"Mrs. Cord," Mr. Digby had said in the first week of this new life,—"how is Rotha off for clothes?"
"Well, sir," said the nurse, "of course they were people not likely to have much of that sort of thing; but Rotha has what will do her through the warm season."
"But is she supplied as a young lady ought to be, with everything needful?"
"As a young lady!—no, sir. It's what she never set up for, and don't need, and knows nothing about. Her mother was a very good woman, and didn't pretend to dress her as a young lady. But she's comfortable."
Mr. Digby half smiled at the collocation of things, however he went on with full seriousness.
"She will go to school by and by, and she will go there as a young lady. I wish, Mrs. Cord, you would see to it, as far as you know, that she has a full supply of everything. Go to one of the best shops for outfits and get plenty of every thing and of good quality, and send the bills to me. And get Mrs. Marble to make her some dresses."
"Mourning, sir?"
"No. Simple things, but no black."
"I asked, because it's customary, sir."
"It's a bad custom; better broken."
"Then what shall I get, sir?" asked Mrs. Cord with unwonted stolidity.
"You need not get anything. I will see to it myself. Only the linen and all that, Mrs. Cord, which I should not know how to get. The rest I will take care of."
And he took such good care, that the good woman was filled with a displeased surprise which was inexplicable. Why should she be displeased? Yet Mrs. Cord was quite "put about," as she said, when the things came home. They were simple things, indeed; a few muslins and ginghams and the like. But the ginghams were fine and beautiful, and the muslins of delicate patterns and excellent quality; and with them came a set of fine cambrick handkerchiefs, and ruffles, and lace, and a little parasol, and a light summer wrap; for Rotha had nothing to put on that made her fit to go to drive with her guardian. He had taken her, all the same, dressed as she was, but it seems he thought there must be a change in this state of things. Mrs. Cord was full of dissatisfaction; and when she took the dresses to Mrs. Marble to be made up, the two good women held a regular pow wow over them.
"Muslin like that!" cried the little mantua-maker with an expression of strong distaste. "Why thatnevercost less than fifty cents, Mrs. Cord! My word, it didn't."
"Just think of it! And for that girl, who never wore anything but sixpenny calico if she could get it. Men are the stupidest!—"
"That ashes-of-roses lawn is the prettiest thing I've seen yet. Mrs.Cord, she don't want all these?"
"So I say," returned the nurse; "but I wasn't consulted. That aint all; you should have seen the ruffles, and the ribbands, and the pockethandkerchiefs; and then he took her somewhere, Stewart's, I shouldn't wonder, and got her gloves and gloves; and then a lovely Leghorn hat, with a brim wide enough to swallow her up. And now you must make up these muslins, and let us have one soon; for my master is in a hurry."
The little mantua-maker contemplated the muslins, and things generally.
"There's not the first sign o' black among 'em all! Not a line, nor a sprig, nor a dot."
"Maybe that's English ways," returned the nurse; "but if it is, I never heerd so before."
"Well I like to see mournin' put on, if it's only respect," went on the dress-maker; "and a girl hadn't ought to be learnt to forget her own mother, before she's well out of sight. I'd ha' dressed her in black, poor as I am, and not a sign o white about her, for one year at least. I think it looks sort o' rebellious, to do without it. Why I've known folks that would put on mourning if they hadn't enough to eat; and I admire that sort o' sperit."
The nurse nodded.
"Just look here, now! What's he thinkin' about, Mrs. Cord?"
"Just that question I've been askin' myself, Mrs. Marble; and I can't get no answer to it."
"What's he goin' to do with her?"
"He says, send her to school."
"These aint for school dresses."
"O no; these are to go ridin' about in, with him."
"WellIthink, somebody ought to take charge of her. A young man like that, aint the person to do it Taint likely he's goin' to bring her up to marry her, I suppose."
"She's too young for such thoughts," said the nurse.
"She's young, but she aint far from bein' older," Mrs. Marble went on significantly. "When a girl's once got to fifteen, she's seventeen before you can turn round."
"There'll have to be somebody else to wait upon her, I know, besides me," returned the nurse. "That aint my business. And it's all I'm wanted for now. Nobody can say a word to my young lady if it isn't the gentleman hisself; and she's with him all the while, and not with me. I aint goin' to put up with it long, I can tell 'em."
Mr. Digby's pay was good however, and Mrs. Cord did not find it convenient to give notice immediately; and also the muslin dresses were made and well made, and sent home to the day.
