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Letter Of Credit

<h4 id="id05500" style="margin-top: 2em">END OF SCHOOL TERM.</h4> That same evening, just when Mrs. Mowbray was set free from a lesson hour, and the library was left to her sole occupation, a gentleman and lady were announced. The next minute Rotha was in her arms. Whatever she felt, the girl's demeanour was very quiet; her reception, on the other hand, was little short of ecstatic. Then Mrs. Mowbray gave a gracious, if somewhat distant, greeting to Rotha's companion; and then looked, with an air of mystified expectancy, to see what was coming next. "I have brought Miss Carpenter back to you, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode began. "Where did you find her?" "I found her at Tanfield." "Tanfield!"—Mrs. Mowbray looked more and more puzzled. "And now, I am going to ask you to take care of her, till next June." "Till next June—" Mrs. Mowbray repeated. "The school year ends then, does it not?" "May I ask, what is to be done with her after next June?" "I will take her into my own care." "What does Mrs. Busby say to that?" Mrs. Mowbray inquired, still doubtful and mystified. "She says nothing," said Rotha. "She has nothing to say. She never had any right to say what I should do, except the right Mr. Southwode gave her." She felt a secret triumph in the knowledge that now at least Mrs. Mowbray would have to accept Mr. Southwode and make the best she could of him. "Have you come from Mrs. Busby now?" "No, madame; Mr. Southwode brought me straight here." And then followed of course the story of the past five months. Rotha gave it as briefly as she could, slurring over as much as possible her aunt's action and motives, and giving a bare skeleton of the facts. Mrs. Mowbray's mystified expression did not clear away. "Chicago?" she said. "I do not think Mrs. Busby has been to Chicago. My impression is strong, that she has been in or near New York, all summer." "So she was, madame." Mrs. Mowbray considered things with a grave face. "I have a request to make," Mr. Southwode began then; "a request which I hope Mrs. Mowbray will receive as of purely business character, and in no wise occasioned by curiosity. May I be informed, at a convenient time, what has been paid by Mrs. Busby to this house, on Miss Carpenter's account?" "Nothing," said Mrs. Mowbray. "No bills for schooling? or board?" "Nothing at all. Antoinette's bills I have rendered, and they have been paid. I have never presented any bill for Miss Carpenter, and none has ever been asked for." Rotha exclaimed, but Mr. Southwode went on—— "You will allow me to ask for it now." Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtfully at the speaker. "By what right could I put Mrs. Busby's obligations upon you? How could I account to her?" "Count them my obligations," he said pleasantly. "I do not wish Miss Carpenter to leave any debts behind her, when she goes from her own country to mine. I will be much obliged, if you will have the account made out in my name and sent to me." Mrs. Mowbray bowed a grave acknowledgment. "I had better speak to Mrs. Busby first," she said. "As you please about that," said Mr. Southwode rising. "But next June!" cried Mrs. Mowbray. "You are not going to take her away next June? I want her for a year longer at least. I want her for two years. That is one of the difficulties I have to contend with; people will not leave their children with me long enough to let me finish what I have begun. It would be much better for Rotha to stay with me another year. Don't you think so?" "I am afraid a discussion on that point would not turn out in your favour, madame," he said. "Miss Carpenter is able to represent my part in it; I will leave it to her." And he took leave. But when it came to Rotha's turn, he sealed all his pretensions by quietly kissing her; it was done deliberately, not in a hurry; and Rotha knew it was on purpose and done rather for her sake than his own. And when he was gone, she stood still by the table, flushed and proud, feeling that she was claimed and owned now before all the world. There ensued a little silence, during which Mrs. Mowbray was somewhat uneasily arranging some disarranged books and trifles on the great library table; and Rotha stood still. "My dear," said the former at last, "am I to congratulate you?" "There is no occasion, madame," said Rotha. "What then did Mr. Southwode mean?" said Mrs. Mowbray, stopping her work and looking up much displeased. "O yes,—I beg your pardon,—if you mean that," said Rotha, while the blood mounted into her cheeks again. "Are you going to marry Mr. Southwode?" "He says so, madame." "But what do you say?" "I always say the same that Mr. Southwode says," Rotha replied demurely, while at the same time she was conscious of having to bite in an inclination to laugh. "My dear, let us understand