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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id03472" style="margin-top: 2em">STOCKINGS.</h4> Rotha went home in a storm of feelings, so tumultuous and conflicting that her eyes were dropping tears all the way. All the strength there was in her rose against this new injury; while a feeling of powerlessness made her tremble lest after all, she would be obliged to submit to it. She writhed under the bonds of circumstance. Could Mrs. Mowbray protect her? and if not, must her fine stockings go, to be worn upon her cousin's feet, or her aunt's? The up-rising surges of Rotha's rage were touched and coloured by just one ray of light; she had entered a new service, she had therewith got a new Protector and Helper. That thought made the tears come. She was no longer a hopeless slave to her own passions; there was deliverance. "Jesus is my King now! he will take care of me, and he will help me to do right." So she thought as she ran along. For, precisely what Adam and Eve lost by disobedience, in one respect, their descendants regain as soon as they return to their allegiance and become obedient. The riven bond is united again; the lost protection is restored; they have come "from the power of Satan, to God"; and under his banner which now floats over them, the motto of which is "Love," they are safe from all the wiles and the force of the enemy. Rotha was feeling this already; already rejoicing in the new peace which is the very air of the kingdom she had entered; glad that she was no longer to depend on herself, to fight her battles alone. For between her aunt and her own heart, the battle threatened to be hot. It was dinner-time when she got home, and no time to speak to Mrs. Mowbray. And Rotha had to watch a good while before she could find a chance to speak to her in private. At last in the course of the evening she got near enough to say in a low tone, "Mrs. Mowbray, can I see you for a minute by and by?" "Is it business?" the lady asked in the same tone, at the same time opening a Chinese puzzle box and putting it before another of her pupil- guests. "It is business to me," Rotha answered. "Troublesome business?" "Yes, ma'am." "We cannot talk it over here, then. I will come to your room by and by." Which indeed she did. She came when the work of the day was behind her; and what a day! She had entertained some of her girls with a visit to the book-making operations of the American Bible Society; she had taken others to a picture gallery; she had packed a box to send to a poor friend in the country; she had looked over a bookseller's stock to see what he had that could be of service to her in her work; she had paid two visits to relations in the city; she had kept the whole group of her pupils happily entertained all the evening with pictures and puzzles; and now she came to be a sympathizing, patient, helpful friend to one little tired heart. She came in cheery and bright; looked to see if the room were comfortable and entirely arranged as it should be, and then took a seat and an air of expectant readiness. Was she tired? Perhaps—but it did not appear. What if she were tired? if here was more work that God had given her to do. She did not shew fatigue, in look or manner. She might have just risen after a night's sleep. "Are you comfortable here, my dear?" "O very, ma'am, thank you." "Now what is the business you want to speak about?" "I want you to tell me what I ought to do!" "About what? Have you had a pleasant day?" "Not at all pleasant." "How happened that?" "It was partly my fault." "Not altogether?" Mrs. Mowbray asked with a smile that was very kindly. "I do not think it was all my fault, ma'am. Partly it was. I lost my temper, and got angry, and said what I thought, and aunt Serena banished me. Then at luncheon I apologized and asked pardon; I did all I could. But that wasn't the trouble. Aunt Serena told me to bring her all my nice stockings, and she would get me coarser and commoner ones. Must I do it?" And Rotha's eyes looked up anxiously into the lace of her oracle. "What made her give you such an order?" Rotha hesitated, and said at last she did not know. "Are your stockings too fine for proper protection to your feet in cold weather?" "O, no, ma'am! nothing was said about that at all; only I am a poor girl, and have no business to have fine stockings." "How came you to have them so fine?" "They were given to me. They were got for me; by a friend who was not poor. Are they not mine now?" "And you say your aunt wants them?" "Says I must bring them to her, and she will get me some more fit for me." "What does she want with them?" cried Mrs. Mowbray sharply. "She says she has none so fine, and she will keep them till I want them; but when would that be?" "What did you say?" "I said nothing. I was too terribly angry. I got out of the house without saying anything. It all came from asking her for some darning cotton to mend them; and what she gave me was too coarse." "I have got fine darning cotton," said Mrs. Mowbray. "I will give you some." "Then you do not think I need let her have