All these her new possessions and equipments were regarded by Rotha herself with a mixture of pleasure and mortification. The pleasure was undeniable; the girl had a nice sense of the fitness of things, inborn and natural and only needing cultivation. It was getting cultivation fast. She had a subtle perception that the new style of living into which she had come was superior to the old ways in which she had been brought up; not merely in the vulgar item of costliness, but in the far higher qualities of refinement and propriety and beauty. Her mother and father had been indeed essentially refined people, of good sense and good taste as far as their knowledge went. Rotha began to perceive that it had stopped short a good deal below the desirable point. Also she felt herself thoroughly in harmony with the new life, little as she had known of it hitherto; and was keen to discern and quick to adopt every fresh point of greater refinement in habits and manners. Mr. Digby now and then at table would say quietly, "This is the better way, Rotha,"—or, "Suppose you try itso."—He never had to give such a hint a second time. He never had to tell her anything twice. What he did, Rotha held to be "wisest, discreetest, best," the supreme model in everything; and she longed with a kind of passion to be like him in these, and in all matters. So it was with a gush of great satisfaction that the girl for the first time saw herself well and nicely dressed. She knew the difference between her old and her new garments, knew it correctly; did not place the advantage of the latter in their colour or fineness; but recognized quite well that now she looked as if she belonged to Mr. Digby, while before, nobody could have thought so for a moment. The pleasure was keen. Yet it mingled, as I said, with a sting of mortification. Not simply that her new things were his gift and came to her out of his bounty, though she felt that part of the whole business; but it pained her to feel that her own father and mother had stood below anybody in knowledge of the world and use of its elegant proprieties. Rotha was perfectly clear-sighted, and knew it, from the very keen delight with which she herself accepted and welcomed this new initiation.
The prevailing feeling however was the pleasure; though in Rotha's face and manner I may say there was no trace of it, the first day she was what Mr. Digby would have called "properly dressed," and met him in their little sitting room. She came in gravely, (she was already trying to imitate his quietness of manner) and came straight up to Mr. Digby where he was standing in the window. Rotha waited a minute, and then looked up at him, blushing.
"Do you like it?" she asked frankly.
His eye caught the new muslin, and he stepped back a step to take a view.
"Yes," he said smiling. "That's very well. Is it comfortable?"
"O yes."
"That's well," he said. "I always think it the prime question in a coat, whether it is comfortable."
He came back to his place in the window, so making an end of the subject; but Rotha had not said all that she wished to say.
"Mrs. Cord wanted me to put this on to-day, though it was not Sunday; was she right?"
"Eight? certainly. Why should one be better dressed Sunday than any other day?"
"I thought people did—" said Rotha, much confused in her ideas.
"And right enough," said Mr. Digby, recollecting himself, "in the cases where the work to be done in the week would injure or soil a good dress. But in other cases?—"
"On Sunday one goes to church," said Rotha.
"Well,—what then?"
"Oughtn't one to be better dressed to go to church?"
"Why should you?"
Rotha was so much confounded that she had nothing to say. This was overturning all her traditions.
"What do you go to church for, Rotha?"
"Ioughtto go—to think about God, I suppose."
"Well, and would much dressing help you?"
Rotha considered. "I don't think it helps much," she confessed.
"You say, you ought to go for such a reason;—what is your real reason?"
"For going? Because mother took me; or made me go without her."
"You are honest," said Mr. Digby smiling. "You will agree with me that that is a poor reason; but I am glad you understand yourself, and are not deceived about it."
"I don't think I understand myself, Mr. Digby."
"Why not?"
"Because, sometimes I am in great confusion, and cannotunderstand myself."
"Let me help you when those times come."
"One of the times is to-day," said Rotha in a low tone.
"Ah? What's the matter?" said he looking down kindly at her. Rotha had laid her forehead against the edge of the window frame, and was looking out with an intent grave eye which amused him, and made him curious too.
"Because I want to tell you something of how feel, Mr. Digby, and Icannot."—(He had told her not to saycan't, and now she never did.)"It's all mixed up, and I don't know what comes first; and you will thinkI am—ungrateful."
"Never in the world!" said he heartily. "I shall never think that. I think I know you pretty well, Rotha."
Yet he was hardly prepared for the look she gave him; a glance only, but so intent, so warm, so laden with gratitude, ay, and so burdened with a yet deeper feeling, that Mr. Digby was well nigh startled. It was not the flash of brilliancy of which Rotha's eyes were quite capable; it was a rarer thing, the dark glow of a hidden fire, true, and deep, and pure, and unconscious of itself. It gave the young man something to think of.
Mr. Digby thought of it a good deal. He was obliged to recognize the fact, that this friendless child was pouring upon him all the affection of a very passionate nature. Child, he called her in his thoughts, and yet he knew quite well that the time was not distant when Rotha would be a child no longer. And already she loved him with the intensity of a concentrated power of loving. Certainly this was not what Mr. Digby wished, or had in any wise contemplated as possible, and it seemed to him both undesirable and inconvenient; and yet, it is sweet to be loved; and he could not recall that intense look of devotion without a certain thrill. Because of its beauty, he said to himself; but it was also because of its significance. He read Rotha; he knew that she was one of those natures which have a great tendency to concentration of affection; with whom the flow of feeling is apt to be closed in to a narrow channel, and in that channel to be proportionately sweeping and powerful. What training could best be applied to correct this tendency, not happy for the possessor, nor beneficent in its effects upon others? These are the sort of natures that when untrained and ungoverned, use upon occasion the dagger and the poison cup; or which even when not untrained are in danger, in certain cases of shipwreck, of going to pieces altogether. In danger at all times of unwise, inconsiderate acting; as when such a stream meets with resistance and breaks its bounds, spreading waste and desolation where it comes. Truly, he trusted that this little girl's future might be so sheltered and cared for, that no such peril might overtake her; but how could he know? What could he do? and what anyhow was to be the outcome of all this? It was very pleasant to have her love him, but he did not want her to love him too well. At any rate,hecould not be her tutor permanently; he had something else to do, and if he had not, the arrangement would be inadmissible. Mrs. Busby would return to town in a few weeks, and then— Yes, there was nothing else to do. Rotha must go under her aunt's care, for the present. How would they agree? Mr. Digby did not feel sure; he had an anticipation that the change would be a sore trial to Rotha. But—it must be made.
