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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id03818" style="margin-top: 2em">A CHANGE.</h4> The two years of smooth sailing along the stream of life, were ended. What was coming next? But how should the sailor learn navigation, if he had never anything but calm weather and quiet airs? It was spring, late in May; when one evening Mrs. Mowbray came into Rotha's little room, shut the door, and sat down. Rotha looked up from her book and smiled. Mrs. Mowbray looked down at the book and sighed. A heavy sigh, it seemed to Rotha, and her smile died away. "You want to speak to me, madame?" she said, and laid her book away. "I am going to send you home—" said the lady abruptly. "Home!—" the word was but half uttered. What was this? The term was not near at an end. "You must go, my dear," Mrs. Mowbray went on more softly; for the first word had been spoken with the sternness of pain. "I must send you all away from me." "Whom?" "All of you! It has pleased heaven to visit me with a great calamity. You must all go." "What is it, Mrs. Mowbray?" said Rotha, trembling with a fear to which she could give no form. "I do not know, but I think it too probable, that a contagious disease has broken out in my family. The little Snyders are both ill with scarlet fever." "They are at home." "But Miss Tremont is taken in just the same way, and Miss de Forest is complaining. I have isolated them both; but I have no choice but to send all the rest of you away, till I shall know how the thing will go." Rotha looked terribly blank. "It is hard, isn't it?" said Mrs. Mowbray, noticing this with a faint smile; "but it is not best for us to have things go too smooth. I have had no rubs for two years or more." That this was a hard "rub" was evident. Mrs. Mowbray sat looking before her with a troubled face. "Why is it best for us that things should not go smooth?" Rotha ventured. To her sense the possible good of this disturbance was not apparent, while the positive evil was manifold. "The Lord knows!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "He sees uses, and needs, which we do not suspect. I am sorry for you, my dear child." "And I am sorry you are troubled, dear Mrs. Mowbray!" "I know you are. Your sympathy is very sweet to me.—We have had a pleasant two years together, have we not?" "Oh so pleasant!" echoed Rotha, almost in tears. "But—this sickness will pass over; and then we may come back again, may we not?" "It is too near the end of term, to come back this spring. It cannot be before next September now; and that is a long way off. One never knows what will happen in so many months!" Rotha had never seen Mrs. Mowbray look or speak so despondently. She was too utterly downhearted herself to say another word of hope or confidence. Four months of interval and separation! Four months with her aunt! What would become of her? What might happen in the mean time? "When must I go, Mrs. Mowbray?" she asked sadly. "To-night. Yes, my child, I must send you away from me. You have been a comfort to me ever since you came into my house; and now I must send you away." She folded Rotha in her arms and kissed her almost passionately. Then let her go, and spoke in business tones again. "Put up whatever you wish to take with you. The carriage will be at the door at half past eight. I shall go with you." With which words she departed. The tears came now, which had been carefully kept back until Mrs. Mowbray was gone; and it was under a very shower of heavy drops that Rotha folded and stowed away all her belongings. Stowed them in her trunk, which Mrs. Mowbray had at once sent up to her room. Amidst all her tears, Rotha worked like a sprite; she would leave nothing on her kind friend's hands to do for her, not even anything to think of. She packed all away, wondering the while why this sudden interruption to her prosperous course of study and growth should have been allowed to come; wondering when and how the interrupted course would be allowed to go on again. Happily she did not know what experiences would fill the next few months, in which Mrs. Mowbray's fostering care would not help her nor reach her; nor what a new course of lessons she would be put upon. Not knowing all this, Rotha shed bitter tears, it is true, but not despairing. And when the summons came, she was ready, and joined Mrs. Mowbray in the carriage with calm self-possession restored. The drive was almost silent. Once Mrs. Mowbray asked if there was anything Rotha had left to be done for her in her room or in the house? Rotha said "Nothing; all was done"; and then the carriage rolled on silently as before; the one of its occupants too busy with grave thoughts to leave her tongue free, the other sorrowfully wishing she would talk, yet not daring to ask it. Arrived at the door, however, Mrs. Mowbray folded the girl in her arms, giving her warm kisses and broken words of love, and ending with bidding her write often. "I may be unable to answer you, but do not let that stop you. Write always; I shall want to hear everything about you." And Rotha answered, it would be the greatest joy to her; and they parted. She went in at a somewhat peculiar moment. Half an hour sooner, Antoinette had returned from a friend's house where she had been dining, and burst into the parlour with news. "Mamma!" she exclaimed, before the door was shut behind her,—"Guess what is coming." "What?" said her mother calmly. She was accustomed to Antoinette's superlatives. "Mr. Southwode is coming back.