The Letter of Credit

They went in at the great Fifth Avenue entrance; and for a few minutes he was engaged in piloting himself and her through the crowd of coming and going carriages; but when they reached quiet going and a secure footpath, he looked at her. It smote him. Such an expression of awakened delight was in her face; such keen curiosity, such simplicity and fulness of enjoyment. Rotha was at a self-conscious age, but she had forgotten herself; two years old is not more free from self-recollection. They walked along slowly, the girl reviewing everything in the lively show before her; lips parting sometimes for a smile, but with no leisure for a word. Her companion watched her. They walked on and on; turned now hither and now thither; Rotha remained in a maze, only mechanically following where she was led.

It was a fine afternoon, and all the world was out. Carriages, riders, foot travellers; everywhere crowds of people. Where was Mr. Digby going to make the communication he had come here to make? He doubted about it now, but if he spoke, where should it be? Not in this crowd, where any minute some acquaintance might see him and speak to him. With some trouble he sought out a resting place for Rotha from whence she could have a good view of one angle of a much travelled drive, and at the same time both of them were in a sort hid away from observation. Here they sat down; but if Rotha's feet might rest, her companion's mind was further and further from any such point of comfort. They had exchanged hardly any words since they set out; and now the difficulty of beginning what he had to say seemed greater than ever. There was a long silence. Rotha broke it; she did not know that it had been long.

"Mr. Digby – there are a great many things I do not understand."

"My case too, Rotha."

"Yes, but you understand a great many things that I don't."

"What is troubling you now, with a sense of ignorance?"

"I see in a great many carriages two gentlemen dressed just alike, sitting together; they are on the back seat always, and they always have their arms folded, just alike; what are they?"

"Not gentlemen, Rotha; they are footmen, or grooms."

"What's the difference?"

"Between footmen and grooms?"

"No, no; between a gentleman and a man that isn't a gentleman?"

"You asked me that once before, didn't you?"

"Yes; but I don't make it out."

"Why do you try?"

"Why Mr. Digby, I like to understand things."

"Quite right, too, Rotha. Well – the difference is more in the feelings and manners than in anything else."

"Not in the dress?"

"Certainly not. Though it is not like a gentleman to be improperly dressed."

"What is 'improperly dressed.'"

"Not nice and neat."

"Nice and neat —clean and neat, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Then a gentleman may have poor clothes on?"

"Of course."

"Can anybody be poor and be a gentleman?"

"Not anybody, but a gentleman may be poor, certainly, without ceasing to be a gentleman."

"But if he was poor to begin with – could he be a gentleman then?"

"Yes, Rotha," said her friend smiling at her; "money has nothing to do with the matter. Except only, that without money it is difficult for a boy to be trained in the habits and education of a gentleman."

"Education?" said Rotha.

"Yes."

"You said, 'feeling and manners.'"

"Well, yes. But you can see for yourself, that without education it would be hardly possible that manners should be exactly what they ought to be. A gentleman should give to everybody just that sort of attention and respect which is due; just the right words and the right tone and the fitting manner; how can he, if he does not understand his own position in the world and that of other people? and why the one and the other are what they are."

"Then I don't see how poor people can be ladies and gentlemen," said Rotha discontentedly.

"Being poor has nothing to do with it, except so far."

"But that's far enough, Mr. Digby."

He heard the disappointed ambition in the tone of the girl's words.

"Rotha," he said kindly, "whoever will follow the Bible rules of good manners, will be sure to be right, as far as that goes."

"Can one follow them without being a Christian?"

"Well no, hardly. You see, the very root of them is love to one's neighbour; and one cannot have that, truly and universally, without loving Christ first."

"Then are all gentlemen Christians?"

The young man laughed a little at her pertinacity.

"What are you so much concerned about it, Rotha?"

