The Letter of Credit

It all worked oddly with Rotha. To the majority of natures, great pleasure is found to work adversely to the entertaining of serious thoughts or encouraging religious impressions. With her, grief seemed to muddle all her spiritual condition, and joy cleared it up. She sat looking at her treasures, looking mentally at the wonderful good things that surrounded her, contrasted with her previous unhappiness; and the whole generous truth of her nature was aroused. She ought to be such a good girl! And by "goodness" Rotha did not mean an orderly getting of her lessons. Conscience went a great deal further, enlightened by the examples she had known of what was really good. Yes, her mother would have forgiven her aunt; and Mr. Digby would never have been ill-mannerly to her; and supposing him for once to be in such a condition of wrong, he would go straight forward, she knew, to make amends, own the fault and ask pardon. Further than that; for on both their parts such feeling and action would have been but the outcome of their habitual lowly and loving obedience to God. That she ought to be like them, Rotha knew; and tears of sorrow rushed to her eyes to think she was not. "The goodness of God leadeth thee to repentance," was the thought working in her; although she did not clothe it in the Bible words.

What hindered?

"My ugly temper," said Rotha to herself; "my wickedness and badness."

What help?

Yes, there was help, she knew, she believed. She brought her Bible and turned to the marked passages, brushing away the tears that she might see to read them. "He that hath my commandments and keepeth them – " Well, said Rotha, I will keep them from this time on. – Forgive and all? said something in her heart. Yes, forgive and all. I will forgive! – But you cannot? – Then I will ask help.

And she did. Earnestly, tearfully, ardently, for a long time. She felt as if her heart were a stone. She had to go to bed at last, feeling no better. But that she would be a true servant of God, Rotha was determined.

So came Christmas morning on; clear, cold, bright and still. Rotha awaked at the bell summons. Her first thought was of last night's determination, to which she held fast; the next thought was, that it was Christmas day, and she must look at her gloves and Russia leather bag. She sprang up, and had half dressed herself before she remarked, lying on the empty bed opposite her own, some peculiar-looking packages done up as usual in brown paper. They must belong to Mrs. Mowbray and have got there by mistake, she thought; and she went over to verify her supposition. No, to her enormous surprise she saw her own name.

More Christmas things! Rotha hurried her dressing; she dared not stop to open anything till that was done; and then an inner voice said, You will not have much time for your prayers. Her heart beating, she turned away and knelt down. And she would not cut short her prayers, either. She besought help to forgive; she asked earnestly to be made "a new creature"; for the old creature, she felt, would never forgive, to the end of time. She rose then, brushing the moisture from her eyes, and went over to look at those mysterious packages. One was light, square, and shallow; the other evidently a book, and heavy. She opened the lesser package first. Behold, a dozen cambrick handkerchiefs, and upon them a little bright blue silk neck tie. Rotha needed those articles very much; she was ready to scream for joy. The other package now; hands trembling unfolded it. Brown paper, silk paper, – and one of Bagster's octavo Bibles with limp covers was revealed. Rotha was an ardent lover of the beautiful and the perfect; her own Bible was an old volume, much worn by handling, bearing the marks of two generations' use and wear; this was the perfection of a book in every respect. Rotha was struck dumb and still, and nothing but tears could give due vent to her feelings; they were tears of great joy, of repentance, of new purpose, and of very conscious inability to do anything of herself that would be good. She had sunk on her knees to let those tears have the accompaniment of prayer; she rose up again and clasped the Bible in her arms, in heartiest love to it.

Breakfast was late that morning, and she had time for examining her gifts and for getting a little composed before she had to go down stairs. She went then quite sedately to all appearance. It was to her as if the world had turned round two or three times since last night; other people, however, she observed, had not at all lost their heads and were very much as usual; except that they were dressed for going to church, and had the pleasant freedom of holiday times in their looks and manner. Only Mrs. Mowbray was really festive. She was sparkling with spirits, and smiling with the joy of doing kindness, past and future. Rotha sat next her at the table; and there was a gleam of amusement and intelligence in her eye as she asked her, over her coffee cup, whether Santa Claus had come down her chimney? She gave Rotha no time to answer, but ran on with a question to some one else; only a few minutes after, as she put a chop upon Rotha's plate, gave her a look full of affectionate kindness which said that she understood all and no words were necessary.

