The Letter of Credit

indefinite. Rotha could not help feeling that it might be long before she saw New York or Mrs. Mowbray again; and anew the wondering thought arose, why Mrs. Mowbray should have been incapacitated for helping her precisely at this juncture? It was mysterious. It was evident that a higher rule than Mrs. Busby's was taking effect here; it was plain that not her aunt alone had willed to put her away from all she trusted and delighted in, and bring her to this strange place; where she would be utterly alone and uncared-for and shut off from all her beloved pursuits. But why?

  It is the vainest of questions; yet one which in such circumstances mortals are terribly tempted to ask. If they could be told, _then_, the design of the movement would be lost upon their mental and spiritual education; and ten to one the ulterior developments would be hindered also which are meant to turn to their temporal advantage. It is in the nature of things, that the "why" should be hidden in darkness; without being omniscient we cannot see beforehand the turns that things will take; and so now is Faith's time to be quiet and trust and believe. And somehow faith is apt to find it hard work. Most of us know what it is to trust a human fellow creature absolutely, implicitly; with so full a trust that we are not afraid nor doubtful nor unwilling; but with one hand in the trusted one's hand are ready to go blindly anywhere, or to dare or to do gladly, counting with certainty that there is no hazard about it. So children can trust their father or their mother; so friends and lovers can trust one another. But it is very hard, somehow, to trust God so. Precisely such trust is what he wants of us; but--we do not know him well enough! "They that know thy name _will put their trust in thee_." Yet it is rare, rare, to find a Christian who can use Faber's words--

  "I know not what it is to doubt; My mind is ever gay; I run no risk, for come what will, Thou always hast thy way."

  Rotha at any rate had not got so far. Her mind was in a troubled state, as she sat at the window of the Tanfield hotel and stared out into the dewy dusk of the morning. It was indignant besides; and that is a very disturbing element in one's moods. She felt wronged, and she felt helpless. The sweet trust of the night seemed to have deserted her. A weary sense of loneliness and forlornness came instead, and at last found its safest expression in a good hearty fit of weeping. That washed off some of the dust from her tired spirit.

  When she raised her head again and looked out, the dawn was really coming up in the sky. Things were changed. There was a sweeter breath in the air; there was an indefinable stir of life in all nature. The grey soft light was putting out the stars; the tops of the trees swayed gently in a morning breeze; scents came fresher from flowers and fields; scents so rarely spicy and fragrant as dwellers in towns never know them, as all towns of men's building banish them. Birds were twittering, cocks were crowing; and soon a stir of humanity began to make itself known in the neighbourhood; a soft, vague stir and movement telling of the awaking to life and business and a new day. Feet passed along the corridor within doors, and doors opened and shut, voices sounded here and there, horses neighed, dogs barked. Rotha sat still, looking, watching, listening, with a growing spring of life and hope in herself answering to the movement without her. And then the light broadened; dusky forms began to take colour; the eastern sky grew bright, and the sun rose.

  Now Rotha could see about her. She was in a well-built village. Well-to-do looking house tops appeared between the leafy heads of trees that were much more than "well-to-do"; that were luxuriant, large, and old, and rich in their growth and thriving. The road Rotha could not see from her window; however, what she did see shewed that the place was built according to the generous roomy fashion of New England villages; the houses standing well apart, with gardens and trees around and between them; and furthermore there was an inevitable character of respectability and comfort apparent everywhere. Great round elm heads rose upon her horizon; and the roof trees which they shadowed were evidently solid and substantial. This town, to be sure, was not Rotha's place of abode; yet she might fairly hope to find that, when she got to it, of the like character.

  She sat at the window almost moveless, until she was called to her early breakfast. It was spread in a very large hall-like room, where small tables stood in long rows, allowing people to take their meals in a sort by themselves. Rotha placed herself at a distance from all the other persons who were breakfasting there, and was comfortably alone.

  She never forgot that meal in all her life. She wanted it; that was one thing; she was faint and tired, with her night journey and her morning watch. The place was brilliantly clean; the service rendered by neat young women, who went back and forth to a room in the rear whence the eatables were issued. And very excellent they were, albeit not in the least reminding one of Delmonico's; if Delmonico had at that day existed to let anybody remember him. No doubt, it might have been difficult to guess where the coffee was grown; but it was well made and hot and served with good milk and cream; and Rotha was exhausted and hungry. The coffee was simply nectar. The corn bread was light and sweet and tender; the baked potatoes were perfect; the butter was good, and the ham, and the apple sauce, and the warm biscuit. There was a pleasant sensation of independence and being alone, as Rotha sat at her little table in the not very brightly lit room; and it seemed as if strength and courage came back to her heart along with the refitting of her physical nature. She was not in a hurry to finish her breakfast. The present moment was pleasant, and afforded a kind of lull; after it must come action, and action would plunge her into she could not tell what. The lull came to an end only too soon.

  "Do you know where Mrs. Busby's place is?" she inquired of the girl that served her.

  "Place? No, I don't. Is it in Tanfield?"

  "It is near Tanfield."

  "You are not going by the train, then?"

  "No. I am going to this place. Can I get a carriage to take me there?"

  "I'll ask Mr. Jackson."

  Mr. Jackson came up accordingly, and Rotha repeated her question. He was a big, fat, comfortable looking man.

  "Busby?" he said with his hand on his chin--"I don't seem to recollect no Busbys hereabouts. O, you mean the old Brett place?"

  "Yes, I believe I do. Mrs. Busby owns it now."

  "That's it. Mrs. Busby. She was the old gentleman's daughter. The family aint lived here this long spell."

  "But there is somebody there? somebody in charge?"

  "Likely. Somebody to look arter things. You're a goin' there?"

  "If I can get a carriage to take me."

  "When'll you want it?"

  "Now. At once."

  "There aint no difficulty about that, I guess. Baggage?"

  "One small trunk."

  "All right I'll have the horse put to right away."

  So a little before eight o'clock Rotha found herself in a buggy, with her trunk behind her and a country boy beside her for a driver, on the way to her aunt's place.

  Eight o'clock of a May morning is a pleasant time, especially when May is near June. All the world was fresh and green and dewy; the very spirit of life in the air, and the very joy of life too, for a multitude of birds were filling it with their gleeful melody. How they sang! and how utterly perfumed was every breath that Rotha drew. She sniffed the air and tasted it, and breathed in full long breaths of it, and could not get enough. Breathing such air, one might put up with a good deal of disagreeableness in other things. The country immediately around Tanfield she found was flat; in the distance a chain of low hills shut in the horizon, blue and fair in the morning light; but near at hand the ground was very level. Fields of springing grain; meadows of lush pasture; orchards of apple trees just out of flower; a farmhouse now and then, with its comfortable barns and outhouses and cattle in the farmyard. Every here and there one or two great American elms, lifting their great umbrella-like canopies over a goodly extent of turf. Barns and houses, fences and gateways, all in order; nothing tumble-down or neglected to be seen anywhere; an universal look of thrift and business and comfort. The drive
was inexpressibly sweet to Rotha, with her Medwayville memories all stirred and quickened, and the contrast of her later city life for so many years. She half forgot what lay behind her and what might be before; and with her healthy young spirit lived heartily in the present. The drive however was not very long.

  At the end of two miles the driver stopped and got down before a white gate enclosed in thick shrubbery. Nothing was to be seen but the gate and the green leafage of trees and shrubs on each side of it. The boy opened the gate, led his horse in, shut the gate behind him, then jumped up to his seat and drove on rapidly. The road curved in a semi-circle from that gate to another at some distance further along the road; and midway, at the point most distant from the road, stood a stately house. The approach