"To-night. Yes, my child, I must send you away from me. You have been a comfort to me ever since you came into my house; and now I must send you away." She folded Rotha in her arms and kissed her almost passionately. Then let her go, and spoke in business tones again.
"Put up whatever you wish to take with you. The carriage will be at the door at half past eight. I shall go with you."
With which words she departed.
The tears came now, which had been carefully kept back until Mrs. Mowbray was gone; and it was under a very shower of heavy drops that Rotha folded and stowed away all her belongings.
Stowed them in her trunk, which Mrs. Mowbray had at once sent up to her room. Amidst all her tears, Rotha worked like a sprite; she would leave nothing on her kind friend's hands to do for her, not even anything to think of. She packed all away, wondering the while why this sudden interruption to her prosperous course of study and growth should have been allowed to come; wondering when and how the interrupted course would be allowed to go on again. Happily she did not know what experiences would fill the next few months, in which Mrs. Mowbray's fostering care would not help her nor reach her; nor what a new course of lessons she would be put upon. Not knowing all this, Rotha shed bitter tears, it is true, but not despairing. And when the summons came, she was ready, and joined Mrs. Mowbray in the carriage with calm self-possession restored.
The drive was almost silent. Once Mrs. Mowbray asked if there was anything Rotha had left to be done for her in her room or in the house? Rotha said "Nothing; all was done"; and then the carriage rolled on silently as before; the one of its occupants too busy with grave thoughts to leave her tongue free, the other sorrowfully wishing she would talk, yet not daring to ask it. Arrived at the door, however, Mrs. Mowbray folded the girl in her arms, giving her warm kisses and broken words of love, and ending with bidding her write often.
"I may be unable to answer you, but do not let that stop you. Write always; I shall want to hear everything about you."
And Rotha answered, it would be the greatest joy to her; and they parted.
She went in at a somewhat peculiar moment. Half an hour sooner, Antoinette had returned from a friend's house where she had been dining, and burst into the parlour with news.
"Mamma!" she exclaimed, before the door was shut behind her,—"Guess what is coming."
"What?" said her mother calmly. She was accustomed to Antoinette's superlatives.
"Mr. Southwode is coming back.—"
Now Mrs. Busby did prick up her ears. "How do you know?"
"There was a Mr. Lingard at dinner—a prosy old fellow, as tiresome as ever he could be; but he is English, and knows the Southwodes, and he told lots about them."
"What?"
"O I don't know!—a lot of stuff. About the business and the property, and how old Mr. Southwode left it all to this son; and he carries it on in some ridiculous way that I didn't understand; and the uncle tried to break the will, and there has been a world of trouble; but now Mr. Digby Southwode is coming back to New York."
"When?"
"O soon; any day. He may be here any day. And then, mamma—"
"And was the will broken?"
"No, I believe not. At any rate, Mr. Southwode, our Mr. Southwode, has it all. But he's absurd, mamma; he pays people, workmen, more than they ought to have; and he sells, or makes them sell, for less; less than the market price; and he gives away all his income. So Mr. Lingard says."
"He will learn better," said Mrs. Busby.
"Well, mamma, he's coming back; and what will you do?"
"Welcome him," said her mother. "I always liked Mr. Southwode."
"Yes, yes, but I mean, about Rotha. He will look her up, the first thing; and she will fly ecstatically to meet him—I remember their parting salute two years ago, and theirmeeting. I don't doubt, will be equally tender. Mamma, are you prepared to come down with something handsome in the way of wedding presents?"
"Nonsense!"
"It'snotnonsense!" said Antoinette vehemently. "It will be the absurd truth, before you know where you are; and papa, and you, and I, we shall all have the felicity of offering congratulations and holding receptions. If you don't prevent it, mamma!Can'tyou prevent it?Won'tyou prevent it? O mamma! won't you prevent it?"
"Get up, Antoinette"—for the young lady had thrown herself down on the floor in her urgency, at her mother's feet. "Get up, and take off your things; you are extremely silly. I have no intention of letting them meet at all."
"Mamma, how are you going to help it? He will find out where she is at school—he will go straight there, and then you may depend Rotha will snap her fingers at you. So will he; and to have two people snapping their fingers at us will just drive me wild."
Mrs. Busby could not help laughing. At the same time, she as well as Antoinette regarded the matter from a very serious point of view. She knew Rotha had grown up very handsome; and all her mother's partiality did not make her sure that men like Mr. Southwode might not prefer the sense and grace and spirit which breathed from every look and motion of Rotha's, to the doll beauty of her own daughter. Yet it was not insipid beauty either; the face of Antoinette was exceedingly pretty, the smile very captivating, and the white and peach-blossom very lovely in her cheeks. But for sense, or dignity, or sympathy with any thoughts high and noble, if one looked to Antoinette one would look in vain. No matter; hers was just a style which captivates men, Mrs. Busby knew; even sensible men,—the only danger as in possible comparison or contrast. That danger should be avoided.
"Nobody will snap fingers at me," she complacently remarked.
"But how will you help it?"
"I dare say there is no danger. Get up, Antoinette! there is the door bell."
And then in walked Rotha.
It struck her that her aunt and cousin were a little more than ordinarily stiff towards her; but of course they had no reason to expect her then, and the surprise was not agreeable. So Rotha dismissed the matter with a passing thought and an unbreathed sigh; while she told the cause of her unlooked-for appearance. Mrs. Busby sat and meditated.
"It is very unfortunate!" she said at last, with her eyebrows distressingly high.
"What?" said Rotha. "My coming? I am sorry, aunt Serena; as sorry as you can be. Is my being hereparticularlyinconvenient just at this time?"
"Yes!" said Mrs. Busby, with the same deeply considerative air. "I am thinking what will be the best way to manage. We have a plan of going to Chicago—Mr. Busby's family is mostly there, and he wants us to visit them; we should be gone all June and part of July, for I know Mr. Busby wants to go further, if once he gets so far; and we may not be back till the end of July. I don't know what to do with Rotha."
Not a word of this plan had Antoinette ever heard before, but she kept wise silence; only her small blue eyes sparkled knowingly at the fire. Rotha was silent too at first, with vexation.
"I am very sorry—" she repeated.
"Yes," said Mrs. Busby. "I thought I could leave you in safe quarters with Mrs. Mowbray for a week or two after school broke up; now that possibility is out of the question. Well, we will sleep upon it. Never mind, Rotha; don't trouble yourself. I shall find some way out of the difficulty. I always do."