"I was just thinking." —

And apparently she had a good deal of thinking to do; for she was quite silent for some time. And Mr. Digby on his part went back to his problem, how was he to tell Rotha what he had promised to tell her? From their somewhat elevated and withdrawn position, the moving scene before them was most bright and gay. An endless procession of equipages – beautiful carriages, stately horses, pompous attendants, luxurious pleasure-takers; one after another, and twos and threes following each other, a continuous stream; carriages of all sorts, landaus, Victorias, clarences, phaetons, barouches, close coaches, dog carts, carryalls, gigs, buggies. Now and then a country affair, with occupants to match; now a plain wagon with a family of children having a good time; now an old gentleman and his wife taking a sober airing; then a couple of ladies half lost in the depths of their cushions, and not having at all a good time, to judge by their looks; and then a young man with nobody but himself and a pair of fast trotting horses, which had, and needed, all his attention; and then a whirl of the general thing, fine carriages, fine ladies, fine gentlemen, fine servants and fine horses; in all varieties of combination. It was very pretty; it was very gay; the young foliage of early summer was not yet discouraged and dulled by the heat and the dust; the air was almost country sweet, and flowers were brilliant in one of the plantations within sight. How the world went by! —

Mr. Digby had half forgotten it and everything else, in his musings, when he was aroused, and well nigh startled, by a question from Rotha.

"Mr. Digby – can I help my will?"

He looked down at her. "What do you mean, Rotha?"

"I mean, can I help my will? I asked mother one day, and she said I had better ask you."

Rotha's eyes came up to his face with their query; and whatever it might import, he saw that she was in earnest. Grave and intent the girl's fine dark eyes were, and came up to his eyes with a kind of power of search.

"I do not think I understand you."

"Yes, you do. If I do not like something – do not want to be something – can I help my will?"

"What do you not want to be?" said Mr. Digby, waiving this severe question in mental philosophy.

"Must I tell you?"

"Not if you don't like; but I think it might help me to get at your difficulty, and so to get at the answer you want."

"Mr. Digby, can a person want to do something, and yet not be willing?"

"Yes," said he, in growing surprise.

"Then, can he help not being willing?"

"What is the case in hand, Rotha? I am wholly in the dark. I do not know what you would be at."

To come nearer to the point was not Rotha's wish and had not been her purpose; she hesitated. However, the subject was one which exercised her, and the opportunity of discussing her difficulty with Mr. Digby was very tempting. She hesitated, but she could not let the chance go.

"Mother wishes I would be a Christian," she said low and slowly. "And I wish I could, to please her; but I do not want to. Can I help my will? and I am not willing."

There was a mixture of defiance and desire in this speech which instantly roused the somewhat careless attention of the young man beside her. Anything that touched the decision of any mortal in the great question of everlasting life, awoke his sympathies always to fullest exercise. It was not his way, however, to shew what he felt; and he answered her with the same deliberate calm as hitherto. Nobody would have guessed the quickened pulses with which he spoke.

"Why do you not want to be a Christian, Rotha?"

"I do not know," she answered slowly. "I suppose, I want to be free."

"Go on a little bit, and tell me what you mean by being 'free.'"

"Why – I mean, I suppose, – I know I mean, that I want to do what I like."

"You are taking the wrong way for that."

"Why, I could not do what I liked if I was a Christian, Mr. Digby?"

"A Christian, on the contrary, is the only person in this world, so far as I know, who can do what he likes."

"Why, do you?" said Rotha, looking at him.

"Yes," said he smiling. "Always."

"But I thought – "

"You thought a Christian was a sort of a slave."

"Yes. Or a servant. A servant he is; and a servant is not free. He has laws to mind."

"And you think, by refusing the service you get rid of the laws? That's a mistake. The laws are over you and binding on you, just the same, whether you accept them or not; and you have got to meet the consequences of not obeying them. Did you never think of that?"

"But it is different if I promised to obey them," said Rotha.

"How different?"

"If I promised, I must do it."

"If you do not promise you must take the consequences of not doing it.

You cannot get from under the law."

"But how can you do whatever you like, Mr. Digby?"

"There comes in your other mistake," said he. "I can, because I am free.

It is you who are the slave."

"I? How, Mr. Digby?"

"You said just now, you wished you could be a Christian, but you could not. Are you free to do what you wish?"

"But can I help my will?"