them? Dear Mrs. Mowbray, has she any right to take my things from me?" "I should say not," Mrs. Mowbray answered. "Then you think I may refuse when she asks me for them?" said Rotha, joyfully. "What is your rule of action, my dear?" "My rule?" said Rotha, growing grave again. "I think, Mrs. Mowbray, I want to do what is right." "There is a further question. Do you want to do what I think right, or what you think right, or—what God thinks right?" "I want to do that," said Rotha, with her heart beating very disagreeably. "I want to do what God thinks right." "Then I advise you, my dear, to ask him." "Ask him what, madame?" "Ask what you ought to do in the circumstances. I confess I am not ready with the answer. My first feeling is with you, that your aunt has no right to take such a step; but, my dear, it is sometimes our duty to suffer wrong. And you are under her care; she is the nearest relative you have; you must consider what is due to her in that connection. She stands to you in the place of your parents—" "O no, ma'am!" Rotha exclaimed. "Never! Not the least bit." "Not as entitled to affection, but as having a right to respect and observance. You cannot change that fact, my dear. Whether you love her or not, you owe her observance; and within certain limits, obedience. She stands in that place with regard to you." "But my own mother gave me to Mr. Southwode." "He could not take care of you properly; as he shewed that he was aware when he placed you under the protection of your aunt." "She will never protect me," said Rotha. "She will do the other thing." "Well, my dear, that does not change the circumstances," said Mrs. Mowbray rising. "Then you think"—said Rotha in great dismay—"you think I ought to pray, to know what I ought to do?" "Yes. I know no better way. If you desire to do the will of the Lord, and not your own." "But how shall I get the answer?" "Look in the Bible for it. You will get it. And now, good night, my dear child! Don't sit up to-night to think about it; it is late. Start fresh to-morrow. You have a good time for that sort of study, now in the holidays." She gave a kind embrace to Rotha; and the girl went to bed soothed and comforted. True, her blood boiled when she thought of her stockings; but she tried not to think of them, and soon was beyond thinking of anything. The next day was filled with a white snow storm; with flurries of wind and thick, driving atoms of frost, that chased everybody out of the streets who was brought thither by anything short of stern business. A lovely day to make the house and one's own room seem cosy and cheery. It was positive delight to hear the sharp crystals beat on the window panes and to see the swirling eddies and gusts of them as the wind carried them by, almost in mass. It made quiet and warmth and comfort feel so much the more delicious. Rotha had retreated to her room after breakfast and betaken herself to her appointed work. Her Bible had a new look to her. It was now not simply a book Mrs. Mowbray had given her; that was half lost in the feeling that it was a book God had given her. As such, something very dear and reverent, precious and wonderful, and most sweet. Not any longer an awesome book of adverse law, with which she was at cross purposes; but a letter of love, containing the mind and will of One whom it was her utter pleasure to obey. The change was so great, Rotha lingered a little, in admiring contemplation of it; and then betook herself to the business in hand. How should she do? She thought the best way would be to ask earnestly for light on her duty; then to open the Bible and see what she could find. She prayed her prayer, honestly and earnestly, but she hoped, quite as earnestly, that it would not be her duty to let her aunt have her fine stockings. And here lies the one great difficulty in the way of finding what the Bible really says on any given subject which concerns our action. Looking through a red veil, you do not get the right colour of blue; and looking through blue, you will easily turn gold into green. Or, to change the figure; if your ears are filled with the din of passion or the clamour of desire, the soft, fine voice of the Spirit in the word or in the heart is easily drowned and lost. So says F?nelon, and right justly—"O how rare a thing is it, to find a soul still enough to hear God speak!" The other supposed difficulty, that the Bible does not speak directly of the subject about which you are inquiring, does not hold good. It may be true; nevertheless, as one or two notes, clearly heard, will give you the whole chord, even so it is with this heavenly music of the Lord's will. Rotha did not in the least know where to look for the decision she wanted; she thought the best thing therefore would be to go on with that same chapter of Matthew from which she had already got so much light. She had done what in her lay to be "reconciled to her brother," alias her aunt; she was all ready to go further. Would the next saying be as hard? She read on, for a number of verses, without coming to anything that touched her present purpose. Then suddenly she started. What was this? "Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: but I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain."— Rotha stared at the words first, as if they had risen out of the ground to confront her; and then put both hands to her face. For there was conflict again; her whole soul in a tumult of resistance and rebellion. Let her aunt do her this wrong! But there it stood written—"That ye resist not evil." "O why, thought Rotha, why may not evil be resisted? And people do resist it, and go to law, and do everything they can, to prevent being trampled upon? Must one let oneself be trampled upon? Why? Justice should be done; and this is not justice. I wish Mrs. Mowbray would come in, that I might ask her! I do not understand it." At the moment, as if summoned by her wish, Mrs. Mowbray tapped at the door; she wanted to get something out of a closet in that room, and apologized for disturbing Rotha. "You are not disturbing—O Mrs. Mowbray, are you very busy?" cried the girl. "Always busy, my dear," said the lady pleasantly. "I am always busy. What is it?" "Nothing—if you are too busy," said Rotha. "I am never too busy when you want my help. Do you want help now?" "O very much! I can_not_ understand things." "Well, wait a moment, and I will come to you." Rotha straightened herself up, taking hope; set a chair for Mrs. Mowbray, and received her with a face already lightened of part of its shadow of care. "It is this, Mrs. Mowbray. I was looking, as you told me, to see what I ought to do; and look here,—I came to this:—'That ye resist not evil.' Why? Is it not right to resist evil?" "Read the passage; read the whole passage, to the end of the chapter." Rotha read it; the verses she had been studying, and then, "Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven:"—Rotha read on to the end of the chapter. "My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray then, "do you think you could love your enemies and pray for them, if you were busy fighting and resisting them?" "I do not know," said Rotha. "Perhaps not. I do not think it would be easy any way." "It is not easy. Do you not see that it would be simply impossible to do the two things at once? You must take the one course or the other; either do your best to repel force with force, resist, struggle, go to law, give people what they deserve; or, you must go with your hands full of forgiveness and your heart full of kindness, passing by offence and even suffering wrong, if perhaps you may conquer evil with good, and win people with love, and so save them from great loss. It is worth bearing a little loss oneself to do that." "But is it right to let people do wrong things and not stop them? Isn't it right to go to law?" "Sometimes, where the interests of others are at stake. But if it is only a little discomfort for you or me at the moment, I think the Bible says, Forgive,—let it pass,—and love and pray the people into better behaviour, if you can." "I never can, aunt Serena," said Rotha low. "My dear, you cannot tell." "Then I ought to let her have my stockings?" Rotha said again after a pause. "That is a question for you to judge of. But can you forgive and love her, and resist her at the same time? You could, if what she asks demanded a wrong action from you; but it is only a disagreeable one." "Is it only because it is so disagreeable, that it seems to me so wrong?" "I think it is wrong in your aunt; but that is not the question we have to deal with." "And if one man strikes another man—do you think he ought to give him a chance to strike him again?" "What do the words say?" Rotha looked at the words, as if they ought to mean something different from what they said. "I will tell you a true story," Mrs. Mowbray went on. "Something that really once happened; and then you can judge. It was in a large manufacturing establishment, somewhere out West. The master of the establishment—I think he was an Englishman?-had occasion to reprove one of his underlings for something; I don't know what; but the man got into a great rage and struck him a blow flat in the face. The master turned red, and turned pale; stood still a moment, and then offered the man the other side of his face for another blow. The man's fist was already clenched to strike,—but at seeing that, he wavered, his arm fell down, and he burst into tears. He was conquered.