These words were spoken with so much kindness of tone that they quite comforted Rotha as to the immediate annoyance of being in the way. She went up to her little third-story room, threw open the blinds, to let the stars look in, and remembered that neither she nor yet her aunt Busby was the guide of her fortunes. Yet, yet,—what a hard change this was! All the pursuits in which she had taken such delight, suddenly stopped; her peaceful home lost; her best friend separated from her. It was difficult to realize the fact that God knew and had allowed it. Yet no harm, no real harm, comes to his children, unless they bring it upon themselves; so this change could not mean harm. How could it mean good? Sense saw not, reason could not divine; but faith said "yes"; and in the quietness of that confidence Rotha went to sleep.
At breakfast the ladies' faces had regained their wonted brightness.
"I have settled it all!" Mrs. Busby announced, when her husband had left the breakfast table and the room. Rotha looked up and waited; Antoinette did not look up; therefore it may be presumed she knew what was coming.
"I am going to send Rotha to the country while we are gone."
"Where in the country?" asked the person most concerned.
"To my place in the country—my place at Tanfield.Ihave a place in the country."—Mrs. Busby spoke with a very alert and pleased air.
"Tanfield—" Rotha repeated with slow recollection. "O I believe I know.I think I have heard of Tanfield."
"Of course. It is the old place where I lived when I was a girl; and a lovely place it is."
"And just think!" put in Antoinette. "Isn't it funny? I have never seen it."
"Who is there?" Rotha asked.
"O the old house is there, and the garden; and somebody who will make you very comfortable. I will take care that she makes you comfortable. I shall see about that."
"Who is that? old Janet?" asked Antoinette.
"No. Janet is not there?"
"Who then, mamma?"
"Persons whom I have put in charge."
"Do I know them?"
"You know very little about them—not enough to talk."
"Mamma! As if one couldn't talk without knowing about things! Who is it, mamma? I want to know who will have the care of Rotha."
"It is not necessary you should know at present. Rotha can tell you, when she has tried them."
"I suppose I shall have the care of myself," said Rotha; to whom all this dialogue somehow sounded unpromising. To her remark no answer was made.
"Mamma, what will Rotha do there, all by herself?"
"She will have people all round her."
"She don't know them. You mean the Tanfield people?"
"Who else should live at Tanfield. I was one of the Tanfield people myself once."
"What sort of people are they, mamma?"
"Excellent people."
"Country people!—"
"Country people can be a very good sort. You need not sneer at them."
"I remark that you have not been anxious to go back and see them, mamma."
Rotha was dumb meanwhile, and during a longer continuance of this sort of talk; with a variety of feelings at work in her, among which crept a certain flavouring of suspicion. Was she to bealonein her mother's old home at Tanfield? Alone, with companions that could not be companions? Was it any use to question her aunt further? She feared not; yet the questions would come.
"What sort of persons are those in the house, aunt Serena?"
"Quite sufficient to take good care of you. A man and his wife. Honest people, and kind."
"Servants!"
"In so far as they are serving me."
Antoinette again pressed to be told who they were, was again put off. From the little altercation resulting, Mrs. Busby turned to Rotha with a new theme.
"You will not want your New York wardrobe there,—what will you do? Leave your trunk here? That will be best, I think, till you come back again."
"O no," said Rotha hastily. "I will take it with me."
"You will not want it, my dear. Summer is just here; what, you need up there is some nice calico dresses; those will be just the thing. I will get some for you this very day, and have them cut out; and then you can take them and make them up. It will give you something to do. Your winter wardrobe would be of no service to you there, and to carry it back and forward would be merely trouble and risk."
"To leave it here would be risk."
"Not at all. There will be somebody in charge of the house."
"I prefer to have the charge of my own clothes myself."
"My dear, I am not going to take it from you; only to guard the things for you while you are away. They would be out of place in the summer and at Tanfield."
"Some would; but they are all mixed up," said Rotha, trying to keep her patience, though the blood mounted into her cheeks dangerously.
"They can be separated," said Mrs. Busby coolly. "When your trunks come,I will do that for you."
Not if I am alive! thought Rotha; but she remembered the old word—"If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably—" and she held her tongue. However, later in the day when Mrs. Busby came in after buying the calicos, the proposition was renewed. She came to Rotha and demanded the keys of the boxes.
"Thank you, aunt Serena—I would rather do what I want done, myself."
"Very well," said Mrs. Busby pleasantly; "but if you will give me the keys, I will see what I think ought to be done. I can judge better than you can."
"I would rather not," said Rotha. "If you please, and if you do not mind, ma'am, I would rather nobody went into my trunk but myself."
"Don't be a child, Rotha!"
"No, aunt Serena. I remember that I am one no longer."
"But I wish to have your keys—do you understand?"
"Perfectly; and I do not wish to give them. You understand that."
"Your wish ought to give way to mine," said Mrs. Busby severely.
"Why?" said Rotha, looking at her with a frank face.
"Because you are under my care, and I stand in the place of a mother to you."
Hot words sprang to Rotha's lips, hot and passionate words of denial; but she did not speak them; her lips opened and closed again.
"Do you refuse me?" Mrs. Busby asked, after waiting a moment.
"Entirely!" said Rotha looking up again.
"Then you defy me!"
"No, I mean nothing of the kind. You are asking a thing which no one has a right to ask. I am simply holding my rights; which I will do."
"So shall I hold mine," said Mrs. Busby shortly; "and you do not seem to know what they are. Your trunk will not leave this house; you may make such arrangements as it pleases you. And I shall give myself no further trouble about one who is careless what annoyance she makes me. I had intended to accompany you myself and see you comfortably settled; but it appears that nothing I could do would be of any pleasure to you. I shall let you go without me and make your own arrangements."
With which speech Mrs. Busby ended the interview; and Rotha was left to think what she would do next.
Her trunk must be left behind. It was too plain that here power was on the side of her aunt. Without coming to downright fighting, this point could not be carried against her. Rotha longed to go and talk to Mrs. Mowbray; alas, that was not to be thought of. Mrs. Mowbray's hands and head were full, and her house was a forbidden place. How swiftly circumstances can whirl about in this world! Yesterday a refuge, to-day a danger. Rotha must leave her trunk. But many things in it she must not leave. What to do? I will not deny that her thoughts were bitter for a while. A little matter! Yes, a little matter, compared with Waterloo or Gravelotte; butnota little matter to a girl in every day life and having a girl's every day liking for being neat and feeling comfortable. And right is right; and the infringing of right is hard to bear, perhaps equally hard, whether it concerns a nation's boundaries or a woman's wardrobe. If Rotha had been more experienced, perhaps the wisdom of doing nothing would have suggested itself; but she was young and did not know what to do. So she laid out of her trunk certain things; her Bible and Scripture Treasury; her writing materials; her underclothes; and her gloves. If Rotha had a weakness, it was for neat andsuitablegloves. The rest of her belongings she locked up carefully, and sat down to await the course of events.
