The Letter of Credit

worried over those words; and then stole into her mind another thought, coming with the subtlety and the peace of a sunbeam.--It is not for aunt Serena; it is for Christ; you are his servant, and these are his commands.--It is true! thought Rotha, with a sudden casting off of the burden that was upon her; I _am_ his servant; and since this is his pleasure, why, it is mine. Aunt Serena may have the things; what does it signify? but I have a chance to please God in giving them up; and here I have been trying as hard as I could to fight off from doing it. A pretty sort of a Christian I am! But--and O what a joy came with the consciousness--I think the Lord is beginning to take away my stony heart.

  The feeling of being indeed a servant of the Lord Christ seemed to transform things to Rotha's vision. And among other things, the words of the Bible, which were suddenly become very bright and very sweet to her. The question in hand being settled, and no fear of the words any longer possessing her, it occurred to her to take her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and see what more there might be about this point of not resisting evil. She found first a word back in Leviticus----

  "Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."--Lev. xix. 18.

  It struck Rotha's conscience. This went even further than turning the cheek and resigning the cloak; (or she thought so) for it forbade her withal to harbour any grudge against the wrong doer. Not have a grudge against her aunt, after giving up the stockings to her? Yet Rotha saw and acknowledged presently that only so could the action be thoroughly sound and true; only so could there be no danger of nullifying it by some sudden subsequent action. But bear _no grudge?_ Well, by the grace of God, perhaps. Yes, that could do everything.

  She went on, meanwhile, and read some passages of David's life; telling how he refused to take advantage of opportunities to avenge himself upon Saul, who was seeking his life at the time. The sweet, noble, humble temper of the young soldier and captain, appeared very manifest and very beautiful; at the same time, Rotha thought she could easier have forgiven Saul, in David's place, than in her own she could forgive Mrs. Busby. Some other words about not avenging oneself she passed over; _that_ was not the point with her; and then she came to a word in Romans,----

  "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men."

  That confirmed her decision, and loudly. If she would live peaceably with Mrs. Busby, no doubt she must do her will in the matter of the stockings. But "with all men," and "as much as lieth in you"; those were weighty words, well to be pondered and laid to heart. Evidently the Lord would have his servants to be quiet people and kindly; not so much bent on having their own rights, as careful to put no hindrance in the way of their good influence and example. And I am one of his people, thought Rotha joyously. I will try all I can. And it is very plain that I must not bear a grudge in my heart; for if it was there, I could never keep it from coming out.

  Then she read a verse in 1 Corinthians vi. 7. "Now therefore there is utterly a fault among you, because ye go to law one with another. _Why do ye not rather take wrong?_ why do ye not rather suffer yourselves to be defrauded?" It did not stumble her now. Looking upon all these regulations as opportunities to make patent her service of Christ and to please him, they won quite a pleasant aspect. The words of the hymn, so paradoxical till one comes to work them out, were already verified in her experience--

  "He always wins who sides with God; To him no chance is lost. _God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost_."

  Ay, for then he tastes the doing of it, pure, and unmixed with the sweetness of doing his own will.

  And then came,--"Not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing; but contrariwise blessing; knowing that ye are thereunto called, that ye should inherit a blessing."--1 Peter iii. 9.

  "Contrariwise, _blessing_." According to that, she must seek out some way of helping or pleasing her aunt, as a return for her behaviour about the stockings. And strangely enough, there began to come into her heart, for the first time, a feeling of pity for Mrs. Busby. Rotha did not believe she was near as happy, with all her money, as her little penniless self with her Bible. No, nor half as rich. What could she do, to shew good will towards her?

  There was nobody at the dinner table that evening, who looked happier than Rotha; there was nobody who enjoyed everything so well. For I am the servant of Christ she said to herself. A little while later, in the library, whither they all repaired, she was again lost in the architecture of the 13th and 14th centuries, and in studying Fergusson. She started when Mrs. Mowbray spoke to her.

  "How did you determine your question, my dear?"

  Rotha lifted her head, threw back the dark masses of her hair, and cleared the arches of Rivaulx out of her eyes.

  "O,--I am going to let her have them," she said.

  "What she demanded?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "How did you come to that conclusion?"

  "The words seemed plain, madame, when I came to look at them. That about letting the cloak go, you know; and, 'If it be possible, . . . live peaceably with all men.' If I was going to live peaceably, I knew I must."

  "And you are inclined now to live peaceably with the person in question?"

  "O yes, ma'am," said Rotha. She smiled frankly in Mrs. Mowbray's face as she said it; and she was puzzled to know what made that lady's eyes swiftly fill with tears. They filled full. Rotha went back to her stereoscope.

  "What have you there, my dear?"

  "O this old abbey, Mrs. Mowbray; it is just a ruin, but it is so beautiful! Will you look?"

  Mrs. Mowbray put the glass to her eye.

  "It is a severe style--" she remarked.

  "Is it?"

