The Letter of Credit

CHAPTER XVII.

BAGS AND BIBLES

Those holidays were a never-to-be-forgotten time in Rotha's life. Christmas eve, and indeed a day before, there was a great bustle and rush of movement in the house, almost all the boarders sweeping away to their various homes. Their example was followed by the under teachers; only Miss Blodgett remained; and a sudden lull took place of the rush. A small table was drawn out in the middle room; and Mrs. Mowbray came to dinner with a face, tired indeed, but set for play. The days of the ordinary weeks were always thick set with business; the weight of business was upon every heart; now it was unmitigated holiday. Nobody knew better how to play than Mrs. Mowbray; it was in her very air and voice and words. Perhaps some of this was assumed for the sake of others; a large portion of it was unquestionably real. The table was festive, that Christmas eve; flowers dressed it; the dessert was gay with confections and bonbons, as well as ice cream; and there was a breath of promise and anticipation in Mrs. Mowbray's manner that infected the dullest spirits there. And some of the girls were very dull! But Rotha's sprang up as if she had been in paradise.

"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Blodgett?"

Miss Blodgett bridled and smiled and was understood to express her opinion that she was "too old."

"'Too old!' My dear Miss Blodgett! One is never too old to be happy. I intend to be as happy as ever I can. I shall hang up my stocking; and I expect everybody to put something in it."

"You ought to have let us know that beforehand, madame," said Miss Blodgett.

"Let you know beforehand!" said Mrs. Mowbray, while her eye twinkled mischievously: "My dear friend! I don't want any but free-will offerings.

You didn't think I was going to levy black mail? did you? Miss Blodgett!

I thought you knew me better."

Whether she were in jest or in earnest, Rotha could not make up her mind. She was laughing at Miss Blodgett, that Rotha saw; but was it all nonsense about the stocking and the gifts? Mrs. Mowbray's sweet eyes were dancing with fun, her lips wreathed with the loveliest archness; whatever she meant, Rotha was utterly and wholly bewitched. She ran on for some little time, amusing herself and the girls, and putting slow Miss Blodgett in something of an embarrassment, she was so much too quick for her.

"Are you going to hang up your stocking, Miss Emory?"

Miss Emory in her turn smiled and bridled, and seemed at a loss how to answer.

"Miss Eutable?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Certainly. We will all hang up our stockings. Do you think by the chimney is the best place, Louisa?"

The girl addressed was a little girl, left in Mrs. Mowbray's care while her parents were in Europe. She dimpled and declared she supposed one place was as good as another.

"But you believe Santa Claus comes down the chimney?"

"I always knew better, Mrs. Mowbray."

"You did! You knew better! She knew better, Miss Blodgett. We are growing so wise in this generation. Here's little Miss Farrar does not believe in Santa Claus. I think that's a great loss. Miss Carpenter, what do you think about it? Do you think it is best to let the cold daylight in upon all our dreams?"

"The sun is not cold, madame."

"But the sun leaves no mystery."

"I do not like mystery, madame?"

"You don't? I think the charm of the stocking hung up, is the mystery. To listen for the sound of the reindeers' feet on the roof, to hear the rustle of the paper packages as Santa Claus comes down the chimney – there is nothing like that! I used to lie and listen and cover up my eyes for fear I should look, and be all in a tremble of delight and mystery."

"I should have looked," said Rotha.

"You must never look at Santa Claus. He don't like it."

"But I always knew it was no Santa Claus."

"Do you think you, and Miss Farrar here, are the happier for being so wise?"

"I do not know," said Rotha laughing. "I cannot help it."

"Mrs. Mowbray," said Miss Blodgett, "Miss Carpenter is the only young lady in the house who says 'do not' instead of don't; have you noticed?"

"My dear Miss Blodgett! don't you go to preaching up preciseness. Life is too short to round all the corners; and there are too many corners. You must cut across sometimes. I say 'don't,' myself."

She went now into a more business-like inquiry, how the several young ladies present expected to spend the next day; and as they rose from table, asked Rotha if she would like to drive out with her immediately. She had business to attend to.

The drive, and the business, of that Christmas eve remained a vision of unalloyed pure delight in Rotha's memory for ever. The city was brightly lighted, at least where she and Mrs. Mowbray went; the streets were full of a gay crowd, gay as one sees it at no other time of all the year but around the holidays; everybody was buying or had bought, and was carrying bundles done up in brown paper, and packages of all sizes and shapes; and everybody's face looked as if there were a pleasant thought behind it, for everybody was preparing good for somebody else. Mrs. Mowbray was on such errands, Rotha immediately saw. And the shops were such scenes of happy bustle; happy to the owners, for they were driving a good trade; and happy to the customers, for every one was getting what he wanted. A large grocer's was the first place Mrs. Mowbray stopped at; and even here the scene was exceedingly attractive and interesting to Rotha. It was not much like the little corner grocery near Jane Street, where she once used to buy half pounds of tea and pecks of potatoes for her mother; although the mingled scents of spices and cheese did recall that to mind; the spices and the cheese here were better, and the odours correspondingly. Rotha never lost the remembrance, nor ever entered a large house of this kind again in her life without a sweeping impression of the mysterious bustle and joy of that Christmas eve.