—" Now Mrs. Busby did prick up her ears. "How do you know?" "There was a Mr. Lingard at dinner—a prosy old fellow, as tiresome as ever he could be; but he is English, and knows the Southwodes, and he told lots about them." "What?" "O I don't know!—a lot of stuff. About the business and the property, and how old Mr. Southwode left it all to this son; and he carries it on in some ridiculous way that I didn't understand; and the uncle tried to break the will, and there has been a world of trouble; but now Mr. Digby Southwode is coming back to New York." "When?" "O soon; any day. He may be here any day. And then, mamma—" "And was the will broken?" "No, I believe not. At any rate, Mr. Southwode, our Mr. Southwode, has it all. But he's absurd, mamma; he pays people, workmen, more than they ought to have; and he sells, or makes them sell, for less; less than the market price; and he gives away all his income. So Mr. Lingard says." "He will learn better," said Mrs. Busby. "Well, mamma, he's coming back; and what will you do?" "Welcome him," said her mother. "I always liked Mr. Southwode." "Yes, yes, but I mean, about Rotha. He will look her up, the first thing; and she will fly ecstatically to meet him—I remember their parting salute two years ago, and their meeting. I don't doubt, will be equally tender. Mamma, are you prepared to come down with something handsome in the way of wedding presents?" "Nonsense!" "It's not nonsense!" said Antoinette vehemently. "It will be the absurd truth, before you know where you are; and papa, and you, and I, we shall all have the felicity of offering congratulations and holding receptions. If you don't prevent it, mamma! Can't you prevent it? Won't you prevent it? O mamma! won't you prevent it?" "Get up, Antoinette"—for the young lady had thrown herself down on the floor in her urgency, at her mother's feet. "Get up, and take off your things; you are extremely silly. I have no intention of letting them meet at all." "Mamma, how are you going to help it? He will find out where she is at school—he will go straight there, and then you may depend Rotha will snap her fingers at you. So will he; and to have two people snapping their fingers at us will just drive me wild." Mrs. Busby could not help laughing. At the same time, she as well as Antoinette regarded the matter from a very serious point of view. She knew Rotha had grown up very handsome; and all her mother's partiality did not make her sure that men like Mr. Southwode might not prefer the sense and grace and spirit which breathed from every look and motion of Rotha's, to the doll beauty of her own daughter. Yet it was not insipid beauty either; the face of Antoinette was exceedingly pretty, the smile very captivating, and the white and peach-blossom very lovely in her cheeks. But for sense, or dignity, or sympathy with any thoughts high and noble, if one looked to Antoinette one would look in vain. No matter; hers was just a style which captivates men, Mrs. Busby knew; even sensible men,—the only danger as in possible comparison or contrast. That danger should be avoided. "Nobody will snap fingers at me," she complacently remarked. "But how will you help it?" "I dare say there is no danger. Get up, Antoinette! there is the door bell." And then in walked Rotha. It struck her that her aunt and cousin were a little more than ordinarily stiff towards her; but of course they had no reason to expect her then, and the surprise was not agreeable. So Rotha dismissed the matter with a passing thought and an unbreathed sigh; while she told the cause of her unlooked-for appearance. Mrs. Busby sat and meditated. "It is very unfortunate!" she said at last, with her eyebrows distressingly high. "What?" said Rotha. "My coming? I am sorry, aunt Serena; as sorry as you can be. Is my being here particularly inconvenient just at this time?" "Yes!" said Mrs. Busby, with the same deeply considerative air. "I am thinking what will be the best way to manage. We have a plan of going to Chicago—Mr. Busby's family is mostly there, and he wants us to visit them; we should be gone all June and part of July, for I know Mr. Busby wants to go further, if once he gets so far; and we may not be back till the end of July. I don't know what to do with Rotha." Not a word of this plan had Antoinette ever heard before, but she kept wise silence; only her small blue eyes sparkled knowingly at the fire. Rotha was silent too at first, with vexation. "I am very sorry—" she repeated. "Yes," said Mrs. Busby. "I thought I could leave you in safe quarters with Mrs. Mowbray for a week or two after school broke up; now that possibility is out of the question. Well, we will sleep upon it. Never mind, Rotha; don't trouble yourself. I shall find some way out of the difficulty. I always do." These words were spoken with so much kindness of tone that they quite comforted Rotha as to the immediate annoyance of being in the way. She went up to her little third-story room, threw open the blinds, to let the stars look in, and remembered that neither she nor yet her aunt Busby was the guide of her fortunes. Yet, yet,—what a hard change this was! All the pursuits in which she had taken such delight, suddenly stopped; her peaceful home lost; her best friend