"I think you have been gaining ground, for a good while."
"I am sorry," she said simply. "But how can I help it, Mr. Digby?"
"You remember," he said. "You must be under one king or the other; there is no middle ground. 'Whosoever committeth sin, is the servant of sin';—but, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'"
Rotha drew a deep sigh, and one or two fresh tears fell.
"Now," said he very gently, "do not let us get excited again, but let us talk quietly. What is all this about?"
"You are sending me away," said Rotha; "and you are all I have got."
"You are not going to lose me. That is settled. Now go on. What next?"
"But I shall not be with you?"
"Not every day, as here. But I hope to see you very often; and you can always write to me if you have anything in particular upon your mind."
"Then," said Rotha, her voice several shades clearer, "you are sending me to be with a person that I don't—respect."
"That is serious! Are you sure you are justified in such an opinion, with no more grounds?"
"I cannot help it," said Rotha. "I do not think I have reason to respect her."
"Then how are you going to get along together?"
"I am sure I do not know."
"Rotha, I may ask this of you. I ask of you to behave as a lady should, in your aunt's house. I ask you to be well-bred and well-mannered always; whatever you feel."
"Do you think I can, Mr. Digby?" said the girl looking earnestly at him.
"I am sure of it."
"But—do I know how?"
"I will give you an unfailing recipe," said Mr. Digby smiling."'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them';and for details, study the 13th chapter of the first epistle to theCorinthians."
"Is that the chapter about charity?"
"About love. The word means love, not charity."
"Mr. Digby, it is very hard to act as if you loved people, when you do not."
"True," said he smiling. "That is what the world means by good manners.But what Christians should mean by that term is the real thing."
"And I do not think I can," Rotha went on.
"Do not try to make believe anything. But the courtesy of good manners you can give to everybody."
"If I do not lose command of myself," said Rotha. "I will try, Mr.Digby."
"I think you can do, pretty nearly, Rotha, whatever you try."
This declaration was a source of great comfort to the girl, and a great help towards its own justification; as Mr. Digby probably guessed. Nevertheless Rotha grieved, deeply and silently, through the days that followed. Her friend saw it, and with serious disquiet. That passion of pain and dismay with which she had greeted the first news of what was before her was no transient gust, leaving the air as clear as it had been previously. True, the storm was over. Rotha obtruded her feelings in no way upon his notice; she was quiet and docile as usual. But the happiness was gone. There were rings round her eyes, which told of watching or of weeping; her brow was clouded; and now and then Mr. Digby saw a tear or two come which she made good efforts to get rid of unseen. She was mourning, and it troubled him; but, as he said to himself over and over again, "there was no help for it." He was unselfish about it; for to himself personally there was no doubt but to have Rotha safely lodged with her aunt would be a great relief. He had other business to attend to.
By the beginning of the week Rotha had recovered command of herself, externally at least; and on the Monday Mr. Digby and his charge were to go to Mrs. Busby's. It was the first of November; dull, cloudy and cold; getting ready for snow, Mr. Digby said, to judge by the sky. From the clouds his eye came down to Rotha, who had just entered the room dressed for her departure.
"Rotha," said he, "what is that you have on?"
"My brown lawn, Mr. Digby."
"Lawn? on such a day as this? You want a warmer dress, my child."
Rotha hesitated and coloured.
"My warm dresses—are not very nice," she said with some difficulty. "I thought I must look as well as I could."
"And I have forgotten that the season was changing! and left you without proper provision. You see, Rotha, I never had the charge of a young lady before. Never mind, dear; that will soon be made right. But put on something warm, no matter how it looks. You will take cold with that thin dress."
Rotha hesitated.
"I don't think you will like it, if I put on my old winter frock," she said.
"I would like it better than your getting sick. Change your dress by all means."
When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very "mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago; the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr. Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of authority. He looked at her a little gravely.
"That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was corning."
He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people forget.
"This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha tentatively.
"Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not? and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies."
It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood by, doubtful and thoughtful.
"Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like very much to ask."
"Ask it, Rotha."
"But I do not know whether you would like it—and yet I cannot know without asking—"
"Naturally. What is it, Rotha?"
"Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean."
"Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not."
The girl hesitated and struggled with herself.
"I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But now,—how will it be, Mr. Digby?"
Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition.
"Who will be at the charge of your schooling, you mean? and other things? Certainly I, Rotha, unless your aunt wishes very decidedly that it should be herself."