It was swift, as some intuition told her it would be. There was no more disputing. Mrs. Busby let the subject of the trunk drop, and was as benign as usual; which was never benign except exteriorly. She was as good as her word in purchasing calicos; brought home what seemed to Rotha an unnecessary stock of them; and that afternoon and the next day kept a dress-maker cutting and basting, and Rotha at work to help. These cut and basted dresses, as they were finished, Mrs. Busby stowed with her own hands in a little old leather trunk. Then, when the last one went in, she told Rotha to bring whatever she wished to have go with her.
"To put in that?" Rotha asked.
"Certainly. It will hold all you want."
Rotha struggled with herself with the feeling of desperate indignation which came over her; struggled, grew red and grew pale, but finally did go without another word; and brought down, pile by pile, her neat under wardrobe. Mrs. Busby packed and packed. Her trunk was leather, and strong, but its capacities were bounded by that very strength.
"All these!" she exclaimed in a sort of despair. "There is no use whatever in having so much linen under wear."
Rotha was silent.
"It ismuchbetter to have fewer things, and let them be washed as often as necessary. A family would want a caravan at this rate."
"This is Mrs. Mowbray's way," said Rotha.
"Mrs. Mowbray's way is not a way to be copied, unless you are a millionaire. She is the most extravagant woman I ever met, without exception."
"But aunt Serena, it costs no more in the end, whether you have a dozen things for two years, and comfort, or half a dozen a year, and discomfort."
"You don't know that you will live two years to want them."
"You don't know that you will live one, for that matter," said Antoinette, who always spoke her mind, careless whom the words touched. "At that rate, mamma, we ought to do like savages,—have one dress and wear it out before getting another; but it strikes me that would be rather disagreeable."
"You will not find anybody at Tanfield to do all this washing for you,"Mrs. Busby went on.
"I shall have no more washing done than if I had fewer things," Rotha said.
"Then there is no sort of use in lugging all these loads of linen up there just to bring them back again. The trunk will not hold them. Here, Rotha—take back these,—and these, and these—"
Rotha received them silently; silently carried them up stairs and came down for more. She was in a kind of despair. Her Bible and most precious belongings she had put carefully in her travelling bag, rejoicing in its beauty and security.
"Mamma," said Antoinette now, "does Rotha know when she is going?"
"I do not know."
"Well, that's funny. I should think you would tell her. Why it's almost time for her to put on her bonnet."
Rotha's eyes went from one to the other. She was startled.
"I am going to send you off by the night train to Tanfield,"—Mrs. Busby said without looking up from the trunk.
"Thenighttrain!" exclaimed Rotha.
"It is the best you can do. It brings you there by daylight. The night train is as pleasant as any."
"If you have company"—said Rotha.
"And if the cars don't run off nor anything," added Antoinette. "All the awful accidents happen in the night."
"I would not have Rotha go alone," said Mrs. Busby grimly; "but she don't want my companionship."
Rotha would have been glad of it; however, she did not say so. She stood confounded. What possible need of this haste?
"Put your things away, Rotha," said Mrs. Busby glancing up,—"and come down to dinner. You must leave at seven o'clock, and I have had dinner early for you."
The dinner being early, Mr. Busby was not there; which Rotha regretted. From him she hoped for at least one of his dry, sensible remarks, and possibly a hint of sympathy. She must go without it. Dinner had no taste, and the talk that went on no meaning. Very poor as this home was, it was better than an unknown country, and uncongenial as were her companions, she preferred them to nobody. Gradually there grew a lump in her throat which almost choked her.
Meantime she was silent, seemed to eat, and did quietly whatever she was told She put up sandwiches in a paper; accepted an apple and some figs; looked curiously at the old basement dining room, which she had never liked, but which had never seemed to her so comfortable as now; and at last left it to get herself ready. Taking her Russia bag in her hand, she seemed to grasp Mrs. Mowbray's love; and it comforted her.
Her aunt and she had a silent drive through the streets, already dark and lamp-lit. All necessary directions were given her by the way, and a little money to pay for her drive out from Tanfield. Then came the confusion of the Station—not the Grand Central by any means; the bustle of getting her seat in the cars; her aunt's cold kiss. And then she was alone, and the engine sounded its whistle, and the train slowly moved away into the darkness.
For a while Rotha's mind was in a tumult of confusion. If Mrs. Mowbray knew where she was at that minute! She had had no chance to write to her. If she only knew! What then? she could not help matters. O but she could! Mrs. Mowbray could always find help. Love that would not rest, energy that would not tire, a power of will that would not be denied, and a knowledge and command of men and things which enabled her always to lay her hand on the right means and apply them; all this belonged to Mrs. Mowbray, and made her the most efficient of helpers. But just now, doubtless, the affairs of her own house laid full claim to all her energies; and then, she did not know about Rotha's circumstances. How strange, thought Rotha, that she does not—that things should have come together so that she cannot! I seem to be cut off designedly from her, and from everybody.
There crept slowly into her heart the recollection that there was One who did know the whole; and if there were design in the peculiar collocation of events, as who could doubt, it wasHisdesign. This gave a new view of things. Rotha looked round on the dingy car, dingy because so dimly lighted; filled, partly filled, with dusky figures; and wondered if one there were so utterly alone as she, and marvelled greatly why she had been brought into such a strange position. Separated from everything! Then her Russia bag rebuked her, for her Bible was in it. Not separated from God, whose message was there; perhaps, who knows? she was to come closer to him, in the default of all other friends. She remembered the words of a particular psalm which not long ago had been read at morning prayers and commented on by Mrs. Mowbray; it came home to her now.
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made heaven and earth."
If he made heaven and earth, he surely can manage them. And Mrs. Mowbray had said, that whoever could honestly adopt and say those first words of the psalm, might take to himself also all the following. Then how it went on!—
"He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep."
The tears rushed into Rotha's eyes. So he would watch the night train in which she journeyed, and let no harm come to it without his pleasure. The words followed,—
"The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand; the sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil, he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore."
