The Letter of Credit

Bible. It was all the study I had."

  "How did you study it? as a disciple? or as an inquirer?"

  "O, as a disciple. Can one really _study_ it in any other way?"

  "I am afraid so. There is deep study, and there is superficial study, you know. Then you are a disciple, Rotha?"

  "Yes, Mr. Southwode; a sort of one. But I am one."

  "When did that come about?"

  "Not so very long after you went away. I came to the time that you told me of, that it would come."

  "What time? I do not recollect."

  "A time when everything failed me."--Rotha felt somehow disappointed, that she should remember so much better than he did.

  "And then you found Christ?"

  "Yes,--after a while."

  "What have you been doing for him since then?"

  "Doing for him?" Rotha repeated.

  "Yes."

  "I do not know. Not much. I am afraid, not anything."

  "Was that because you thought there was not much to do?"

  "N--o," said Rotha thoughtfully; "I did not think _that_. Only nothing particular for me to do."

  "That was a mistake."

  "I did not see anything for me to do."

  "Perhaps. But the Lord has no servants to be idle. If they do not see their work, it is either that their eyes are not good, or that they are looking in the wrong direction."

  A silence followed this statement, during which Rotha was thinking.

  "Mr. Digby, what do you mean by their eyes being not good?"

  "Not seeing clearly."

  "And what makes people's eyes dim to see their work?"

  "A want of sensitiveness in their optic nerve," he said smiling. "It is written, you know the words--'He died for all, that they which live should not live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them'--How has it been in your case?"

  "I never thought of it," Rotha answered slowly. "I believe my head has been just full of myself,--learning and enjoying."

  "I do not want to check either, and the service of Christ does not check either. I am glad, after all, the _enjoying_ has formed such a part ofyour experience."

  "With Mrs. Mowbray, how should it not? You know her a little, Mr. Southwode?"

  "Only a little."

  "But you cannot know her, for you never needed her. O such a friend as she is! Not to me only, but to whoever needs her. She goes along life with her hands full of blessings, and she is forever dropping something into somebody's lap; if it is not help, it is pleasure; if it is not a fruit, it is a flower. I never saw anybody like her. She is a very angel in the shape of a woman; and she is doing angel's work all the day long. I have seen, and I know. All sorts of help, and comfort, and cheer, and tenderness, and sympathy; and herself is the very last person' in all the world she thinks of."

  "That's a pretty character," said Mr. Southwode.

  "It comes out in everything," Rotha went on. "It is not in giving only; she is forever making everybody happy, if she can. There are some people you cannot make happy. But nursing them when they are sick, and comforting them when they are in trouble, and helping them when they are in difficulty, and supplying them when they are in need, and if they are none of those things, then just throwing flowers in their lap,--that is Mrs. Mowbray. Yes, and she can reprove them when they are wrong, too; and that is a harder service than either."

  "In how many of all these ways has she done you good, Rotha? if I may ask."

  "It is only pleasant to answer, Mr. Digby. In all of them." And Rotha's eyes filled full, and her cheek took fire.

  "Not 'supplying need' also?"

  "O yes! O that was one of the first things her kind hand did for me. Mr. Southwode, do you know, many people criticise her for the use she makes of her money; they call her extravagant, and indiscreet, and all that. They say she ought to lay up her money."

  "Quite natural."

  "But it hurt me sometimes."

  "It need not hurt you. There is another judgment, which is of more importance. 'There is, that maketh himself poor, yet hath great riches.' And there is, 'that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich towards God.' But the world must weigh according to its balances, and they are too small to take heaven in."

  A pause followed. With the going back to Mrs. Mowbray and all the memories connected with her, a sort of mist of association began to rise in Rotha's mind, to dim the new brightness of the present time. Uneasy half recollections of words or manner, or perhaps rather of the impression that words and manner had left behind them, began to come floating in upon her joyousness. The silence lasted.

  "What did you learn with Mrs. Mowbray?" Mr. Southwode asked at length.

  "Beginnings of things," said Rotha regretfully; "only beginnings. I had not time fairly to learn anything."

  "Beginnings of what?"

  "French, Latin, geometry and algebra, history of course, philosophy, chemistry,--those were the principal things. I was going into geology, and I wanted to learn German; but Mrs. Mowbray thought I was doing enough already."

  "Enough, I should think. Music?"

  "O no!" said Rotha smiling.

  "Drawing?"

  "No," said the girl with a sigh this time. "Mrs. Mowbray could not give me everything you know, for she has others to help. And aunt Serena would not have heard of such a thing."

  "What would you like to do now, Rotha?"

  "Do? About what, Mr. Digby?"

  "Learning. I suppose you would like to go on in all these paths of knowledge you have entered?"

  Rotha looked towards him a little doubtfully. How did he mean? Himself to be her teacher again? But his next words explained.

  "You would like to go to school again?"

  "Yes, of course. I should like it very much."

  "Then that is one thing decided."

