A Letter of Credit Part 91

"But Mis' Busby has the house, and it aint as if it warn't her'n; and the young woman won't make you no trouble she can help."

"She won't make me none she _can't_ help," said Mrs. Purcell. "Us has to work, and I mean to work; but us has got work enough to do already, and I aint a goin' to take no more, for Mis' Busby nor n.o.body. You're just soft, Joe, and you let anybody talk you over. I aint."

"You've got a soft side to you, though," responded Joe, with a calm twinkle in his eye. "I'd have a rough time of it, if I hadn't found _that_ out."

A laugh answered. The sudden change in the woman's lowering face astonished Rotha. Her brows unknit, the lines of irritation smoothed out, a genial, merry, amused expression went with her laugh over to her husband; and the talk flowed over into easier channels. Mr. Purcell even tried after his manner to be civil to the stranger; but Rotha's supper choked her; and as soon as she could she escaped from the table and the onions and went to her room again.

Evening was falling, but Rotha was not afraid any more. Her corner room under the roof seemed to her now one of the safest places in the world.

Not undefended, nor unwatched, nor alone. She shut and locked her door, and felt that inside that door things were pleasant enough. Beyond it, however, the prospect had grown very sombre, and the girl was greatly disheartened. She sat down by the open window, and watched the light fade and the spring day finish its course. The air was balmier than ever, even warm; the lights were tender, the shadows soft; the hues in earth and sky delicate and varied and dainty exceedingly. And as the evening closed in and the shades grew deeper, there was but a change from one manner of loveliness to another; till the outlines of the tulip tree were dimly distinguishable, and the stars were blinking down upon her with that misty brightness which is all spring mists and vapours allow them. Yes, up here it was pleasant. But how in the world, Rotha questioned, was she to get along with the further conditions of her life here? And what would she become, she herself, in these coa.r.s.e surroundings of companions.h.i.+p and labour? Either it will ruin me, or it will do me a great deal of good, thought she. If I do not lose all I have gained at Mrs. Mowbray's, and sink down into unrefined and hard ways of acting and feeling, it will be because I keep close to the Lord's hand and he makes me gentler and purer and humbler and sweeter by all these things. Can he? I suppose he can, and that he means to do it. I must take care I put no hindrance. I had better live in the study of the Bible.

Very, very sorrowful tears and drooping of heart accompanied these thoughts; for to Rotha's fancy she was an exile, for an indefinite time, from everything pleasant in the way of home or society. When at last she rose up and shut the window, meaning to strike a light and go on with her Bible study, she found that in the disagreeable excitement of the talk at supper she had forgotten to provide herself with lamp or candle. She could not go down in the dark through the empty house to fetch them now; and with a momentary s.h.i.+ver she reflected that she could not get them in the night if she wanted them. Then she remembered--"The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee." What matter, whether she had a lamp or not? The chariots of fire and horses of fire that made a guard round Elisha, were independent of all earthly help or illumination. Rotha grew quiet. As she could do nothing else, she undressed by the light of the stars and went to bed; and slept as sweetly as those who are watched by angels should, the long night through.

CHAPTER XXVI.

ROTHA'S WORK.

Spring had one of her variable humours, and the next day shewed a change.

When Rotha awoke, the light was veiled and a soft rain was thickly falling. Shut up by the weather now! was the first thought. However, she got up, giving thanks for her sweet, guarded sleep, and made her toilet; then, seeing it depended on her alone to take care of her room, she put it carefully in order so far as was possible. It was early still, she was sure, though Rotha had no watch; neither voice nor stir was to be heard anywhere; and turning her back upon her stripped bed, the disorder of which annoyed her, she sat down to her Bible study. It is all I have got!

thought she. I must make of it all I can.--May did not give her so much help this morning; the rain drops pattered thick and fast on leaf and window pane; the air was not cold, yet it was not genial either, and Rotha felt a chill creep over her. There was no way of having a fire up there, if she had wanted one. She opened her beloved books, to try and forget other things if she could. She would not go down stairs until it was certain that breakfast would be near ready.

Carrying on the line of study broken off yesterday, the first words to which she was directed were those in 2 Cor. iv. 17, 18.

"Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are unseen--"

Poor Rotha at this immediately rebelled. Nothing in the words was pleasant to her. She was wont always to live in the present, not in the future; and she would be willing to have the glory yonder less great, so it were not conditioned by the trouble here. And with her young life pulses, warm and vigorous as they were, to look away from the seen to the unseen things seemed well nigh impossible and altogether undesirable. It was comfort that she wanted, and not renunciation. She was missing her friends and her home and her pursuits; she was in barren exile, amid a social desert; a captive in bonds that though not of iron were still, to her, nearly as strong. She wanted deliverance and gladness; or at least, manna; not to look away from all and find her solace in a distant vision of better things.