It was to Rotha as if she had suddenly seen a guard of angels about her. Nay, better than that. She was a young disciple yet, she had not learned all the ins and outs of faith; but this night her journey was sweet to her. The train rumbled along through the darkness; but "darkness and the light are alike to him," she remembered. Now and then the cars stopped at a village or wayside station; and a few lights shone upon boards and platforms and bits of wall; sometimes shone from within a saloon where refreshments were set out; there were switches to be turned on or off; there was a turn-out place where the train waited three quarters of an hour for the down train. All the same! Rotha remembered that switches and turnouts made no manner of difference, no more than the darkness, if the Lord was keeping her. It was somehow a sweet kind of a night that she had; not alone nor unhappy; faith, for the moment at least, laying its grasp on the whole wide realm of promise and resting satisfied and quiet in its possessions. After a while she slept and dozed, waking up occasionally to feel the rush and hear the rumble of the cars, to remember in whose hand she was, and then quietly to doze off again.
The last time she awoke, the rush and the roar had ceased; the train was standing still in the darkness. Not utterly in the dark, for one or two miserable lamps were giving a feeble illumination; and there was a stir and a hum of voices. Another station, evidently. "What is it?" she asked somebody passing her.
"Tanfield."
Tanfield! and this darkness still. "What o'clock is it, please?" she asked the conductor, who just then appeared.
"Three o'clock in the morning. You stop here, don't you?"
"Yes; but how can I get to the hotel?"
"It's just by; not a dozen steps off. Here, give me your bag—I'll see you there. We don't go on; change cars, for whoever wants to go further. You don't go further?"
"No."
"Then come on."
Half awake, and dazed, Rotha gratefully followed her companion; who piloted the way for her out of the train and through the station house and across a street, or road rather, for it was not paved. A hotel of some pretension faced them on the other side of the street. The kind conductor marched in like one at home, sent for the sleepy chambermaid, and consigned Rotha to her care.
"You would like a room and a bed, ma'am?"
"A room, yes, and water to wash the dust off; but I do not want a bed.How early can you give me breakfast?"
"Breakfast? there's always breakfast full early, ma'am, for the train that goes out at half past six. You'll get breakfast then. Going by the half past six train, ma'am?"
"No. I shall want some sort of a carriage by and by, to drive me out to Mrs. Busby's place; do you know where that is? And can I get a carriage here?"
"You can get carriages enough. I don't know about no places. Then you'll take breakfast at six, ma'am? You'll be called."
With which she shewed Rotha into a bare little hotel room, lit a lamp, and left her.
Rotha refreshed herself with cold water and put her hair in order. It must be half past three then. She went to the window, pulled up the shade and opened the sash and sat down. At half past three in the morning, when the season is no further advanced than May, the world is still nearly dark. Yet two cocks were answering each other from different roosts in the neighbourhood, and announcing that morning was on its way. The sky gave little token yet, however; and the stars sparkled silently out of its dark depths. The rush and the roar of the train, and of life itself, seemed to be left behind; the air had the fresh sweetness which it never can have where human beings do greatly congregate; there was a spice in it which Rotha had not tasted for a long while. That sort of spice is enlivening and refreshing; there is a good tonic in it, which Rotha felt and enjoyed; at the same time it warned her she was in new circumstances. She had an uneasy suspicion, or intuition rather, that these new circumstances were not intended, so far as her aunt's intentions affected them, to be of transient duration. It was all very well to talk of July or the beginning of August; truth has a way of making itself known independent of words and even athwart them; and so it had been now; and while Mrs. Busby talked of the middle of summer, some subtle sense in Rotha's nature translated the words and made them signify an indefinite and distant future, almost as uncertain as indefinite. Rotha could not help feeling that it might be long before she saw New York or Mrs. Mowbray again; and anew the wondering thought arose, why Mrs. Mowbray should have been incapacitated for helping her precisely at this juncture? It was mysterious. It was evident that a higher rule than Mrs. Busby's was taking effect here; it was plain that not her aunt alone had willed to put her away from all she trusted and delighted in, and bring her to this strange place; where she would be utterly alone and uncared- for and shut off from all her beloved pursuits. But why?
It is the vainest of questions; yet one which in such circumstances mortals are terribly tempted to ask. If they could be told,then, the design of the movement would be lost upon their mental and spiritual education; and ten to one the ulterior developments would be hindered also which are meant to turn to their temporal advantage. It is in the nature of things, that the "why" should be hidden in darkness; without being omniscient we cannot see beforehand the turns that things will take; and so now is Faith's time to be quiet and trust and believe. And somehow faith is apt to find it hard work. Most of us know what it is to trust a human fellow creature absolutely, implicitly; with so full a trust that we are not afraid nor doubtful nor unwilling; but with one hand in the trusted one's hand are ready to go blindly anywhere, or to dare or to do gladly, counting with certainty that there is no hazard about it. So children can trust their father or their mother; so friends and lovers can trust one another. But it is very hard, somehow, to trust God so. Precisely such trust is what he wants of us; but—we do not know him well enough! "They that know thy namewill put their trust in thee." Yet it is rare, rare, to find a Christian who can use Faber's words—
"I know not what it is to doubt;My mind is ever gay;I run no risk, for come what will,Thou always hast thy way."
Rotha at any rate had not got so far. Her mind was in a troubled state, as she sat at the window of the Tanfield hotel and stared out into the dewy dusk of the morning. It was indignant besides; and that is a very disturbing element in one's moods. She felt wronged, and she felt helpless. The sweet trust of the night seemed to have deserted her. A weary sense of loneliness and forlornness came instead, and at last found its safest expression in a good hearty fit of weeping. That washed off some of the dust from her tired spirit.
When she raised her head again and looked out, the dawn was really coming up in the sky. Things were changed. There was a sweeter breath in the air; there was an indefinable stir of life in all nature. The grey soft light was putting out the stars; the tops of the trees swayed gently in a morning breeze; scents came fresher from flowers and fields; scents so rarely spicy and fragrant as dwellers in towns never know them, as all towns of men's building banish them. Birds were twittering, cocks were crowing; and soon a stir of humanity began to make itself known in the neighbourhood; a soft, vague stir and movement telling of the awaking to life and business and a new day. Feet passed along the corridor within doors, and doors opened and shut, voices sounded here and there, horses neighed, dogs barked. Rotha sat still, looking, watching, listening, with a growing spring of life and hope in herself answering to the movement without her. And then the light broadened; dusky forms began to take colour; the eastern sky grew bright, and the sun rose.
Now Rotha could see about her. She was in a well-built village. Well-to- do looking house tops appeared between the leafy heads of trees that were much more than "well-to-do"; that were luxuriant, large, and old, and rich in their growth and thriving. The road Rotha could not see from her window; however, what she did see shewed that the place was built according to the generous roomy fashion of New England villages; the houses standing well apart, with gardens and trees around and between them; and furthermore there was an inevitable character of respectability and comfort apparent everywhere. Great round elm heads rose upon her horizon; and the roof trees which they shadowed were evidently solid and substantial. This town, to be sure, was not Rotha's place of abode; yet she might fairly hope to find that, when she got to it, of the like character.