one another. When I saw him two or three days ago, he did not even know where you were." "No, ma'am. He found me." "Have you had any communication with him during these years of his absence?" "No, madame." "Did you know, when Mr. Southwode went away, three years ago, that he had any such purpose, or wish?" "He had no such purpose, or wish, I am sure." "Then, my dear, how has this come about?" "I do not know, madame." Rotha felt the movings within her of a little rebellion, a little irritation, and a great nervous inclination to laugh; nevertheless her manner was sobriety itself. "My dear, I seem to be the only one in the world to take care of you; and that is my excuse for being so impertinent as to ask these questions. You will bear with me? I must take care of you, Rotha!" "Thank you, dear Mrs. Mowbray! There can be no questions you might not ask me." "I am a little troubled about you, my dear child. This is very sudden." "Yes, ma'am," said Rotha slowly,—"I suppose it is." "And I do not like such things to be done hurriedly." "No." "People ought to have time to know their own minds." "Yes." "My dear, is it certain that Mr. Southwode knows his?" "I should not like to ask him, madame," said Rotha, while the corners of her mouth twitched. "He is not that kind of man. And there is nobody else to ask him. I am afraid we shall have to let it stand." Mrs. Mowbray looked doubtful and ill at ease. "Mr. Southwode is a very rich man,—" she remarked after a minute or two. "What then, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha asked quickly. "And, my dear, you have only known him as a little girl," the lady went on, waiving the question. "What of that, madame?" "You can hardly be said to know him at all." "It is too late to speak of that now," said Rotha, laying her gloves together and taking off her scarf. "But I saw more as a child, than most people have a chance to see as grown-up people." "My dear, I am concerned about your welfare, in this most important step of your life. Have you accepted this gentleman out of gratitude?" "I do not think he would want me, madame, on those terms, if he thought so." "Yes, he would, perhaps," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Men make that mistake sometimes. But you—you must not make a mistake now, my dear!" As Rotha was silent, Mrs. Mowbray rose and came to her where she was standing by the table, and put her arms fondly round the girl. "You know," she said, kissing her repeatedly, "I love you, Rotha. I cannot let you run into danger, if I can help it; and so I put my hand in, perhaps unwarrantedly." "Never, dear Mrs. Mowbray!" said Rotha gratefully. "You cannot. You may say anything." "You are one of those people with whom impulse is strong; and such people often do in a minute what they are sorry for all their lives." "I hope that tendency has been a little sobered in me," said Rotha. "Perhaps not much." "Well, won't you give me a little comfort about this matter?" said Mrs. Mowbray, still holding her close and looking at her. "What are you going to marry this man—this gentleman—for?" But to answer this question, to any but one person, was foreign to all Rotha's nature. She could not do it. The blood flashed to cheek and brow, making its own report; all that Rotha said, was, "He wishes it, madame." "And are you to do everything that Mr. Southwode wishes?" Rotha said nothing, yet this time Mrs. Mowbray got an answer. There was a little unconscious flash of the girl's eye, as for half a second it looked up, which swift as it was, told the whole story. Mrs. Mowbray knew enough of human nature and of the human countenance, to read all she wanted to know in that look. All as far as Rotha was concerned, that is. And that was the principal thing; Mr. Southwode ought to know his own mind, and was at any rate at his own risk; and furthermore it was not Mrs. Mowbray's business to take care of him. And as regarded Rotha, she now saw, there was nothing to be done. "Then I must lose you!" she said with a sigh and kissing Rotha again. "My dear, I want nothing but your happiness; but I believe I am a little jealous of Mr. Southwode, that he has got you so easily." Easily! Well, Rotha could not explain that, nor discuss the whole matter at all with Mrs. Mowbray. She went up to her room, feeling glad this talk was over. And then things fell immediately into school train. And of all in the house, there was no such diligent worker as Rotha during the months of that school term. She was not only diligent. Mrs. Mowbray greatly admired the quiet dignity and the delicate gravity of her manner. She was grave with a wonderful sweet gravity, compounded of a happy consciousness of what had been given her, and a very deep sense of what was demanded of her. Her happiness, or rather the cause of it, for those months remained secret. Nobody in the house, excepting