"She will not wish that," said the girl. "Then, Mr. Digby, when I am done with school—what am I to do? What do you want me to do? Because if I knew, I might work better to get ready for it."
"Well," said Mr. Digby, making some easy strokes with his pencil, every one of which however meant something,—"there is generally something for everybody to do in this world; but we cannot always tell what, till the time comes. The best way is to prepare yourself, as far as possible, for everything."
"But I cannot do that," said Rotha, with the nearest approach to a laugh that she had made since the previous Friday.
"Yes, you can. First, be a good woman; and then, get all the knowledge and all the accomplishments, and all the acquirements, that come in your way. Drawing, certainly, for you have a true love for that. How is it with music? Are you fond of it?"
"I don't know," Rotha said low. "Mr. Digby, can I not—some time—do something for you?"
"Yes," said he, looking up at her with a laughing glance, "you can do all these things for me. I want you to be as good a woman, and as wise a woman, and as accomplished a woman, as you are able to become."
"Then I will," said Rotha very quietly.
The carriage came. Rotha covered up her old dress as well as she could under her silk mantle, very ill satisfied with the joint effect, She behaved very well, however; was perfectly quiet during the drive, and only once asked,
"Mr. Digby, you said I might write to you?"
"As often as you like. But you will see me too, Rotha, though not every day. If anything goes wrong with you, let me know."
That was all; and then the carriage turned a corner and stopped in a street of high, regular, stately houses, with high flights of doorsteps. Poor Rotha felt her gown dreadfully out of place; but her bearing did not betray her. She was trying hard to form herself on Mr. Digby's model, and so to be even and calm and unimpassioned in her manners. Not easy, when a young heart beats as hers was beating then. They entered the house. Mrs. Busby was not in, the servant said; at the same time she opened the door of the parlour, and Mr. Digby and Rotha went in.
Nobody was there; only the luxurious presence of warmth and colour and softness and richness, whichever way the girl looked. She tried not to look; she fixed her eyes on the glowing grate; while a keen sense of wrong and a bitter feeling of resentment and opposition swelled her heart. This was how her aunt lived! and her mother had done sewing for her bread, and not got it. If the flowers in the carpet had been living exotics, they would have thriven in the warm air that surrounded them, and feared no frost; and her mother's fire had been fed by charity! It was to the credit of Rotha's budding power of self-command that she shewed nothing of what she felt. She was outwardly calm and impassive.
Then the heavy door was pushed inward and a figure appeared for which she was scarcely prepared. A young girl of about her own age, also a contrast. There was nothing but contrasts here. She was excessively pretty, and as lively as a soap bubble. Something of her mother's hardness of outlines, perhaps; but in that fifteen must needs be far different from fifty; and this face was soft enough, with a lovely tinting of white and red, charming little pearly teeth, a winning smile, and pretty movements. She was not so tall as Rotha; and generally they were as unlike as two girls could be. In dress too, as in everything else. This new-comer on the scene was as bright as a flower; in a new cashmere, fashionably made, of a green hue that set off the fresh tints of her skin, edged with delicate laces which softened the lines between the one and the other. She came in smiling and eager.
"Mr. Southwode! how long it is since we have seen you! What made you stay away so? Mamma is out; she told me if you came I must see you. I am so sorry she is out! No, I am very glad to see you; but I know you wanted to see mamma. I'll do as well as I can." And she smiled most graciously on him, but hitherto had not looked at Rotha, though Mr. Digby knew one glance of her eye had taken her all in.
"Miss Antoinette," said he, shaking hands with her, "this is your cousin."
The eyes came round, the smile faded.
"Oh!—" said she. "I knew it must be you. How do you do? Mamma is out; she'll be so sorry. But your room is ready. Would you like to go up to it at once, and take off your things?"—Then without waiting for an answer, she pulled the bell twice, and springing to the door cried out, "Lesbia! Lesbia!—Lesbia, where are you? O here you are. Lesbia, take this young lady—up stairs and shew her her room—you know, the little room that you put in order yesterday. Take her up there and shew her where things are; and then take her to mamma's room; do you understand? Miss Carpenter what is her name, Mr. Southwode? Rotha? O what a lovely name! Rotha, if you will go up stairs with the girl, she will shew you your way."
"I will not go yet, thank you," said Rotha.