The gentleman took out of his pocket a slim little New Testament which always went about with him, and put it into Rotha's hands open at a certain place, bidding her read.

"'Then said Jesus to those Jews which believed on him, If ye continue in my word, then are ye my disciples indeed; and ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.'" Rotha stopped and looked up at her companion.

"Go on," he bade her; and she read further.

"'They answered him, We be Abraham's seed, and were never in bondage to any man: how sayest thou, Ye shall be made free?

"'Jesus answered them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin. And the servant abideth not in the house forever: but the Son abideth ever. If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'" Rotha looked at the words, after she had done reading.

"Mr. Digby," she said then again, "can I help my will?"

"No," said he, "for you are a poor bond-slave. But see what is written there. What you cannot do, Christ can."

"Why don't he do it, then?" she said defiantly.

"You have not asked him, or wished him to do it."

"But why shouldn't he do it without my asking, or wishing, if he can?"

"It is not his way. He says, 'Ask, and ye shall receive'; but he promises nothing to those who do not apply to him. And the application must be in good earnest too, Rotha; not the form of the thing, but the truth. 'Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness; for they shall be filled.'"

"Then, if I asked him, could he change my will?"

"He says, he can make you free. It was one thing he came to do; to deliver people from the bondage of sin and the power of Satan."

"The power of Satan!" said Rotha. "I am not under his power!"

"Certainly you are. There are only two parties in the world; two kingdoms; those who do not belong to the one, belong to the other."

"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, now much exercised, "I hate the devil as much as you do."

"Don't help, Rotha. 'From the power of Satan to God,' is the turn people take when they become Christians."

"What makes you think I am under his power?"

"Because I see you are not under the rule of Christ. And because I see you are doing precisely what Satan would have you do."

"What?" said Rotha.

"Refusing the Lord Jesus Christ, or putting off accepting him."

Rotha was silent. Her breast was heaving, her breath coming thick and short. Mr. Digby's conclusions were very disagreeable to her; but what could she say?

"I can't help my will," she said doggedly.

"You see you are not honest with yourself. You have just learned that there is a remedy for that difficulty."

"But Mr. Digby," said Rotha, "how is it that you can do what you like?"

He smiled down at her, a pleasant, frank smile, which witnessed to the truth of his words and wrought more with Rotha than the words themselves; while the eyes that she admired rested on her with grave penetration.

"There is an old promise the Lord gave his people a great while ago; that in the new covenant which he would make with them in Christ, he would write all his laws in their hearts. He has done that for me."

"You mean – " said Rotha.

"Yes, go on, and say what you think I mean."

"You mean, – that what you like to do, is just what God likes you to do."

"And never anything else, Rotha," he said gravely.

"Well, Mr. Digby," said Rotha slowly, "after all, you have given up yourself."

"And very glad to be rid of that personage."

"But I don't want to give up myself."

"I see."

And there followed a long silence. Mr. Digby did not wish to add anything to his words, and Rotha could not to hers; and they both sat in meditation, until the girl's lighter humour got away from the troublesome subject altogether. Watching her, Mr. Digby saw the pleased play of feature which testified to her being again absorbed in the scene before her; her eye was alive, her lip moved with a coming and going smile.

"It amuses you, does it not?" he said.

"O yes!" Rotha exclaimed with a long breath. "I wish mother could see it."

"She can," said Mr. Digby. "We will have a carriage and take her out. I don't know why I never thought, of it before."

"A carriage? For mother? And bring her here?" said Rotha breathless.

"Yes, to-morrow, if the day is good. It will refresh her. And meanwhile, Rotha, I am afraid we must leave this scene of enchantment."

Rotha had changed colour with excitement and delight; now she rose up with another deep sigh.

"There are more people than ever," she remarked; "more carriages. Mr.

Digby, I should think they would be perfectly happy?"

"What makes you think they are not?" said he amused.

"They don't look so."

"They are accustomed to it. They come every day or two."

"Does that make it less pleasant?"

"It takes off the novelty, you know. Most pleasures are less pleasant when the novelty is gone."