separated from her. It was difficult to realize the fact that God knew and had allowed it. Yet no harm, no real harm, comes to his children, unless they bring it upon themselves; so this change could not mean harm. How could it mean good? Sense saw not, reason could not divine; but faith said "yes"; and in the quietness of that confidence Rotha went to sleep. At breakfast the ladies' faces had regained their wonted brightness. "I have settled it all!" Mrs. Busby announced, when her husband had left the breakfast table and the room. Rotha looked up and waited; Antoinette did not look up; therefore it may be presumed she knew what was coming. "I am going to send Rotha to the country while we are gone." "Where in the country?" asked the person most concerned. "To my place in the country—my place at Tanfield. I have a place in the country."—Mrs. Busby spoke with a very alert and pleased air. "Tanfield—" Rotha repeated with slow recollection. "O I believe I know. I think I have heard of Tanfield." "Of course. It is the old place where I lived when I was a girl; and a lovely place it is." "And just think!" put in Antoinette. "Isn't it funny? I have never seen it." "Who is there?" Rotha asked. "O the old house is there, and the garden; and somebody who will make you very comfortable. I will take care that she makes you comfortable. I shall see about that." "Who is that? old Janet?" asked Antoinette. "No. Janet is not there?" "Who then, mamma?" "Persons whom I have put in charge." "Do I know them?" "You know very little about them—not enough to talk." "Mamma! As if one couldn't talk without knowing about things! Who is it, mamma? I want to know who will have the care of Rotha." "It is not necessary you should know at present. Rotha can tell you, when she has tried them." "I suppose I shall have the care of myself," said Rotha; to whom all this dialogue somehow sounded unpromising. To her remark no answer was made. "Mamma, what will Rotha do there, all by herself?" "She will have people all round her." "She don't know them. You mean the Tanfield people?" "Who else should live at Tanfield. I was one of the Tanfield people myself once." "What sort of people are they, mamma?" "Excellent people." "Country people!—" "Country people can be a very good sort. You need not sneer at them." "I remark that you have not been anxious to go back and see them, mamma." Rotha was dumb meanwhile, and during a longer continuance of this sort of talk; with a variety of feelings at work in her, among which crept a certain flavouring of suspicion. Was she to be alone in her mother's old home at Tanfield? Alone, with companions that could not be companions? Was it any use to question her aunt further? She feared not; yet the questions would come. "What sort of persons are those in the house, aunt Serena?" "Quite sufficient to take good care of you. A man and his wife. Honest people, and kind." "Servants!" "In so far as they are serving me." Antoinette again pressed to be told who they were, was again put off. From the little altercation resulting, Mrs. Busby turned to Rotha with a new theme. "You will not want your New York wardrobe there,—what will you do? Leave your trunk here? That will be best, I think, till you come back again." "O no," said Rotha hastily. "I will take it with me." "You will not want it, my dear. Summer is just here; what, you need up there is some nice calico dresses; those will be just the thing. I will get some for you this very day, and have them cut out; and then you can take them and make them up. It will give you something to do. Your winter wardrobe would be of no service to you there, and to carry it back and forward would be merely trouble and risk." "To leave it here would be risk." "Not at all. There will be somebody in charge of the house." "I prefer to have the charge of my own clothes myself." "My dear, I am not going to take it from you; only to guard the things for you while you are away. They would be out of place in the summer and at Tanfield." "Some would; but they are all mixed up," said Rotha, trying to keep her patience, though the blood mounted into her cheeks dangerously. "They can be separated," said Mrs. Busby coolly. "When your trunks come, I will do that for you." Not if I am alive! thought Rotha; but she remembered the old word—"If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably—" and she held her tongue. However, later in the day when Mrs. Busby came in after buying the calicos, the proposition was renewed. She came to Rotha and demanded the keys of the boxes. "Thank you, aunt Serena—I would rather do what I want done, myself." "Very well," said Mrs. Busby pleasantly; "but if you will give me the keys, I will see what I think ought to be done. I can judge better than you can." "I would rather not," said Rotha. "If you please, and if you do not mind, ma'am, I would rather nobody went into my trunk but myself." "Don't be a child, Rotha!" "No, aunt Serena. I remember that I am one no longer." "But I wish to have your keys—do you understand?" "Perfectly; and I do not wish to give them. You understand that." "Your wish ought to give way to mine," said Mrs. Busby severely. "Why?" said Rotha, looking at her with a frank face. "Because you are under my care, and I stand in the place of a mother to you." Hot words sprang to Rotha's lips, hot and passionate words of denial; but she did not speak