He lay in his hammock one day, thinking all this over. Rotha was sitting near him drawing. She was always near him when she could be so, though a spaniel is not more unobtrusive. Nor indeed half as much so; for a pet dog will sometimes try to attract attention, which Rotha never did. She was content and happy if she could be near her one friend and glance at him from time to time. And lately Rotha had become extremely fond of her pencil; I might say, of all the studies Mr. Digby put before her. Whatever he wished her to do, she did with a will. But drawing had grown to be a passion with her, and naturally she was making capital progress. She sat absorbed in her work, her eyes intently going from her model to her paper and back again; nevertheless, every now and then one swift glance went in Mr. Digby's direction. No model, living or dead, equalled in her eyes the pleasantness of his face and figure. He caught one of those glances; quick, wistful, watchful, and meeting his eye this time, it softened with an inexplicable sort of content. The young man could have smiled, but that the look somehow gave him a touch of pain. He noticed Rotha more particularly, as she sat at her drawing. He noticed how she had changed for the better, even in the few weeks since they came to Fort Washington; how her face had refined, grown gentle and quiet, and her manners correspondingly. He noticed what a good face it was, full of intelligence and latent power, and present sensitiveness; and furthermore, a rare thing anywhere, how free from self-consciousness. Full of life and of eager susceptibility as Rotha was always, she seemed to have the least recollection of herself and her own appearance. She did not forget her new dresses, for instance, but she looked at them from her own standpoint and not from that of an imaginary spectator. Mr. Digby drew an involuntary sigh, and Rotha looked up again.
"You like that work, Rotha," he said.
"Very much, Mr. Digby!" He had once told her to be moderate in her expressions, and to say always less than she felt, rather than more. Rotha never forgot, and was sedulously reserved in her manner of making known what she felt.
"But Mr. Digby, it is very difficult," she went on.
"What?"
"To make anything perfect."
He smiled. "Very difficult indeed. People that aim so high are never satisfied with what they do."
"Then is it better to aim lower?"
"By no means! He that is satisfied with himself has come to a dead stand- still; and will get no further."
"But must one be always dissatisfied with oneself?"
"Yes; if one is ever to grow to a richer growth and bring forth better fruit. And anything that stops growing, begins to die."
Rotha gave him a peculiar, thoughtful look, and then went on with her drawing.
"Understand me, Rotha," he said, catching the look. "I am talking of the dissatisfaction of a person who is doing his best. The fact that one is dissatisfied when not doing his best, proves simply that feeling is not dead yet. There is no comfort to be drawn from that."
Rotha went on drawing and did not look up, this time. Mr. Digby considered how he should say what he wanted to say.
"Rotha—" he began, "how is it with that question you were once concerned about? Are you any nearer being a Christian?"
"I don't know, sir. I do not think I am."
"What hinders?"
"I suppose," said Rotha, playing with her pencil absently,—"the old hindrance."
"You do not wish to be a Christian."
"Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I do. But I—cannot."
"I should feel happier about you, if that question were well settled."
"Why, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, answering rather something in his tone than in his words, and looking up to get the reply.
"Because, Rotha, you take hold hard, where you take hold at all; and you may take hold of something that will fail you."
Her eyes, and even a sudden change of colour, put a startled question to him. He smiled as he answered, though again with a reminder of pain which he did not stop to analyse. "No," he said, "I will never fail you, Rotha; never voluntarily; but I have no command over my own life. I would like you to have a trust that could never disappoint you; and there is only One on whom such a trust can be lodged. He who is resting on Christ, is resting on a rock."
"I know, Mr. Digby," said Rotha, in a subdued way. "I wish I was on such a rock, too; but that don't change anything."
"Do you think you really wish to be a Christian, Rotha?"
"Because mother was,—and because you are," she said gravely; "but then,for myself, I do not want it."
"What is likely to be the end?"
"Thatdon't change anything, either," said Rotha, not too lucidly.
"Most true!" said Mr. Digby. "Well, Rotha, I will tell you what I think. I think you are your mother's child, and that you will not be left to your own wilfulness. I am afraid, though, that you may have to go through a bitter experience before the wilfulness is broken; and I want to give you one or two things to remember when it comes."
"But why should it come?" said Rotha.
"Because I am afraid nothing else will bring you to seek the one Friend that cannot be lost; and I think you are bound to find Him."