Antoinette looked at her, seemingly taken aback at this.
"Don't you want to go up and take off your things?" she said. "I think you will be more comfortable."
"I would rather stay here."
Mr. Digby suppressed a smile, and had also to suppress a sigh. This by- play was very clear to him, and gave him forebodings. He hoped it was not clear to Rotha. However, he did not much prolong his stay after that. He knew it was pain to Rotha and better ended; she must learn to swim in these new waters, and the sooner she was pushed from her hold the kinder the hard service would be. So he took leave of Miss Antoinette, and then, taking Rotha's cold hand, he did what he had never done before; stooped down and kissed her. He said only one word, "Remember!"—and went away.
He had thought to give the girl a little bit of comfort; and he had not only comforted her, but lifted her up into paradise, for the moment. A whole flood tide of pleasure seemed to pour itself into Rotha's heart, making her deaf and blind to what was around her or what Antoinette said. She went up stairs like one on wings, with the blood tingling in every corner of her frame. If she had known, or if Mr. Digby had guessed, what that kiss was to cost her. But that is the way in this life; we start and shiver at the entrance of what is to be a path of flowers to our feet; and we welcome eagerly the sugared bait which is to bring us into a network of difficulty.
There was an under current of different feeling however, in Rotha's mind; and the two girls as they went up stairs were as great a contrast to each other as could be imagined. The one carried a heart conscious of a secret and growing weight; the other had scarce gravity enough to keep her to the earth's surface. So the one tripped lightly on ahead, and the other mounted slowly, rebelling inwardly at every step she set her foot upon. What a long flight of stairs! and how heavily carpeted; and with what massive balusters framed in. Nothing like it had Rotha ever seen, and she set her teeth as she mounted. Arrived at last at the second floor, Antoinette passed swiftly along to the foot of another flight. "There is mamma's room," said she, pointing to an open door; "and that is mine," indicating a small room adjoining; "now here is yours." She had got to the top, and preceded Rotha into the small room off the hall at the head of the stairs.
It was very small, of course; furnished with sufficient neatness, but certainly with old things. It was not like the rest of the house. That was no matter; the furniture was still as good as Rotha had been accustomed to in her best days, at home; yet she missed something. It looked poor and bare, and very cramped. Perhaps one reason might be, that the day was chill and dark and here were no signs of a fire, nor even a place to make one; andthatluxury Rotha had never missed. Her mother and she had kept scant fires at one time, it is true; but since Mr. Digby had taken the oversight of their affairs, their rooms had been always deliciously warm. Anyhow, the place made a cheerless impression on Rotha. She took off her hat and mantle.
"Where are they to go?" she asked her companion.
"You can put the mantle in one of those drawers."
"Not my hat, though."
"Yes, you could, if you turn up the edges a little. O never mind; it'll go somewhere, and you can't wear that hat any longer now. It's too cold. Let us go down to mamma's room."
This was the large front room on the second floor. Here was a warm fire, a cosy set of easy chairs, tables with work, a long mirror in the door of the wardrobe between the windows; a general air of comfort and household living. Antoinette's room opened into this, and the door stood thrown back, letting the fire warmth penetrate there also; and a handsome dressing table was visible standing before the window. Antoinette stirred the fire and sat down. Rotha stood at the corner of the hearth, charging herself to be cool and keep quiet.
"Where did you come from?" Antoinette began cheerfully. "We might as well get acquainted."
"Will that help you?" said Rotha.
"Help me what?"
"You said we might as well get acquainted."
"Well I want to know where you come from, to be sure," said the other girl laughing. "I always want to know where people come from. It's one of the first things I want to know."
"I come from Medwayville," said Rotha. "That is a place in the western part of the state."
"But you don't come from there now. I know you did live in Medwayville.But where do you come from now?"
There sprang up in Rotha's mind an instant and unwonted impulse of reserve; she hardly knew why. So she answered,
"Mr. Digby brought me; he can tell you about the place better than I can."
"Why, don't you know where you have been living?"
"I know the place when I see it. I could not find my way to it."
"Then you can't have the organ of locality. Do you know about organs, and bumps on the head? That's what is called phrenology. Mamma thinks a great deal of phrenology; she'll be examining your head, the first thing."
"Examining my head!"
"Yes, to find out what you are, you know. She has a little map, with everything marked on it? so she'll feel your head to see where the bumps are, and where she finds a bump she will look in her map to see what's there, and then she'll know you have it."