Mrs. Mowbray, knew anything about it; and if anybody surmised, there was nothing in Rotha's quiet, reserved demeanour to embolden any one to put questions. All that Antoinette and Mrs. Busby knew was, that Mr. Southwode had found Rotha and brought her back. "Like his impudence!" Antoinette had said; but Mrs. Busby compressed her lips and said nothing. Both of them kept aloof. Mr. Southwode himself was little seen by Rotha during those months. He came sometimes, as a guardian might; and there did arise in the house a subdued murmur of comment upon Rotha's very distinguished-looking visiter. Once or twice he took her out for a drive; however, he during that winter played the part of guardian, not of lover, before the eyes of the world; as he had said he would. When spring came, Mr. Digby went home, and was gone three months; not returning till just before the school term closed. The story is really done; but just because one gets fond of people one has been living with so long, we may take another look or two at them. School was over, and the girls were gone, and the teachers were scattered; the house seemed empty. Mrs. Mowbray found Rotha one day gathering her books together and trifles out of her desk. She stood and looked at her, lovingly and longingly. "And now your school days are ended!" she said, with a mixed expression which spoke not only of regret but had a slight touch of reproach in it. "O no indeed!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode used always to be teaching me something, and I suppose he always will." "I wish I could have you two years more! I grudge you to anybody else for those two years. But I suppose it is of no use for me to talk." Rotha went off smiling. It was no use indeed! And Mrs. Mowbray turned away with a sigh. Down stairs, a few hours later, Mr. Southwode was sitting in the little end room back of the library—Mrs. Mowbray's special sanctuary. He was trying to see what was the matter with a cuckoo clock which would not strike. The rooms were all in summer order; sweet with the fragrance of India matting, which covered the floors; cool and quiet in the strange stillness of the vacation time. Mrs. Mowbray was a wonderful housekeeper; everything in her house was kept in blameless condition of purity; the place was as fresh and sweet as any place in a large city in the month of July could be. It was July, and warm weather, and the summer breeze blew in at the windows near which Mr. Southwode was sitting, with a fitful, faint freshness, pushing in the muslin curtains which were half open. There was the cool light which came through green India jalousies, but there was light enough; and everywhere the eye could look there was incentive to thought or suggestion for conversation, in works of arts, bits of travel, reminiscences of distant friends, and tributes from foreign realms of the earth. Books behind him, books before him, books on the table, books on the floor, books in the corners, and books in a great revolving bookstand. There was a dainty rug before the fireplace; there were dainty easy chairs large and small; there was a lovely India screen before the grate; and there was not much room left for anything else when all these things were accommodated. Mr. Southwode however was in one of the chairs, and a cuckoo clock, as I said, on his knees, with which he was busy. Then came a light step over the matting of the library, and Rotha entered the sanctuary. She came up behind his chair and laid her two hands on his shoulder, bending down so as to speak to him more confidentially. There came to Mr. Southwode a quick recollection of the first time Rotha had ever laid her hand on his shoulder, when her mother was just dead; and how in her forlorn distress the girl had laid her head down too. He remembered the feeling of her thick locks of wavy hair brushing his cheek. Now the full locks of dark hair were bound up, yet not tightly; it was a soft, natural, graceful style, which indeed was the character of all Rotha's dressing; she had independence enough not to be unbecomingly bound by fashion. Mr. Southwode knew exactly what was hanging over his shoulder, though he did not look up. I may say, he saw it as well as if he had. "I do not know how to speak to you," Rotha began abruptly. "You do not like me to call you 'Mr. Southwode.'" "No." "But I do not think I know your Christian name." "My name is Digby." "That is your surname—your half surname, I thought." "Yes, but I was christened Digby. That is my name. I took the surname Digby afterwards in compliance with the terms of a will, and legally my name is Digby Digby; but I am of course by birth Southwode." "Then if I called you 'Digby,' it would sound as if I were simply dropping the 'Mr.' and calling you by your surname; and that is very ugly. It does not sound respectful." "Drop the respect." "But I cannot!" cried