— "What do you think?" "He was a very extraordinary man!" said Rotha. "Which?" said Mrs. Mowbray smiling. "O I mean the master." "But what do you think of that plan of dealing with an injury?" "But does the Bible really mean that we should do so?" "What does it say, my dear? It is always quite safe to conclude that God means what he says." "People don't act as if they thought so." "What then?" "Mrs. Mowbray, I don't see how a man could." "By the grace of God." "I suppose, by that one could do anything," said Rotha thoughtfully. Silence fell, which Mrs. Mowbray would not break. She watched the girl's face, which shewed thoughts working and some struggle going on. The struggle was so absorbing, that Rotha did not notice the silence, nor know how long it lasted. "Then—you think—" she began,—"according to—that I ought—" The words came slowly and with some inner protest. Mrs. Mowbray rose. "It is no matter what I think. The decision must be made by yourself independently. Study it, and pray over it; and I pray you may decide rightly." "But if you thought, Mrs. Mowbray—" Rotha began. "It is not I whom you have to obey, my child. I think your case is not an easy one; it would not be for me; I believe it would rouse all the wickedness there is in me; but, as you said, by the grace of God one can do anything. I shall pray for you, my dear." She left the room, though Rotha would fain have detained her. It was much easier to talk than to act; and now she was thrown back upon the necessity for action. She sat leaning over the Bible, looking at the words; uncompromising, simple, clear words, but so hard, so hard, to obey! "If he compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain." And then Rotha's will took such a hold of her stockings, that it seemed as if she never could let them go. It was injustice! it was oppression! it was extortion! it was more, something else that Rotha could not define. Yes, true, but—"if he take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also." A long while Rotha worried over those words; and then stole into her mind another thought, coming with the subtlety and the peace of a sunbeam.—It is not for aunt Serena; it is for Christ; you are his servant, and these are his commands.—It is true! thought Rotha, with a sudden casting off of the burden that was upon her; I am his servant; and since this is his pleasure, why, it is mine. Aunt Serena may have the things; what does it signify? but I have a chance to please God in giving them up; and here I have been trying as hard as I could to fight off from doing it. A pretty sort of a Christian I am! But—and O what a joy came with the consciousness—I think the Lord is beginning to take away my stony heart. The feeling of being indeed a servant of the Lord Christ seemed to transform things to Rotha's vision. And among other things, the words of the Bible, which were suddenly become very bright and very sweet to her. The question in hand being settled, and no fear of the words any longer possessing her, it occurred to her to take her "Treasury of Scripture Knowledge" and see what more there might be about this point of not resisting evil. She found first a word back in Leviticus—— "Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself."—Lev. xix. 18. It struck Rotha's conscience. This went even further than turning the cheek and resigning the cloak; (or she thought so) for it forbade her withal to harbour any grudge against the wrong doer. Not have a grudge against her aunt, after giving up the stockings to her? Yet Rotha saw and acknowledged presently that only so could the action be thoroughly sound and true; only so could there be no danger of nullifying it by some sudden subsequent action. But bear no grudge? Well, by the grace of God, perhaps. Yes, that could do everything. She went on, meanwhile, and read some passages of David's life; telling how he refused to take advantage of opportunities to avenge himself upon Saul, who was seeking his life at the time. The sweet, noble, humble temper of the young soldier and captain, appeared very manifest and very beautiful; at the same time, Rotha thought she could easier have forgiven Saul, in David's place, than in her own she could forgive Mrs. Busby. Some other words about not avenging oneself she passed over; that was not the point with her; and then she came to a word in Romans,—— "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." That confirmed her decision, and loudly. If she would live peaceably with Mrs. Busby, no doubt she must do her will in the matter of the stockings. But "with all men," and "as much as lieth in you"; those were weighty words, well to be pondered and laid to heart. Evidently the Lord would have his servants to be quiet people and kindly; not so much bent on having their own rights, as careful to put no hindrance in the way of their good influence and example. And I am one of his people, thought Rotha joyously. I will try all I can. And it is very plain that I must not bear a grudge in my heart; for if it was there, I could never keep it from coming out. Then she read a verse in 1 Corinthians vi. 7. "Now therefore there is utterly a fault among you, because ye go to law one with another. Why do ye not rather take wrong? why do ye not rather suffer yourselves to be defrauded?" It did not stumble her now. Looking upon all these regulations as opportunities to make patent her service of Christ and to please him, they won quite a pleasant aspect. The words of the hymn, so paradoxical till one comes to work them out, were already verified in her experience— "He always wins who sides with God; To him no chance is lost. God's will is sweetest to him when It triumphs at his cost." Ay, for then he tastes the doing of it, pure, and unmixed with the sweetness of doing his own will. And then came,—"Not rendering evil for evil, or railing for railing; but contrariwise blessing; knowing that ye are thereunto called, that ye should inherit a blessing."