I suppose it is because I have so little acquaintance with things unseen, thought Rotha in dismal candidness. And after getting thoroughly chilled in spirit, she turned her pages for something else. The next pa.s.sages referred to concerned the blessedness of being with Christ, and the rest he gives after earth's turmoil is over. It was not over yet for Rotha, and she did not wish it to be over; life was sweet, even up here in her room under the roof. How soft was the rain-drop patter on the outer world! how beautiful the glitter of the rain-varnished leaves! how lovely the tints and hues in the shady depths of the great tulip tree! how cheery the bird song which was going on in spite of everything! Or perhaps the birds found no fault with the rain. I want to be like that, said Rotha to herself; not to be out of the storm, but to be able to sing through it. And that is what people are meant to do, I think.

The words in the twelfth of Hebrews were some help to her; verses 10 and 11 especially; confessing that for the time being, trouble was trouble, yet a bitter root out of which sweet fruit might grow; in "them which are exercised thereby."

"Wherefore lift up the hands which hang down, and the feeble knees."--

Courage, hope, energy, activity; forbidding to despond or to be idle; the words did her good. She lingered over them, praying for the good fruits to grow, and forming plans for her "lifted-up" hands to take hold of. And then the first verses of the first chapter of James fairly laid a plaister on the wounds of her heart. "Count it all joy." "The trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, wanting nothing."

Rotha almost smiled at the page which so seemed to smile at her; and took her lesson then and there. Patience. Quiet on-waiting on G.o.d. That was her part; the good issues and the good fruit he would take care of. Only patience! Yes, to be anything but patient would shew direct want of faith in him and want of trust in his promise. And then the words in 1 Peter i.

6, 7, gave the blessed outcome of faith that has stood the trial; and finally came the declaration--

"As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten; be zealous therefore, and repent."

Rotha fell on her knees and prayed earnestly for help to act in accordance with all these words. As she rose from her knees, the thought crossed her, that already she could see some of the good working of her troubles; they were driving her to G.o.d and his word; and whatever did that must be a blessing.

She ran down stairs, quite ready now for her breakfast. Entering the kitchen, she stood still in uncertainty. No table set, no cooking going on, the place in perfect order, and Mrs. Purcell picking over beans at the end of the table. The end of the table was filled with a great heap of the beans, and as she looked them over Mrs. Purcell swept them into a tin pan in her lap. She did not pause or look up. Rotha hesitated a moment.

"Good morning!" she said then. "Am I late?"

"I don' know what folks in the City o' Pride calls early. 'Thout knowing that, I couldn't say."

"But is breakfast over?"

"Joe and me, us has had our breakfast two hours ago."

"I did not know it was so late! I had no notion what o'clock it was."

"Joe said, he guessed you was sleepin' over. That's what he said."

"Well, have you kept any breakfast for me, Mrs. Purcell?"

"I didn't set by nothin' in particular. I didn't know as you'd be down 'fore dinner. You didn't say."

Rotha waited a minute, to let patience have a chance to get her footing; she seemed to be tottering. Then she said, and she said it quietly,

"Where can I get something to eat?"

"I don' know," said the woman indifferently.

"But I must have some breakfast," said Rotha.

"Must you? Well, I don' know how you'll get it. _My_ hands is full."

"You must give it to me," said Rotha firmly. "I will take it cold, or any way you please; but I must have something."

Mrs. Purcell sat silent at her bean picking, and there was a look of defiance on her handsome face which nearly put Rotha's patience to a shameful rout. She hardly knew how to go on; and was extremely glad to see Mr. Purcell come in from the lower kitchen.

"Wet mornin'!" said Mr. Purcell, with a little jerk of his head which did duty for a salutation.

"Mr. Purcell," said Rotha, "I am glad you are come; there is a question to be decided here."

"No there aint; it's decided," put in Mr. Purcell's wife. The man looked as if he would like to be left out of the question; but with a resigned air he asked, "What is it?"

"Whether, while I am in this house, I can have my proper meals, and have them properly."

"You can have your meals, if you'll come to 'em," said Mrs. Purcell, picking her beans.

Rotha was too vexed to speak again, and looked to the man.

"Well--you see," he began conciliatingly, as much towards his wife as towards her, Rotha thought, "you see, Prissy has her work, and she has a lot of it; and she likes to do it reg'lar. It kind o' puts her out, you see, to be gettin' breakfast all along the mornin'. Now she's gettin' her dinner. She's like a spider;--let her alone, and put nothin' in her way, and she'll spin as pretty a web as you'll see; but if you tangle it up, it'll never get straight again."

Mrs. Purcell kept diligently picking her beans over and sweeping them into her pan.

"You do not meet the question yet," said Rotha haughtily.

"Well, you see, the best way would be for you to be along at meal times; when they's hot and ready on the table. Then one more wouldn't make so much difference."

"I have no way of knowing when the meals are ready. If Mrs. Purcell will set by some for me on a plate, and a cup of coffee, I will take it, not good nor hot."