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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id01113" style="margin-top: 2em">A LEGACY.</h4> "Mother," said Rotha, when their visiter was again gone and her copy was done and she had returned to her mother's side, "I never knew before to- day that Mr. Digby has handsome eyes." "How did you find it out to-day?" "I had a good look at them, and they looked at me so." "How?" "I don't know—as if they meant a good deal, and good. Don't you think he has handsome eyes, mother?" "I always knew that. He is a very fine-looking man altogether." "Is he? I suppose he is. Only he likes to have his own way." "I wonder if somebody else doesn't, that I know?" "That's the very thing, mother. If I didn't, I suppose I shouldn't care. But when Mr. Digby says anything, he always looks as if he expected it to be just so, and everybody to mind him." Mrs. Carpenter could not help laughing, albeit she was by no means in a laughing mood. Her laugh was followed by a sigh. "What makes you draw a long breath, mother?" "I wish you could govern that temper of yours, my child." "Why, mother? Haven't I as good a right to my own way as Mr. Digby, or anybody?" "Few people can have their own way in the world; and a woman least of all." "Why?" "She generally has to mind the will of somebody else." "But that isn't fair." "It is the way things are." "Mother, it may be the way with some people; but I have got nobody to mind?" "Your mother?—" "O yes; but that isn't it. You are a woman. There is no man I must mind." "If you ever grow up and marry somebody, there will be." "I would never marry anybody I had to mind!" said the girl energetically. "You are the very person that would do it," said the mother; putting her hand fondly upon Rotha's cheek. "My little daughter!—If only I knew that you were willing to obey the Lord Jesus Christ, I could be easy about you." "And aren't, you easy about me?" "No," said the mother sadly. "Would you be easy if I was a Christian?" Mrs. Carpenter nodded. There was a pause. "I would like to be a Christian, mother, if it would make you feel easy; but—somehow—I don't want to." "I know that." "How do you know that?" "Because you hold off. If you were once willing, the thing would be done." There was silence again; till Rotha suddenly broke it by asking, "Mother, can I help my will?" "What do you mean?" "Why! If I don't want to be a Christian, can I make myself want to?" "That seems to me a foolish question," said her mother. "Suppose you do not want to do something I tell you to do; need that hinder your obeying?" "But this is different." "I do not see how it is different." "What is being a Christian, then?" "You know, Rotha." "But tell me, mother. I don't know if I know." "You ought to know. A Christian is one who loves and serves the Lord Jesus." "And then he can't do what he has a mind to," said Rotha. "Yes, he can; unless it is something wrong." "Well, he can't do what he has a mind to; he must always be asking." "That is not hard, if one loves the Lord." "But I don't love him, mother." "No," said Mrs. Carpenter sadly. "Can I make myself love him?" "No; but that is foolish talk." "I don't see why it is foolish, I am sure. I wish I did love him, if it would make you feel better." "I should not have a care left!" said Mrs. Carpenter, with a sort of breath of longing. "Why not, mother?" "Get the Bible and read the 121st psalm,—slowly." Rotha obeyed. "'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth'"— "There! if you were one of the Lord's dear children, you would say that; that would be true of you. Now go on, and see what the Lord says to it; see what would follow." Rotha went on. "'He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.'—Israel, mother." "The true Israel are the Lord's true children, of any nation." "Are they? Well—'The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand; the sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore. Praise ye the Lord.'" "Would anybody be well kept that was kept so?" Mrs. Carpenter broke forth, with the tears running down her face. "O my little Rotha! my little daughter! if I knew you in that care, how blessed I should be!" The tears streamed, and Mrs. Carpenter in vain tried to wipe them dry. Rotha looked on, troubled, and a little conscience-stricken. "Mother," she began, "don't he take care of anybody except Christians?" "Yes," said Mrs. Carpenter; "he takes care of the children of Christians; and so I have faith that he will take care of you; but it is not just so. If you will not come to him now, he may take painful ways to bring you; if you will not trust him now, he may cut away everything else you trust to, till you flee to him for help. But I wish you would take the easier way." "But can I help my will?" said Rotha again, holding fast to that tough argument. "What can I do?" "I cannot tell. You had better ask Mr. Digby. I am not able for any more questions just now." "Mother. I'll bring you your milk," said Rotha, rather glad of a diversion. "Mother, do you think Mr. Digby can answer all sorts of questions?" "Better than I can." She brought her mother the glass of milk and the biscuit and sat watching her while she took them. She noticed the thin hands, the exhausted look, the weary attitude, the pale face. What state of things was this? Her mother eating biscuit and oysters got with another person's money; doing no work, or next to none; living