"What?" said Rotha.
"That;whatever the map says the bump ought to be."
"There are no bumps on my head," said Rotha a little proudly; "it is quite round."
"O you're mistaken; everybody has bumps; when the head is round, it means something, I forget what; whether bad or good. Mamma'll know; and she'll judge you by your head. How long have you known Mr. Southwode?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know how long you have known him?"
"I do not know just how long it is."
"O I didn't mean that. Have you known him a month?"
"More than that."
"How came you to know him at all?"
"He came to see us?"
"Us? You and aunt Eunice? What made him go to see you? at first, I mean."
"How can I tell?" said Rotha, more and more displeased.
"Well, do you like him?"
The answer did not come suddenly.
"Do I like Mr. Digby?" Rotha said slowly. "I think I do."
"Wedo. What sort of a carriage was he in when he was overturned?"
"A little phaeton."
"One-horse?"
"Yes."
"Was he alone?"
"No."
"What became of the other person?"
"Thrown out, like him."
"Hurt?"
"No."
"Do you know who it was?"
"Yes."
"Who was it?"
"It was I."
"You?" exclaimed Antoinette. "Wereyoudriving with Mr. Southwode? How came you to be going with him?"
"Why should I not?"
"Why—" with a glance at Rotha's dress. Rotha saw and understood, but would not enlighten her.
"Did you ever go with him before?"
"Yes."
"How many times?"
But Rotha was getting amused now, and was mistress of the situation."Does it matter how many times?" she said quite unexcitedly.
"He never tookmeanywhere," said Antoinette. "I declare, I'll make him. It isn't using me well. What makes you call him Mr. Digby?"
"I have been accustomed to call him so."
"Did he tell you to?"
"Yes."
"I wonder if he'd let me? I don't believe mamma would, though. She won't let you either do it any more. Digby is Mr. Southwode's first name. She would say it was too familiar, to call him by his first name, even with a 'Mr.' to it. Mamma's a little poky at times. But how did you come to know him first? you haven't told me."
"I suppose, the same way you came to know him," said Rotha slowly.
But the suggestion of anything similar in what concerned the social circumstances of her and her cousin, struck Antoinette with such a sense of novelty that, for a moment she was nonplussed. Then her eye fell upon the clock on the mantel-piece, and she started up.
"I must rush right off," she said; "it is time for my drawing lesson.That's one thing I don't get in school. Have you ever been to school?"
"No."
"I suppose you don't know much, then. Won't you have to work, though! I am sorry I must go and leave you alone; but mamma will be in by and by."
While she was speaking, Antoinette had been putting on her wraps to go out; handsome, ample, and becoming they were. A dark green cloak of some figured, lustrous stuff; a little green hat with a coquettish leather; gloves fitting nicely; and finally a little embroidered pocket- handkerchief stuffed into an outer pocket of her cloak. Then taking her portfolio, Antoinette hurried away.
Rotha felt a sense of uneasiness growing upon her. She was not at home, and nothing promised her that she ever would be, in this house. For awhile she sat still where she was, looking and thinking; or rather feeling; for thought was scarcely organized. She was tired at last of the stillness, the ticking of the clock and the soft stir of the coals in the grate or falling of ashes into the pan. She went down to the parlour again, having a mind to become a little acquainted with her new surroundings while she could make her observations unobserved; and besides, that parlour was a study to Rotha; she had seen nothing like it. She went down and took her seat upon an ottoman, and surveyed things. How beautiful it all was, she thought; beyond imagination beautiful. The colours and figures in the carpet; the rich crimsons and soft drabs, and the thick, rich pile to the stuff, what a wonder they were to her. The window curtains, hanging in stately folds and draperies of drab, with broad bands of crimson satin shot through the tamer colour, how royal they were! And did anybody ever see anything so magnificent as the glass in the pier, which filled the space from floor to ceiling between those royal draperies? The furniture was dark and polished, as to the wood; covers of striped drilling hid what might be the beauty of cushions beneath, and Rotha was not one of the sort that can lift a corner to see what was hidden. There was enough not hidden, and she could wait. But as her eye roved from one thing to another, her heart gathered fuel for a fire that presently rivalled its more harmless neighbour in the grate; a fierce, steady, intense glow of wrath and indignation. This was how her mother's sister lived and had been living; and her mother in the poor little rooms in Jane Street. Magnificence and luxury here; and there toil and the bread of charity. And not a hand held out to help, nor love enough to be called upon for it. Rotha's heart fed its fire with dark displeasure. There was built up a barrier between her and her aunt, which threatened perpetual severance. Kindness might break it down; Rotha was open to kindness; but from this quarter she did not expect it. She bent her determination however on behaving herself so as Mr. Digby had wished. She would not shew what she thought. She would be quiet and polite and unexcited, like him. Poor Rotha! The fire should burn in her, and yet she would keep cool!