"Why?"

Mr. Digby smiled again. "You never found it so?" he said.

"No. I remember when we were at Medwayville, everything I liked to do, I liked it more the more I did it."

"You are of a happy temperament. What did you use to like to do there?"

"O a load of things!" said Rotha sighing. "I liked our old dog, and my kittens; and riding about; and I liked very much going to the hay field and getting into the cart with father and riding home. And then – "

But Rotha's words stopped suddenly, and her companion looking down at her saw that her eyes were brimming full of tears, and her face flushed with the emotion which almost mastered her. A little kind pressure of the hand he held was all the answer he made; and then they made their way through the crowd and got into the cars to go home.

He had not discharged his commission; how could he? Things had taken a turn which made it almost impossible. It must be done another day. Poor child! The young man's mind was filled with sympathy and compassion, as he looked at Rotha sitting beside him and noted how her aspect had changed and brightened; just with this afternoon's pleasure and the new thoughts and mental stir and hope to which it had given rise. Poor child! what lay before her, that she dreamed not of, yet must face and meet inevitably. That in the near future; and beyond – what? No friend but himself in all the world; and how was he to take care of her? The young man felt a little pity for himself by the way. Truly, a girl of this sort, brimfull of mental capacity and emotional sensitiveness, was a troublesome legacy for a young man situated as he was. However, his own trouble got not much regard on the present occasion; for his heart was burdened with the sorrow and the tribulation coming upon these two, the mother and daughter. And these were but two, in a world full of the like and of far worse. He remembered how once, in the sight of the tears and sorrowing hearts around him and in view of the great flood of human miseries of which they were but instances and reminders, "Jesus wept;" and the heart of his servant melted in like compassion. But he shewed none of it, when he came with Rotha into her mother's presence again; he was calm and composed as always.

"Mrs. Carpenter," he said, as he found himself for a moment alone with her, Rotha having run off to change her dress, – "you did not tell me your sister's name. I think I ought to know it."

"Her name?" said Mrs. Carpenter starting and hesitating. What did he want to know her sister's name for? But Mr. Digby did not look as if he cared about knowing it; he had asked the question indifferently, and his face of careless calm reassured her. She answered him at last.

"Her name is Busby."

It was characteristic of Mr. Digby that his features revealed no quickening of interest at this; for he was acquainted with a Mrs. Busby, who was also the wife of a lawyer in the city. But he shewed neither surprise nor curiosity; he merely said in the same unconcerned manner and tone, "There may be more Mrs. Busby's than one. What is her husband's name?"

"I forget – It begins with 'A.' I know; but I can't think of it. I can think of nothing but the name of that old New York baker they used to speak of – Arcularius."

"Will Archibald do?"

"That is it!"

Mr. Digby could hardly believe his ears. Mrs. Archibald Busby was very well known to him, and he was a welcome and tolerably frequent visiter at her house. Was it possible? he thought; was it possible? Could that woman be the sister of this? and such a sister? Nothing in her or in her house that he had seen, looked like it. He made neither remark nor suggestion however, but took quiet leave, after his wont, and went away; after arranging that a carriage should come the next day to take Mrs. Carpenter to the Park.

CHAPTER VIII.

STATEN ISLAND

Mr. Digby had a great many thoughts during the next few days; some of which almost went to make Mrs. Carpenter in the wrong. The Mrs. Busby he knew was so very unexceptionable a lady; how could she be the black sheep of the story he had heard? Mrs. Carpenter might labour under a mistake, might she not? Yet facts are said to be stubborn things, and some facts were hard for the truth of the story. Mr. Digby was puzzled. He would perhaps have gone promptly to Mrs. Busby's home, to make observations with a keenness he had never thought worth while when there; but Mrs. Busby and all her family were out of town, spending the hot months at a watering place, or at several watering places. Meanwhile Mr. Digby had his unfulfilled commission to attend to.

Mrs. Carpenter went driving to the Park now every pleasant day; to the great admiration of Mrs. Marble, the wonderful refreshment of the sick woman herself, and the extravagant delight and pride of Rotha. She said she was sure her mother would get well now. But her mother's eye, as she said it, went to Mr. Digby's, with a warning admonition that he must neither be deceived nor lose time. He understood.