Rotha, laughing a little. "I have heard women speak so, and it always seemed to me very ungraceful. Fancy aunt Serena saying 'Busby' to her husband! She always says so carefully 'Mr. Busby'—" "She is a woman of too much good taste to do otherwise." "She has a good deal," said Rotha, "in many ways. Then what will you think of me, if I do 'otherwise'?" "You are not logical this afternoon," said Mr. Southwode laughing. "Am I an equivalent for Mr. Busby, in your imagination?" "Will you make that clock go?" "I think so." There was a little pause. Rotha did not change her position, and Mr. Southwode went on with his clock work. "What shall I do about aunt Serena?" Rotha then began again, in a low voice. "In what respect?" "Must I ask her to come here?—Monday, I mean?" "Do you wish to have her come?" "Oh no, indeed!" "Then I do not see the 'must.'" "But they are dying to come." "Have they asked? If so, there is no more to be said." "O they have not asked in so many words. But they have done everything but ask. Aunt Serena even proposed that I should come there—just fancy it!" "And be married from her house?" "Yes." "I am glad it did not occur to you to agree to the proposal." "Agree!—But what ought I to do?" "State the arguments, for and against." "Well!—I cannot help feeling that it would not be pleasant to have them." "That is my feeling." "But then, one ought to forgive people?" "Forgiveness is one thing, and reinstating in forfeited privileges is another. I have forgiven Mrs. Busby, I hope; but only her repentance could restore her to my respect. I have seen no sign of repentance." "That involves, and means, punishment." "Involuntary—and unavoidable." "I am sorry for aunt Serena!" "So am I," said Mr. Southwode laughing; "but I do not see why, to save her from being punished, I should punish myself." Through the rooms behind them now came another step, and Mrs. Mowbray presently entered the little room, which was full when the three were in it. She was in a white summer robe, her hair in its simple coil at the back of her head shewing the small head and its fine setting to great advantage. Nothing more elegant, more sweet, more gracious can be imagined, than her whole presence. It was not school time; duty was not laying a heavy hand of pressure upon her heart and brain; there was the loveliest expression of rest, and good will, and sparkling sympathy, and ready service, in her whole face and manner. She sat down, and for a while the talk flowed on in general channels, full of interest and vitality however; Mrs. Mowbray had learned to know Mr. Southwode by this time, and had thoroughly accepted him; in fact I think she liked him almost as well as she liked Rotha. The talk went on mainly between those two. Rotha herself was silent when she could be so. She was grave and soft, full of a very fair dignity; evidently her approaching marriage was a somewhat awful thing to her; and though her manner was simple and frank as a child in her intercourse with Mr. Southwode, yet after the fashion of her excitable nature the sensitive blood in her cheeks answered every allusion to Monday, or even the mention of her bridegroom's name when he was not by, or the sound of his step when he came. Mrs. Mowbray was delighted with her; nothing could be more sweet than this delicate consciousness which was grave and thoughtful without ever descending to shyness or hardening to reserve. As for Mr. Southwode, he saw little of it, Rotha was so exactly herself when she was with him; yet now as the talk went on between him and Mrs. Mowbray his eye wandered continually to the eyes which were so downcast, and the quiet withdrawn figure which held itself a little more back than usual. "And what are your movements?" inquired Mrs. Mowbray at length. "Do you go straight home?" "I think we shall take a roundabout way through Switzerland and Germany, and stay there awhile first." "You are carrying away from me my dearest pupil," said Mrs. Mowbray. "She has never been anything but a blessing in my house, ever since she came into it. If she is as good to you as she has been to me, you will have nothing left to ask for. But I grudge her to you!" "I find that very pardonable," said Mr. Southwode with a smile. "I was dreadfully set against you at first," Mrs. Mowbray went on, with a manner between seriousness and archness. "I tried hard to make out to my satisfaction that Rotha had accepted you only out of gratitude—in which case I should have made fight; but I found I had no ground to stand on." Here Rotha made a diversion. She came, as Mrs. Mowbray finished her speech, and kneeled down on a cushion at her feet, laying one hand in her friend's hand. "Mrs. Mowbray—this vacation we shall not be there but next summer, if all's well, you will come and spend the whole time at Southwode?" "Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "I never