  "Shall I go back to Mrs. Mowbray?" she asked eagerly.

  Mr. Southwode hesitated, and delayed his answer.

  "I would rather be at a greater distance from Mrs. Busby," he confessed then.

  And Rotha made no answer. Those old impressions and associations were trooping in. She remembered that Mrs. Mowbray had never favoured the introduction of Mr. Southwode's name into their conversations; she had a dim apprehension that her influence would be thrown into Mrs. Busby's scale, and that possibly both ladies would join to prevent her, Rotha's, being under Mr. Southwode's protection and management. While not in the least suspicious, Rotha was too fine strung not to be an acute discerner. So far her thoughts went distinctly, and it was enough to tie her tongue. But beyond this, there were lights and shadows hovering on the horizon, which followed no traceable lines and revealed no recognizable forms, and yet made her feel that the social atmosphere held or might develope elements not altogether benign and peaceful. There had been words said or half said formerly, on one or two occasions, which had given her a clue she did not now like to follow out; words it would have been comfortable to forget, only Rotha did not forget. She _had_ forgotten or dismissed them, but as I said they began to come back. Besides, she was older. She could see now, simple as she was still, that in the relations between her and her guardian there was something anomalous; that for a young girl like her to be under care of a man no older than he, who was neither brother nor uncle nor any relation at all, and for her to be eating her bread at his expense, was a state of things which must be regarded as unusual, and to say the least, questionable. Poor Rotha sat thinking of this while she went on with her luncheon, and growing alternately hot and cold as she thought of it; everything being aggravated by an occasional glance at the friend opposite her, whose neighbourhood was so sweet, and every line of his face and figure so inexpressibly precious to her. For it began to dawn upon Rotha the woman, what had been utterly spurned in idea by Rotha the child, that this anomalous relation could not subsist always. She must, or he must, find a way out of it; and she preferred that it should be herself and not he. And the only way out
of it that Rotha could see, was, that she should train herself to become a teacher; and so, in a very few years, a very few, come to be self-supported. It struck her heart like a bolt of ice, the thought; for the passionate delight of Rotha's heart was this very friend, from whom she began to see that she must separate herself. The greatest comfort at this moment was, that Mr. Southwode himself looked so composed and untroubled by doubts or whatever else. Yet Mr. Southwode had his own thoughts the while; and to conclude from the calmness of his face that his mind was equally uncrossed by a question, would have been to make a mistake.

  "Where then, if not to Mrs. Mowbray's?" Rotha inquired at last, breaking a long silence.

  "Perhaps Boston. How would you like that? Or would you be very sorry not to return to New York?"

  "Yes, sorry," said Rotha, "but I think it may be best. O Boston, or anywhere, Mr. Southwode! Just what you think wisest. But--I was thinking--"

  Rotha laid down her knife and fork and pushed away her plate. Her heart began to beat at an uneasy rate, and her voice grew anxious.

  "May I give you some fruit?"

  "No--I do not care for it--thank you."

  "This looks like a good pear. Try."

  It was on the whole easier to be doing something with her fingers. Rotha began to peal the pear.

  "You were thinking--?" Mr. Southwode then resumed.

  "I?--O yes! I was thinking--" And Rotha's pear and peel went down. "I was thinking--Mr. Digby, if I knew just what I was going to do, or be afterwards,--wouldn't it help us to know what I had better study? what preparation I ought to have?"

  "Afterwards? After what?" said Mr. Southwode, without laying down his pear.

  "After I have done with school."

  "When do you suppose that will be?"

  "I do not know. That of course would depend upon the other question."

  "Not necessarily. My wish is that you should be fitted for any situation in life. A one-sided education is never to be chosen, if one can help it; and one generally can help it. We can, at any rate. What are you thinking of doing, Rotha? in that 'afterwards' to which you refer?"

  "I have not thought very much about it. But you know I must do _something_. I suppose teaching would be the best. I dare say Mrs. Mowbray would take me for one of her helpers, if I were once fitted to fill the place."

  "What put this in your head?"

  "I suppose, _first_, some words of aunt Serena. That was her plan for me."

  "I thought it was arranged that I was to take care of you."

  "You are doing it," said Rotha gratefully. "But of course you could not do it always."

  "Why not?"

  "Why--because--" said Rotha faltering and flushing a little,--"I do not belong to you in any way. It would not be right."

  "My memory is better, it seems, than yours. If I recollect right, you were given to me by your mother."

  "O yes," said Rotha, flushing deeper,--"she did. But I am sure she did not mean that I should be a charge upon you, after I was able to help myself."

  "You do not fancy that you can 'help yourself' now?"

  "No."

  "You do not judge that you are empowered to take back her gift?"

  "Not exactly. But Mr. Southwode," said Rotha half laughing, "I do not see how you can keep it. I _must_ do something for myself."

  "Not till I give permission. Eat your pear, and leave business to me."