—1 Peter iii. 9. "Contrariwise, blessing." According to that, she must seek out some way of helping or pleasing her aunt, as a return for her behaviour about the stockings. And strangely enough, there began to come into her heart, for the first time, a feeling of pity for Mrs. Busby. Rotha did not believe she was near as happy, with all her money, as her little penniless self with her Bible. No, nor half as rich. What could she do, to shew good will towards her? There was nobody at the dinner table that evening, who looked happier than Rotha; there was nobody who enjoyed everything so well. For I am the servant of Christ she said to herself. A little while later, in the library, whither they all repaired, she was again lost in the architecture of the 13th and 14th centuries, and in studying Fergusson. She started when Mrs. Mowbray spoke to her. "How did you determine your question, my dear?" Rotha lifted her head, threw back the dark masses of her hair, and cleared the arches of Rivaulx out of her eyes. "O,—I am going to let her have them," she said. "What she demanded?" "Yes, ma'am." "How did you come to that conclusion?" "The words seemed plain, madame, when I came to look at them. That about letting the cloak go, you know; and, 'If it be possible, . . . live peaceably with all men.' If I was going to live peaceably, I knew I must." "And you are inclined now to live peaceably with the person in question?" "O yes, ma'am," said Rotha. She smiled frankly in Mrs. Mowbray's face as she said it; and she was puzzled to know what made that lady's eyes swiftly fill with tears. They filled full. Rotha went back to her stereoscope. "What have you there, my dear?" "O this old abbey, Mrs. Mowbray; it is just a ruin, but it is so beautiful! Will you look?" Mrs. Mowbray put the glass to her eye. "It is a severe style—" she remarked. "Is it?" "And it was built at a severe time of religious strictness in the order to which it belonged. They were a colony from Clairvaux; and the prior of Clairvaux, Bernard, was the most remarkable man of his time; remarkable through his goodness. In all Europe there was not another man, crowned or uncrowned, who had the social and political power of that man. Yet he was a simple monk, and devoted to God's service." "I do not know much about monks," Rotha remarked. "You can know a good deal about them, if you will read that work of Montalembert on the monks of the Middle Ages. Make haste and learn to read French. You must know that first." "Is it in French?" "Yes." Rotha thought as she laid down Rivaulx and took up Tintern abbey, that there was a good deal to learn. Pier next word was an exclamation. "O how beautiful, how beautiful! It is just a door, Mrs. Mowbray, belonging to Tintern abbey, a door and some ivy; but it is so pretty! How came so many of these beautiful abbeys and things to be in ruins?" "Henry the Eighth had the monks driven out and the roofs stripped off. When you take the roof off a building, the weather gets in, and it goes to ruin very fast." Henry the Eighth was little more than a name yet to Rotha. "What did he do that for?" she asked. "I believe he wanted to turn the metal sheathing of the roofs into money. And he wanted to put down the monastic orders." "Mrs. Mowbray, this abbey was pretty old before it was made a ruin." "How do you know?" "Because, I see it. Only half of the door was accustomed to be opened; and the stone before the door on that side is ever so much worn away. So many feet had gone in and out there." Mrs. Mowbray took the glass to look. "I never noticed that before," she said. So went the days of the vacation, pleasantly and sweetly after that. Rotha enjoyed herself hugely. She had free access to the library, which was rich in engravings and illustrations, and in best works of reference upon every subject that she could wish to look into. Sometimes she went driving with Mrs. Mowbray. Morning, evening, and day were all pleasant to her; the leisure was busily filled up, and the time fruitful. With the other young ladies remaining in the house for the holidays, she had little to do; little beyond what courtesy demanded. Their pleasures and pursuits were so diverse from her own that there could be little fellowship. One was much taken up with shopping and visits to her mantua- maker; several were engrossed with fancy work; some went out a great deal; all had an air of dawdling. They fell away from Rotha, quite naturally; all the more that she was getting the name of being a favourite of Mrs. Mowbray's. But Rotha as naturally fell away from them. None of them cared for the stereoscope, or shared in the least her pleasure in the lines and mouldings and proportions of glorious architecture. And Rotha herself could not have talked of lines or mouldings; she only knew that she found delight; she did not know why. <h4 id="id03620" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XXI.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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