She sat at the window almost moveless, until she was called to her early breakfast. It was spread in a very large hall-like room, where small tables stood in long rows, allowing people to take their meals in a sort by themselves. Rotha placed herself at a distance from all the other persons who were breakfasting there, and was comfortably alone.
She never forgot that meal in all her life. She wanted it; that was one thing; she was faint and tired, with her night journey and her morning watch. The place was brilliantly clean; the service rendered by neat young women, who went back and forth to a room in the rear whence the eatables were issued. And very excellent they were, albeit not in the least reminding one of Delmonico's; if Delmonico had at that day existed to let anybody remember him. No doubt, it might have been difficult to guess where the coffee was grown; but it was well made and hot and served with good milk and cream; and Rotha was exhausted and hungry. The coffee was simply nectar. The corn bread was light and sweet and tender; the baked potatoes were perfect; the butter was good, and the ham, and the apple sauce, and the warm biscuit. There was a pleasant sensation of independence and being alone, as Rotha sat at her little table in the not very brightly lit room; and it seemed as if strength and courage came back to her heart along with the refitting of her physical nature. She was not in a hurry to finish her breakfast. The present moment was pleasant, and afforded a kind of lull; after it must come action, and action would plunge her into she could not tell what. The lull came to an end only too soon.
"Do you know where Mrs. Busby's place is?" she inquired of the girl that served her.
"Place? No, I don't. Is it in Tanfield?"
"It is near Tanfield."
"You are not going by the train, then?"
"No. I am going to this place. Can I get a carriage to take me there?"
"I'll ask Mr. Jackson."
Mr. Jackson came up accordingly, and Rotha repeated her question. He was a big, fat, comfortable looking man.
"Busby?" he said with his hand on his chin—"I don't seem to recollect noBusbys hereabouts. O, you mean the old Brett place?"
"Yes, I believe I do. Mrs. Busby owns it now."
"That's it. Mrs. Busby. She was the old gentleman's daughter. The family aint lived here this long spell."
"But there is somebody there? somebody in charge?"
"Likely. Somebody to look arter things. You're a goin' there?"
"If I can get a carriage to take me."
"When'll you want it?"
"Now. At once."
"There aint no difficulty about that, I guess. Baggage?"
"One small trunk."
"All right I'll have the horse put to right away."
So a little before eight o'clock Rotha found herself in a buggy, with her trunk behind her and a country boy beside her for a driver, on the way to her aunt's place.
Eight o'clock of a May morning is a pleasant time, especially when May is near June. All the world was fresh and green and dewy; the very spirit of life in the air, and the very joy of life too, for a multitude of birds were filling it with their gleeful melody. How they sang! and how utterly perfumed was every breath that Rotha drew. She sniffed the air and tasted it, and breathed in full long breaths of it, and could not get enough. Breathing such air, one might put up with a good deal of disagreeableness in other things. The country immediately around Tanfield she found was flat; in the distance a chain of low hills shut in the horizon, blue and fair in the morning light; but near at hand the ground was very level. Fields of springing grain; meadows of lush pasture; orchards of apple trees just out of flower; a farmhouse now and then, with its comfortable barns and outhouses and cattle in the farmyard. Every here and there one or two great American elms, lifting their great umbrella-like canopies over a goodly extent of turf. Barns and houses, fences and gateways, all in order; nothing tumble-down or neglected to be seen anywhere; an universal look of thrift and business and comfort. The drive was inexpressibly sweet to Rotha, with her Medwayville memories all stirred and quickened, and the contrast of her later city life for so many years. She half forgot what lay behind her and what might be before; and with her healthy young spirit lived heartily in the present. The drive however was not very long.
At the end of two miles the driver stopped and got down before a white gate enclosed in thick shrubbery. Nothing was to be seen but the gate and the green leafage of trees and shrubs on each side of it. The boy opened the gate, led his horse in, shut the gate behind him, then jumped up to his seat and drove on rapidly. The road curved in a semi-circle from that gate to another at some distance further along the road; and midway, at the point most distant from the road, stood a stately house. The approach was bordered with beds of flowers and shrubbery; a thick hedge of trees and shrubs ran along the fence that bordered the road and hid it from the house, sheltering the house also from the view of passers-by; and tall trees, some of them firs, increased the bowery and bosky effect. The house was well shut in. And the flower borders were neglected, and the road not trimmed; so that the impression was somewhat desolate. All windows and blinds and doors moreover were close and fastened; the look of life was entirely wanting.
"Is there anybody here?" said Rotha, a little faint at heart.
"I'll find out if there aint," said her boy companion, preparing to spring out of the wagon.
"O give me the reins!" cried Rotha. "I'll hold them while you are gone."
"You can hold 'em if you like, but he won't do nothin'," returned Jehu. And dashing round the corner of the house, he left Rotha to her meditations. All was still, only the birds were full of songs and pouring them out on all sides; from every tree and bush came a warble or a twitter or a whistle of ecstasy. The gleeful tones half stole into Rotha's heart; yet on the whole her spirit thermometer was sinking. The place had the neglected air of a place where nobody lives, and that has always a depressing effect. Her charioteer's absence was prolonged, too; which of itself was not cheering. At last he came dashing round the corner again.
"Guess it's all right," he said. "But you'll have to git down, fur's I see; I can't git you no nearer, and she won't come to the front door. They don't never open it, ye see. So they says."
Rotha descended, and bag in hand followed the boy, who piloted her round the corner of the house and along a weedy walk overhung with lilacs and syringas and overgrown rosebushes, until they were near another corner. The house seemed to be square on the ground.
"There!" said he,—"you go jist roun' there, and you'll see the kitchen door—leastways the shed; and so you'll git in. Mrs. Purcell is there."
"Who is Mrs. Purcell?" said Rotha stopping.
"I d'n' know; she's the woman what stops here; her and Joe Purcell. She's Joe Purcell's wife. I'll git your trunk out, but you must send some un roun' to fetch it, you see."