She was studying the gas reading stand on the centre table, marvelling at the beauty of its marble shaft and the mystery of its cut glass shade, where bunches of grapes and vine leaves wandered about in somewhat stiff order; when the door of the room opened softly and Mrs. Busby came in. Rotha divined immediately that it was her aunt; the lady wore still the bonnet and the shawl in which she had been abroad, and had the air of the mistress, indefinable but well to be recognized. Softly she shut the door behind her and came towards the fire. Rotha did not dislike her appearance. The features were good, the eyes keen, the manner quiet
"And this is my niece Rotha," she said with a not unkindly smile. "How do you do?" She took her hand and kissed her. Alas! the kiss was smooth ice. Rotha remembered the last kiss that had touched her lips; how warm and soft and firm too it had been; it meant something. This means nothing but civility, thought Rotha to herself.
"You are all alone?" Mrs. Busby went on. "Antoinette had to go out. Shall we go up stairs, to my room? We never sit here in the morning."
Rotha followed her aunt up stairs, where Mrs. Busby laid off hat and shawl and made herself comfortable, calling a maid to take them and to brighten up the fire.
"I'll have luncheon up here, Lesbia," she said by the way. "Now Rotha, tell me all about yourself and your mother. I have heard nothing for a long while, unless from some third person."
"Mother was ill a long time," said Rotha, uncertain how to render obedience to this command.
"Yes, I know. When did you come to New York?"
"It is—two years now."
"Two years!" Mrs. Busby started up in her chair a little, and a faint colour rose in her cheeks; then it faded and her lips took a hard set. "Ill all that time?"
"No. She was not ill for the first year."
"Say, 'Noma'am,' my dear. That is the proper way. Do you know what induced her to move to New York, Rotha?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Rotha colouring.
"May I know?"
"Didn't you know we were very poor?" said Rotha in a lower voice.
"How wasthatthe reason?"
"We couldn't—I mean—she couldn't, get work at Medwayville."
"Get work!" Mrs. Busby was silent. Perhaps that was an unfruitful, and would prove an unrefreshing, field of inquiry. She would leave it unexplored for the present. She paused a little.
"So since then you have been living in New York?"
"Yes."
A longer pause followed. Mrs. Busby looked at the fire and raised one eyebrow.
"Under whose care have you been living, my dear, since you lost your mother's?"
Rotha hesitated. Great soreness of heart combined now with another feeling to make her words difficult. She did not at all want to answer. Nevertheless the girl's temper was to be frank, and she saw no way of evasion here.
"I have had nobody but Mr. Digby," she said.
"Mr. Digby! Mr. Southwode, you mean? That is his name, my dear; don't speak of him as 'Mr. Digby.'"
Rotha's mouth opened, and closed. She was forming herself with all her might on Mr. Digby's model; and besides that, she was trying to obey his injunctions about pleasant behaviour.
"Where have you lived all this time?" a little shorter than the former questions had been put.
"Since we came to New York?"
"No, no; since you have been under this gentleman's care? Where have you been?"
"In a pleasant place near the river. I do not know the name of the street."
"Who took care of you there, Rotha?"
Rotha lifted her eyes. "Mr. Digby—Mr. Southwode."
"Mr. Southwode! Did he live there himself?"
"Yes, at that time; not always."
"Near the river, and in New York?" said Mrs. Busby, mystified.
"I did not say in New York. It was out of the city."
"I was out of town," said Mrs. Busby musingly. "I wish I had come home earlier, that I might have received you at once. But I am glad I have got you now, my dear. Now you will have the pleasure of going to school with Antoinette. You will like that, won't you?"
"I do not know, ma'am. I think so."
"Why you want to learn, don't you? You don't want to be ignorant; and the only way is to go to school and study hard. Have you ever been to school at all?"