in lodgings, but apparently without the prospect of earning the means to pay her rent; too feeble to do much but rest in that spring chair. "Mother," Rotha began, with a lurking, unrecognized feeling of anxiety— "I wish you would make haste and get well!" Mrs. Carpenter was eating biscuit, and made no reply. "Don't you think you are a little better?" "Not exactly to-day." "What would do you good?" "Nothing that you could give me, darling. I am very comfortable. I wonder to see myself so supplied with everything I can possibly want. Look at this chair! It is almost better than all the rest." "That and the fire." "Yes; the blessed fire! It is so good!" "But I wish you'd get well, mother!" Rotha said with a half sigh. Mrs. Carpenter made no answer. "I don't see how we are going to do, if you don't get well soon," Rotha went on with a kind of impatient uneasiness. "What shall we do for money, mother? there's the rent and everything." "You forget what you have just been reading, my child. Do you think the words mean nothing?—'The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.'" "But that don't pay rent," said Rotha. "You think the Lord can do great things, and cannot do little things. I can trust him for all." "Then why cannot you trust him for me?" "I do." "Then why are you troubled?" "Because here your self-will comes in; and you may have to go through hard times before it is broken." "Broken? My self-will broken?" "Yes." "I do not want to be a creature without a will. I do not like such creatures." "You must talk to Mr. Digby, Rotha. I am too tired." "I won't tire you any more, mother dear! But I don't see why I should talk to Mr. Digby." And for a few moments Rotha was silent. Then she broke out again. "Mother, don't you think if you could get back to Medwayville you would be well again?" "I shall never go back to Medwayville," the sick woman said faintly. "But if you could get into the country somewhere? out of this horrid dust and these mean little streets. O mother, think of the great fields of grass, and the trees, and the flowers!" "Darling, I am very well here. Suppose you take the poker and punch that lump of coal, so that it may blaze up a little." Rotha punched the lump of coal, and sat watching the brilliant jets of flame that leapt from it, sending a gentle illumination all through the room; revolving in her mind whether it might be possible by and by to get her mother among the sights and sounds of the country again. As the spring advanced however, though the desirableness of such a move might be more apparent, the difficulty of it as evidently increased. The close, stifling air of the city, when the warm days came, was hard to bear for the sick woman, and hard in two ways for Rotha. But Mrs. Carpenter's strength failed more and more. There was no question now of her sewing; she did not attempt it. She sat all day in her spring easy chair, by the window or before the fire as the day happened to be, now and then turning over the leaves of her Bible which always lay open before her. And now Mr. Digby when he came would often take the book and read to her; and even talks of some length would grow up out of the reading; talks that seemed delightful to both the parties concerned, though Rotha could not understand much of it. Little by little the room had entirely changed its character, and no longer seemed to be a part of Mrs. Marble's domain. A fluffy rug lay under Mrs. Carpenter's feet; a pretty lamp stood on the table; a screen of Japanese manufacture, endlessly interesting to Rotha, stood between the weary eyes and the fire, when there was a fire; and Mrs. Carpenter herself was enveloped in a warm, soft fleecy shawl. As the warm weather came on indeed, this had to give place to something lighter. Then Mr. Digby brought fruit; early fruit, and foreign fruit; then a little India tea caddy of very nice tea stood on the table; tea such as in all her life Mrs. Carpenter had never drunk till now. She had long ceased to make any objection to whatever Mr. Digby pleased to do; taking it all as simply and as graciously as a child. Much more than her own child. However, Rotha was mollified towards their benefactor from that day above mentioned; and if she looked on wonderingly, and even a little jealously, at his unresisted assuming of the direction of their affairs, she no more openly rebelled. Mr. Digby, it may be remarked, kept her so persistently busy, that she had small time to disturb herself with any sort of speculations. Lessons were lively. History was added to Latin and arithmetic; Rotha had a good deal to read, and troublesome sums to manage; and finally every remnant of spare leisure was filled up by a demand for writing. Mr. Digby did not frighten her by talking of compositions, but he desired her to prepare now an abstract of the history of the crusades, now of the Stuart dynasty, now of the American revolution; and now again of the rise of the art of printing, or the use and manufacture of gunpowder. Studying out these subjects, pondering them, writing and writing over her sketches, Rotha was both very busy and very happy; and then the handing over her papers to Mr. Digby, and his reading them, and his strictures upon them, were a matter of intense interest and delight; for though Rotha trembled with excitement she was still more thrilled with pleasure. For she was just at the age when the mind begins to open to a rapturous consciousness of