"But where will you be, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, now plainly much disturbed.
"I do not know. I do not know anything about it."
"But I could not be so forlorn, if I had you."
"Then perhaps you will not have me."
At this, however, there came such flashes of changing feeling, of which every change was a variety of pain, in the girl's face, that Mr. Digby's heart was melted. He stretched out his hand and took hers, which lay limp and unresponsive in his grasp, while distressed and startled eyes were fixed upon him.
"I know nothing about it," he said kindly. "I have no foresight of any such time. I shall never do anything to bring it about, Rotha. Only, if it came by no doing of mine, I want you to have the knowledge of one or two things which might be a help to you. Do you understand?"
She looked at him still silently, trying to read his face, as if her fate were there. He met the look as steadily. On one side, a keen, searching, suspicious, fearful inquiry; on the other a calm, frank, steadfastness; till his face broke into a smile.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
"Then why do you speak so, Mr. Digby?" she said with a quiver in her lip.
"My child, this world is proverbially an uncertain and changing thing."
"I know it; but why should you make it more uncertain by talking in that way?"
"I do not. I forestall nothing. I merely would like to have you provided with one or two bits of knowledge; a sort of note of the way, if you should need it. You are not superstitious, are you?"
"I do not know what is superstitious," said Rotha, her eyes still fixed upon his face with an intentness which moved him, while yet at the same time, he saw, she was swallowing down a great deal of disturbance.
"Well," he said, speaking very easily, "it is superstition, when people think that anything beneath the Creator has power to govern the world he has made—or to govern any part of it."
"I was not thinking of the government of the world," said Rotha,
"Only of a very small part of it,—the affairs of your little life. You were afraid that being prepared for trouble might bring the trouble, in some mysterious way?"
The girl was silent, and her eyes fell to the hand which held hers. What would she do, if ever that hand ceased to be her protection? People of Rotha's temperament receive impressions easily, and to her fancy that hand was an epitome of the whole character to which it belonged. Delicately membered, and yet nervously and muscularly strong; kept in a perfection of care, and graceful as it was firm in movement; yet ready, she knew, to plunge itself into anything where human want or human trouble called for its help. Rotha loved the touch of it, obeyed every sign of it, and admired every action of it; and now as she looked, two big, hot tears fell down over her cheeks. The hand closed a little more firmly upon her fingers.
"Rotha—you believe me?" he said.
"What, Mr. Digby?"
"You believe me when I tell you, that I am never going to leave you or lose you by any will or doing of mine—"
"By whose then?" said Rotha quickly.
"By nobody's else, either, I promise you—unless by your own."
"By mine!" said Rotha, and a faint smile broke upon her troubled face.
"Well, you believe me? And now, my child, that is all you and I can do. And nevertheless, a time might come when you might want help and comfort, that is all I am saying; and I want to give you one or two things to remember in case such a time ever does come, and I am not at hand to ask. Get your Bible, and a pencil."
He let her hand loose, and Rotha obeyed immediately.
"Find the fourth chapter of John, and read to the fourteenth verse."
Rotha did so.
"What do you think the Lord meant?"
Rotha studied, and would have said she "did not know," only she had found by experience that Mr. Digby never would take that answer from her in a case like the present.
"I suppose," she said, speaking slowly, and vainly endeavouring to find words that quite suited her,—"he meant—something like— He meant, that he could give her something good, that would last."
Mr. Digby smiled.
"That would last always, and never fail, nor change, nor wear out its goodness."
"But, Mr. Digby, I should not want to stop being thirsty, because I should lose the pleasure of drinking."
Mr. Digby smiled again. "Did you thinkthatwas what the Lord promised? What would be the use of that 'well of water, springing up into everlasting life'? No, he meant only, that thirst and thirst and thirst as you will, the supply should always be at hand and be sufficient."
Rotha gave one of her quick glances of comprehension, which it was always pleasant to meet.
"Then go on, and tell me what is this living water which the Lord will give?"
"I suppose—do you mean—religion?" she said, after another pause of consideration.
"Religion is a rather vague term—people understand very different things under it. But if by 'religion' you mean the knowledge, the loving knowledge, of God,—you are right. Living water, in the Bible, constantly typifies the work of the Holy Spirit in the heart; and what He does, where he is received, is, to shew us Christ."
"Then how can people be thirsty, after they have got the knowledge?" inquired Rotha.
But Mr. Digby's smile was very sweet this time, and awed her.
"After you have once come to know and love a friend," said he, turning his eyes upon Rotha, "are you satisfied, and want to see and hear no more of him?"
"Is religion like that?" said Rotha.
"Just like that. What the Lord Jesus offers to give us is himself. Now suppose the time come when you greatly desire to receive this gift, what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Pray?"
"Certainly. But how? There are different ways of praying; and there is just one way which the Lord promises shall never miss what it asks for."
"I don't know but one way," said Rotha.
"Are you sure you knowone?It takes more than words to make a prayer. But turn to the second chapter of Proverbs. Read the third and fourth and fifth verses."
Rotha read, and made no comment.
"You see? You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Digby."