It was time to go to church when breakfast and prayers were over. Immediately after church, Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha took a carriage and drove out to the Old Coloured Home; all the packages of tea and sugar going along; as also a perfect stack of sponge cakes. Arrived at the place, Mrs. Mowbray's first demand was to know whether "the milk" had been delivered, and where "the tobacco" was. Then followed a scene, a succession of scenes rather, that could never be forgotten. Mrs. Mowbray went all through the rooms, dealing out to each poor creature among the women a half pound package of tea, a pound of sugar, a half pint of milk, and a sizeable sponge cake.

"My dear," she whispered to Rotha, who attended and helped her, "they think all the world of a bit of cake! They never get it now, you know."

"Don't they get milk?"

"Some of the ladies bought a cow for them, that they might have it and have it good; but it didn't work. The matron took the cream for herself; they had only the blue watery stuff that was left; and when it was attempted to rectify that abuse, somebody discovered that it cost too much to keep a cow."

"What a shame!" cried Rotha indignantly.

"Never mind; you cannot have everything in this world; the Home is a great deal better than being in the streets."

But Rotha did not like the Home. Its forms and varieties of infirmity, disease, and decay, were very disagreeable to her. She had one of those temperaments to which all things beautiful, graceful, and lovely, speak with powerful influences, and which are correspondingly repelled and distressed by the tokens of pain or want or coarse living. All the delight of these women at the sight of Mrs. Mowbray, and all their intense enjoyment of her gifts, manifested broadly and abundantly, could not reconcile Rotha to the sight of their worn, wrinkled faces, bowed forms, bleared eyes, and dulled expression. Every one was not so; but these were the majority. Certainly Rotha had not had a very dainty experience of life during the years of her abode in New York; she had lived where the poorer classes lived and been accustomed to seeing them. But there the sick and infirm were mostly in their houses, where she did not visit them; and the exceptions were noticed one at a time. Here there was an aggregation of infirmity, which oppressed her young heart and revolted her fastidious sense. It was not pleasant; and Rotha, like most others who have no experience of life, was devoted to what was pleasant. She wondered to see the glee and enjoyment with which Mrs. Mowbray moved about among these poor people; a word, and a word of cheer, for every one; her very looks and presence coming like beams of loving light upon their darkness. She seemed to know them almost all.

"How's rheumatism, aunty?" she asked cheerily of a little, wrinkled, yellow old woman, sitting in a rocking chair and hovering near a fire.

"O missus, it's right smart bad! it is surely."

"Where is it now? in your hands, or your feet?"

"O missus, it is all places! 'Pears there aint no place where it aint. It's in my hands, and in my feet, and in my head, and in my back; and I can't sleep o' nights; and the nights is powerful long! so they be."

"Ah, yes; it makes a long night, to have to lie awake aching! I know that by experience. I had rheumatism once."

"Did you, missus! But it warn't so bad as I be?"

"No, not quite, and I was stronger to bear it. You know who is strong to help you bear it, aunty?"

"Yes, missus," said the poor creature with a long sigh; – "I does love de Lord; sartain, I do. He do help. But I be so tired some times!"

"We'll forget all that when we get to heaven, aunty."

There was a faint gleam in the old eyes, as they looked up to her; a faint smile on the withered lips. The rays of that morning light were catching the clouds already!

"Now, aunty, I've brought you some splendid tea. Shall I make you a cup, right off?"

"You wouldn't have time missus – "

"Yes, I would! Time for everything. Here, Sabrina, bring a kettle of boiling water here and put it on the fire; mind, it must boil."

And while the woman went to obey the order, Mrs. Mowbray went on round the room. There were so many to speak to, Rotha thought she would forget the kettle and the tea; but she did not. From the very door which should have let her into another ward, she turned back The kettle was boiling; she ordered several cups; she made the tea, not out of the old woman's particular private store; and then she poured it out, sugared and creamed and gave her her cup; took one herself, and gave the rest to whosoever came for it. They held quite a little festival there round the fire; for Mrs. Mowbray brought out some cake too.

"Now," she said to Rotha as they hurried away, "they will not forget that for a year to come. I always take a cup of tea with aunty Lois."

They went now among the men, distributing the tobacco. Rotha admired with unending admiration, the grace and sweetness and tact with which Mrs. Mowbray knew how to season her gifts; the enormous amount of pleasure she gave and good she did which were quite independent of them. Bent figures straightened up, and dull faces shone out, as she talked. The very beauty which belonged to her in so rare measure, Rotha saw how it was a mighty talent for good when brought thoroughly into the service of Christ. She was a fair human angel going about among those images of want and suffering and hopelessness; her light lingered on them after she had passed on.