Rotha turned the second corner, while the boy went back; and a few steps more brought her round to the back of the house, where there was a broad space neatly paved with small cobble stones. An out-jutting portion of the building faced her here, and a door in the sane. This must be the "shed," though it had not really that character. Rotha went in. It seemed to be a small outer kitchen. At the house side an open ladder of steps led up to another door. Going up, Rotha came into the kitchen proper. A fire was burning in the wide chimney, and an old-fashioned dresser opposite held dishes and tins. Between dresser and fire stood a woman, regarding Rotha as she came in with a consideration which was more curious than gracious. Rotha on her part looked eagerly at her. She was a tall woman, very well formed; not very neatly dressed, for her sleeves were worn at the elbows, and a strip torn from her skirt and not torn off, dangled on the floor. The dress was of some dark stuff, too old to be of any particular colour. But what struck Rotha immediately was, that the woman was not a white woman. Very light she was, undoubtedly, and of a clear good colour, but she had not the fair tint of the white races. Red shewed in her cheeks, through the pale olive of them; and her hair, black and crinkly, was not crisp but long, and smoothly combed over her temples. She was a very handsome woman; a fact which Rotha did not perceive at first, owing to a dark scowl which drew her eyebrows together, and under which her eyes looked forth fiery and ominous. They fixed the new-comer with a steady stare of what seemed displeasure.
"Good morning!" said Rotha. "Are you Mrs. Purcell?"
"Who wants Mrs. Purcell?" was the gruff answer.
"I was told that Mrs. Purcell is the name of the person who lives here?"
"There's two folks lives here."
"Yes," said Rotha, "I understood so. You and your husband work for Mrs.Busby, do you not?"
"No," said the woman decidedly. "Us don't work for nobody. Us works for our ownselves;"—with an accent on the word "own."
"This is Mrs. Busby's house?"
"Yes, this is her house, I reckon."
"And she pays you for taking care of it."
"Who told you she does?"
"Nobody told me; but I supposed it, of course."
"She don't pay nothin'. Us pays her; that's how it is. Us pays her, for all us has; the land and the house and all."
"I am Mrs. Busby's niece. Did she send you any word about me?"
"Sent Joseph word—" said the woman mutteringly. "He said as some one was comin'. I suppose it's you. I mean, Mr. Purcell."
"Then you expected me. Did Mrs. Busby tell you what you were to do with me?"
"I didn't read the letter," said the woman, turning now from her examination of Rotha to take up her work, which had been washing up her breakfast dishes. "Joseph didn't tell me nothin'."
"I suppose you know where to put me," said Rotha, getting a little out of patience. "I shall want a room. Where is it to be?"
"Idon' know," said Mrs. Purcell, whose fingers were flying among her pots and dishes in a way that shewed laziness was no part of her character. "There aint no room but at the top o' the house. Joseph and me has the only room that's down stairs. I s'pose you wouldn't like one o' the parlours. The rest is all at the top."
"Can I go to the parlour in the mean time, till my room is ready?—if it is not ready."
"It aint ready. I never heerd you was comin', till last night. How was I to have the room ready? and I don' know which room it's to be."
"Then can I go to the parlour? where is it?"
"It's all the next floor. There's nothin' but parlours. You can go there if you like; but they aint been opened in a year. I never was in 'em but once or twice since I lived here."
Rotha was in despair. She set her bag on one chair and placed herself on another, and waited. This was far worse even than her fears. O if she had but a little money, to buy this woman's civility! perhaps it could be bought. But she was thrown from one dependence to another; and now she was come to depend on this common person. She did not know what more to say; she could not do anything to propitiate her. She waited.
"Have you had any breakfast?" said Mrs. Purcell, after some ten minutes had passed with no sound but that of her cups and plates taken up and set down. This went on briskly; Mrs. Purcell seemed to be an energetic worker.
"Yes, thank you. I took breakfast at the hotel in Tanfield."
"I didn't know but I had to cook breakfast all over again."
"I will not give you any more trouble than I can help—if you will only give me a room by and by."
"There's nothin' fur I togive—you can pick and choose in the whole house. Us has only these rooms down here; there's the whole big barn of a house overhead. Folks meant it to be a grand house, I s'pose; it's big enough; but I don't want no more of it than I can take care of."
"You can take care of my room, I suppose?" said Rotha.
The woman gave a kind of grunt, which was neither assent nor denial, but rather expressed her estimation of the proposal. She went on silently and rapidly with her kitchen work; putting up her dishes, brushing the floor, making up the fire, putting on a pot or two. Rotha watched and waited in silence also, trying to be patient. Finally Mrs. Purcell took down a key, and addressing herself to Rotha, said,
"Now I'm ready. If you like to come, you can see what there is."
She unlocked a door and led the way up a low flight of steps. At the top of them another door let them out upon a wide hall. The hall ran from one side of the house to the other. With doors thrown open to let in the air and light this might have been a very pleasant place; now however it was dark and dank and chilly, with that dismal closeness and rawness of atmosphere which is always found in a house long shut up. Doors on the one hand and on the other hand opened into it, and at the end where the two women had entered it, ran up a wide easy staircase.
"Will you go higher?" said Mrs. Purcell; "or will you have a room here?"
Rotha opened one of the doors. Light coming scantily in through chinks in the shutters revealed dimly a very large, very lofty apartment, furnished as a drawing-room. She opened another door; it gave a repetition of the same thing, only the colour of the hangings and upholsteries seemed to be different. A third, and a fourth; they were all alike; large, stately rooms, fit to hold a great deal of company, or to accommodate an exceedingly numerous family with sitting and dining and receiving rooms. The four saloons took up the entire floor.
"There is no bedroom here," said Rotha.
"The folks that lived here didn't make no 'count o' sleepin', I guess. They put all the house into their parlours. I suppose the days was longer than the nights, when they was alive."
"But there must be bedrooms somewhere?"
"You can go up and see.Uswouldn't sleep up there for nothin'. Us could ha' took what we liked when us come; but I said to Mr. Purcell,—I said,—I wasn't goin' to break my back runnin' up and down stairs; and if he wanted to live up there, he had got to live without I. So us fixed up a little room down near the kitchen. These rooms is awful hot in summer, too. I can dry fruit in 'em as good as in an oven."
They had reached the top story of the house by this time, after climbing a long flight of stairs. Here there were a greater number of rooms, and indeed furnished as bedrooms; but they were low, and immediately under the roof. The air was less dank than in the first story, but excessively close.
"Is this all the choice I have?" Rotha asked.
"Unless us was to give you our room."
"But nobody else sleeps in all this part of the house!"
"No," said Mrs. Purcell, with an action that answered to a Frenchman's shrug of the shoulders; "you can have 'em all, and sleep in 'em all, one after the other, if you like. There's nobody to object."
"But suppose I wanted something in the night?" said Rotha, who did not in the least relish this liberty.
"You'd have to holler pretty loud, if you wanted I to do anything for you. I guess you'll have to learn to wait on yourself."