"'If thou searchest for her as for hid treasures,thenshalt thou understand, and find.'—You know how people search for hid treasures?"
"Yes."
"They leave no stone unturned, they work by night and by day, they think of nothing else, until their object is gained. Mark those two places, Rotha, and mark them in the fly leaf of your Bible, 1. and 2."
"Suppose," he went on when she had done this, "suppose you have sought in this way, and the light does not come, and you are in danger of losing heart. Then turn to Hosea, sixth chapter and third verse. There you have an antidote against discouragement. You shall know, 'if youfollow onto know the Lord;' if you do not give over seeking and grow tired of praying. 'His going forth is prepared as the morning.' Blessed words!"——
"I do not know what they mean," said Rotha.
"Do you know how the morning is prepared?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know why the sun rises when morning comes?"
"It wouldn't be morning, if he didn't rise, would it?"
"No. Well, when the time comes," said Mr. Digby laughing. "Do you know why the sun rises? and why does he not rise where he went down?"
"No—" said Rotha, her eyes kindling with intelligent curiosity.
Whereupon Mr. Digby turned himself out of his hammock, and coming to the table gave Rotha her first lesson in astronomy; a lesson thoroughly given, and received by her with an eagerness and a delight which shewed that knowledge to her was like what the magnet is to the iron. She forgot all about the religious bearing of the new subject till the subject itself was for that time done with. Then Mr. Digby's questions returned into the former channel.
"You see now, Rotha, how the morning is 'prepared,' do you?"
"Yes, Mr. Digby," she answered joyously.
"And sure to come. If the earth goes on turning round, it cannot help coming. Even so: the Lord's coming is prepared and sure, for any one who persistently seeks him. Keep on towards the east and you will certainly see the sun rise."
"Yes," said Rotha, "I see. It is beautiful."
"Mark that No. 3 in the fly leaf! But Rotha, remember, anybody truly in earnest and searching 'as for hid treasure,' will be willing to give up whatever would render the search useless."
"Yes, of course. But what would?" said Rotha, though she was thinking more of the improvised planetarium with which her imagination had just been delighted.
"Turn once more to the fourteenth of John and read the 21st verse." ButMr. Digby himself gave the words.
"'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him.'"
"That is somebody who has found the treasure, I think, Mr. Digby; it is 'he thatloveth me.'"
"Quite true; nevertheless, Rotha, it remains a fact that nobody who is not willing to do the Lord's will, can come to the knowledge of him."
"Mr. Digby, why are wrong things so easy, and right things so hard?"
"They are not."
"I thought they were," said Rotha in surprise. "Am I worse than other people?"
"It all depends upon where you stand, Rotha. Would you find it easy to do something that would cause me great pain?"
"No, Mr. Digby,—impossible."
"I believe it," he said. "Then just put the case that you loved Christ much better than you do me; which would be the hard and the easy things then?"
Rotha was silent. But the whole conversation had rather given new food for the meditations it had interrupted and which had occasioned it. Where was all this to end?—the young man asked himself. And when should it end, in so far as the immediate state of things was concerned? As soon as possible! his judgment said. Rotha was already clinging to him with a devotion that would make the parting a hard business, even now; every week would make it harder. Besides, he had other work to do, and could not permanently play tutor. As soon as Mrs. Busby came home he would go to her and broach the matter. That would be, for the present, the best plan he could hit upon. A week or two more—
Which calculations, like so many others of human framing, came to nothing. A day or two later, driving in the Park one evening, a pair of unruly horses coming at a run round a corner dashed into the little phaeton which held Mr. Digby and Rotha, and threw them both out. The phaeton was broken; Rotha was unhurt; Mr. Digby could not stand up. He believed it was a sprain, he said; no more; but one foot was unmanageable.
A carriage was procured, he was assisted into it, Rotha took her place beside him, and the coachman was ordered to drive slowly.
A silent pair they were for some distance; and both faces very pale.Rotha was the first one to speak.
"Mr. Digby—does it hurt much?"
"Rather, just now," he said forcing a smile. "Rotha, are you all right?"
"O yes. What can I do, Mr. Digby?"
"There is nothing to be done, till we get home."
For which now Rotha waited in an impatience which seemed to measure every yard of the way. Arrived at last, Mr. Digby was assisted out of the phaeton, and with much difficulty into the house. Here he himself examined the hurt, and decided that it was only a sprain; no doctor need be sent for.
"Is a sprain bad?" asked Rotha, when the assistants had withdrawn.
"Worse than a broken bone, sometimes."
Mr. Digby had laid himself down upon the cushions of the lounge; sweat stood on his brow, and the colour varied in his face. He was in great pain.
"Where is Mrs. Cord?"
"She's out. She's gone to New York. I know she meant to go. What shall I do for you, Mr. Digby?"
"You cannot—"
"O yes, I can; I can as well as anybody. Only tell me what. Please, Mr.Digby!"—Rotha's entreaty was made with most intense expression.
"Salt and water is the thing,—but the boot must come off. You cannot get it off, nor anybody, except with a knife. Rotha, give me the clasp knife that lies on my table over yonder."