know a year beforehand what will become of me!" "But I said, if all's well?" "What Rotha petitions for, I petition for also, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode added; "and this time with double urgency, for I ask on her account and on mine too." "You will come," said Rotha. "And," she went on, laying her other hand on Mrs. Mowbray's shoulder,—"And some day, you know, you will give up schooling; and then—then—Mr. Southwode says, you must come and live the rest of your days with us. He says the house is big enough, and you shall have a separate establishment to yourself, if you like." Mrs. Mowbray looked silently at the eager face so near her, and her eyes gathered a little moisture, a tendency which probably she repelled. "I expect to die in harness,"—she said, while the two pair of eyes looked steadily into one another. "In one way—but not in school harness! Don't say anything about it; but when you stop work—this work—your home is there." The beautiful lips trembled a little, but Mrs. Mowbray would not give way. "That would be a delightful dream!" she said. "Thank you, my dear. When I am tired out with people and things, I will think of this and be refreshed. Now will you bring Mr. Southwode in to tea?" She rose and swept on before them, leading the way. Her self-command had been successful. Rotha was less in training, and several tears dropped from her eyes as she followed through the library. She was a little disappointed, and the girl's heart was full. Her eager affection had not got the answer it wanted. Rotha did not mistake her friend's manner; she did not think Mrs. Mowbray was without feeling because she would not shew feeling; nor that her appeal had not met a response due and full, because the response was not given in words. She knew that probably Mrs. Mowbray could not trust herself to put it in words. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrown back and disappointed, and "Monday" was near; and I suppose she felt what any girl feels at such a time, the want of a mother. Rotha had nobody but Mrs. Mowbray, and she was parting from her. Two or three tears fell before she could prevent it. And then Mr. Southwode, who had been watching her, and could read her feelings pretty well, stretched out his hand, took one of hers and drew it through his arm. It was a little thing, but done, as some people can do things, in a way that quite took it out of the category. There was in it, somehow, an assurance of mutual confidence, of understanding, and sympathy, and great tenderness. He had not looked at her, nor spoken, but Rotha's step grew lighter immediately; and in quiet content she followed Mrs. Mowbray up stairs and down and along passages and through one room after another. The tea table was not set in the great dining rooms; they too were sweet with fresh matting, and lay in summer coolness and emptiness, giving a long dusky vista towards the front windows, where the blinds shaded the light and muslin curtains shielded from the dust of the streets. But in the smaller end room at the back the great windows were open, and the sea breeze came in fitfully, and the colours of the evening sky were discernible, and there the table was prepared. What a table! Mrs. Mowbray had gathered all sorts of delicacies together; cold birds, and fruit, and dainty India sweetmeats, and rich cheese of best English make, and a cold ham; together with some very delicate warm tea cakes, which I am afraid Mr. Southwode, being an Englishman, did not appreciate properly. "Do not think this is our usual and ordinary tea!" Rotha said laughing. "All this extreme luxury is on your account." "Rotha and I dine early, these summer days," said Mrs. Mowbray; "and I did not wish to starve you when I asked you to stay to tea. This is not dinner, nor any meal that deserves a name—but perhaps you will kindly put up with it, in place of dinner." "Dinner!" said Mr. Southwode. "This looks festive!" "O we are always festive in vacation time," said Rotha joyously. "In other houses people call in numbers to help them make merry; here we are merry when the people go!" They were softly merry round that board. Rotha had got back her gayety, and Mrs. Mowbray was the most charming of hostesses. No one could take such care of her guests; no one could make the time pass so pleasantly; no one had such store of things to tell or to talk of, that were worth the while, and that at the same time were not within the reach of most people; no one had a more beautiful skill to give the conversation a turn that might do somebody good, without in the least allowing it to droop in interest. To-day there was no occasion for this particular blessed faculty to be called into exercise; she could let the talk run as it would; and it ran delightfully. In general society Mr. Southwode was very apt to play a rather quiet part; keeping