its powers, and at the same time of the wonderful riches of the fields open to the exercise of them. In her happy ignorance, in her blessed inexperience, Rotha did not see what the days were doing with her mother; and if occasionally a flash of unwelcome perception would invade her mind, with the unbounded presumption of her young years she shut her eyes and refused to believe in it. But all the while Mrs. Carpenter was growing feebler and wasting to more of a shadow. Rotha still comforted herself that she had "a nice colour in her cheeks." It came to be the latter end of June. Windows were open; what would have been delicious summer air came in laden with the mingled odours of street mud and street dust, garbage, the scents of butcher stalls and grocery shops, and far worse, the indefinable atmospheric tokens of poor living and uncleanness. Now and then a whiff of more energy brought a reminder not quite perverted of the places where flowers grow and cows pasture and birds sing. It only served to make the next breath more heavy and disappointing. Mrs. Carpenter sat by the window to get all the freshness she could; albeit with the air came also the sounds from without; the creak or the rattle of wheels on the pavement, the undistinguishable words of a rough voice here and there, the shrill cry of the strawberry seller, the confused, mixed, inarticulate din of the great city all around. A sultry heaviness seemed to rest upon everything, disheartening and depressing to anybody whose physical powers were not strong or his nerves not well strung for the work and struggle of life. There was a pump over the way; and from time to time the creak of its handle was to be heard, and then the helpless drip and splash of the last runnings of the water falling into the gutter, after the applicant had gone away with his or her pail. It mocked Mrs. Carpenter's ear with the recollection of running brooks, and of a certain cool deep well into which the bucket used to go down from the end of a long pole and come up sparkling with drops of the clear water.—— "Well, how do you do?" said the alert voice of Mrs. Marble by her side. "Sort o' close, aint it?" "Rather." "The city aint a place for Christians to live in, when it gets to this time; anyhow, not for Christians that aint good and strong. I'd like to put you out to pasture somewheres." "She won't go," said Rotha longingly. "I am, very comfortable here," said the invalid faintly. "Comfortable! well, I feel as if you ought to be top of a mountain somewheres; out o' this. I'd like to; but I guess I'm a fixtur. Mr. Digby I'd find ways and means, I'll engage," she said, eyeing the sick woman with kindly interest and concern, who however only shook her head. "Could you eat your strawberries?" she asked presently. "A few of them. They were very nice." "I never see such berries. They must have been raised somewhere in Gulliver's Brobdignay; and Gulliver don't send 'em round in these parts. I thought, maybe you'd pay 'em the compliment to eat 'em; but when appetite's gone, it's no use to have big strawberries. That's what I thought a breath of hilly air somewheres would do for you." And Mrs. Marble presently went away, shaking her head, just as Mr. Digby came in; exchanging a look with him as she passed. Mr. Digby came up to the window, and greeted Mrs. Carpenter with the gentle affectionate reverence he always shewed her. "No stronger to-day?" said he. "She won't go into the country, Mr. Digby," said Rotha. "You may go and get a walk at least, my child," Mrs. Carpenter said. "Ask Mrs. Cord to be so kind as to take you. Now while Mr. Digby is here, I shall not be alone. Can you stay half an hour?" she asked him suddenly. He gave ready assent; and Rotha, weary of her cooped-up life, eagerly sought Mrs. Cord and went off for her walk. Mrs. Carpenter and Mr. Digby were left alone. "I am not stronger," the former began as the house door closed. "I am losing strength, I think, every day. I wanted to speak to you; and it had better be done at once." She paused, and he waited. The trickle of the water from the pump came to her ear again, stirring memories oddly. "You asked me the other day, whether I had no friends in the city. I told you I had not. I told you the truth, but not the whole truth. Before Rotha I could not say all I wished. I have a sister living in New York." "A sister!" Mr. Digby echoed the word in great surprise. "She knows of your being here?" "She does not." "Surely she ought to know." "No, I think not. I told you the truth the other day. I have not a friend, here or elsewhere. Not what you call a friend. Only you." "But your sister? How is that possible?" Mrs. Carpenter sighed. "I had better tell you all about it, and then you will know how to understand me. Perhaps. I can hardly understand it myself." There was a pause again. The sick woman was evidently looking back in thought over days and years and the visions of what had been in them. Her gentle, quiet eyes had grown intent, and over her brows there was a fold in her forehead that Mr. Digby had never seen there before. But there was no trembling of the mouth. That was steady and grave and firm. "There were two of us," she said at last. "My father had but us two, how long it is ago!