Mr. Digby proceeded to open the largest blade and to make a slit in the leg of his boot. The slit was enlarged, with difficulty and evident suffering, till the whole top of the boot was open; but the ankle and foot, the hardest part of the task, were still to do, and the swollen foot had made the leather very tight.
"I cannot manage it," said Mr. Digby throwing down the knife. "I cannot get at it. You'll have to send for a surgeon, after all, Rotha, to carve this leather."
"Mr. Digby, may I try?"
"You cannot do it, child." But the answer was given in the exhaustion of pain, and the young man lay back with closed eyes. Rotha did not hold herself forbidden. She took the knife, and carefully, tenderly, and very skilfully, she managed to free the suffering foot. It took time, but not more, nor so much, as would have been needed to send for a doctor.
"Thank you!—that is great relief. Now the salt and water, Rotha."
With a beating heart, beating with joy, Rotha flew to get what was wanted; flew only outside the door though, for in the room her motions had no precipitation whatever. She came staidly and steadily, and noiselessly. It was necessary to cut open also the stocking, to get that off, but this was an easier matter; and then Rotha's fingers applied the cold salt and water, bathing softly and patiently, with fingers that almost trembled, they were so glad to be employed. For a long time this went on.
"Rotha—"
"Yes, Mr. Digby," said the girl eagerly.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Seven, just."
"You have had no tea."
"Nor you, either. Will you have some now, Mr. Digby?"
"You will. The foot is a great deal easier now, Rotha. Lay a wet cloth over the ankle and let it alone for a while; and have some tea, dear."
Rotha obeyed, moving with the utmost delicacy of soft and quiet movements. She made the foot comfortable; rang the bell, and desired the kettle to be brought; and noiselessly arranged the table when the servant had set the tea things upon it She made the tea then; and had just cut a slice of bread and put it upon the toasting fork, when the door opened and in came Mrs. Cord, her arms full of cloths and vials and a basin of water. Rotha dropped the toasting fork and sprang towards her.
"What do you want?" she said. "What are you going to do?"
Her accent and action were so striking, that the woman paused, startled.
"There's a sprained ankle here—I'm coming to see it."
"No, you are not," said Rotha with great decision. "I have done all that is necessary, and I am going to do all that is necessary. I can do it as well as anybody; and I do not want you. You may carry all those things away, Mrs. Cord. Mr. Digby is asleep; he is better."
"Youdon't want me, maybe, Rotha, but Mr. Digby does. I've got what he wants here, and I knows my business. My business is to take care of him." She would have passed on.
"Stand back!" said Rotha, barring her way. "I tell you, he don't want you, and you are not coming. Stand back! Take your things away. I will manage all that is done here myself. You may go!"—The tone and action were utterly and superbly imperious.
The woman paused again, yielding before the slight girl, as matter always does yield to mind.
"What new sort o' behaviour is this?" she said however in high offence. "Youto tellmewhat I'm to do and not do! You're takin' a good deal upon you, my young lady!"
"I take it," said Rotha, supremely. "Go! and send the girl here, if you please. I heard her go up stairs just now. I want her to make a piece of toast."
Mrs. Cord greatly displeased, withdrew, after a glance at the closed eyelids on the sofa. The eyelids however were not so fast closed as they might be; Rotha's first words, spoken somewhat more emphatically than usual, had roused Mr. Digby out of his light slumber, and he had seen and heard all that passed. He had seen it with not a little amusement; at the same time it had given him new matter for thought. This was Rotha in a new character. He had known indeed before, in a measure, the intense nature of the girl; yet in his presence her manner was always subdued, except in the passion of grief that burst all bounds. But this was passion of another sort, and in that concentration of force which draws out a kind of spiritual electricity from its possessor. He saw how it had magnetized Mrs. Cord, and rendered her bulkiness passive. He had been intensely amused to see the large woman standing face to face with the slim girl, checked and indeed awed by the subtle lightning fire which darted from Rotha's eyes and seemed to play about her whole person. Mrs. Cord was fairly cowed, and gave way. And Rotha's bearing; instead of a poor, portionless little girl, she might have been a princess of the house royal, if she were judged of by her mien and manner. There was nothing assumed or affected about it; the demonstration was pure nature, Mr. Digby saw well enough; but what sort of a creature was this, to whom such a demonstration could be natural? There was force enough there, he saw, to bring the whole machinery into disorder and ruin, if the force were not well governed and well guided, and the machinery wisely managed. Who was to do this? Mrs. Busby? Mr. Digby was not sure yet what manner of person Mrs. Busby was; and he felt more than ever anxious to find out. And now a sprained ankle!
Meanwhile, Rotha having driven her adversary from the field, was making peaceful arrangements. She had sent the toast to be made; seeing that Mr. Digby's eyes were open, she carefully renewed the salt water application to his ankle; poured out a cup of tea, and brought it with the plate of toast to his side; where she sat down, the cup in one hand, the plate in the other.
"What now, Rotha?" said he.
"Your tea, Mr. Digby. I hope it is good."
