the work she might be about, forgetting care and trouble for the time. Other mornings and evenings, she would almost forget the present in thoughts that roamed the past and the future. Pushing her hand among the dewy tufts of strawberry plants to seek the red fruit which had grown large under the shadow of them, her mind would go wandering and searching among old experiences to find out the hidden motives and reasons which had been at work, or the hidden issues which must still be waited for. At such times Rotha would come in thoughtful and tired. How long would her aunt leave her in this place? and how, if her aunt did not release her, was she ever to release herself? What was Mrs. Mowbray about, that she never wrote? several letters had been sent off to her, now a good while ago; letters telling all, and seeking counsel and comfort. No word came back. And oh, where was that once friend, who had told her to tell him everything that concerned her, and promised, tacitly or in so many words, that her applications would never be disregarded nor herself lost sight of? Years had passed now since he had given a sign of his existence, much less a token of his care. But after all, was that a certain thing? Was it not possible, that Mrs. Busby might have come in between, and prevented any letter or word of Mr. Digby's from reaching her? This sort of speculation always made Rotha feel wild and desperate; she banished it as much as she could; for however the case were, she possessed no remedy.