"I am going down to Staten Island to-morrow," he remarked. "Would you like to go with me, Rotha?"

"Staten Island?" she repeated.

"Yes. It is about an hour's sail from New York, or nearly; across the bay. You can become acquainted with the famous bay of New York."

"Is it famous?"

"For its beauty."

"Oh I should like to go very much, Mr. Digby, if it was as ugly as it could be!"

"Then when your mother comes from the Park in the morning, we will go."

Rotha was full of delight. But her mother, she thought, was very sober during that morning's drive; she tried in vain to brighten her up. Again and again Mrs. Carpenter's eyes rested on her with a lingering, tender sorrowfulness, which was not their wont.

"Mother, is anything the matter?" she asked at length.

"I am thinking of you, my child."

"Then don't think of me! What about me?"

"I am grieved that a shadow should ever come over your gay spirits. Yet I am foolish."

"What makes you think of shadows? I am going to be always as gay as I am to-day."

"That is impossible."

"Why?"

"It is not the way of this world."

"Does trouble come to everybody?"

"Yes. At some time."

"Well, mother dear, you can just wait till it comes. There is no shadow over me now, at any rate. If you were only well, I should be happy enough."

"I shall never be well, my child."

"O you say that just because a shadow has come over you. I wish I knew where it comes from; I would scare it away. Mother, mother, look, look! – see that little carriage with the little horses, and the children driving! Oh – !"

Rotha's expression of intense admiration is not to be given on paper.

"Shetland ponies, those are," said her mother.

"What are Shetland ponies?"

"Ponies that come from Shetland."

"And do they never grow any bigger?"

"No."

"How jolly!"

"Rotha, that is a boy's word, I think."

"If it is good for a boy, why isn't it good for me?"

"I do not know that it is good for a boy. But a lady is bound to be more particular in what she says and does."

"More than a gentleman?"

"In some ways, yes."

"I don't understand in what ways. Right is right, and wrong is wrong, whether one is a boy or a girl."

Mrs. Carpenter sighed. What would bring just notions, who would teach proper ways, to her inquisitive child when she should be left motherless? Rotha perceived the deep concern which gathered in her mother's eyes again; and anew endeavoured by lively talk to chase it away. In vain. Mrs. Carpenter came home tired and exhausted.

"I think she was worrying about something," Rotha said, when soon after she and her friend were on their way to Whitehall. "She does, now and then."

Mr. Digby made no answer; and Rotha's next keen question was, "You look as if you knew what she was worrying about, Mr. Digby?"

"I think I do."

"Couldn't I know what it was?"

"Perhaps. But you must wait."

It was easy to wait. Even the omnibus ride to Whitehall was charming to Rotha's inexperienced eyes; and when she was on board the ferry boat and away from the quays and the city, and the lively waters of the bay were rolling up all around her, the girl's enjoyment grew intense. She had never seen such an extent of water before, she had no idea of the real look of the waves; a hundred thousand questions came crowding and surging up in her mind, like the broken billows down below her. In her mind; they got no further; merely to have them rise was a delight; she would find the answer to them some day. For the present it was enough to watch the changing forms and varying colours of the water, and to drink in the fresh breeze which brought life and strength with it from the sea. Yet now and then a question was too urgent and must be satisfied.

"Mr. Digby, nobody could paint water, could they?"

"Yes."

"How could they? It is all changing, every instant; it won't stand still to be drawn."

"Most things can be done, if one is only in earnest enough."

"But how can this?"

"Not without a great deal of study and pains. A man must watch the play of the waves and the shapes they take, and the colours of the different parts in any given sort of weather, until he has got them by heart; and then he can put the lines and the colours on the canvas. If he has the gift to do it, that is."

"What has the weather to do with it? Different colours?"

"Certainly. The lights and shadows vary with every change of the sky; and the colours vary."

"Then a person must be very much in earnest," said Rotha, "ever to get it all."