A Letter of Credit Part 119

"Is there any possible reason why aunt Serena, and Mr. Busby and Antoinette, should be asked to come to Southwode? If there is any _reason_ for it, I have no more to say; but I do not see the reason."

"She is your mother's sister--" Mrs. Mowbray repeated.

"And that fact it is, which puts her so far from me. Just that fact."

"Maybe it will do her good," suggested Mrs. Mowbray.

Rotha laughed a short, impatient laugh. "How should it?" she asked.

"You never can tell how. My dear, it is not good to have breaches in families. Always heal them up, if you can."

Rotha turned in despair to Mr. Southwode.

"Mrs. Mowbray is right, in principle," he said. "I entirely agree with her. The only question is, whether a breach which remains a breach by the will of the offending party alone, ought to be covered over and condoned by the action of the injured party."

"You must forgive,--" said Mrs. Mowbray.

"Yes; and forgiveness implies a readiness to have the breach bridged over and forgotten. I think it does not command or advise that the offender be treated as if he had repented, so long as he does not repent."

"I have no doubt Mrs. Busby repents," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"I have no doubt she is sorry."

"I know she is," said Rotha; "but she would do it again to-morrow."

"What has she done, after all? My dear, human nature is weak."

"I know it is," said Rotha eagerly; "and if I thought it would do her the least bit of good, as far as I am concerned, I would be quite willing to ask her to Southwode. I do not at all wish to give her what I think she deserves."

"I am afraid I do," said Mr. Southwode; "and that is a disposition not to be indulged. Let us give her the chance of possible good, and ask her, Rotha."

"Then I must ask her here Monday."

"I suppose I can stand that."

There was a little pause.

"Well," said Rotha, "if you think it is better, I do not care. It will be a punishment to her,--but perhaps it would be a worse punishment to stay away."

"Now," said Mrs. Mowbray, "there is another thing. Don't you think Rotha ought to wear a veil?"

Mrs. Mowbray was getting mischievous. Her sweet blue eyes looked up at Mr. Southwode with a sparkle in them.

"Why should I wear a veil?" said Rotha.

"It is the custom."

"But I do not care in the least for custom. It's a nonsensical custom, too."

"Brides are supposed to want a s.h.i.+eld between them and the world," Mrs.

Mowbray went on. She loved to tease, yet she never teased Rotha; one reason for which, no doubt, was that Rotha never could be teased. She could laugh at the fun of a suggestion, without at all making it a personal matter. But now her cheeks shewed her not quite unconcerned.

"The world will not be here," she replied. "I understand, in a great crowd it might be pleasant, and as part of a pageant it is pretty; but here there will be no crowd and no pageant; and I do not see why there should be a veil."

"It is becoming--" suggested Mrs. Mowbray.

"But one cannot continue to wear a veil; and why should one try to look preternaturally well just for five minutes?"

"They are five minutes to be remembered," said Mrs. Mowbray, while both Rotha's hearers were amused.

"I would rather they should be remembered to my advantage than to my disadvantage," the latter persisted. "It would be pitiful, to set up a standard which in all my life after I never could reach again."

"It is a very old inst.i.tution"--Mrs. Mowbray went on, while the mischief in her eyes increased and her lips began to wreathe in lines of loveliest archness; Rotha's cheeks the while growing more and more high-coloured.

"Rebecca, you know, when she saw her husband from a distance, got down respectfully from her camel and put on her veil."

"That was after her marriage," said Rotha. "That was not at the wedding ceremony."

"I fancy there was nothing that we could call a wedding ceremony," Mr.

Southwode remarked. "Perhaps we may say she was married by proxy, when her family sent her away with blessings and good wishes. Her putting on her veil at the sight of Isaac shewed that she recognized him for her husband."

"Yes," said Mrs. Mowbray; "it was the old sign of the woman's being under subjection."

"And under protection--" added Mr. Southwode.

"But it does not mean anything _now_," Rotha said quickly. Mrs. Mowbray laughed, and Mr. Southwode could not prevent a smile, at the naive energy of her utterance.

"You need not think I am afraid of it," Rotha said, facing them bravely.

"When I was only a little girl, and very wayward, I never wanted to do anything that would displease Mr. Digby. It is not likely I should begin now."

"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, with every feature in a quiver of mischief,--"do you think you have given over being wayward?" And Rotha's earnest gravity broke into laughter.

"I think after all," said Mr. Southwode demurely, "all that old meekness was because in your conscience you thought I was right."

"N--o," said Rotha slowly, looking at him,--"I do not think it was."

"And you would fight me now, if I tried to make you do something you thought was wrong."

"Would I?" Rotha said. But her eyes' swift glance said more, which he alone got the benefit of; an innocent glance of such trust and love and such utter scorn of the suggested possibility, that Mr. Southwode did not for a minute or two know very well what he or anybody else was doing.

"We have wandered away from the question," said Mrs. Mowbray.

"What is the question?" he asked.

"Why, the veil! I believe in the value of symbols, for keeping up the ideas of the things symbolized. Don't you?"

"Unquestionably."

"Well--don't you propose, Mr. Southwode, to maintain the Biblical idea of subjection in your family?"