The Letter of Credit

all was done"; and then the carriage rolled on silently as before; the one of its occupants too busy with grave thoughts to leave her tongue free, the other sorrowfully wishing she would talk, yet not daring to ask it. Arrived at the door, however, Mrs. Mowbray folded the girl in her arms, giving her warm kisses and broken words of love, and ending with bidding her write often.

  "I may be unable to answer you, but do not let that stop you. Write always; I shall want to hear everything about you."

  And Rotha answered, it would be the greatest joy to her; and they parted.

  She went in at a somewhat peculiar moment. Half an hour sooner, Antoinette had returned from a friend's house where she had been dining, and burst into the parlour with news.

  "Mamma!" she exclaimed, before the door was shut behind her,--"Guess what is coming."

  "What?" said her mother calmly. She was accustomed to Antoinette's superlatives.

  "Mr. Southwode is coming back.--"

  Now Mrs. Busby did prick up her ears. "How do you know?"

  "There was a Mr. Lingard at dinner--a prosy old fellow, as tiresome as ever he could be; but he is English, and knows the Southwodes, and he told lots about them."

  "What?"

  "O I don't know!--a lot of stuff. About the business and the property, and how old Mr. Southwode left it all to this son; and he carries it on in some ridiculous way that I didn't understand; and the uncle tried to break the will, and there has been a world of trouble; but now Mr. Digby Southwode is coming back to New York."

  "When?"

  "O soon; any day. He may be here any day. And then, mamma--"

  "And was the will broken?"

  "No, I believe not. At any rate, Mr. Southwode, our Mr. Southwode, has it all. But he's absurd, mamma; he pays people, workmen, more than they ought to have; and he sells, or makes them sell, for less; less than the market price; and he gives away all his income. So Mr. Lingard says."

  "He will learn better," said Mrs. Busby.

  "Well, mamma, he's coming back; and what will you do?"

  "Welcome him," said her mother. "I always liked Mr. Southwode."

  "Yes, yes, but I mean, about Rotha. He will look her up, the first thing; and she will fly ecstatically to meet him--I remember their parting salute two years ago, and their _meeting_. I don't doubt, will be equally tender. Mamma, are you prepared to come down with something handsome in the way of wedding presents?"

  "Nonsense!"

  "It's _not_ nonsense!" said Antoinette vehemently. "It will be the absurd truth, before you know where you are; and papa, and you, and I, we shall all have the felicity of offering congratulations and holding receptions. If you don't prevent it, mamma! _Can't_ you prevent it? _Won't_ you prevent it? O mamma! won't you prevent it?"

  "Get up, Antoinette"--for the young lady had thrown herself down on the floor in her urgency, at her mother's feet. "Get up, and take off your things; you are extremely silly. I have no intention of letting them meet at all."

  "Mamma, how are you going to help it? He will find out where she is at school--he will go straight there, and then you may depend Rotha will snap her fingers at you. So will he; and to have two people snapping their fingers at us will just drive me wild."

  Mrs. Busby could not help laughing. At the same time, she as well as Antoinette regarded the matter from a very serious point of view. She knew Rotha had grown up very handsome; and all her mother's partiality did not make her sure that men like Mr. Southwode might not prefer the sense and grace and spirit which breathed from every look and motion of Rotha's, to the doll beauty of her own daughter. Yet it was not insipid beauty either; the face of Antoinette was exceedingly pretty, the smile very captivating, and the white and peach-blossom very lovely in her cheeks. But for sense, or dignity, or sympathy with any thoughts high and noble, if one looked to Antoinette one would look in vain. No matter; hers was just a style which captivates men, Mrs. Busby knew; even sensible men,--the only danger as in possible comparison or contrast. That danger should be avoided.

  "Nobody will snap fingers at me," she complacently remarked.

  "But how will you help it?"

  "I dare say there is no danger. Get up, Antoinette! there is the door bell."

  And then in walked Rotha.

  It struck her that her aunt and cousin were a little more than ordinarily stiff towards her; but of course they had no reason to expect her then, and the surprise was not agreeable. So Rotha dismissed the matter with a passing thought and an unbreathed sigh; while she told the cause of her unlooked-for appearance. Mrs. Busby sat and meditated.

  "It is very unfortunate!" she said at last, with her eyebrows distressingly high.

  "What?" said Rotha. "My coming? I am sorry, aunt Serena; as sorry as you can be. Is my being here _particularly_ inconvenient just at this time?"

  "Yes!" said Mrs. Busby, with the same deeply considerative air. "I am thinking what will be the best way to manage. We have a plan of going to Chicago--Mr. Busby's family is mostly there, and he wants us to visit them; we should be gone all June and part of July, for I know Mr. Busby wants to go further, if once he gets so far; and we may not be back till the end of July. I don't know what to do with Rotha."

  Not a word of this plan had Antoinette ever heard before, but she kept wise silence; only her small blue eyes sparkled knowingly at the fire. Rotha was silent too at first, with vexation.

  "I am very sorry--" she repeated.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Busby. "I thought I could leave you in safe quarters with Mrs. Mowbray for a week or two after school broke up; now that possibility is out of the question. Well, we will sleep upon it. Never mind, Rotha; don't trouble yourself. I shall find some way out of the difficulty. I always do."

  These words were spoken with so much kindness of tone that they quite comforted Rotha as to the immediate annoyance of being in the way. She went up to her little third-story room, threw open the blinds, to let the stars look in, and remembered that neither she nor yet her aunt Busby was the guide of her fortunes. Yet, yet,--what a hard change this was! All the pursuits in which she had taken such delight, suddenly stopped; her peaceful home lost; her best friend separated from her. It was difficult to realize the fact that God knew and had allowed it. Yet no harm, no real harm, comes to his children, unless they bring it upon themselves; so this change could not mean harm. How could it mean good? Sense saw not, reason could not divine; but faith said "yes"; and in the quietness of that confidence Rotha went to sleep.

  At breakfast the ladies' faces had regained their wonted brightness.

  "I have settled it all!" Mrs. Busby announced, when her husband had left the breakfast table and the room. Rotha looked up and waited; Antoinette did not look up; therefore it may be presumed she knew what was coming.

  "I am going to send Rotha to the country while we are gone."

  "Where in the country?" asked the person most concerned.

  "To my place in the country--my place at Tanfield. _I_ have a place in the country."--Mrs. Busby spoke with a very alert and pleased air.

  "Tanfield--" Rotha repeated with slow recollection. "O I believe I know. I think I have heard of Tanfield."

  "Of course. It is the old place where I lived when I was a girl; and a lovely place it is."

  "And just think!" put in Antoinette. "Isn't it funny? I have never seen it."

  "Who is there?" Rotha asked.

  "O the old house is there, and the garden; and somebody who will make you very comfortable. I will take care that she makes you comfortable. I shall see about that."

  "Who is that? old Janet?" asked Antoinette.

  "No. Janet is not there?"

  "Who then, mamma?"

  "Persons whom I have put in charge."

  "Do I know them?"

  "You know very little about them--not enough to talk."

  "Mamma! As if one couldn't talk without knowing about things! Who is it, mamma? I want to know who will have the care of Rotha."
/>
  "It is not necessary you should know at present. Rotha can tell you, when she has tried them."

  "I suppose I shall have the care of myself," said Rotha; to whom all this dialogue somehow sounded unpromising. To her remark no answer was made.

  "Mamma, what will Rotha do there, all by herself?"

  "She will have people all round her."

  "She don't know them. You mean the Tanfield people?"

  "Who else should live at Tanfield. I was one of the Tanfield people myself once."

  "What sort of people are they,