them; her lips opened and closed again. "Do you refuse me?" Mrs. Busby asked, after waiting a moment. "Entirely!" said Rotha looking up again. "Then you defy me!" "No, I mean nothing of the kind. You are asking a thing which no one has a right to ask. I am simply holding my rights; which I will do." "So shall I hold mine," said Mrs. Busby shortly; "and you do not seem to know what they are. Your trunk will not leave this house; you may make such arrangements as it pleases you. And I shall give myself no further trouble about one who is careless what annoyance she makes me. I had intended to accompany you myself and see you comfortably settled; but it appears that nothing I could do would be of any pleasure to you. I shall let you go without me and make your own arrangements." With which speech Mrs. Busby ended the interview; and Rotha was left to think what she would do next. Her trunk must be left behind. It was too plain that here power was on the side of her aunt. Without coming to downright fighting, this point could not be carried against her. Rotha longed to go and talk to Mrs. Mowbray; alas, that was not to be thought of. Mrs. Mowbray's hands and head were full, and her house was a forbidden place. How swiftly circumstances can whirl about in this world! Yesterday a refuge, to-day a danger. Rotha must leave her trunk. But many things in it she must not leave. What to do? I will not deny that her thoughts were bitter for a while. A little matter! Yes, a little matter, compared with Waterloo or Gravelotte; but not a little matter to a girl in every day life and having a girl's every day liking for being neat and feeling comfortable. And right is right; and the infringing of right is hard to bear, perhaps equally hard, whether it concerns a nation's boundaries or a woman's wardrobe. If Rotha had been more experienced, perhaps the wisdom of doing nothing would have suggested itself; but she was young and did not know what to do. So she laid out of her trunk certain things; her Bible and Scripture Treasury; her writing materials; her underclothes; and her gloves. If Rotha had a weakness, it was for neat and suitable gloves. The rest of her belongings she locked up carefully, and sat down to await the course of events. It was swift, as some intuition told her it would be. There was no more disputing. Mrs. Busby let the subject of the trunk drop, and was as benign as usual; which was never benign except exteriorly. She was as good as her word in purchasing calicos; brought home what seemed to Rotha an unnecessary stock of them; and that afternoon and the next day kept a dress-maker cutting and basting, and Rotha at work to help. These cut and basted dresses, as they were finished, Mrs. Busby stowed with her own hands in a little old leather trunk. Then, when the last one went in, she told Rotha to bring whatever she wished to have go with her. "To put in that?" Rotha asked. "Certainly. It will hold all you want." Rotha struggled with herself with the feeling of desperate indignation which came over her; struggled, grew red and grew pale, but finally did go without another word; and brought down, pile by pile, her neat under wardrobe. Mrs. Busby packed and packed. Her trunk was leather, and strong, but its capacities were bounded by that very strength. "All these!" she exclaimed in a sort of despair. "There is no use whatever in having so much linen under wear." Rotha was silent. "It is much better to have fewer things, and let them be washed as often as necessary. A family would want a caravan at this rate." "This is Mrs. Mowbray's way," said Rotha. "Mrs. Mowbray's way is not a way to be copied, unless you are a millionaire. She is the most extravagant woman I ever met, without exception." "But aunt Serena, it costs no more in the end, whether you have a dozen things for two years, and comfort, or half a dozen a year, and discomfort." "You don't know that you will live two years to want them." "You don't know that you will live one, for that matter," said Antoinette, who always spoke her mind, careless whom the words touched. "At that rate, mamma, we ought to do like savages,—have one dress and wear it out before getting another; but it strikes me that would be rather disagreeable." "You will not find anybody at Tanfield to do all this washing for you," Mrs. Busby went on. "I shall have no more washing done than if I had fewer things," Rotha said. "Then there is no sort of use in lugging all these loads of linen up there just to bring them back again. The trunk will not hold them. Here, Rotha—take back these,—and these, and these—" Rotha received them silently; silently carried them up stairs and came down for more. She was in a kind of despair. Her Bible and most precious belongings she had put carefully in her travelling bag, rejoicing in its beauty and security. "Mamma," said Antoinette now, "does Rotha know when she is going?" "I do not know." "Well, that's funny. I should think you would tell her. Why it's almost time for her to put on her bonnet." Rotha's eyes went from one to the other. She was startled. "I am going to send you off by the night train to Tanfield,"—Mrs. Busby said without looking up from the trunk. "The night train!" exclaimed Rotha. "It is the best you can do. It brings you there by daylight. The night train is as pleasant as any." "If you have company"—said Rotha. "And if the cars don't run off