The Letter of Credit

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 c
ourse--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.

  "Well, it _is_ time you had something warmer, if you've got nothing more made since those lawns. Where's Mr. Digby?"

  "In England."

  "England! Don't say! And who's taking care of you?"

  "Miss Carpenter is in Mrs. Mowbray's family," said Miss Jewett stiffly.

  "Mrs. Mowbray, hey? what, the great school? You _are_ in luck, Rotha. Did Mr. Digby put you there?"

  "He did not choose the school," said Rotha. "I went to the same place where my cousin went. Mrs. Marble, that's too tight."

  "It'll look a great deal handsomer, Rotha. Slim waists are what all the ladies want."

  "I can't be pinched," said Rotha, lifting and lowering her shoulders in the exultation of free play. "I would rather be comfortable."

  "It does look better, to be snug, Miss Carpenter," said Miss Jewett, taking the mantua-maker's part.

  "I don't care," said Rotha. "I must have room to breathe. Make it loose enough, Mrs. Marble, or it will just come back to you to be altered."

  "You're as masterful as you just was, and as I always thought you would be," said the mantua-maker. "I suppose you think times is changed."

  "They are very much changed, Mrs. Marble," said Rotha calmly. "But I always had my dresses loose."

  "And everything else about you!--" muttered the dress-maker. However, she was never an ill-natured woman, and took her orders with tolerable equanimity.

  "You are the first young lady I ever saw trying on dresses, who did not want them to fit nicely," Miss Jewett remarked as they were driving away.

  "But I could not _breathe!_" said Rotha. "I like to be comfortable."

  "Different people have different notions of comfort," was the comment, not admiring. But Rotha did not give the matter another thought.

  The next day was Sunday. "You will not go to church, dear," Mrs. Mowbray had whispered. "I shall not ask you till you have something to keep you warm. Have you a thick outer coat?"

  Rotha explained. Her aunt had been about to get her one two or three weeks ago; then they had had their falling out, and since then she had heard no more on the subject.

  "We will get things in order by next Sunday. You can study at home to-day, and maybe that will be the best thing for you."

  It was the most welcome order Rotha could have received. She went up to Mrs. Mowbray's room, which she still inhabited, and took Bible and New Testament and her newly acquired possession, which she found bore title, "The Treasury of Scripture
Knowledge," and sat down on the couch. It was all so comfortable around her that Rotha paused to look and think and enjoy. Hid away, she felt; safe and secure from all disturbances; her aunt could not worry her, Antoinette could not even look at her; nobody could interfere with her; and the good fairy of her life would come in only to help and shelter her. The warm air; poor Rotha had been inhabiting a region of frost, it must be remembered, material as well as spiritual; the slight sweet perfume that pervaded the room and came, Rotha knew not from what; the pretty, cosy look of the place, furniture, fire, pictures and all;--Rotha sat looking and feeling in a maze of astonishment. That all this should be, geographically, so near Mrs. Busby's house! With a breath of admiring delight, at last Rotha turned to her books. Yes, if she could get that question settled--

  She opened her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and found the fifth chapter of Matthew; then the 24th verse. The first reference here was to Mat. xviii. 15-17.

  That does not tell me anything, thought Rotha. I cannot go to aunt