"O it isn't that," said Rotha; "I can wait on myself; but if I wanted— something I couldn't do for myself—if I was frightened—"
"What's to frighten you?"
"I do not know—"
"If you got frightened, all you'd have to do would be to take your little feet in your hand and run down to we; that's all you could do."
Rotha looked somewhat dismayed.
"I could ha' told you, it wasn't a very pleasant place you was a comin' to," Mrs. Purcell went on. "Sick o' your bargain, aint ye?"
"What bargain?"
"I don' know! Which o' these here rooms will you take? You've seen the whole now."
Rotha was very unwilling to make choice at all up there. Yet a thought of one of those great echoing drawing rooms was dismissed as soon as it came. At last she fixed upon a room near the head of the stairs; a corner room, with outlook in two directions; flung open the windows to let the air and the light come, in; and locked up her bag in a closet.
"There aint nobody to meddle with your things," observed Mrs. Purcell, noticing this action,—"without it's me; and I've got enough to do down stairs. There's nothin' worse than rats in the house."
"Have you some sheets and towels for me?" said Rotha. "And can you give me some water by and by?"
"I've got no sheets and towels but them as us uses," replied Mrs. Purcell. "Mrs Busby haint said nothin' about no sheets and towels. Those us has belongs to we. They aint like what rich folks has."
"I have brought none with me, of course. Mrs. Busby will pay you for the use of them, I have no doubt."
"Mrs. Busby don't pay for nothin'," said the woman.
"Will you bring me some water?"
"I'll give you a pail, and you can fetch some for your own self. I can't go up and down them stairs. It gives me a pain in my back. I'll let you have some o' us's sheets, if you like."
"If you please," said Rotha.
"But I can't come up with 'em. I'd break in two if I went up and down there a few times. I'll let you have 'em whenever you like to come after 'em."
And therewith Mrs. Purcell vanished, and her feet could be heard descending the long stair. I think in all her life Rotha had never felt much more desolate than she felt just then. She let herself drop on a chair and buried her face in her hands. Things were worse, a hundred fold, than ever she could have imagined them. She was of rather a nervous temperament; and the idea of being lodged up there at the top of that great, empty, echoing house, with nobody within call, and neither help nor sympathy to be had if she wanted either, absolutely appalled her. True, no danger was to be apprehended; not real danger; but that consideration did not quiet fancy nor banish fear; and if fear possessed her, what sort of consolation was it that there was no cause? The fear was there, all the same; and Rotha thought of the yet distant shades of night with absolute terror. After giving way to this feeling for a little while, she began to fight against it. She raised her head from her hands, and went and sat down by the open window. Soft, sweet, balmy air was coming in gently, changing the inner condition of the room by degrees; Rotha put her head half out, to get it unmixed. It was May, May in the country; and the air was bringing May tokens with it, of unseen sweetness. There were lilies of the valley blooming somewhere, and daffodils; and there was the smell of box, and spice from the fir trees, and fragrance from the young leaf of oaks and maples and birches and beeches. There was a wild scent from not distant woods, given out from mosses and wild flowers and turf, and the freshness of the upturned soil from ploughed fields. It was May, and May whispering that June was near. The whisper was so unspeakably sweet that it stole into Rotha's heart and breathed upon its disturbance, almost breathing it away. For June means life and love and happiness.
"Everything is happy now;Everything is upward striving;'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true,As for grass to be green or skies to be blue;'Tis the natural way of living!"
June was coming, and May was here; more placid and more pensive, but hardly less fair; that is, in her good moods; and Rotha insensibly grew comforted.Thisdelight would remain, whatever she had or had not within the house; there was all out of doors, and the Spring! and Rotha's heart made a great bound to meet it. She could live out of doors a great deal; and in the house—well, she would make the best of things.
She drew in her head to take a survey. Yes, it was a snug room enough, once in nice order; and the first thing to do, she decided, was to put it in nice order. She must do it herself. O for one of those calicos, lying at present cut and basted in her trunk. She must make them up as fast as possible. With the feeling of a good deal of business on hand, Rotha's spirits rose. She went down to the kitchen again, and begged the loan of a big apron. Mrs. Purcell silently gave it. Then Rotha desired brushes and a broom and dusters, and soap and water and towels. One after another Mrs. Purcell placed these articles, such as she had, at her disposal.
"My trunk is in the road by the front steps," she remarked. "Can you get it taken up for me?"
"A trunk?" said Mrs. Purcell, knitting her brows again into the scowl which had greeted Rotha at the first. A very black scowl the latter thought it.
"Yes, my trunk. It's a little one. Not much for anybody to carry."
"Whatever did you want of a trunk?"
"Why, to hold my things," said Rotha quietly.
"Are you goin' to stay all summer?"
"I hope not; but I do not know how long. My aunt is going on a journey; I must stay till she comes back."
"Why didn't she let you go along?"
"I suppose it was not convenient."
A grunt from Mrs. Purcell. "Rich folks only thinks what's convenient for their own selves!"
"But she will pay you for your trouble."
"She'll pay Mr. Purcell, if she pays anybody. It don't come intomypocket, and the trouble don't go into his'n."
"I shall not be much trouble."
"Where is you goin' to eat? You won't want to eat along o' we?"
No, certainly, that was what Rotha did not want. She made no reply.
"Mis' Busby had ought to send folks to take care o' her company, when she sends company.Ihaint got no time. And us hasn't got no place. There's no place but us's kitchen—will you like to eat here? I can't go and tote things up to one o' them big parlours."
"Do the best you can for me," said Rotha. "I will try and be content." And staying no further parley, which she felt just then unable to bear, she gathered together her brushes and dusters and climbed up the long stairs again. But it was sweet when she got to her room under the roof. The May air had filled the room by this time; the May sunshine was streaming in; the scents and sounds of the spring were all around; and they brought with them inevitably a little bit of hope and cheer into Rotha's heart. Without stopping to let herself think, she set about putting the place in order; brushed and dusted everything; washed up the furniture of the washstand; made up the bed, and hung towels on the rack. Then she drew an old easy chair to a convenient place by one of the windows; put a small table before it; got out and arranged in order her writing materials, her Bible and Scripture Treasury; put her bonnet and wrappings away in a closet; and at last sat down to consider the situation.
