A Letter of Credit Part 39

Plenty of money! What else?

One of the great polished doors opened a little? softly, and the mistress of the house came in. She was rather a contrast to it all. Perhaps she had not yet made her toilette for the afternoon; she was in a very plain dress, and came in drawing a shawl around her. Not a handsome shawl either; the lady's whole appearance was most absolutely without pretension, and so was her manner. But the manner was not artless; it gave you the impression that she always knew what she was saying and had a reason for saying it. And the face, which had once been handsome, and might still have laid claim to some distinction, seemed likewise to lay claim to nothing, beyond the possession of sense and discernment and knowledge of the world.

"Mr. Southwode!" she said as she closed the door. "You are quite a stranger."

She was far too acute to tell Mr. Digby how welcome a visiter he was. She let the fact sufficiently appear in her smile and the tones of her greeting.

"I think, you have been a stranger here too, Mrs. Busby. Were you not late in returning to town?"

"Yes-- September was so warm! But I think eight months of the year is sufficient to spend in the city. Soul and body want the cultivation of nature for the other four; don't you think so? The ocean and the mountains are better than books. There is enlargement of the faculties to be sought, as well as stores for the memory."

"And what mountains, and what sea, have you been looking upon this summer?"

"We have seen no mountains this year; we kept to the sea beach. Except for a short interval. And you, Mr. Southwode? What have you done with yourself?"

"My last achievement was to let somebody run into me, in the Park, and sprain my ankle in consequence."

There followed of course inquiries and a full account of the affair. Mr.

Digby could not be let off with less; and then advice and recipes, in the giving of which Mrs. Busby was quite motherly.

"And have you resolved at last to make your home in America?" she asked after this.

"I make my home wherever I am," the young man replied, with his slight grave smile.

"But surely you do not think it well for any ordinary mortal to imitate the Wandering Jew, and have a settled home nowhere?" said Mrs. Busby, shewing her white teeth, of which she had a good many and in good order.

"It may be best for some people," the young man said lightly. "But I came to speak to you about a matter of business. Mrs. Busby, pardon me for asking, had you once a sister?"

There was a change in the lady's face, marked enough, yet not so as to strike any but a nice observer. The bland smile faded from her lips, the lines about her mouth took a harder set, the eyes were more watchfully on the alert.

"Yes," she said quietly, not shewing her surprise. "I have a sister."

"Have you heard from her lately?"

"No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she added, "Do you know her?"

"I have known her."

"In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western part of the state."

"I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York."

"In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me-- When did you know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here."

"She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and failing constantly; and in July--did you know nothing of it?--she left us all, Mrs. Busby."

"My sister? Did she _die_ here? Do you mean that?"

Mr. Digby bowed his head. The lady folded her arms, and removed her eyes from his face. Her own face was a shade paler, yet immoveable. She sat as if lost in thought for several minutes; in a silence which Mr. Digby was determined this time he would not break.

"What brought my sister to New York, Mr. Digby?" Mrs. Busby at length asked, stooping as she spoke to pick up a thread from the carpet at her feet.

"I am afraid,--the difficulty of getting along at home, where she was."

"Her husband was dead, I knew," said the lady. "I gave Eunice permission to go and occupy the old house, where we were brought up, and which by my father's will came to me; and as I knew she had not done that, I had no reason to suppose that she was not getting along comfortably. My sister was one of those people who will not take advice, Mr. Digby; who will go their own way, and whom n.o.body can help. She was here several months, then?"

"More than that"

"More? How much more?"

"She came here before I had the pleasure of knowing her."

"Did she tell you anything of her story?"

"Something; and so I came, by a question or two, to find out that you were her sister."

"Eunice separated herself from her family," Mrs. Busby said shortly; "and such people always in time come to feel their mistake, and then they charge the fault upon their family."

"Mrs. Carpenter did not seem to me inclined to charge fault upon anybody.

I never heard anything from her that shewed a censorious spirit."

Mrs. Busby opened her lips, and pressed them a little closer together.

Evidently she was minded to ask no more questions. Mr. Digby went on.

"Mrs. Carpenter had a daughter--"

"I know she had a daughter," Mrs. Busby said briskly. "Is she living?"

"Certainly."

"Pray, how old?"

"About--I believe, about fifteen."

"Where is she?"

"She is here."

"_Here!_ In whose care? and where is she?"

"She is in my care. It is about her I wished to speak to you."

"In _your_ care! But Mr. Southwode, that is very strange! How came my sister to leave her child in your care?"

"She honoured me, I believe, with so much trust as to believe I would be a faithful guardian," Mr. Digby said, with his extremely composed gravity.

"But was there n.o.body else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting herself.

"n.o.body else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile.