The Letter of Credit

CHAPTER XXXII.

END OF SCHOOL TERM

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 everythingbut 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.