She looked and spoke as gentle as a dove, albeit full of energetic alertness.
"And do you propose to enact dumb waiter?"
"If you want me to be dumb," she said.
He laughed. "Rotha, Rotha! this is a bad piece of work!" he said; but he did not explain what he meant.—"That won't do. Call Marianne and let her shove the table up to the sofa here—one corner of it."
"I like to hold the things, Mr. Digby, if you will let me."
"I don't like it. Call Marianne, Rotha, and we will take our tea together. I am not a South Sea Islander."
"Suppose you were,—what then?" asked Rotha as she rang the bell.
"Then I suppose I should think it proper for the ladies of the family to take tea after I had done."
The tea time was an occasion of unmitigated delight to Rotha, because she could wait upon her protector. He was suffering less now, and except that he was a prisoner seemed just as usual. After tea, however, he lay still, with closed eyes again; and Rotha had nothing to do but take care of his ankle and look at him. She thought it had never struck her before, what a beautiful person he was.
I use the word advisedly, and that I may justify it I will try, what I believe I have not done before, to describe Mr. Digby. He was not at all one of a class, or like what one sees every now and then; in fact the combination of points in his appearance was very unusual. His features were delicately regular and the colour of skin fair; but all thought of weakness or womanishness was shut out by the very firm lines of the lips and chin and the gravity of the brow. His hair was light and curly, and a fair moustache graced the upper lip; not overhanging it, but trained into long soft points right and left. He wore no English whiskers nor beard. Again, his hands were small and delicate, and the whole person of rather slight build, as far as outline and contour were concerned; but the joints were well knit and supple, and all the muscles and sinews as if made of steel. Rather slow and easy, generally, in movement, he could shew the spring and power of a cat, when it was necessary; nature and training having done their best. He was habitually a grave person; the gravity was sweet, but very decided, and even when crossed by a smile it was not lost. So at least Rotha had always seen him. There were several reasons for this; one being the yet unhealed wound left by the death of his mother, to whom he had been devotedly attached, and another the sudden death a year or more ago of the lady he was to have married. The world knew nothing of these things, and set Mr. Digby down as a ridiculously sober man, for a man in his circumstances. They gave him also largely the reputation of haughtiness; while no one had more gentle and brotherly sympathy with every condition of humankind, or shewed it more graciously. He got the reputation partly, perhaps, by his real separateness from the mass of men, and his real carelessness about the things in which they take concern; more, however, it came from the feeling of inferiority in his presence, which most people find it hard to forgive a man. He was a welcome guest wherever he appeared; but very few were acquainted with his real tastes and powers and inner nature, even as Rotha knew them.
She knew something of them. She did not misjudge him; but on the contrary dwelt on everything that belonged to him with a kind of worshipping admiration. So she sat and looked at him this evening, and thought she had never known before how beautiful he was; and the evening was not slow to her, nor long, though it was utterly silent.
By and by came in Mrs. Cord, again with her hands full.
"I beg your pardon—can I do anything for you, sir?"
"No, thank you. I have had all the care I needed."
Rotha's heart had beat fearfully, and now it swelled in triumph.
"I have some liniment here, sir, that is an excellent thing for a sprain—if a sprain it is; I wasn't allowed to examine."
"Nothing so good as salt and water. Mrs. Cord, let them make up a bed in the next room for me. I had better not go up stairs."
So the nurse was dismissed, and Rotha confirmed in her office, to her great joy.
The weeks that now followed were a time of happiness to Rotha, as perfect as in her present circumstances it was possible for her to know. She was allowed to minister to Mr. Digby, she was constantly with him, and intercourse and lessons were tasted with redoubled zest. For she was kept very busy at her old studies, and new ones were added; she read aloud a good deal; Mr. Digby never shunned talk when she wanted information or help in any puzzle; and the meal times, when ministry was varied and the conversation ran upon lighter topics, were hours of unalloyed enjoyment. I think these weeks were not disagreeable ones to the other party concerned; however, he was constantly reminded of the need of making new arrangements; and as soon as his ankle would permit his getting in and out of a carriage, he was ready to go to Mrs. Busby's. But when at last he was on the way, he thought to himself that he had another hard job on his hands. How would Rotha bear uprooting again, and transplanting to entirely different soil? she who took such terribly fast hold of any ground that suited her. Would Mrs. Busby's family be such ground? If it would not, if he saw cause to think it would not, Mr. Digby resolved she should not be put there. But how was he to find out? He came into Mrs. Busby's drawing room with the full measure of his usual gravity.
It was almost the end of October now, and the family had been long enough returned from the country for the mistress of it to have her house put in perfect winter order. Carpets were down, curtains were up; mirrors and lamps were unswathed from their brown linen coverings; everything that was metal shone with the polish put upon it, and everything that was upholstery shewed soft and rich colours and draperies. It was all harmonious, it was all very handsome; the fault was the fault of so many rooms, a failure to shew cause why it should be at all. Nothing was done there, nothing could be done; there was plush and satin and brocade and gilding and lacquered wood; but no life. Even the fire, for there was a fire, was a solid mass of firestones; a glowing grateful of hard coal; if there was life in that, it was the life of mere existence.