She had got a corner of comfort up there, private to herself. The room was large and bright; one window looked out into the top of a great tulip tree, the other commanded a bit of meadow near the house, and through the branches and over the summits of firs and larches near at hand and apple trees further off, looked along a distant stretch of level country. No extended view, and nothing remarkable; but sweet, peaceful nature, green turf, and leafy tree growths; with the smell of fresh vegetation and the spiciness of the resiny evergreens, and the delicious song and chipper and warble of insects and birds. It all breathed a breath of content into Rotha's heart. But then, she was up here alone at the top of the house; there was all that wilderness of empty rooms between her and the rest of the social world; and at the end of it, what? Mrs. Purcell and her kitchen; and doubtless, Mr. Purcell. And what was Rotha to do, in the midst of such surroundings? The girl grew almost desperate by the time she had followed this train of thought a little way. It seemed to her that her pleasant room was a prison and Mr. and Mrs. Purcell her jailers; and her term of confinement one of unknown duration. If she had only a little money, then she would not be so utterly helpless and dependent; even money to buy Mrs. Purcell's civility and good-will; or if she had a little more than that, she might get away. Without any money, she was simply a prisoner, and at the mercy of her jailers. O what had become of her friends! Where was Mr. Southwode, and how could he have forgotten her? and how was it that Mrs. Mowbray had been taken from her just now, just at this point when she was needed so dreadfully? Rotha could have made all right with a few minutes' talk to Mrs. Mowbray; to write and state her grievances, she justly felt, was a different thing, not so easy nor so manifestly proper. She did not like to do what would be in effect asking Mrs. Mowbray to send for her and keep her during her aunt's absence. No, it was impossible to do that. Rotha could not Better bear anything. But then,—here she was with no help!
It all ended in some bitter weeping. Rotha was too young yet not to find tears a relief. She cried herself tired; and then found she was very much in need of sleep. She gave herself up to it, and to forgetfulness.
Rotha's sleep had not lasted two hours when it was interrupted. There came a pounding at her door. She jumped up and unlocked it.
"Joseph said, he guessed you'd want some dinner. I told him, I didn't know as you'd care for the victuals us has; but it's ready, if you like to come and try."
The extreme rudeness of the woman acted by way of a counter irritant on Rotha, and gave her self-command and composure. She answered civilly; waited to put her hair and dress in order, wisely resolving to lose no means of influence and self-assertion that were within her reach; and went down.
A small table was set in the kitchen, coarsely but neatly, as Rotha saw at a glance. It was set for three; and the third at the table was the hitherto unseen Mr. Purcell. He was a white man; not so good-looking as his wife, but with a certain aspect of sense and shrewdness that was at least not unkindly. He nodded, did not trouble himself to rise as Rotha came in; indeed he was busily occupied in supplying himself with such strength and refreshment as viands can give; and to judge by his manner he needed a great deal of such strength and was in a hurry to get it. He nodded, and indicated with a second nod the place at table which Rotha was expected to take.
"It's an unexpected pleasure," he said. "Prissy and me doesn't often have company. Hope you left Mis' Busby well?"
Rotha had an instant's hesitation, whether she should accept the place in the household thus offered her, or claim a different one. It was an instant only; her sense and her sense of self-respect equally counselled her not to try for what she could not accomplish; and she quietly took the indicated seat, and answered that Mrs. Busby was well.
"Now, what'll you eat?" Mr. Purcell went on. "We're plain folks—plainer 'n you're accustomed to, I guess; and we eat what we've got; sometimes it's one thing and sometimes it's another. Prissy, she gen'lly fixes it up somehow so's it'll do, for me, anyhow; but I don' know how it'll be with you. Now to-day, you see, we've got pork and greens; it's sweet pork, for I fed it myself and I know all about it; and the greens is first-rate. I don' know what they be; Prissy picked 'em; but now, will you try 'em? If you're hungry, they'll go pretty good."
"They's dandelions—" said Mrs. Purcell.
Pork and dandelions! Rotha was at first dumb with a sort of perplexed dismay; then she reflected, that to carry out her propitiating policy it would be best not to shew either scorn or disgust. She accepted some of the greens and the pork; found the potatoes good, and the bread of capital quality, and the butter sweet; and next made the discovery that Mr. Purcell had not overrated his wife's abilities in the cooking line; the dinner was really, of its kind, excellent. She eat bread and butter, then conscious that two pair of eyes were covertly watching her, nibbled at her greens and pork; found them very passable, and ended by making a good meal.
"You was never in these parts before?" Mr. Purcell asked meanwhile.
"No," said Rotha. "Never."
"Mis' Busby comin' along, some o' these days?"
"No, I think not. I have not heard anything about her coming here."
"'Spect she likes grand doings. Does she live very fine, down to NewYork?"
"How do you mean?"
"All the folks does, in the City o' Pride," remarked Mrs. Purcell.
"Do Mis' Busby?" persisted her husband. "Be they all highflyers, to her house?"
"I do not know what you mean by 'highflyers.'"
"Folks that wears heels to their shoes," put in Mrs. Purcell. "They can't set foot to the ground, like common folks. And they puts their hair up in a bunch on the top."
"Anybody can do that," said Mr. Purcell, sticking his knife in the butter to detach a portion of it.
"Anybody can't, Joe! that's where you're out. It takes one o' them highflyers. And then they thinks, when their heels and their heads is all right, they've got up above the rest of we."
"You can put your hair any way you've a mind to," returned her husband."There can't none of 'em get ahead o' you there."
Both parties glanced at Rotha. Her long hair was twisted up in a loose knot on the top of her head; very becoming and very graceful; for without being in the least disorderly it was careless, and without being in the least complicated or artificial it was inimitable, by one not initiated. Husband and wife looked at her, looked at each other, and laughed.
"Mis' Busby writ me about you," said Joe, slightly changing the subject."She said, you was one o' her family."
"She is my aunt."
"She is! I didn't know Mis' Busby never had no brother, nor sister', nor nothin'."
"She had a sister once."
"She aint livin' then. And you live with Mis' Busby?"
"Yes."
"Well, 'taint none o' my business, but Mis' Busby didn't say, and I didn't know what to think. She said you was comin', but she didn't say how long you was goin' to stay; and we'd like to know that, Prissy and me; 'cause o' course it makes a difference."
"In what?" said Rotha, growing desperate.
"Well, in our feelin's," said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head in a suave manner, indicating his good disposition. "You see, we don' know how to take care of you, 'thout we knowed if it was to be for a week, or a month, or that. Mis' Busby only said you was comin'; and she didn't say why nor whether."
"I do not know," said Rotha. "You must manage as well as you can without knowing; for I cannot tell you."
"Very good!" said Mr. Purcell, inclining his head blandly again; "then that's one point. You don' know yourself."
"No."
"That means she aint a goin' in a hurry," said Mrs. Purcell. "There's her trunk, Joe, that you've got to tote up stairs."
"I'll do that," said Joe rising; "if it aint bigger 'n I be. Where is it at?"