—" She was silent again with her thoughts, and Mr. Digby again waited. It was a patient face he was looking at; a gentle face; not a face that spoke of any experience that could be called bitter, yet the patient lines told of something endured or something resigned; it might be both. The last two years of experience, with a sister in the same city, must needs furnish occasion. But Mrs. Carpenter's brow was quiet, except for that one fold in it. Yet she seemed to have forgotten what she had meant to say, and only after a while pulled herself up, as it were, and began again. "It is not so long as it seems, I suppose, for I am not very old; but it seems long. We two were girls together at home, and my father was living; and I knew nothing about the world." "Was that here? in New York?" Mr. Digby asked, by way of helping her on. "O no. I knew nothing about New York. I had never been here. No; our home was not far from Tanfield; up in this state, near the Connecticut border. We lived a little out of the town, and had a nice place. My father was very well off indeed. I wanted for nothing in those days." She sighed. "The world is a strange place, Mr. Digby! I cannot comprehend, even now, how things should have gone as they did. We lived as happy as anybody; until a gentleman, a young lawyer of New York, began to make visits at our house. He paid particular attention to me at first; but it was of no use; I had learned to know Mr. Carpenter, and nobody else could be anything to me. He was a thriving lawyer; a rising young man, people said; and my father would have had me marry him; but I could not. So then he courted my sister. O the splash of that water from the pump over there! it keeps me thinking to-day of the well behind our house—where it stood on a smooth green plat of grass—and of the trickle of the water from the buckets as they were drawn up. Just because the day is so warm, I think of those buckets of well water. The well was sixty feet deep, and the water was clear and cold and beautiful—I never saw such water anywhere else; and when the bucket came slowly up, with the moss on its sides glittering with the wet, there was refreshment in the very look of it. Tanfield seems to me a hundred thousand miles away from Jane Street; and those times about a thousand years ago. I wonder, how will all our life seem when we look back upon it from the other side?" "Very much as objects seen under a microscope, I fancy." "Do you? Why?" "In the clear understanding of details, and in the new perception of the relative bearing and importance of parts." "Yes, I suppose so. Things are very mixed and confused as we see them here. Take what I am telling you, for instance; it is incredible, only that it is true." "You have not told me much yet," said her friend gently. "No. The gentleman I spoke of, the lawyer, he married my sister. And then, when I would have married Mr. Carpenter, my sister set herself against it, and she talked over my father into her views, and they both opposed it all they could." "Did they give any reasons for their opposition?" "O yes. Mr. Carpenter was only a farmer, they said; not my equal, and not very well off. I am sure in all real qualities he was much my superior; but just in the matter of society it was more or less true. He did not mix in society much, and did not care for it; but he had education and cultivation a great deal more than many that do; he had read and he had thought, and he could talk too, and well, to one or two alone. But they wanted me to marry a rich man. I think half the trouble in the world comes about money." "'The love of money is the root of all evil,' the Bible says." "I believe it. There was nothing else to be said against Mr. Carpenter, but that he had not money; if he had had it, nobody would have found out that he wanted cultivation, or anything else. But he was a poor man. And when I married him, my father cut me off from all share in the inheritance of his property." "It all fell to your sister?" "Yes. All. The place, the old place, and all. She had everything." "And kept it." "O yes. Of course. She is a rich woman. Her husband has prospered in his business; and they are very well off now. They have only one child, too." Mrs. Carpenter was silent, and Mr. Digby paused a minute or two before he spoke again. "Still, my dear friend, do you not think your sister would shew herself your sister, if she knew where you are and how you are? Do you not think it would be right and kind to let her know?" Mrs. Carpenter shook her head. "No," she said, "it would be no comfort to me; and you are mistaken if you think it would be any satisfaction to her. She is a rich woman. She keeps her carriage, and she has her liveried servants, and she lives in style. She would not like to come here to see me." "I cannot conceive it," said Mr. Digby. "I think you must unconsciously be doing her wrong." "I tried her," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I will not try her again. When my husband got into difficulties, and his health was giving way, and he was driven a little too hard, I wrote to my sister in New York to ask her to give us some help; knowing that she was abundantly able to do it, without hurting herself. She sent me for answer—" Mrs. Carpenter stopped; the words seemed to choke her; her lip quivered; and when she began to speak again her voice was a little hoarse. "She wrote me, that if my husband died, she would have no objection to my going back to the old place, and getting along there as well as I could; Rotha and I." One or two sore, sorrowful tears forced their way out of the speaker's eyes; but she said no