"No, ma'am."
"You will have a great deal to do. And the very first thing for me to do is to see to your wardrobe, that you may begin at once. Your box has come; I found it down stairs when I came in, and I had it taken right up to your room. Have you the key?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then go up, my dear, immediately; and bring down all your best dresses.Then I can see what is to be done."
As Rotha went out, enter Antoinette.
"O mamma, here you are! I'm glad, I'm sure. I don't want that young lady onmyhands any more."
"How do you like her, Antoinette?"
"Mamma, did you ever see such a figure? You won't let her go down stairs till she is decently dressed, will you? I should be ashamed for even Lesbia to see her."
"Lesbia has got to see her and make the best of it."
"O but servants always make the worst of it. And company—shecouldn'tbe seen by company, mamma. Why she looks as if she had come out of the year one. To have such a creature supposed to belong to us!"
"Mr. Southwode brought her?"
"Yes, mamma; and you should have seen the parting. I declare, it was rather striking! He kissed her, mamma, fancy! a real smacking kiss; and Rotha coloured up as if she was delighted. Did you ever hear anything like it?"
"She has done with him now," said Mrs. Busby drily.
"How'll you manage, mamma, if he comes and asks for her?"
"Get your things off, Antoinette, and make yourself ready for dinner. Ah, here comes Rotha."
Rotha's arms were full of muslin and lawn dresses, which she deposited on the table. Antoinette forgot or disregarded the order she had received and came to take part in the inspection. With a face of curiosity and business at once, Mrs. Busby unfolded, examined, refolded, one after another.
"Mamma! how pretty that is!" exclaimed her daughter; "and that ashes of roses is lovely!"
"Fine," said Mrs. Busby; "very fine. No sparing of money. Well made. Your mother cannot have felt herself in straits when she made such purchases as these, Rotha."
Rotha's heart gave a bound, but she shut her lips and was silent. Some instinct within her was stronger than even the impulse to justify her mother. What did it matter, what her aunt thought?
"These are all summer dresses," Mrs. Busby went on. "They are of no use at this season. Where are your warm clothes?"
"I have none," said Rotha, with sad unwillingness. "This is the best I have on."
"That?" exclaimed Mrs. Busby; and there was a pause. "Nothing better than that, my dear?"
"The others are worse. They are all worn out."
A heavy step was heard coming up the stair at this moment. It reached the landing place.
"Mr. Busby—" cried the voice of his wife, a little uplifted, "don't come in here—I am engaged."
"Very well, my dear," came answer in a husky, rough voice, and the step passed on.
"The first thing is a school dress," Mrs. Busby proceeded. "Antoinette, fetch that purple poplin of yours, that you wore last winter, and let us see if that would not do, for a while at least, till something can be made."
Nothing that fits her can fit me, thought Rotha; but with some self- command she kept her thoughts to herself. Antoinette brought the dress in question and held it up, chuckling.
"It's about six inches too short, I should say, and wouldn't meet round the waist by three at least."
"Try it on, Rotha."
Very unwillingly Rotha did as she was told. Mrs. Busby pulled and twitched and stroked the dress here and there.
"It is a little too short. Could be let out."
"Then the marks of the gathers would shew, mamma."
"That could be hidden by a basque."
"There isn't much stuff left to make a basque. Miss Hubbell cut it all up for the trimming."
"It could be made to do for a few days. I am anxious that Rotha should lose no time in beginning school. See, it is November now."
All this was extremely distasteful to the subject of it. She knew right well that her cousin's dress could never be made to look as if it belonged to her, unless it were wholly taken to pieces and put together again; neither was the stuff of the dress very clean, and the trimmings had the forlorn, jaded look of a thing which has been worn to death. The notion of appearing in it revolted her unbearably.
"Aunt Serena," she said, "I would just as lief wear my old dress, if you don't mind. It would do as well as this, and be no trouble."
"Well—" said Mrs. Busby; "it would take some time, certainly, to fit Antoinette's to you; perhaps that is the best way; and it is only for a day or two; it wouldn't matter much. Well, then you may take these things away, Rotha, and put them by."
"Where?" said Rotha. "In my trunk?"
"Yes, for the present That will do."
Rotha carried her muslins up stairs again, and had some ado not to sit down and cry. But she would not, and fought the weakness successfully down, appearing before her aunt again in a few minutes with an imperturbable exterior. Which she was able to maintain about ten minutes.