Mrs. Mowbray had various orders to give. Among them was one specially interesting to Rotha. She desired to have some twenty or thirty pounds of tea done up in half pound packages; also as many pounds of sugar; loaf sugar. As she and Rotha were driving off she explained what all this was for. "It is to go to my poor old people at the Coloured Home," she said. "Did you ever hear of the Old Coloured Home? I suppose not That is an institution for the care of worn-out old coloured people, who have nobody to look after them. They expect to see me at Christmas. Would you like to go with me to-morrow, after church, when I go to take the tea to them?"

Rotha answered, most sincerely, that she would like to go anywhere with Mrs. Mowbray.

"They think all the world of tea, those poor old women; and they do not get it very good. The tea for them all is brewed in a great kettle and sweetened with molasses, without taking any account of differences of taste," Mrs. Mowbray added laughing; "and many of these old people know what is good as well as I do; and this common tea is dreadful to them. So at Christmas I always carry them a half pound of tea apiece and a pound of loaf sugar; and you have no idea how much they look forward to it."

"Half a pound of tea will last quite a good while," said Rotha.

"How do you know, my dear?"

"I used to get half a pound at a time for mother, and then I used to make it for her always; so I know it will do for a long time, if one is careful."

"So you have been a housekeeper!"

"Not much. – I used to do things for mother."

"Mrs. Busby is her sister?"

"Yes, ma'am; but not like her. O not a bit like her."

"Where was Mrs. Busby in those days?"

"Here. Just where she is now."

"Did she never come to see you?"

"She did not know where we were. Mother never let her know."

"Do you know why not, my dear?"

"She had been so unkind – " Rotha answered in a low voice.

Mrs. Mowbray thought to herself that probably there had been fault on both sides.

"You must try and forget all that, my dear, if there were old grievances. It is best to forgive and forget, and Christmas is a capital time to do it. I never dare think of a grudge against anybody at Christmas. And your aunt seems disposed to be kind to you now."

"No, ma'am, I do not think she does."

"Don't you!"

"No, ma'am. I do not"

"Why, my dear, you must not bear malice."

"What is 'malice'?"

"Well, – ill-will."

"Ill-will – I do not think I wish any harm to her," said Rotha slowly; "but I do not forgive her."

"What do you want to do to her?"

"I do not know. I should like to make her feel ashamed of herself – if I knew how."

"I do not think that lies in your power, my dear; and I would not try. That is a sort of revenge-taking; and all sorts of revenge-taking are forbidden to us. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord."

"I do not mean vengeance," said Rotha. "I mean, just punishment – a little bit."

"That is the meaning of the word 'vengeance' in that place; – just punishment; but in your heart, Rotha, it is revenge. Put it away, my dear. It is not the spirit of Christ. You must forgive, if you would be forgiven."

"I do not know how," said Rotha, low and steadily.

"See how Jesus did. When they were nailing him to the cross, he said, 'Father, forgive them.'"

"Yes, but he said too, Mrs. Mowbray, – 'they know not what they do.'"

"My dear, nobody knows the evil he does. That does not excuse the evil, but it helps your charity for the sinner. Nobody knows the evil he does. I suppose Mrs. Busby has no notion how much she has hurt you."

Rotha thought, her aunt had as little care; but she did not say it. She was silent a minute, and then asked if the poor people at the Old Coloured Home were all women?

"O no!" Mrs. Mowbray answered. "There are a great many men. I give thema pound of tobacco each; but I prefer not to take that in the carriage with me. It is all up there now, I suppose, waiting for me and to-morrow."

With which the carriage stopped again.

Here it was a bookstore; a large and beautiful one. The light was brilliant; and on every counter and table lay spread about such treasures of printing, engraving, and the book-binder's art, as Rotha had never seen gathered together before. Mrs. Mowbray told her to amuse herself with looking at the books and pictures, while she attended to the business that brought her here; and so began a wonderful hour for Rotha. O the books! O the pictures! what pages of interest! what leaves of beauty! Her eyes were drunk with delight. From one thing to another, with careful fingers and dainty touch she went exploring; sometimes getting caught in the interest of an open page of letterpress, sometimes hanging over an engraving with wondering admiration and sympathy. It seemed any length of time, it was really not more than three quarters of an hour, when Mrs. Mowbray approached her again, having got through her errands. With cheeks red and eyes intent, Rotha was bending over something, the sense of hearing for the present gone into abeyance; Mrs. Mowbray was obliged to touch her. She smiled at Rotha's start.

"What had you there, my dear?"

"All sorts of things, Mrs. Mowbray! Just that minute, I was looking at an atlas."