the ball going indeed, but doing it rather by apt suggestion and incentive applied to other people; this evening he came out and talked, as Rotha was accustomed to hear him; seconding Mrs. Mowbray fully, and making, which I suppose was partly his purpose, an engrossing entertainment for Rotha. Following a little pause which occurred in the conversation, Mrs. Mowbray broke out,— "What are you going to do about Mrs. Busby?" The question was really addressed to Rotha; but as Rotha did not immediately answer, Mr. Southwode took it up, and asked "in what respect?" "Is she to be invited?" "I was just talking to Mr. Southwode about it," said Rotha. "Why should she be invited? It would be no pleasure to any one." "It would be a pleasure to her." "I do not think it, Mrs. Mowbray! O yes, she would like to come; but pleasure—it would be pleasure to nobody. I know she wants to come." "Well, my dear, and she is your mother's sister. Always keep well with your relations. Blood is thicker than water." "I do not think so!" cried Rotha. "I do not feel it so. If she were not my mother's sister, I would not care; she would be nothing to me, one way or another; it is because she is my mother's sister that she is so exceedingly disagreeable. If people who are your relations are disagreeable, it is infinitely worse than if they were not relations. It is the relationship that puts them at such an unapproachable distance. You are near to me, Mrs. Mowbray, and my aunt Serena is a thousand miles away." "It is best the world should not know that, my dear. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Southwode?" "Better still, that there should be nothing to know," he answered somewhat evasively. "Yes!" said Rotha; "and if I could have been good and gentle and sweet when I first went to her, things might have been different; but I was not. I suppose I was provoking." "Cannot you make up the breach now?" "I have not the wish, Mrs. Mowbray. I see no change in aunt Serena; and unless she could change, I can only wish she were not my mother's sister. I have forgiven her; O I have forgiven her!—but love and kinship are another thing." "My dear, it would not hurt you, much, to let her come. I know she would feel it a gratification." "I know that well enough." "Always gratify people when you can innocently." "How far?" said Rotha, laughing now in the midst of a little vexation. "I know they are just aching for an invitation to Southwode. There has been enough said to let me see that." "That must be as your husband pleases." "That must be as my wife pleases," said Mr. Southwode with a smile. Poor Rotha passed both hands hastily over her face, as if she would wipe away the heat and the colour; then letting them fall, turned her face full to the last speaker. "Mr. Southwode, you do not want to see them there!" "Miss Rotha, I do not. But—if you do, I do." "That throws all the responsibility upon me." "My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that is what men always like to do—get rid of responsibility—if they can find somebody else to put it on." "Ever since Adam's day—" Mr. Southwode added. "Is there any possible reason why aunt Serena, and Mr. Busby and Antoinette, should be asked to come to Southwode? If there is any reason for it, I have no more to say; but I do not see the reason." "She is your mother's sister—" Mrs. Mowbray repeated. "And that fact it is, which puts her so far from me. Just that fact." "Maybe it will do her good," suggested Mrs. Mowbray. Rotha laughed a short, impatient laugh. "How should it?" she asked. "You never can tell how. My dear, it is not good to have breaches in families. Always heal them up, if you can." Rotha turned in despair to Mr. Southwode. "Mrs. Mowbray is right, in principle," he said. "I entirely agree with her. The only question is, whether a breach which remains a breach by the will of the offending party alone, ought to be covered over and condoned by the action of the injured party." "You must forgive,—" said Mrs. Mowbray. "Yes; and forgiveness implies a readiness to have the breach bridged over and forgotten. I think it does not command or advise that the offender be treated as if he had repented, so long as he does not repent." "I have no doubt Mrs. Busby repents," said Mrs. Mowbray. "I have no doubt she is sorry." "I know she is," said Rotha; "but she would do it again to-morrow." "What has she done, after all? My dear, human nature is weak." "I know it is," said Rotha eagerly; "and if I thought it would do her the least bit of good, as far as I am concerned, I would be quite willing to ask her to Southwode. I do not at all wish to give her what I think she deserves." "I am afraid I do," said Mr. Southwode; "and that is a disposition not to be indulged. Let us give her the chance of possible good, and ask her, Rotha." "Then I must ask her here Monday." "I suppose I can