"How do you do, uncle Bacchus?" she said as she approached an old, gray- haired, very black man in a corner. He rose to his feet and shewed a tall, slim figure, not bent at all, though the indications of his face pointed to very advanced age. He bowed profoundly, and with dignity, before the lovely lady who had extended her hand to him, and then he took the hand.

"Nearer home, madam," he said; "a year nearer home."

The hand trembled, and the voice; yet the mental tone of it was very firm.

"You are not in a hurry to leave us?"

"It's better on de oder side, madam."

"Yes, that is true! And it is good to know there is an 'other side,' isn't it? Are you comfortable here, uncle Bacchus?"

'"Comfortable – " he repeated. "I don' know. I'm sittin' at de gates, waitin' till de Lord say open 'em; and 'pears I'm lookin' dat way all de time. Dis yer's a waitin' place. A waitin' place."

"Yes, but I want you to be comfortable while you are waiting. What can I do for you? The dear Lord has sent me to ask you."

He smiled a little, a very sweet smile, though the lips were so withered on which it came.

"Don't want for not'ing, madam. Dis yer'll do to wait in. When I get home, I'll have all I want; but it's up dere."

"I thought, uncle Bacchus, you would like a very plain page to read the words in that you love. See, I have brought you this. This will almost do without spectacles, hey?"

She produced a New Testament in four thin volumes, of the very largest and clearest type; presenting a beautiful open page. The old man almost chuckled as he received it.

"Dat ar's good!" he said.

"Better than the old one, hey?"

"Dat ar certainly is good," he repeated. "De old un, de words is so torturous small, if I didn't know what dey was, 'pears dey wouldn't be no use to me."

"Well, then I made no mistake this time. Now, uncle Bacchus, I know you take no comfort in tobacco; so I've brought you something else – something you like. Must have something to make Christmas gay, you know."

She put a paper of French bonbons in the old man's hand. He laughed, half at her and half at the sugarplums, Rotha thought; and he bowed again.

"De Lord give madam sumfin' to make her gay!" he said.

"Himself, uncle Bacchus!"

"Dat's so, madam!" he replied, as she took his hand to bid him good bye.

This was a much longer colloquy than usual; a few words were all there was time for, generally; and Rotha went on wondering and admiring to see how Mrs. Mowbray could make those few words tell for the pleasure and good of her beneficiaries. At last the whole round was made, the last package disposed of, and Mrs. Mowbray and Rotha found themselves in the carriage again. Rotha for her part was glad; she did not like the Home, as I have said; the sight of the people was painful to her, even with all the alleviations of pleasure. She was glad to be driving away from the place. What did they know of Bagster's Bibles and Russia covered travelling bags? Poor creatures! And Rotha's heart was leaping at thought of her own.

They went in silence for a while.

"Aren't you very tired, Mrs. Mowbray?" Rotha ventured at last.

"Tired?" said Mrs. Mowbray brightly, rousing herself. "I don't know! I don't stop to think whether I am tired. There will be plenty of time to rest, by and by."

"That does not hinder one from feeling tired now," said Rotha, who did not enjoy this doctrine.

"No, but it hinders one from minding it," said Mrs. Mowbray. "Do all you can for other people, Rotha; it is the greatest happiness you can find in this life."

"Do you think you had as much pleasure in getting those things for me, Mrs. Mowbray, – my bag and my Bible, – and all my things, – as I had, and have, in receiving them?"

Mrs. Mowbray smiled. "Do they give you pleasure?" she asked.

"More than you can think – more than I can tell. I think I am dreaming!"

"Then that gives me pleasure. What are you going to do with your Bible?"

"I am going to study it – " said Rotha slowly; "and I am going to live by it."

"Are you? Have you decided that point?"

"Yes, ma'am. But I am not good yet, Mrs. Mowbray. I do not forgive aunt Serena. It feels to me as if there was a stone where my heart ought to be."

"Have you found that out?" said Mrs. Mowbray without shewing any surprise. "There is help, my child. Look, when you get home, at the thirty sixth chapter of Ezekiel – I cannot tell you what verse – and you will find it there."

They had no more talk until the carriage stopped at home. And Rotha had no chance then even to open her Bible, but must make herself immediately ready for dinner.