A Letter of Credit Part 108

How many miles it is, I do not know."

"And I do not care!" said Rotha. "But how came you to keep hold of the reins all the time? Or did you catch them afterwards?"

"No, I held on to them. It was the only way to save the horses."

"But they were running! How could you?"

"I do not know; only what has to be done, generally can be done. We will take the rest of the way gently."

But I am not sure that they did; and I am sure that they did not much think how they took it. Rather briskly, I fancy, following the horses, which were restless yet; and with a certain apprehension that there was a long way to go. On the roads they had travelled at first coming out there had been frequently a farmhouse to be seen; now they came to none. The road was solitary, stretching away between tracts of rocky and stony soil, left to its natural condition, and with patches of wood. But what a walk that was after all! The mild, mellow October light beautified even the barren spots of earth, and made the woodland tufts of foliage into cl.u.s.ters of beauty. As the light faded, the hues of things grew softer; a spicier fragrance came from leaf and stem; the gently gathering dusk seemed to fold the two who were walking through it into a more reserved world of their own. And then, above in the dark bright sky lights began to look forth, so quiet, so peaceful, as if they were blinking their sympathy with the wanderers. These did not talk very much, and about nothing but trifling matters by the way; yet it came over Rotha's mind that perhaps in all future time she would never have a pleasanter walk than this. Could life have anything better? And she might have been right, if she had been like many, who know nothing more precious than the earthly love which for her was just in its blossoming time. But she was wrong; for to people given over, as these two were, to the service of Christ, the joys of life are on an ascending scale; experience brings more than time takes away; affection, having a joint object beyond and above each other, does never grow weary or stale, and never knows disappointment or satiety; and the work of life brings in delicious fruits as they go, and the light of heaven s.h.i.+nes brighter and brighter upon their footsteps. It can be only owing to their own fault, if to- morrow is not steadily better than to-day.

But from what I have said it will appear that Rotha was presently in a contented state of mind; and she went revolving all sorts of things in her thoughts as she walked, laying up stores of material for future conversations, which however she was glad Mr. Southwode did not begin now.

As for Mr. Southwode, he minded his horses, and also minded her; but if he spoke at all it was merely to remark on some rough bit of ground, or some wonderful bit of colour in the evening sky.

"Well, hollo, mister!" cried a hotel hostler as they approached near enough to have the manner of their travelling discernible,--"what ha'

you done wi' your waggin?"

"I was unable to do anything with it."

"Where is it then?"

"About five miles off, I judge, lying at the foot of a hill."

"Spilled, hey?"

"It will never hold anything again."

"What's that? what's this?" cried the landlord now, issuing from the lower door of the house; "what's wrong here, sir?"

"I do not know," said Mr. Southwode; "but there has been carelessness somewhere. Either the hostler did his work with his eyes shut, or the leather of the harness gave way, or the iron work of something. The pole fell, as we were going down a steep hill; of course the phaeton is a wreck. I could only save the horses."

The landlord was in a great fume.

"Sir, sir," he stammered and bl.u.s.tered,--"this is _your_ account of it."

"Precisely," said Mr. Southwode. "That is my account of it."

"How in thunder did it happen? It was bad driving, I expect."

"It was nothing of the kind. It was a steep hill, a dropped carriage pole, and a run. You could not expect the horses not to run. And of course the carriage went to pieces."

"Who was in it?"

"I was in it. The lady jumped out, just before the run began."

"Didn't you know enough to jump too?"

"I knew enough not to jump," said Mr. Southwode, laughing a little. "By that means I saved your horses."

"And I expect you want me to take that as pay for the carriage! and take your story too. But it was at your risk, sir--at your risk. When I sends out a team, without I sends a man with it, it's at the driver's risk, whoever he is. I expect you to make it good, sir. I can't afford no otherwise. The phaeton was in good order when it went out o' this yard; and I expect you to bring it back in good order, or stand the loss. My business wouldn't keep me, sir, on no other principles. You must make the damage good, if you're a gentleman or no gentleman."

"Take the best supposition, and let me have supper. If you will make _that_ good, Mr. Landlord, you may add the phaeton to my bill."

"You'll pay it, I s'pose?" cried the anxious landlord, as his guest turned away.

"I always pay my bills," said Mr. Southwode, mounting the steps to the piazza. "Now Rotha, come and have something to eat."

Supper was long since over for the family; the two had the great dining hall to themselves. It was the room in which Rotha had taken her solitary breakfast the morning of her arrival. Now as she and her companion took their seats at one of the small tables, it seemed to the girl that she had got into an enchanted country. Aladdin's vaults of jewels were not a pleasanter place in his eyes, than this room to her to-night. And she had not to take care even of her supper; care of every sort was gone. One thing however was on Rotha's mind.

"Mr. Southwode," she said as soon as they had placed themselves,--"it was not your fault, all that about the phaeton."

"No."

"Then you ought not to pay for it."

"It would be more loss to this poor man, than to me, Rotha, I fancy."

"Yes, but right is right. Making a present is one thing; paying an unjust charge is another. It is allowing that you were to blame."

"I do not know that it is unjust. And peace is worth paying for, if the phaeton is not."

"How much do you suppose it will be?"

"I do not know," he said laughing a little. "Are you anxious, about it?"

Rotha coloured up brightly. "It seems like allowing that you were in the wrong," she said. "And the man was very impertinent."

"I recognize your old fierce logic of justice. Haven't you learned yet that one must give and take a good deal in this world, to get along smoothly? No charge the man can ever make will equal what the broken phaeton is worth to me, Rotha."

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

DISCUSSIONS.

The sitting room, when they came to it after supper, looked as pleasant as a hotel sitting room could. It was but a bare apartment, after the fas.h.i.+on of country hotels; however it was filled with the blaze of a good fire, and that gives a glimmer of comfort anywhere. Moreover it was a private room; they had it to themselves. Now what next? thought Rotha.

Mr. Southwode put a chair for her, gave a little dressing to the fire, and then stood by the mantel-piece with his back towards it, so that his face was in shadow. Probably he was considering Rotha's face, into which the fire shone full. For it was a pleasant thing to look at, with its brightness just now softened by a lovely veil of modesty, and a certain unmistakeable blessedness of content lurking in the corners of the mouth and the lines of the brow. It met all the requirements of a fastidious man. There was sense, dignity, refinement, sensitiveness, and frankness; and the gazer almost forgot what he wanted to do, in the pleasure of looking. Rotha had time to wonder more than once "what next?"

"It seems to me we have a great deal to talk about, Rotha," Mr. Southwode said at last. "And not much time. What comes first?"

"I suppose," said Rotha, "the first thing is, that I must go back to school."

"I suppose you must!" he said. There was an accent about it that made Rotha laugh.

"Why I must of course!" she said. "I do not know anything;--only the beginnings of things."