  "And it was built at a severe time of religious strictness in the order to which it belonged. They were a colony from Clairvaux; and the prior of Clairvaux, Bernard, was the most remarkable man of his time; remarkable through his goodness. In all Europe there was not another man, crowned or uncrowned, who had the social and political power of that man. Yet he was a simple monk, and devoted to God's service."

  "I do not know much about monks," Rotha remarked.

  "You can know a good deal about them, if you will read that work of Montalembert on the monks of the Middle Ages. Make haste and learn to read French. You must know that first."

  "Is it in French?"

  "Yes."

  Rotha thought as she laid down Rivaulx and took up Tintern abbey, that there was a good deal to learn. Pier next word was an exclamation.

  "O how beautiful, how beautiful! It is just a door, Mrs. Mowbray, belonging to Tintern abbey, a door and some ivy; but it is so pretty! How came so many of these beautiful abbeys and things to be in ruins?"

  "Henry the Eighth had the monks driven out and the roofs stripped off. When you take the roof off a building, the weather gets in, and it goes to ruin very fast."

  Henry the Eighth was little more than a name yet to Rotha. "What did he do that for?" she asked.

  "I believe he wanted to turn the metal sheathing of the roofs into money. And he wanted to put down the monastic orders."

  "Mrs. Mowbray, this abbey was pretty old before it was made a ruin."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because, I see it. Only half of the door was accustomed to be opened; and the stone before the door on that side is ever so much worn away. So many feet had gone in and out there."

  Mrs. Mowbray took the glass to look. "I never noticed that before," she said.

  So went the days of the vacation, pleasantly and sweetly after that. Rotha enjoyed herself hugely. She had free access to the library, which was rich in engravings and illustrations, and in best works of reference upon every subject that she could wish to look into. Sometimes she went driving with Mrs. Mowbray. Morning, evening, and day were all pleasant to her; the leisure was busily filled up, and the time fruitful. With the other young ladies remaining in the house for th
e holidays, she had little to do; little beyond what courtesy demanded. Their pleasures and pursuits were so diverse from her own that there could be little fellowship. One was much taken up with shopping and visits to her mantua-maker; several were engrossed with fancy work; some went out a great deal; all had an air of dawdling. They fell away from Rotha, quite naturally; all the more that she was getting the name of being a favourite of Mrs. Mowbray's. But Rotha as naturally fell away from them. None of them cared for the stereoscope, or shared in the least her pleasure in the lines and mouldings and proportions of glorious architecture. And Rotha herself could not have talked of lines or mouldings; she only knew that she found delight; she did not know why.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  EDUCATION.

  "My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, the last day of December, "would you like to have the little end room?"

  Rotha looked up. "Where Miss Jewett sleeps?"

  "That room. I am going to place Miss Jewett differently. Would you like to have it?"

  "For myself?"--Rotha's eyes brightened.

  "It is only big enough for one. You may have it, if you like. And move your things into it to-day, my dear. The young ladies who live in this room will be coming back the day after to-morrow."

  With indescribable joy Rotha obeyed this command. The room in question was one cut off from the end of a narrow hall; very small accordingly; there was just space for a narrow bed, a wardrobe, a little washstand, a small dressing table with drawers, and one chair. But it was privacy and leisure; and Rotha moved her clothes and books and took possession that very day. Mrs. Mowbray looked in, just as she had finished her arrangements.

  "Are you going to be comfortable here?" she said. "My dear, I thought, in that other room you would have no chance to study your Bible."

  "Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! I am so delighted."

  "There is a rule in Miss Manners' school at Meriden, that at the ringing of a bell, morning and evening, each young lady should go to her room to be alone with her Bible for twenty minutes. The house is so arranged that every one can be alone at that time. It is a good rule. I wish I could establish it here; but it would do more harm than it would good in my family. My dear, your aunt has sent word that she wishes to see you."

  Rotha's colour suddenly started. "I suppose I know what that means!" she said.

  "The stockings?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "O I am going to take them."

  "And, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, kissing Rotha, "pray for grace to do it _pleasantly_."

  Yes, that was something needed, Rotha felt as she went through the streets. Her heart was a little bitter.

  She found her aunt's house in a state of preparation; covers off the drawing-room furniture, greens disposed about the walls, servants busy. Mrs. Busby was in her dressing-room; and there too, on the sofa, in mere wantonness of idleness, for she was not sick, lay Antoinette; a somewhat striking figure, in a dress of white silk, and looking very pretty indeed. Also looking as if she knew it.

  "Good morning, Rotha!" she cried. "This is the dress I am to wear to-morrow. I'm trying it on."

  "She's very ridiculous," Mrs. Busby remarked, in a smiling tone of complacency.

  "What is to be to-morrow?" Rotha inquired pleasantly. The question brought Antoinette up to a sitting posture.

  "Why don't you know?" she said. "_Don't_ you know? Mamma, is it possible anybody of Rotha's size shouldn't know what day New Year's is?"

