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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id01921" style="margin-top: 2em">MRS. BUSBY.</h4> The weeks that now followed were a time of happiness to Rotha, as perfect as in her present circumstances it was possible for her to know. She was allowed to minister to Mr. Digby, she was constantly with him, and intercourse and lessons were tasted with redoubled zest. For she was kept very busy at her old studies, and new ones were added; she read aloud a good deal; Mr. Digby never shunned talk when she wanted information or help in any puzzle; and the meal times, when ministry was varied and the conversation ran upon lighter topics, were hours of unalloyed enjoyment. I think these weeks were not disagreeable ones to the other party concerned; however, he was constantly reminded of the need of making new arrangements; and as soon as his ankle would permit his getting in and out of a carriage, he was ready to go to Mrs. Busby's. But when at last he was on the way, he thought to himself that he had another hard job on his hands. How would Rotha bear uprooting again, and transplanting to entirely different soil? she who took such terribly fast hold of any ground that suited her. Would Mrs. Busby's family be such ground? If it would not, if he saw cause to think it would not, Mr. Digby resolved she should not be put there. But how was he to find out? He came into Mrs. Busby's drawing room with the full measure of his usual gravity. It was almost the end of October now, and the family had been long enough returned from the country for the mistress of it to have her house put in perfect winter order. Carpets were down, curtains were up; mirrors and lamps were unswathed from their brown linen coverings; everything that was metal shone with the polish put upon it, and everything that was upholstery shewed soft and rich colours and draperies. It was all harmonious, it was all very handsome; the fault was the fault of so many rooms, a failure to shew cause why it should be at all. Nothing was done there, nothing could be done; there was plush and satin and brocade and gilding and lacquered wood; but no life. Even the fire, for there was a fire, was a solid mass of firestones; a glowing grateful of hard coal; if there was life in that, it was the life of mere existence. Plenty of money! What else? One of the great polished doors opened a little? softly, and the mistress of the house came in. She was rather a contrast to it all. Perhaps she had not yet made her toilette for the afternoon; she was in a very plain dress, and came in drawing a shawl around her. Not a handsome shawl either; the lady's whole appearance was most absolutely without pretension, and so was her manner. But the manner was not artless; it gave you the impression that she always knew what she was saying and had a reason for saying it. And the face, which had once been handsome, and might still have laid claim to some distinction, seemed likewise to lay claim to nothing, beyond the possession of sense and discernment and knowledge of the world. "Mr. Southwode!" she said as she closed the door. "You are quite a stranger." She was far too acute to tell Mr. Digby how welcome a visiter he was. She let the fact sufficiently appear in her smile and the tones of her greeting. "I think, you have been a stranger here too, Mrs. Busby. Were you not late in returning to town?" "Yes— September was so warm! But I think eight months of the year is sufficient to spend in the city. Soul and body want the cultivation of nature for the other four; don't you think so? The ocean and the mountains are better than books. There is enlargement of the faculties to be sought, as well as stores for the memory." "And what mountains, and what sea, have you been looking upon this summer?" "We have seen no mountains this year; we kept to the sea beach. Except for a short interval. And you, Mr. Southwode? What have you done with yourself?" "My last achievement was to let somebody run into me, in the Park, and sprain my ankle in consequence." There followed of course inquiries and a full account of the affair. Mr. Digby could not be let off with less; and then advice and recipes, in the giving of which Mrs. Busby was quite motherly. "And have you resolved at last to make your home in America?" she asked after this. "I make my home wherever I am," the young man replied, with his slight grave smile. "But surely you do not think it well for any ordinary mortal to imitate the Wandering Jew, and have a settled home nowhere?" said Mrs. Busby, shewing her white teeth, of which she had a good many and in good order. "It may be best for some people," the young man said lightly. "But I came to speak to you about a matter of business. Mrs. Busby, pardon me for asking, had you once a sister?" There was a change in the lady's face, marked enough, yet not so as to strike any but a nice observer. The bland smile faded from her lips, the lines about her mouth took a harder set, the eyes were more watchfully on the alert. "Yes," she said quietly, not shewing her surprise. "I have a sister." "Have you heard from her lately?" "No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she added, "Do you know her?" "I have known her." "In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western part of the state." "I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York." "In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me— When did you know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here." "She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and failing constantly; and in July—did you know nothing of it?—she left us all, Mrs. Busby." "My sister? Did she die here? Do you mean that?" Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break. "What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet. "I am afraid,—the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was." "Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom nobody can help. She was here several months, then?" "More than that" "More? How much more?" "She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her." "Did she tell you anything of her story?" "Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister." "Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family." "Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody. I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit." Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together. Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on. "Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter—" "I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?" "Certainly." "Pray, how old?" "About—I believe, about fifteen." "Where is she?" "She is here." "Here! In whose care? and where is she?" "She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you." "In your care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my sister to leave her child in your care?" "She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed gravity. "But was there nobody else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting herself. "Nobody else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile. "Mr. Southwode, I cannot allow that for a moment," Mrs. Busby said with energy. "I am the proper person to take charge of my sister's child, and if you please I will assume the charge immediately. Where is she? She ought to be under my roof." "It occurred to me, that if you were so inclined, your house would be the safest place for her; for the present at least." "For the present and for always," said the lady decidedly. "Who else should take care of her? Where can I find her, Mr. Southwode?" "Nowhere. I will bring her to you, if you will allow me." "Do you know the girl? do you know much of her, I mean?" "Something—" Mr. Digby easily assented. "And what is she, if you can tell?" "I do not know that I can tell, what you will find her. Do you not think, Mrs. Busby, that a human character of any richness shews different sides of itself to different persons, as varying affinities call out corresponding developments?" "Then you call hers, a character of some richness?" "I suppose I implied as much." "And will you tell me what you have found her?" "Pardon me; that would be an injustice to her. You would naturally look to verify my impressions, and perhaps could not do it. It is unkind to praise or blame anybody beforehand to third persons. You make it impossible for the balance of judgment to swing clear." "She ought to come here at once. Will you bring her to-morrow?" "I think not to-morrow." "Why not? When, then?" "This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?" "Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see her." "Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, and I am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday." "Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you had reasons for being unwilling to put her out of your care." The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was habitual with him. "I have reasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign." The lady shut her lips a little tight. "What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on. "I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going— But I am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be." The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding thought might be summed up thus:—"When she is under my care, my young gentleman, I think she will not be under yours. Preposterous!" Mr. Digby had his thoughts too as he drove homeward. They will never get on together, he said to himself. It will not be happy for Rotha, nor easy. And yet—it is the best thing I can do for her just now. She must have a woman's care; and whose could be so proper as her aunt's? Besides, I shall see her frequently; I shall know all that concerns her, for Rotha will tell me; and if things go wrong, I can at any time put in my hand and set them straight. I am sorry—but this is the thing to do; and there is no help for it. In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her. There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable. The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby; her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her aptitudes.—— "How would you like to go to school, Rotha?" She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so readily to her eye. "I shouldn't like it as well as this, Mr. Digby,"—("this" meant the present course and manner of her education;) "but I suppose you could not go on teaching me always." "I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too." "When shall I go, Mr. Digby?" she asked in a subdued voice, without looking up this time. "The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could not live out here at Fort Washington, and attend school in New York. I shall be obliged to go back to the city, too." "Then I would like to go," said Rotha simply. "But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection." Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now. "My aunt?" she repeated. "Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?" Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood. "O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!" "Why not?" he asked gently. "She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her. Please, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These words came out in a stream. "My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?" "Because she wasn't good to mother—she didn't love her—she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like her dreadfully, Mr. Digby!" The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak. "Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means." "O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?" "Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!— Rotha!—" She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age knows better. "Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike your aunt so? You do not know her." "O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up to her?" "No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody. Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me, and we will talk this over. Come!" Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took hers kindly and held it. "Rotha—my child—I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated gravely. Rotha thought it practically amounted to that, to place her in her aunt's house; words were not at command. A sort of sob wrung from her breast. "What do you know about your aunt?" "Not much,—but too much," Rotha laconically answered. "Tell me what you know." "I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to this unanswerable statement, she went on;—"She is a hard woman; she didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were—She has everything in the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her beautiful carriage; and we—we were—you know!—we were—if it hadn't been for you—" Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr. Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a breaking heart. Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft, and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all? And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go back. He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely given place to an expression of helpless despair. "Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her hand again. "You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very gently. "I could not help it. I tried—" "I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it." "I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before you." "It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but because it is not right." "Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly. "Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself." Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but she said nothing. "You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of yourself, who takes it?" Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose—nobody," she said. "Do you think we have such an enemy as we have, and that he will let such an advantage go unimproved? No; when you lose command of yourself Satan takes it,—and uses it." "What does he do with it?" said Rotha in full astonishment. "According to circumstances. To tempt you to wrong, or to tempt you to folly; or if neither of those, to break down your mental and bodily powers, so that you shall be weaker to resist him next time." "Mr. Digby—do you think so?" "Certainly. And when people go on in a way like this, giving ground to Satan, he takes all they give, until finally he has the whole rule of them. Then they seem to their neighbours to be slaves of passion, or of greed, or of drink; but really they are 'possessed of the devil,' and those are the chains in which he holds them." "Mr. Digby," said Rotha humbly, "do you think I have been losing ground?" "I think you have been gaining ground, for a good while." "I am sorry," she said simply. "But how can I help it, Mr. Digby?" "You remember," he said. "You must be under one king or the other; there is no middle ground. 'Whosoever committeth sin, is the servant of sin';—but, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'" Rotha drew a deep sigh, and one or two fresh tears fell. "Now," said he very gently, "do not let us get excited again, but let us talk quietly. What is all this about?" "You are sending me away," said Rotha; "and you are all I have got." "You are not going to lose me. That is settled. Now go on. What next?" "But I shall not be with you?" "Not every day, as here. But I hope to see you very often; and you can always write to me if you have anything in particular upon your mind." "Then," said Rotha, her voice several shades clearer, "you are sending me to be with a person that I don't—respect." "That is serious! Are you sure you are justified in such an opinion, with no more grounds?" "I cannot help it," said Rotha. "I do not think I have reason to respect her." "Then how are you going to get along together?" "I am sure I do not know." "Rotha, I may ask this of you. I ask of you to behave as a lady should, in your aunt's house. I ask you to be well-bred and well-mannered always; whatever you feel." "Do you think I can, Mr. Digby?" said the girl looking earnestly at him. "I am sure of it." "But—do I know how?" "I will give you an unfailing recipe," said Mr. Digby smiling. "'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them'; and for details, study the 13th chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians." "Is that the chapter about charity?" "About love. The word means love, not charity." "Mr. Digby, it is very hard to act as if you loved people, when you do not." "True," said he smiling. "That is what the world means by good manners. But what Christians should mean by that term is the real thing." "And I do not think I can," Rotha went on. "Do not try to make believe anything. But the courtesy of good manners you can give to everybody." "If I do not lose command of myself," said Rotha. "I will try, Mr. Digby." "I think you can do, pretty nearly, Rotha, whatever you try." This declaration was a source of great comfort to the girl, and a great help towards its own justification; as Mr. Digby probably guessed. Nevertheless Rotha grieved, deeply and silently, through the days that followed. Her friend saw it, and with serious disquiet. That passion of pain and dismay with which she had greeted the first news of what was before her was no transient gust, leaving the air as clear as it had been previously. True, the storm was over. Rotha obtruded her feelings in no way upon his notice; she was quiet and docile as usual. But the happiness was gone. There were rings round her eyes, which told of watching or of weeping; her brow was clouded; and now and then Mr. Digby saw a tear or two come which she made good efforts to get rid of unseen. She was mourning, and it troubled him; but, as he said to himself over and over again, "there was no help for it." He was unselfish about it; for to himself personally there was no doubt but to have Rotha safely lodged with her aunt would be a great relief. He had other business to attend to. <h4 id="id02081" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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