stand that." There was a little pause. "Well," said Rotha, "if you think it is better, I do not care. It will be a punishment to her,—but perhaps it would be a worse punishment to stay away." "Now," said Mrs. Mowbray, "there is another thing. Don't you think Rotha ought to wear a veil?" Mrs. Mowbray was getting mischievous. Her sweet blue eyes looked up at Mr. Southwode with a sparkle in them. "Why should I wear a veil?" said Rotha. "It is the custom." "But I do not care in the least for custom. It's a nonsensical custom, too." "Brides are supposed to want a shield between them and the world," Mrs. Mowbray went on. She loved to tease, yet she never teased Rotha; one reason for which, no doubt, was that Rotha never could be teased. She could laugh at the fun of a suggestion, without at all making it a personal matter. But now her cheeks shewed her not quite unconcerned. "The world will not be here," she replied. "I understand, in a great crowd it might be pleasant, and as part of a pageant it is pretty; but here there will be no crowd and no pageant; and I do not see why there should be a veil." "It is becoming—" suggested Mrs. Mowbray. "But one cannot continue to wear a veil; and why should one try to look preternaturally well just for five minutes?" "They are five minutes to be remembered," said Mrs. Mowbray, while both Rotha's hearers were amused. "I would rather they should be remembered to my advantage than to my disadvantage," the latter persisted. "It would be pitiful, to set up a standard which in all my life after I never could reach again." "It is a very old institution"—Mrs. Mowbray went on, while the mischief in her eyes increased and her lips began to wreathe in lines of loveliest archness; Rotha's cheeks the while growing more and more high-coloured. "Rebecca, you know, when she saw her husband from a distance, got down respectfully from her camel and put on her veil." "That was after her marriage," said Rotha. "That was not at the wedding ceremony." "I fancy there was nothing that we could call a wedding ceremony," Mr. Southwode remarked. "Perhaps we may say she was married by proxy, when her family sent her away with blessings and good wishes. Her putting on her veil at the sight of Isaac shewed that she recognized him for her husband." "Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it was the old sign of the woman's being under subjection." "And under protection—" added Mr. Southwode. "But it does not mean anything now," Rotha said quickly. Mrs. Mowbray laughed, and Mr. Southwode could not prevent a smile, at the naive energy of her utterance. "You need not think I am afraid of it," Rotha said, facing them bravely. "When I was only a little girl, and very wayward, I never wanted to do anything that would displease Mr. Digby. It is not likely I should begin now." "My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, with every feature in a quiver of mischief,—"do you think you have given over being wayward?" And Rotha's earnest gravity broke into laughter. "I think after all," said Mr. Southwode demurely, "all that old meekness was because in your conscience you thought I was right." "N—o," said Rotha slowly, looking at him,—"I do not think it was." "And you would fight me now, if I tried to make you do something you thought was wrong." "Would I?" Rotha said. But her eyes' swift glance said more, which he alone got the benefit of; an innocent glance of such trust and love and such utter scorn of the suggested possibility, that Mr. Southwode did not for a minute or two know very well what he or anybody else was doing. "We have wandered away from the question," said Mrs. Mowbray. "What is the question?" he asked. "Why, the veil! I believe in the value of symbols, for keeping up the ideas of the things symbolized. Don't you?" "Unquestionably." "Well—don't you propose, Mr. Southwode, to maintain the Biblical idea of subjection in your family?" "As well without the veil as with it." "I see!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "I shall have to succumb; and Rotha will have her own way. But I did want to see her in a veil. We have had a great deal of trouble over that dress, Rotha and I!" To Rotha's relief however, Mr. Southwode did not ask why or how, but let the conversation drift on to other subjects. As they were returning through the long course of rooms and passages to the library, Mrs. Mowbray as before leading the way; in one of the lower rooms, dimly lighted, Rotha's steps lingered. She came close to her companion's side and spoke in a lowered tone, timidly. "Digby—will you ask aunt Serena to come to Southwode?" "No, my darling," said he, drawing her up to him;—"I will not." "Then—I?" "You, and no other. And without my name coming in at all." "It will not hold for half as much." "It must. You are the mistress of the house. And besides,—it may be very well that you, who have been injured, should shew your forgiveness; but I am under no such necessity." "You, who have not been injured, do not forgive her?" said Rotha, laughing a little. "Yes, I forgive her; but I do not propose to reward her." "You like me to do it?" "I like you to do it." They stood still a moment. "Digby," said Rotha again, with a breath of anxiety, "do you care how I am dressed Monday?" "Do I?