A Letter of Credit Part 29

But Rotha's words stopped suddenly, and her companion looking down at her saw that her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 compa.s.sion, 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 compa.s.sion. 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 rea.s.sured 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?"