Susan Warner - The Letter of Credit

"It's early yet," she said. "They will be very dear. By and by they will be plenty and cheaper."

"Strawberries!" repeated Rotha, following the woman with her eyes. "Mother, I think I do hate New York. The sight of those strawberries makes me wild. I want Carlo, and the ducks, and my old pussy cat, and the garden; and – Oh, I want father!"

The natural conclusion to this burst was a passion of weeping. Mrs. Carpenter was fain to lay down her work, and put her arms round the child, and shed some tears with her; though even as they fell she was trying to soothe Rotha into patience and self-command. Two virtues of which as yet the girl knew nothing, except that her mother was a very lovely and constant exemplification of them. Nobody ever expected either from Rotha; although this was the first violent expression of grief and longing that her mother had seen since their removal to New York, and it took her by surprise. Rotha had seemed to acquiesce with tolerable ease in the new conditions of things; and this was Mrs. Carpenter's first notification that under all the outside calm there lay a power of wish and pain. They wept together for a while, the mother and child, which was a sort of relief to both of them.

"Mother," said Rotha, as she dried her tears and struggled to prevent more coming, – "I could bear it, only that I don't see any end to it."

"Well, my child? what then?" said the mother tenderly.

"I don't feel as if I could bear this always."

"There might be much worse, Rotha."

"That don't make this one bit better, mother. It makes it harder."

"We must trust God."

"For what? I don't see."

"Trust him, that he will keep his promises. I do."

"What promises?"

"He has said, that none of them that trust in him shall be desolate."

"But 'not desolate'! That is not enough," said. Rotha. "I want more than that. I want to be happy; and I want to be comfortable."

"Are you not comfortable, my child?"

"No, mother," Rotha said with a sob.

"What do you want?" Mrs. Carpenter spoke with a gentle soft accent, which half soothed, half reproached Rotha, though she did not mean any reproach. Rotha, nevertheless went on.

"I want nearly everything, mother! everything that we haven't got."

"It would not make you happy, if you had it."

"Why not? Why wouldn't it?"

"Because nothing of that sort can. There is only one thing that makes people happy."

"I know; you mean religion. But I am not religious. And if I was happy, mother, I should want those other things too."

"If you were happy – you would be happy," Mrs. Carpenter said with a slight smile.

"That would not hinder my wanting other things. I should want, as I do now, nice dresses, and a nice house, and books, and not to have to cook and wash dishes, and to take a ride sometimes and a walk sometimes – not a walk to market – I want all that, mother."

"I would give it you if I could, Rotha. If I had it and did not give it to you, you would know that I had some very good reason."

"I might think you were mistaken," said Rotha.

"We cannot think that of the only wise God," Mrs. Carpenter said with that same faint, sweet smile again; "so we must fall back upon the other alternative."

Rotha was silenced.

"We know that he loves us, dear; and 'they that trust in the Lord shall not want any good thing.' As soon as it would be good for us, if that time ever comes, we shall have it. As for me, if you were only one of those that trust in him, I should hardly have a wish left."

Rotha dried her tears and went at her work. But the summer, as the days passed, was a trial to both of them. Accustomed to sweet country air and free motion about the farm, the closeness, the heat, the impurities, and the confinement of the city were extremely hard to bear. They made it also very difficult to work. Often it seemed to Mrs. Carpenter, unused to such a sedentary life and close bending over her needle, that she must stop and wait till it grew cooler, or till she herself felt a little refreshed. But the necessities of living drove her on, as they drive so many, pitilessly. She could not intermit her work. Rents were due just the same in summer as in winter, and meat and bread were no cheaper. She grew very thin and pale; and Rotha too, though in a far less degree, shewed the wilting and withering effect of the life they led. Rarely a walk could be had; the streets were hot and disagreeable; and Mrs. Carpenter could but now and then dare to spend twenty cents for car hire to take her and Rotha to the Park and back again. The heats of July were very hard to bear; the heats of August were more oppressive still; and when September came with its enervating moist, muggy, warm days, Mrs. Carpenter could scarcely keep her place and her work at her window. All day she could not. She was obliged to stop and lie by. Appetite failed, meals were not enticing; and on the whole, Mrs. Marble was not at all satisfied with the condition of either of her lodgers.

The cooler weather and then the frosts wrought some amendment. Yet all the autumn did not put them back where the spring had found them; and late in November Mrs. Carpenter took a cold which she could not immediately get rid of. A bad cough set in; strength rather failed than grew; and the thin hands which were so unceasingly busy with their work, became more and more transparently thin. Mrs. Carpenter needed rest; she knew it; and the thought came to her that it might be duty, and even it might be necessity, to apply to her sister for help. Surely it could not be refused?

She was often busy with this thought.

One day she had undertaken a longer walk than usual, to carry home some articles of fine sewing that she had finished. She would not send Rotha so far alone, but she took her along for company and for the air and exercise. Her way led her into the finer built part of the city. Coming down Broadway, she was stopped a minute by a little crowd on the sidewalk, just as a carriage drew up and a lady with a young girl stepped out of it and went into Tiffany's; crossing the path of Mrs. Carpenter and Rotha. The lady she recognized as her own sister.

"Mother," said Rotha, as they presently went on their way again, "isn't that a handsome carriage?"

"Very."

"What is the coachman dressed so for?"

"That is what they call a livery."

"Well, what is it? He has top boots and a gold band round his hat. What for? I see a great many coachmen and footmen dressed up so or some other way. What is the use of it?"

"No use, that I know."

"Then what is it for?"

"I suppose they think it looks well."

"So it does. But how rich people must be, mother, when their servants can dress handsomer than we ever could. And their own dresses! Did you see the train of that lady's dress?"

"Yes."

"Beautiful black silk, ever so much of it, sweeping over the sidewalk. She did not even lift it up, as if she cared whether it went into the dirt or not."

"I suppose she did not care," said Mrs. Carpenter mechanically, like a person who is not giving much thought to her answers.

"Then she must be very rich indeed. I suppose, mother, her train would make you a whole nice dress."

"Hardly so much of it as that," said Mrs. Carpenter.

"No, no; I mean the cost of it. Mother, I wonder if it is right , for that woman to trail so much silk on the ground, and you not to be able to get yourself one good dress?"

"It makes no difference in my finances, whether she trails it or not."

"No, but it ought."

"How should it?"

Rotha worked awhile at this problem in silence.

"Mother, if nobody used what he didn't want, don't you think there would be enough for the people who do want? You know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean. But how should the surplus get to the people who want it?"