The Letter of Credit

of the past five months. Rotha gave it as briefly as she could, slurring over as much as possible her aunt's action and motives, and giving a bare skeleton of the facts. Mrs. Mowbray's mystified expression did not clear away.

  "Chicago?" she said. "I do not think Mrs. Busby has been to Chicago. My impression is strong, that she has been in or near New York, all summer."

  "So she was, madame."

  Mrs. Mowbray considered things with a grave face.

  "I have a request to make," Mr. Southwode began then; "a request which I hope Mrs. Mowbray will receive as of purely business character, and in no wise occasioned by curiosity. May I be informed, at a convenient time, what has been paid by Mrs. Busby to this house, on Miss Carpenter's account?"

  "Nothing," said Mrs. Mowbray.

  "No bills for schooling? or board?"

  "Nothing at all. Antoinette's bills I have rendered, and they have been paid. I have never presented any bill for Miss Carpenter, and none has ever been asked for."

  Rotha exclaimed, but Mr. Southwode went on----

  "You will allow me to ask for it now."

  Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtfully at the speaker.

  "By what right could I put Mrs. Busby's obligations upon you? How could I account to her?"

  "Count them my obligations," he said pleasantly. "I do not wish Miss Carpenter to leave any debts behind her, when she goes from her own country to mine. I will be much obliged, if you will have the account made out in my name and sent to me."

  Mrs. Mowbray bowed a grave acknowledgment. "I had better speak to Mrs. Busby first," she said.

  "As you please about that," said Mr. Southwode rising.

  "But next June!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "You are not going to take her away next June? I want her for a year longer at least. I want her for two years. That is one of the difficulties I have to contend with; people will not leave their children with me long enough to let me finish what I have begun. It would be much better for Rotha to stay with me another year. Don't you think so?"

  "I am afraid a discussion on that point would not turn out in your favour, madame," he said. "Miss Carpenter is able to represent my part in it; I will leave it to her."

  And he took leave. But when it came to Rotha's turn, he sealed all his pretensions by quietly kissing her; it was done deliberately, not in a hurry; and Rotha knew it was on purpose and done rather for her sake than his own. And when he was gone, she stood still by the table, flushed and proud, feeling that she was claimed and owned now before all the world. There ensued a little silence, during which Mrs. Mowbray was somewhat uneasily arranging some disarranged books and trifles on the great library table; and Rotha stood still.

  "My dear," said the former at last, "am I to congratulate you?"

  "There is no occasion, madame," said Rotha.

  "What then did Mr. Southwode mean?" said Mrs. Mowbray, stopping her work and looking up much displeased.

  "O yes,--I beg your pardon,--if you mean _that_," said Rotha, while the blood mounted into her cheeks again.

  "Are you going to marry Mr. Southwode?"

  "He says so, madame."

  "But what do _you_ say?"

  "I always say the same that Mr. Southwode says," Rotha replied demurely, while at the same time she was conscious of having to bite in an inclination to laugh.

  "My dear, let us understand one another. When I saw him two or three days ago, he did not even know where you were."

  "No, ma'am. He found me."

  "Have you had any communication with him during these years of his absence?"

  "No, madame."

  "Did you know, when Mr. Southwode went away, three years ago, that he had any such purpose, or wish?"

  "He had no such purpose, or wish, I am sure."

  "Then, my dear, how has this come about?"

  "I do not know, madame."

  Rotha felt the movings within her of a little rebellion, a little irritation, and a great nervous inclination to laugh; nevertheless her manner was sobriety itself.

  "My dear, I seem to be the only one in the world to take care of you; and that is my excuse for being so impertinent as to ask these questions. You will bear with me? I _must_ take care of you, Rotha!"

  "Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! There can be no questions you might not ask me."

  "I am a little troubled about you, my dear child. This is very sudden."

  "Yes, ma'am," said Rotha slowly,--"I suppose it is."

  "And I do not like such things to be done hurriedly."

  "No."

  "People ought to have time to know their own minds."

  "Yes."

  "My dear, is it certain that Mr. Southwode knows his?"

  "I should not like to ask him, madame," said Rotha, while the corners of her mouth twitched. "He is not that kind of man. And there is nobody else to ask him. I am afraid we shall have to let it stand."

  Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtful and ill at ease.

  "Mr. Southwode is a very rich man,--" she remarked after a minute or two.

  "What then, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha asked quickly.

  "And, my dear, you have only known him as a little girl," the lady went on, waiving the question.

  "What of _that_, madame?"

  "You can hardly be said to know him at all."

  "It is too late to speak of that now," said Rotha, laying her gloves together and taking off her scarf. "But I saw more as a child, than most people have a chance to see as grown-up people."

  "My dear, I am concerned about your welfare, in this most important step of your life. Have you accepted this gentleman out of gratitude?"

  "I do not think he would want me, madame, on those terms, if he thought so."

  "Yes, he would, perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Men make that mistake sometimes. But you--you must not make a mistake now, my dear!"

  As Rotha was silent, Mrs. Mowbray rose and came to her where she was standing by the table, and put her arms fondly round the girl.

  "You know," she said, kissing her repeatedly, "I love you, Rotha. I cannot let you run into danger, if I can help it; and so I put my hand in, perhaps unwarrantedly."

  "Never, dear Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha gratefully. "You cannot. You may say anything."

  "You are one of those people with whom impulse is strong; and such people often do in a minute what they are sorry for all their lives."

  "I hope that tendency has been a little sobered in me," said Rotha. "Perhaps not much."

  "Well, won't you give me a little comfort about this matter?" said Mrs. Mowbray, still holding her close and looking at her. "What are you going to marry this man--this gentleman--for?"

  But to answer this question, to any but one person, was foreign to all Rotha's nature. She could not do it. The blood flashed to cheek and brow, making its own report; all that Rotha said, was,

  "He wishes it, madame."

  "And are you to do everything that Mr. Southwode wishes?"

  Rotha said nothing, yet this time Mrs. Mowbray got an answer. There was a little unconscious flash of the girl's eye, as for half a second it looked up, which swift as it was, told the whole story. Mrs. Mowbray knew enough of human nature and of the human countenance, to read all she wanted to know in that look. All as far as Rotha was concerned, that is. And that was the principal thing; Mr. Southwode ought to know his own mind, and was at any rate at his own risk; and furthermore it was not Mrs. Mowbray's business to take care of him. And as regarded Rotha, she now saw, there was nothing to be done.

  "Then I must lose you!" she said with a sigh and kissing Rotha again. "My dear, I want nothing but your happiness; but I believe I am a little jealous of Mr. Southwode, that he has got you so easily."

  Easily! Well, Rotha could not explain that, nor discuss the whole matter at all with Mrs. Mowbray. She went up to her room, feeling glad this talk was over.

  And then things fell immediately into school train. And of all in the house, there was no such dilig
ent worker as Rotha during the months of that school term. She was not only diligent. Mrs. Mowbray greatly admired the quiet dignity and the delicate gravity of her manner. She was grave with a wonderful sweet gravity, compounded of a happy consciousness of what had been given her, and a very deep sense of what was demanded of her. Her happiness, or rather the cause of it, for those months remained secret. Nobody in the house, excepting Mrs. Mowbray, knew anything about it; and if anybody surmised, there was nothing in Rotha's quiet, reserved demeanour to embolden any one to put questions. All that Antoinette and