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 shediehere? 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 nobody 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."
"Inyourcare! 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 nobody else?" said the lady, for a moment forgetting herself.
"Nobody else, whom Mrs. Carpenter thought as competent, or as trustworthy," the young man said with the gleam of a smile.
"Mr. Southwode, I cannot allow that for a moment," Mrs. Busby said with energy. "Iam the proper person to take charge of my sister's child, and if you please I will assume the charge immediately. Where is she? She ought to be under my roof."
"It occurred to me, that if you were so inclined, your house would be the safest place for her; for the present at least."
"For the present and for always," said the lady decidedly. "Who else should take care of her? Where can I find her, Mr. Southwode?"
"Nowhere. I will bring her to you, if you will allow me."
"Do you know the girl? do you know much of her, I mean?"
"Something—" Mr. Digby easily assented.
"And what is she, if you can tell?"
"I do not know that Icantell, what you will find her. Do you not think, Mrs. Busby, that a human character of any richness shews different sides of itself to different persons, as varying affinities call out corresponding developments?"
"Then you call hers, a character of some richness?"
"I suppose I implied as much."
"And will you tell me what you have found her?"
"Pardon me; that would be an injustice to her. You would naturally look to verify my impressions, and perhaps could not do it. It is unkind to praise or blame anybody beforehand to third persons. You make it impossible for the balance of judgment to swing clear."
"She ought to come here at once. Will you bring her to-morrow?"
"I think not to-morrow."
"Why not? When, then?"
"This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?"
"Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see her."
"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, andI am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday."
"Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you hadreasonsfor being unwilling to put her out of your care."
The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was habitual with him.
"Ihavereasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign."
The lady shut her lips a little tight.
"What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on.
"I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going— ButI am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be."
The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding thought might be summed up thus:—"When she is under my care, my young gentleman, I think she willnotbe under yours. Preposterous!"
Mr. Digby had his thoughts too as he drove homeward. They will never get on together, he said to himself. It will not be happy for Rotha, nor easy. And yet—it is the best thing I can do for her just now. She must have a woman's care; and whose could be so proper as her aunt's? Besides, I shall see her frequently; I shall know all that concerns her, for Rotha will tell me; and if things go wrong, I can at any time put in my hand and set them straight. I am sorry—but this is the thing to do; and there is no help for it.
In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her. There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable.
The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby; her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her aptitudes.——
"How would you like to go to school, Rotha?"
She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so readily to her eye.
"I shouldn't like it as well asthis, Mr. Digby,"—("this" meant the present course and manner of her education;) "but I suppose you could not go on teaching me always."
"I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too."
"When shall I go, Mr. Digby?" she asked in a subdued voice, without looking up this time.
"The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could not live out here at Fort Washington, and attend school in New York. I shall be obliged to go back to the city, too."
"Then I would like to go," said Rotha simply.
"But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection."
Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now.
"My aunt?" she repeated.
"Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?"
Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood.
"O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!"
"Why not?" he asked gently.
"She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her.Please, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These words came out in a stream.
"My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?"
"Because she wasn't good to mother—she didn't love her—she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like herdreadfully, Mr. Digby!"
The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.
"Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means."
"O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?"
"Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!—Rotha!—"
She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age knows better.
"Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike your aunt so? You do not know her."
"O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up toher?"
"No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody. Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me, and we will talk this over. Come!"
Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took hers kindly and held it.
"Rotha—my child—I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated gravely.
Rotha thought it practically amounted to that, to place her in her aunt's house; words were not at command. A sort of sob wrung from her breast.
"What do you know about your aunt?"
"Not much,—but too much," Rotha laconically answered.
"Tell me what you know."
"I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to this unanswerable statement, she went on;—"She is a hard woman; she didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were—She has everything in the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her beautiful carriage; and we—we were—you know!—we were—if it hadn't been for you—"
Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr. Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a breaking heart.
Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft, and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all? And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go back.
He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely given place to an expression of helpless despair.
"Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her hand again.
"You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very gently.
"I could not help it. I tried—"
"I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it."
"I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before you."
"It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but because it is not right."
"Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly.
"Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself."
Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but she said nothing.
"You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of yourself, who takes it?"
Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose—nobody," she said.
"Do you think we have such an enemy as we have, and that he will let such an advantage go unimproved? No; when you lose command of yourself Satan takes it,—and uses it."
"What does he do with it?" said Rotha in full astonishment.
"According to circumstances. To tempt you to wrong, or to tempt you to folly; or if neither of those, to break down your mental and bodily powers, so that you shall be weaker to resist him next time."
"Mr. Digby—do youthinkso?"
"Certainly. And when people go on in a way like this, giving ground to Satan, he takes all they give, until finally he has the whole rule of them. Then they seem to their neighbours to be slaves of passion, or of greed, or of drink; but really they are 'possessed of the devil,' and those are the chains in which he holds them."
"Mr. Digby," said Rotha humbly, "do you think I have been losing ground?"