  It rather comforted Rotha that this command was given to her; nevertheless and although the pear was a fine one, she 'chewed the cud of meditation' along with it. Very inopportunely those words heard long ago came floating back upon her memory, making her uncomfortable; making her doubt whether she could possibly remain long under the care that was so genial to her. Still, the present was too good to be spoiled, albeit the enjoyment of it was shadowed, by these reflections. I think, rather, according to some perverse principle of human nature, they made the enjoyment of it more tremblingly acute. However, the fruit was consumed in silence; Mr. 'Southwode having, as I hinted, his own thoughts. They left the table and took seats before the fire.

  "Now Rotha," said her guardian, "I should like to know what you have done in these three years. Are you willing that I should try to find out?"

  "By questioning me?" said Rotha laughing and flushing. "It would not be a new thing, Mr. Digby."

  Whereupon Mr. Southwode went into an examination of Rotha's acquirements and mental standing. It was pleasant enough and easy enough, though it was searching; it had too much savour of old times about it to be anything but easy and pleasant. Rotha did not fear it, and so enjoyed it. And so did her examiner. He found all that he had once known possible and hoped for her. The quick intelligence of the child he found matured; the keen apprehension practised; the excellent memory stored, even beyond what he expected. And then, Rotha's capital powers of reasoning were as true and clear-sighted as ever, her feeling as just and unperverted; the thirst for knowledge was more developed and very strong; and the knowledge already laid up amounted to a stock of surprising amount and variety.

  That was to both parties a very pleasant two hours. Rotha was looking, by turns, into the face she loved so well and watching the familiar face play, with the delight of one whose eyes have been long without the sight of what they loved. Moreover, she was taking up again the various threads of learning which had slipped from her hand, feeling now that her hold of them would not loose again. There was a savour of old associations, too, about this talk, which was very fascinating; and further yet, Rotha had a subtle consciousness that she was satisfying Mr. Southwode. And he on his part was making new acquaintance with his little friend of old, and noticing with a little surprise and much admiration how she had changed and grown. The face which was always so eager and expressive had taken on womanly softness and mature richness, without losing a bit of its changeful fire. The sallow skin had become clear and fine; the lines of the lips, not less passionate and not less decided than they used to be, were soft and pure; refinement was in every curve of them, and in all the face, and all the figure, and in every movement of either; and the deep, flashing eyes could be innocently merry and sweet too, and constantly answered him before the lips could speak. As one quarter of an hour sped on after another, Mr. Southwode grew less and less ready to be relieved of his charge. Yet, he asked himself, what should he do with her? He did not entertain the idea Mrs. Purcell had suggested; it was not precisely a disagreeable idea, and it recurred to him, in the midst of philosophy and mathematics; it was not a disagreeable idea, but--he had never entertained it! And he doubted besides if Rotha would easily entertain it. He knew she was fond of him, fond of being with him; but it was a childish fondness, he said to himself; it could be nothing else. It was a childish fondness, too frankly shewn to be anything more or deeper. And Rotha was very young, had seen nobody, and could not know what she would like. That she would do anything he asked her, he had little doubt; she would marry him if he asked her; but Mr. Southwode did not want a wife on those terms. What should he do with her? Yes, he knew the difficulties, much better than she knew them; he knew how people would talk, and how under the circumstances they would have reason to talk; which Rotha knew not. All which troublesome elements of the relation subsisting between them, only somehow made Mr. Southwode hold to it the faster. Probably he was by nature an obstinate man.

  Upon the pause which followed the end of her examination came a question of Rotha.

  "Are you going to stay in this country now, Mr. Southwode?"

  "My home is in England," he answered, rousing himself out of reverie.

  Rotha's heart sank at that; sank sadly. Next came a recoil of her reason--Yes, you had better go away, if I cling to you in this fashion!

  "Why?" was his next counter question. "What makes you ask?"

  "I did not know," said Rotha. "I wanted to know. I heard people say you would live over there."

  "What else have you heard people say about me?"
r />   "Not much. Aunt Serena never spoke of you, I think, if she could help it. I have only heard somebody say that you were very rich--that your home would be over there now, probably;--and that you would concern yourself no more about me," Rotha added, in the instinct of truth.

  "Kind judgment," said Mr. Southwode; "but in this case not true. The rest is true, that I have a large property."

  He went on to tell Rotha several things about himself; not using many words, at the same time not making any mystery of it. He told her that his very large means came from business; that the business was in hands which made it unnecessary that he should give to the oversight of it more than a portion of his time. He had a home in England, and he described it; in the Lake country, surrounded with beautiful scenery. He was very fond of it, but he was not a fixture there; on the contrary, he went wherever there was reason for him to go, or work to be done by his going. "So I am here now, you see." he concluded.

  And so, something else may take you back again, and keep you there! thought Rotha; but she did not say what she thought, nor indeed say anything. Mr. Southwode's detail, while it interested her terribly, and in a sort nattered her, also reduced her to a very low feeling of downheartedness. What