A Letter of Credit Part 57

"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got those things for me."

"What is his name, my dear?"

"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."

"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a _young_ gentleman."

"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can forgive her for it,--never, never!"

"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"

"Mr. Digby took me to her," said Rotha, her eyes filling, while they sparkled at the same time. "He said it was best for me to be there, under her care, as he had no home where he could take me. But if he had known, he never would have left me with her. I know he would not. He would have taken care of me some other way."

"What has Mr. Southwode done for you, that you should have such trust in him?"

But Rotha somehow did not want to go into this subject in detail.

"He did everything for us that a friend could do; he taught me, and he took care of mother; and mother left me in his charge."

"Where was Mrs. Busby?"

"Just where she is now. She did not know we were here."

"Why was that?"

Rotha hesitated. "Mother did not like to tell her," she said, somewhat obscurely.

"And she left you in this gentleman's care."

"Yes."

"And he put you under your aunt's care."

"Yes, for the present. But I was to tell him if anything went wrong; and I have never been able to speak a word to him since. Nor to write, because he had not given me his address."

"Mr. Southwode is an Englishman. It is probable, if his father is dead, that he will make his home in England for the future."

Rotha was silent. She thought Mr. Digby would not forget her, or fail in his promises; but she kept her views to herself.

"He did very properly in committing you to your aunt's care; and now I am very glad I have got you," Mrs. Mowbray went on cheerily. "Now we will try and get all those questions straightened out, that were troubling you. What was it? a question of duty, you said, didn't you?"

Mrs. Mowbray was arranging her heterogeneous ma.s.ses of books in something like external order; she put a little volume into Rotha's hand as she said the last words. It was a very small New Testament; very small, yet in the clear English printing which made it delightfully legible. "That is the best thing to solve questions of duty with," she went on. "Keep it, my dear."

"O thank you, ma'am!" cried Rotha, a bright colour of pleasure rus.h.i.+ng into her cheeks. "O thank you, ma'am! How beautiful! and how nice! But here is where I found my question," she added sorrowfully.

"I dare say. It is the old story--'When the commandment came, sin revived, and I died.' What was the point this time?"

"Just that point I spoke of, about aunt Serena. I do not forgive her; and in the fifth chapter of Matthew,--here it is: 'If thou bring thy gift to the altar--'"

"I know," Mrs. Mowbray broke in, very busy seemingly with her books and not looking at Rotha. "Why cannot you forgive her?"

"Because I am so wrong, I suppose," Rotha answered humbly.

"Yes, but what has she done?"

"I told you, ma'am. She kept me from seeing Mr. Southwode before he went away. She never even told me he had been at the house, nor that he was gone. I found it out. She meant I should not see him."

"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that does not seem to me a very heinous offence."

"It was the very worst thing she could do; the cruelest, and the worst."

"She might have thought she had good reasons."

"She did not think that. She knew better. I think she wanted me all in her power."

"Never think evil of people, if it is possible to think good," Mrs.

Mowbray continued. "Always find a pleasant reason for the things people do, if it is possible to find one. It is quite as likely to be true, and it leaves you a great deal more comfortable."

"You cannot always do that," said Rotha.

"And this is one of the times? Well, what are you going to do about it?

Can't you forgive your aunt, even if you think the worst?"

"It would be very easy to forgive her, if I could think differently,"

said Rotha.

"It occurs to me--Those words you began to quote,--they run, I think, 'If thy brother hath ought _against_ thee.' Is that the case here?"

"Yes, ma'am, because I charged her with what she had done; and she did not excuse herself; and I thought I had a right to be angry--very angry; but when I came to those words in my reading, I remembered that though I had so much against her, she had a little against me; because I had not spoken just right. And then I knew I ought to confess it and make an apology; and I was so angry I could not."

"And do you feel so now?" Mrs. Mowbray asked after a slight pause.

"Just the same."

"Do you think you are a Christian, Rotha?"

"No, ma'am. I know--a Christian does His commandments," the girl answered low.

"Do you want to be a Christian?"

"Yes, ma'am, if I could; but how can I?"

"You cannot, while your will goes against G.o.d's will."

"Can I help my will?" said Rotha, bringing up her old question.

"There is the dinner-bell," said Mrs. Mowbray. "If I can get a little time this evening, I will try to shew you the answer to your question. I must go now, my dear. Read your New Testament."

Rotha curled herself up on her couch, and by the light of the kennal coal did read her Testament; full of delight that it was hers, and full of comfort in the hope that after all there would be a way for her out of her difficulties.