A Letter of Credit Part 76

"The boots must be too small," said Mrs. Busby. She came herself, and pushed and pinched and pulled at the boot. It would not go on.

"What do you get such tight-fitting boots for?" she said, sitting back on the floor, quite red in the face.

"They are not tight; they fit me perfectly."

"They won't go on!"

"That is the stockings."

"Nonsense! The stockings are proper; the boots are improper. What did you pay for them?"

"I did not get them."

"What did they cost, then? I suppose you know."

"Six and a half."

"I can get you for three and a half what will do perfectly," said Mrs.

Busby, rising up from the floor. But she sat down, and did not fetch any boots, as Rotha half expected she would.

"What are you going to do to-morrow, Rotha?" her cousin asked.

"I don't know. What I do every day, I suppose," Rotha answered, trying to make her voice clear.

"What is Mrs. Mowbray going to do?"

"I do not know."

"I wonder if she receives? Mamma, do you fancy many people would call on Mrs. Mowbray?"

"Why not?" Rotha could not help asking.

"O, because she is a school teacher, you know. Mamma, do you think there would?"

"I dare say. Your father will go, I have no doubt."

"O, because she teaches me. And other fathers will go, I suppose. What a stupid time they will have!"

"Who?" said Rotha.

"All of you together. I am glad I'm not there."

"I shall not be there either. I shall be up stairs in my room."

"Looking at your Russia leather bag. Why didn't you bring it for us to see? But your room means three or four other people's room, don't it?"

It was on Rotha's lips to say that she had a room to herself; she shut them and did not say it. A sense of fun began to mingle with her inward anger. Here she was in her stockings, unable to get her feet into her boots.

"How am I to get home, ma'am?" she asked as demurely as she could.

"Antoinette, haven't you a pair of old boots or shoes, that Rotha could get home in?"

"What should I do when I got there? I could not wear old boots about the house. Mrs. Mowbray would not like it."

"Nettie, do you hear me?" Mrs. Busby said sharply. "Get something of yours to put on Rotha's feet."

"If she can't wear her own, she couldn't wear mine--" said Miss Nettie, unwilling to furnish positive evidence that her foot was larger than her cousin's. Her mother insisted however, and the boots were brought. They went on easily enough.

"But these would never do to walk in," objected Rotha. "My feet feel as if each one had a whole barn to itself. Look, aunt Serena. And I could not go to the parlour in them."

"I don't see but you'll have to, if you can't get your own on. You'll have worse things than that to do before you die. I wouldn't be a baby, and cry about it."

For Rotha's lips were trembling and her eyes were suddenly full. Her neat feet transformed into untidy, shovelling things like these! and her quick, clean gait to be exchanged for a boggling and clumping along as if her feet were in loose boxes. It was a token how earnest and true was Rotha's beginning obedience of service, that she stooped down and laced the boots up, without saying another word, though tears of mortification fell on the carpet. She was saying to herself, "If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men." She rose up and made her adieux, as briefly as she could.

"Are you not going to thank me?" said Mrs. Busby. A dangerous flash came from Rotha's eyes.

"For what, aunt Serena?"

"For the trouble I have taken for you, not to speak of the expense."

Rotha was silent, biting in her words, as it were.

"Why don't you speak? You can at least be civil."

"I don't know if I can," said Rotha. "It is difficult. I think my best way of being civil is to hold my tongue. I must go--Good bye, ma'am!--"

and she staid for no more, but ran out and down the stairs. She paused as she pa.s.sed the open parlour door, paused on the stairs, and then went on and took the trouble to go a few steps back through the hall to get the interior view more perfectly. The grate was heaped full of coals in a state of vivid glow, the red warm reflections came from, crimson carpet and polished rosewood and gilding of curtain ornaments. Antoinette's piano gave back the shimmer, and the thick rug before the hearth looked like a nest of comfort. So did the whole room. A feeling of the security and blessedness of a home came over Rotha. This was home to Antoinette.

It was not home to herself, nor was any other place in all the earth. Not Mrs. Mowbray's kind house; it was kind, but it was not _home;_ and a keen wish crept into the girl's heart. To have a home somewhere! Would the time ever be? Must she perhaps, as her aunt foretold, be a houseless wanderer, teaching in other people's homes, and having none? Rotha looked and ran away; and as her feet went painfully clumping along the streets in Antoinette's big boots, some tears of forlornness dropped on the pavement. They were hot and bitter.

But I am a servant of Christ--thought Rotha,--I _am_ a servant of Christ; I have been fighting to obey him this afternoon, and he has helped me. He will be with me, at any rate; and he can take care of my home and give it me, if he pleases. I needn't worry. I'll just let him take care.

So with that the tears dried again, and Rotha entered Mrs. Mowbray's house more light-hearted than she had left it. She took off her wrappings, and sought Mrs. Mowbray out.

"Madame," she said, looking at her feet, "I wanted you to know, that if I do not look nice as I should, it is not my fault."

Mrs. Mowbray's eyes likewise went to the boots, and staid there. She had a little struggle with herself, not to speak what she felt.

"What is the matter, Rotha?"

"You see, Mrs. Mowbray. My boots would not go on over the thick stockings; so I have had to put on a pair of Antoinette's boots. So if I walk queerly, I want you to know I cannot help it."

"You have more stockings than that pair, I suppose?"

"Yes, ma'am; enough to last a good while."

"Let me see them."

Mrs. Mowbray examined the thick web.