  "New Year's! O yes, I remember; people make visits, don't they?"

  "Gentlemen; and ladies receive visits. It is the greatest day of all the year, if you have visitors enough. And I eat supper all day long. We have a supper table set, and hot oysters, and ice cream, and coffee, and cake; and I never want any dinner when it comes."

  "That is a very foolish way," said her mother. "Did you bring the stockings, Rotha?"

  Silently, she could not say anything "pleasantly" at the moment, Rotha delivered her package of stockings neatly put up. Mrs. Busby opened and examined, Antoinette running up to look too.

  "Mamma! how ridiculously nice!" she exclaimed. "You never gave me any as good as those."

  "No, I should hope not," said her mother. "Here are eleven pair, Rotha."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Were there not twelve?"

  "Yes, ma'am. The other pair I have on."

  "They are a great deal too thin for this time of year. Here are some thicker I have got for you. Sit down and put a pair of these on, and let me have those."

  Every fibre of her nature rebelling, Rotha sat down to unbutton her boot. It was hard to keep silence, to speak "pleasantly" impossible. Tears were near. Rotha bent over her boot and prayed for help. And then the thought came, fragrant and sweet,--I am the servant of Christ; this is an opportunity to obey and please _him_.

  And with that she was content. She put on the coarse stockings, which felt extremely uncomfortable. But then she could not get her boot on. She tugged at it in vain.

  "It is no use," she said at last. "It will not go on, aunt Serena. I cannot wear my boots with these stockings."

  "The boots must be too small," said Mrs. Busby. She came herself, and pushed and pinched and pulled at the boot. It would not go on.

  "What do you get such tight-fitting boots for?" she said, sitting back on the floor, quite red in the face.

  "They are not tight; they fit me perfectly."

  "They won't go on!"

  "That is the stockings."

  "Nonsense! The stockings are proper; the boots are improper. What did you pay for them?"

  "I did not get them."

  "What did they cost, then? I suppose you know."

  "Six and a half."

  "I can get you for three and a half what will do perfectly," said Mrs. Busby, rising up from the floor. But she sat down, and did not fetch any boots, as Rotha half expected she would.

  "What are you going to do to-morrow, Rotha?" her cousin asked.

  "I don't know. What I do every day, I suppose," Rotha answered, trying to make her voice clear.

  "What is Mrs. Mowbray going to do?"

  "I do not know."

  "I wonder if she receives? Mamma, do you fancy many people would call on Mrs. Mowbray?"

  "Why not?" Rotha could not help asking.

  "O, because she is a school teacher, you know. Mamma, do you think there would?"

  "I dare say. Your father will go, I have no doubt."

  "O, because she teaches me. And other fathers will go, I suppose. What a stupid time they will have!"

  "Who?" said Rotha.

  "All of you together. I am glad I'm not there."

  "I shall not be there either. I shall be up stairs in my room."

  "Looking at your Russia leather bag. Why didn't you bring it for us to see? But your room means three or four other people's room, don't it?"

  It was on Rotha's lips to say that she had a room to herself; she shut them and did not say it. A sense of fun began to mingle with her inward anger. Here she was in her stockings, unable to get her feet into her boots.

  "How am I to get home, ma'am?" she asked as demurely as she could.

  "Antoinette, haven't you a pair of old boots or shoes, that Rotha could get home in?"

  "What should I do when I got there? I could not wear old boots about the house. Mrs. Mowbray would not like it."

  "Nettie, do you hear me?" Mrs. Busby said sharply. "Get something of yours to put on Rotha's feet."

  "If she can't wear her own, she couldn't wear mine--" said Miss Nettie, unwilling to furnish positive evidence that her foot was larger than her cousin's. Her mother insisted however, and the boots were brought. They went on easily enough.

  "But these would never do to walk in," objected Rotha. "My feet feel as if each one had a whole barn to itself. Look, aunt Serena. And I could not go to the parlour in them."

  "I don't see
but you'll have to, if you can't get your own on. You'll have worse things than that to do before you die. I wouldn't be a baby, and cry about it."

  For Rotha's lips were trembling and her eyes were suddenly full. Her neat feet transformed into untidy, shovelling things like these! and her quick, clean gait to be exchanged for a boggling and clumping along as if her feet were in loose boxes. It was a token how earnest and true was Rotha's beginning obedience of service, that she stooped down and laced the boots up, without saying another word, though tears of mortification fell on the carpet. She was saying to herself, "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." She rose up and made her adieux, as briefly as she could.

  "Are you not going to thank me?" said Mrs. Busby. A dangerous flash came from Rotha's eyes.

  "For what, aunt Serena?"

  "For the trouble I have taken for you, not to speak of the expense."

  Rotha was silent, biting in her words, as it were.

  "Why don't you speak? You can at least be civil."

  "I don't know if I can," said Rotha. "It is difficult. I think my best way of being civil is to hold my tongue. I must