nor anything," added Antoinette. "All the awful accidents happen in the night." "I would not have Rotha go alone," said Mrs. Busby grimly; "but she don't want my companionship." Rotha would have been glad of it; however, she did not say so. She stood confounded. What possible need of this haste? "Put your things away, Rotha," said Mrs. Busby glancing up,—"and come down to dinner. You must leave at seven o'clock, and I have had dinner early for you." The dinner being early, Mr. Busby was not there; which Rotha regretted. From him she hoped for at least one of his dry, sensible remarks, and possibly a hint of sympathy. She must go without it. Dinner had no taste, and the talk that went on no meaning. Very poor as this home was, it was better than an unknown country, and uncongenial as were her companions, she preferred them to nobody. Gradually there grew a lump in her throat which almost choked her. Meantime she was silent, seemed to eat, and did quietly whatever she was told She put up sandwiches in a paper; accepted an apple and some figs; looked curiously at the old basement dining room, which she had never liked, but which had never seemed to her so comfortable as now; and at last left it to get herself ready. Taking her Russia bag in her hand, she seemed to grasp Mrs. Mowbray's love; and it comforted her. Her aunt and she had a silent drive through the streets, already dark and lamp-lit. All necessary directions were given her by the way, and a little money to pay for her drive out from Tanfield. Then came the confusion of the Station—not the Grand Central by any means; the bustle of getting her seat in the cars; her aunt's cold kiss. And then she was alone, and the engine sounded its whistle, and the train slowly moved away into the darkness. For a while Rotha's mind was in a tumult of confusion. If Mrs. Mowbray knew where she was at that minute! She had had no chance to write to her. If she only knew! What then? she could not help matters. O but she could! Mrs. Mowbray could always find help. Love that would not rest, energy that would not tire, a power of will that would not be denied, and a knowledge and command of men and things which enabled her always to lay her hand on the right means and apply them; all this belonged to Mrs. Mowbray, and made her the most efficient of helpers. But just now, doubtless, the affairs of her own house laid full claim to all her energies; and then, she did not know about Rotha's circumstances. How strange, thought Rotha, that she does not—that things should have come together so that she cannot! I seem to be cut off designedly from her, and from everybody. There crept slowly into her heart the recollection that there was One who did know the whole; and if there were design in the peculiar collocation of events, as who could doubt, it was His design. This gave a new view of things. Rotha looked round on the dingy car, dingy because so dimly lighted; filled, partly filled, with dusky figures; and wondered if one there were so utterly alone as she, and marvelled greatly why she had been brought into such a strange position. Separated from everything! Then her Russia bag rebuked her, for her Bible was in it. Not separated from God, whose message was there; perhaps, who knows? she was to come closer to him, in the default of all other friends. She remembered the words of a particular psalm which not long ago had been read at morning prayers and commented on by Mrs. Mowbray; it came home to her now. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth." If he made heaven and earth, he surely can manage them. And Mrs. Mowbray had said, that whoever could honestly adopt and say those first words of the psalm, might take to himself also all the following. Then how it 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." The tears rushed into Rotha's eyes. So he would watch the night train in which she journeyed, and let no harm come to it without his pleasure. The words followed,— "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." It was to Rotha as if she had suddenly seen a guard of angels about her. Nay, better than that. She was a young disciple yet, she had not learned all the ins and outs of faith; but this night her journey was sweet to her. The train rumbled along through the darkness; but "darkness and the light are alike to him," she remembered. Now and then the cars stopped at a village or wayside station; and a few lights shone upon boards and platforms and bits of wall; sometimes shone from within a saloon where refreshments were set out; there were switches to be turned on or off; there was a turn-out place where the train waited three quarters of an hour for the down train. All the same! Rotha remembered that switches and turnouts made no manner of difference, no more than the darkness, if the Lord was keeping her. It was somehow a sweet kind of a night that she had; not alone nor unhappy; faith, for the moment at least, laying its grasp on the whole wide realm of promise and resting satisfied and quiet in its possessions. After a while she slept and dozed, waking up occasionally to feel the rush and hear the rumble of the cars, to remember in whose hand she was, and then quietly to doze off again. <h4 id="id03984" style="margin-top: 2em">CHAPTER XXIII.</h4> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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