"An atlas!"

"Yes, the most perfect I ever saw. O beautiful, and with so many things told and taught in it. A delightful atlas! And then, I was looking at the illustrations in the 'Arabian Nights' – I think that was the name."

"You never read it?"

"O no, ma'am. I never had many books to read; – until now."

"Are you reading anything now, in course?"

"I haven't much time, there is so much history to read. But I have begun 'Waverley.'"

"Do you like it?"

"O, a great deal more than I can tell!"

"Do not let it draw you away from your studies."

"No, ma'am. There is no danger," said Rotha joyously.

Mrs. Mowbray did not speak again till the carriage stopped at Stewart's. It was the first time Rotha had ever been inside of those white walls; and this visit finished the bewitchment of the evening. At first the size of the place and the numbers of people busy there engrossed her attention; nor did either thing cease to be a wonder; but by degrees one grows accustomed even to wonders. By degrees Rotha was able to look at what was on the counters, as well as what was before them; for a while she had followed Mrs. Mowbray without seeing what that lady was doing. Mrs. Mowbray had a good deal of business on hand. When Rotha began to attend to it, the two had come into the rotunda room and were standing at the great glove counter. Between what was going on there, and what was doing at the silk counters around her, Rotha was fully engaged, and was only recalled to herself by Mrs. Mowbray's voice asking,

"What is your number, Rotha?"

"Ma'am?" said the girl "I did not understand – "

"What is the number of the size of glove you wear?"

"I do not know, ma'am – O, I remember! six and a half."

"Six and a half," Mrs. Mowbray repeated to the shopman; and then proceeded to pull out pairs of gloves from the packages handed her. "There's a dark green, my dear; that is near the shade of your cloak. There is a good colour" throwing down upon the green a dark grey; and a brown followed the green. "Now we want some lighter – do you like that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

More than the mere affirmative Rotha could not say; she looked on bewildered and confounded, as a pair of pearl grey gloves was laid upon the green, the dark, and the brown, and then came a tan-coloured pair, and then a soft ashes of roses. Half a dozen pair of kid gloves! Rotha had never even contemplated such profusion. She received the little packet with only a half-uttered, low, suppressed word of thanks. Then the two wandered away from that room, and found themselves among holiday varieties. Here Rotha was dazzled. Not indeed by glitter; but by the combinations of use and beauty that met her eyes, look where they would. Mrs. Mowbray was making purchases, Rotha did not know of what, it did not concern her; and she was never tempted by vulgar curiosity. She indulged her eyes with looking at everything else. What fans, and dressing boxes and work boxes, and fancy baskets, and hand mirrors, and combs and brushes, and vials of perfumes, and writing cases, and cigar cases, and Japan ware, and little clocks, and standishes, and glove boxes, and papetries, and desks, and jewel cases —

"Have you a handbag for travelling, Rotha?"

The question made her start.

"No, ma'am. I never go travelling."

"You will, some time. How do you like that? Think it is too large?"

Rotha was speechless. Could Mrs. Mowbray remember that she had given her half a dozen pair of gloves that evening already?

"I always like a handbag that will carry something," Mrs. Mowbray went on. "You want room for a book, and room for writing materials; you should always have writing materials in your hand-bag, and stamps, and everything necessary. You never know what you may want in a hurry. I think that is about right; do you?"

"That" was a beautiful brown bag of Russia leather, sweet with the pungent sweetness of birch bark, or of the peculiar process of curing with such bark; and with nickel plated lock and bolts. Rotha flushed high; to speak she was incompetent just then.

"I think it will do then," said Mrs. Mowbray, herself in a high state of holiday glee; preparing, as she was, pleasure for a vast number of persons, rich and poor, young and old; she was running over with a sort of angel's pleasure in giving comfort or making glad. In Rotha's case she was doing both.

"Don't you want to take it home with you, my dear?" she went on. "There will be so many things to send from the store to-night that they will never get to their destination; and I always like to make sure of a thing when I have got it. Though you rarely make a mistake here," she added graciously to the foreman who was waiting upon her.

Rotha took the bag, without a word, for she had not a thing to say; and she dropped her package of gloves into it, for safe keeping and easy transportation. Talk of riches! The thing is comparative. I question if there was a millionaire's wife in the city that night who felt as supremely rich as did Rotha with her bag and her gloves. She tried to say a word of thanks to her kind friend when she got home; but Mrs. Mowbray stopped her.

"Go to bed, my dear," she said, with a kiss, "and don't forget to hang up your stocking. Are you comfortable up there?"

"Yes, ma'am – O yes!" Rotha answered as she went up the stairs.

Comfortable! She was alone in her room, all her roommates having gone somewhere for the holidays; the whole house was warm; and Rotha shut her door, and set her bag on a table, and sat down and looked at it; with her heart growing big. Hang up her stocking! She! Had she not had Christmas enough already?