The Letter of Credit
stairs; for the first time in her life the sweetness of it was sweet to her; for the first time, the strength of it was something to lean upon. Ay, she was right; she had stepped over the narrow boundary line between the realm of the Prince of this world and the kingdom of Christ. She had submitted herself to the one Ruler; she was no longer under the dominion of the other. And with her first entrance into the kingdom of the Prince of peace, she had stepped out of the darkness into the light, and the air of that new country blew softly upon her. O wonderful! O sweet! O strange!--that such a change should be so quickly made, and yet so hard to make. Rotha had not fought all her battles nor got rid of all her enemies, but that the latter should have no more _dominion_ over her she felt confident. She was a different creature from the Rotha who had fled down stairs an hour or two before in wrath and bitterness.
It was very cold up stairs. She lay down and covered herself with blankets and went to sleep.
She was called to luncheon; got up and smoothed her hair as well as she could with her hands, and thought over what she had to do. She had to set her teeth and go at it like a forlorn-hope upon a battery, but she did not flinch at all.
Mr. Busby was at luncheon, which was unusual and she had not counted upon. He was gracious.
"How do you do, Rotha? Bless me, how you have improved! grown too, I declare."
"There was no need of that, papa," said Antoinette, who was going to be a dumpy.
"What has Mrs. Mowbray done to you? I really hardly know you again."
"Fine feathers, papa."
"Mrs. Mowbray has been very kind to me," Rotha managed to get in quietly.
"She's growing handsome, wife!" Mr. Busby declared as he took his seat at the table.
"You shouldn't say such things to young girls, Mr. Busby," said his wife reprovingly.
"Shouldn't I? Why not? It is expected that they will hear enough of that sort of thing when they get a little older."
"Why should they, Mr. Busby?" asked Rotha, innocently curious.
"Yes indeed, why should they?" echoed her aunt.
"Why should they? I don't know. As I said, it is expected. Young ladies usually demand such tribute from their admirers."
"To tell them they are handsome?" said Rotha.
"Yes," said Mr. Busby looking at her. "Ladies like it. Wouldn't you like it?"
"I should not like it at all," said Rotha colouring with a little excitement. "I don't mind your saying so, Mr. Busby; you have a right to say anything you like to me; but if any stranger said it, I should think he was very impertinent."
"You don't know much yet," said Mr. Busby.
"There is small danger that Rotha will ever be troubled with that sort of impertinence," said Mrs. Busby, with that peculiar air of her head, which always meant that she thought a good deal more than she spoke out at the minute.
"Maybe," returned her husband; "but she is going to deserve it, I can tell you. She'll be handsomer than ever Antoinette will."
Which remark seemed to Rotha peculiarly unlucky for her just that day. Mrs. Busby reddened with displeasure though she held her tongue. Antoinette was not capable of such forbearance.
"Papa!" she said, breaking out into tears, "that is very unkind of you!"
"Well, don't snivel," said her father. "You are pretty enough, if you keep a smooth face; but don't you suppose there are other people in the world handsomer? Be sensible."
"It is difficult not to be hurt, Mr. Busby," said his wife, pressing her lips together.
"Mamma!" cried Antoinette in a very injured tone, "he called me 'pretty'?"
"Aint you?" said her father, becoming a little provoked. "I thought you knew you were. But Rotha is going to be a beauty. It is no injury to you, my child."
"You seem to forget it may be an injury to Rotha, Mr. Busby."
Whether Mr. Busby forgot it, or whether he did not care, he made no reply to this suggestion.
"I _never_ tell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on severely.
"Well, I don't think she will. Not her style."
"Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter.
"Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette's?" asked the mother.
"Skin isn't everything. My dear, don't be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie's a pretty little girl, and I am glad of it; but don't you go to making a fool of her by making her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you; but that wasn't what I married you for."
Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice, for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self-command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby, and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible.
"What's the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don't be silly. I don't believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."
"You've said enough to please Rotha!" Antoinette sobbed.
"And it is unnecessary to be constantly comparing your daughter with some one else," said Mrs. Busby. "Can't we talk of some other subject, more useful and agreeable?"
Then Rotha summoned up her courage, with her heart beating.
"May I speak of another subject?" she said. "Aunt Serena, I have been wanting to tell you--I have been waiting for a chance to tell you--that I want to beg your pardon."
Mrs. Busby made no answer; it was her husband who asked, "For what?"
"To-day, sir, and a good while ago when I was here--different times--I spoke to aunt Serena as I ought not; rudely; I was angry. I have been wanting to say so and to beg her pardon."
"Well, that's all anybody can do," said Mr. Busby. "Enough's said about that. It's very proper, if you spoke improperly, to confess it and make an apology; that's all that is necessary. At least, as soon as Mrs. Busby has signified that she accepts the apology."
But Mrs. Busby signified no such thing. She kept silence.
"My dear, do you want Rotha to say anything more? Hasn't she apologized sufficiently?"
"I should like to know first," Mrs. Busby began in constrained tones, "what motive prompted the apology?"
"Motive!--" Mr. Busby began; but Rotha struck in.
"My motive was, that I wanted to do right; and I knew it was right that I should apologize."
"Then your motive was not that you were sorry for what you said?" Mrs. Busby inquired magisterially.
Rotha was so astonished at this way of receiving her words that she hesitated.
"I am sorry, certainly, that I should have spoken rudely," she said.
"But not sorry for what you said?"
"You are splitting hairs, my dear!" said Mr. Busby impatiently.
"Let her answer--" said his wife.
"I do not know how to answer," said Rotha slowly, and thinking how to choose her words. "I am sorry for my ill-manners and unbecoming behaviour; I beg pardon for that. Is there anything else to ask pardon for?"
"You do not answer."
"What else can I say?" Rotha returned with some spirit. "I am not apologizing for thoughts or feelings, but for my improper behaviour. Shall I not be forgiven?"
"Then your _feeling_ is not changed?" said the lady with a sharp look at her.
Rotha thought, It would be difficult for her feeling to change, under the reigning system. She did not answer.
"Pish, pish, my dear!" said the master of the house,--"you are splitting straws. When an apology is made, you have nothing to do but to take it. Rotha has done her part; now you do yours. Has Santa Claus come your way this year, Rotha?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he bring you, hey?"
"Mrs.
Mowbray gave me a Bible."
"A Bible!" Mrs. Busby and her daughter both exclaimed at once; "you said a bag?"
"I said true," said Rotha.
"She gave you a Bible and a bag too?"
"Yes."
"What utter extravagance! Had you no Bible already?"
"I had one, but an old one that had no references."
"What did you want with references! That woman is mad. If she gives to everybody on the