more. And Mr. Digby did not know what further to counsel, and was also silent. The silence lasted some little time, while a strawberry seller was making the street ring with her cries of "Straw….berr_ees_," and the hot air wafted in the odours from near and far, and the water trickled from the pump nose again. At last Mrs. Carpenter began again, with some difficulty and effort; not bodily however, but mental. "You have been so exceedingly kind to me, to us, Mr. Digby, I—" "Hush," he said. "Do not speak of that. You have done far more for me than I ever can do for you?" "I? No. I have done nothing." "You saved my father's life." "Your father's life? You are under some mistake. I never knew a Mr. Digby till I knew you I never even heard the name." "You knew a Mr. Southwode," said he smiling. "Southwode? Southwode! The English gentleman! But you are not his son?" "I am his son. I am Digby-Southwode. I took my mother's name for certain business reasons." "And you are his son! How wonderful! That strange gentleman's son!—But I did not do so much for your father, Mr. Southwode. You have done everything for me." "I wish I could do more," said he shortly. "I am ashamed to ask,—and yet, I was going to ask you to do something more—a last service—for me. It is too much to ask." "I am sure it is not that," he said with great gentleness. "Let me know what you wish." Mrs. Carpenter hesitated. "Rotha does not know,"—she said then. "She has no idea—" "Of what?" "She has no idea that I am going to leave her." "I am afraid that is true." "And it will be soon Mr. Digby." "Perhaps not; but what is it you wish of me?" "Tell her—" whispered Mrs. Carpenter. The young man might feel startled, or possibly an inevitable strong objection to the service demanded of him. He made no answer; and Mrs. Carpenter soon went on. "It is wrong to ask it, and yet whom shall I ask? I would not have her learn it from any of the people in the house; though they are kind, they are not discreet; and Rotha would in any case come straight to me; and I—cannot bear it. She is a passionate child; violent in her feelings and in the expression of them. I have been thinking about it day and night lately, and I cannot get my courage up to face the first storm of her distress. My poor child! she is not very fitted to go through the world alone." "What are your plans for her?" "I am unable to form any." "But you must tell me what steps you wish me to take in her behalf—if there is no one whom you could better trust." "There is no one whom I can trust at all. Except only my Father in heaven. I trust him, or I should die before my time. I thought my heart would break, a while ago; now I have got over that. Do you know He has said, 'Leave thy fatherless children to me'?" Yet now the mother's tears were falling like rain. "I will do the very best I can," said the young man at her side; "but I wish you would give me some hints, or directions, at least." "How can I? There lie but two things before me;—that Mrs. Cord should bring her up and make a sempstress of her; or that Mrs. Marble should teach her to be a mantua-maker; and I am so foolish, I cannot bear the thought of either thing; even if they would do it, which I do not know." "Make your mind easy. She shall be neither the one thing nor the other. Rotha has far too good abilities for that. I will not give her to Mrs. Cord's or Mrs. Marble's oversight. But what would you wish?" "I do not know. I must leave you to judge. You can judge much better than I. I have no knowledge of the world, or of what is possible. Mrs. Marble tells me there are free schools here—" "Of course she shall go to school. I will see that she does. And I will see that she is under some woman's care who can take proper care of her. Do not let yourself be troubled on that score. I promise you, you need not. I will take as good care of her as if she were a little sister of my own." There was silence at first, the silence of a heart too full to find words. Mrs. Carpenter sat with her head a little bowed. "You will lose nothing by it," she said huskily after a few minutes. "There is a promise somewhere—" But with that she broke down and cried. "I don't know what you will do with her!" she said; "nor what anybody will do with her, except her mother. She is a wayward child; passionate; strong, and also weak, on the side of her affections. She has never learned yet to submit her will, though for love she is capable of great devotion. She has shewed it to me this past winter." "Is there any other sort of devotion that is worth much?" asked the young man. "Duty?—" "Surely the devotion of love is better." "Yes—. But duty ought to be recognized for what it is." "Nay, I think it ought to be recognized for a pleasure. Here she comes.— Well, Rotha, was the walk pleasant?" "No." "Indeed? Why not?" "How could it be, Mr. Digby? Not a bit of good air, nor anything pleasant to see; just all hot and dirty." "I thought you said there were some flowers in front of some of the shops?" her mother said. "Yes, mother; but they looked melancholy." "Did they?" said Mr. Digby smiling. "Suppose you go with me to-morrow, and I will take you to the Park." "O! will you?" said Rotha with suddenly opening eyes. "Can you?" "If Mrs. Carpenter permits." <h3 id="id01317" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER VII.</h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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