—Yes." He had both arms round her now, and was looking down into her changing face. "You do not think it need be costly, do you? Mrs. Mowbray has a notion that it ought to be rich." "Will you let me choose it?" Rotha hesitated, looked down and looked up. "It is all yours—" she said, somewhat vaguely, but he understood her. "Only, remember that I am a poor girl, and it ought not to be costly." "Mrs. Digby Southwode will not be a poor girl," he said, with caresses which shewed Rotha how sweet the words were to him. "But you know our principle," said Rotha. "I had a mind to wear just my travelling dress; but Mrs. Mowbray said you would not like that, and I must be in white." "I think I would like you to be in white," he said. _________ And everybody declared that was a pretty wedding; the prettiest, some said, that ever was seen. There were not many indeed to say anything about it; the Busbys were there, and one or two of Rotha's school friends, and one or two of Mrs. Mowbray's family, and two or three of the teachers, who thought a great deal of Rotha. These were gathered in the library, with the clergyman who was to officiate. Then, entering the library from the drawing room, came Rotha, on Mr. Southwode's arm. She was in white to be sure, with soft-flowing draperies; there was not a hard line or a harsh outline about her. The sleeves of her robe opened and fell away at the elbow, and the arms beneath were half covered with the white gloves. Or rather, one of them; for only one glove was on. The other was carried in the left hand which Rotha had providently left bare. Her young friends were a little shocked at such irregularity, and even Mrs. Mowbray was annoyed; but Rotha came in too quietly, calmly, gracefully, not to check every feeling but one of contented admiration. Her cheek was not pale, and her voice did not falter, and her hand did not tremble; nor was there apparently any feeling of self-consciousness whatever to trouble the beautiful dignified calm. It was the calm of intensity however, not of apathy; and one or two persons noticed afterwards that Rotha was trembling. When congratulations had been spoken and Rotha went to get ready for travelling, the little company thinned off. Her young friends went to help her; then Mrs. Mowbray too slipped away; then Mr. Southwode disappeared; and the rest collected at the front windows to see Rotha go. After which final satisfaction Mrs. Busby and her daughter walked home silently. "Mamma," said Antoinette when they were alone at home, "didn't you think Rotha would have a handsomer wedding dress? I thought she would have white silk at least, or satin; and she had only a white muslin!" "India muslin—" said Mrs. Busby rather grim. "Well, India muslin; and there was a little embroidered vine all round the bottom of it; but what's India muslin?" "It looks well on a good figure," said Mrs. Busby. "I suppose Rotha has what you would call a good figure. But no lace, mamma! and no veil!" "There was lace on her sleeves—and handsome." "O but nothing remarkable. And no veil, mamma?" "Wanted to shew her hair—" said Mrs. Busby. It had been a sour morning's work for the poor woman. "And not a flower; not a bouquet; not a bit of ornament of any kind!" Antoinette went on. "What is the use of being married so? And I know if I was going to be married, I would have a better travelling bonnet. Just a common little straw, with a ribband round it! Ridiculous." "Men are very apt to like that kind of thing," said her mother. "Are they? Why are they. And if they are, why don't we wear them? Mamma!—isn't it ridiculous to see how taken up Mr. Southwode is with Rotha?" "I did not observe that he was so specially 'taken up,'" Mrs. Busby said. "O but he had really no eyes for anybody else; and he and I used to be good friends once. Of course, Mr. Southwode is never empress?—but I saw that she could not move without his knowing it; and if a chair was half a mile off he would put it out of her way. Mamma—I think I should like to be married." "Don't be silly, Antoinette! Your turn will come." "Will it? But mamma, I want somebody every bit as good as Mr. Southwode." Silence. "Mamma," Antoinette began again, "did he ask you to come to Southwode?" "No." Short. "Only Rotha?" Mrs. Busby made no reply. Another pause. "Mamma, you said you could manage Mr. Southwode;—and you didn't do it!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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