Antoinette was dressing for dinner; dressing in front of her mother's fire; making herself rather striking in a blue silk, over which her long curling fair hair tumbled as over a pretty foil. Mrs. Busby also was putting herself in order. Rotha looked on. Presently the dinner bell rang.
"I'll send you up your dinner, Rotha," Mrs. Busby said, turning to her niece. "Till we get some gowns made for you, you must keep in hiding. I'll send it up to you here, hot and nice."
Rotha said not one word, but two flames shot into her cheeks, and from her dark eyes flared two such lightnings, that Mrs. Busby absolutely shrank back, and did not meet those eyes again while she remained in the room. But in that one moment aunt and niece had taken their position towards each other, and what is more, recognized it.
"I shall have my hands full with that girl," Mrs. Busby muttered as she went down stairs. "Did you see how she looked at me?"
"I didn't know she could look so," replied Antoinette. "Isn't she a regular spitfire?"
"I shall know how to manage her," Mrs. Busby said, with her mouth set."She is not at all like her mother."
Rotha, left in the dressing room, sat down and laid her head on her arms on the table. Wrath and indignation were boiling within her. The girl dimly felt more than her reason could as yet grasp; somewhat sinister which ran through all her aunt's manner towards her and had undoubtedly called forth this last regulation. What did it mean? So she could go to school in her old dress and be seen by a hundred strange eyes, but might not sit at the table with her aunt's family and take her dinner in their company! And this was the very dress in which she had gone to the Park with Mr. Digby more than once.Hehad not minded it. And here there was nobody that had not seen it already, except Mr. Busby.
Poor Rotha's heart, when once a passion of displeasure seized it, was like the seething pot in Ezekiel's vision. She was helpless to stay the outpour of anger and pride and grief and contempt and mortification, every one of which in turn came uppermost and took forms of utterance in her imagination. She had a firm determination to follow Mr. Digby's teaching and example; but for the present she was alone, and the luxury of passion might storm as it would. Upon this state of things came the dinner, borne by the hands of Lesbia, who was a very sable serving maid; otherwise very sharp. She set the tray on the table. Rotha lifted a white face and fiery eyes, and glared at it and at her. Gladly would she have sent it all down again; but she was hungry, and the tray steamed a pleasant savour towards her.
"Thank you," said Rotha, with the courtesy she had learned of her friend.
"Would you like anything else?" the girl asked with an observing look.
"Nothing else, thank you."
"Why aint miss down stairs with the rest?"
"I couldn't go down to-day. That will do, thank you."
Lesbia withdrew, and Rotha mustered her viands. A glass of water and a piece of bread, very nicely arranged; a plate with hot potatoes, turnips mashed, beets, and three small shrimps fried.
Rotha cleared the board, and found the fish very small. By and by came up Lesbia with a piece of apple pie. She took the effect of the empty dishes.
"Did miss have enough?"
"It will do very well, thank you," said Rotha, attacking the piece of pie, which was also small.
"Didn't you want a bit of the mutton?"
"Mutton!" exclaimed Rotha, and again an angry colour shewed itself in her cheeks.
"Roast mutton and jelly and sweet potatoes. You hadn't only fish, had ye?Don't ye like yaller potatoes? Car'lina potatoes?"
"Yes, I like them," said Rotha indifferently.
N. B. She had eaten them but a few times in her life, and thought them a prime delicacy.
"I'll bring you some if you like, and some of the meat."
"No, thank you," said Rotha, finishing her pie and depositing that plate with the rest.
"You'll have time enough," said Lesbia sympathizingly. "They won't come up stairs; they stays down to see company."
"No, thank you," said Rotha again; but a new pang seized her. Company!Mr. Digby would be company. What if he should come?
Lesbia went off with the tray, after casting several curious glances at the new comer, whom she had heard talked of enough to give her several clues. Rotha was left in the darkening dressing room; for the afternoon had come to its short November end.
Mr. Digby did not come that evening. Next evening he did. He came early, just as the family had finished dinner. Mrs. Busby welcomed him with outstretched hand and a bland smile.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Southwode," she said, before he had time to begin anything. "I want to know what you think of this proposition to open picture galleries and libraries to the people on Sunday?"
"The arguments for it are plausible."
"Certainly plausible. What do you think?"
"It is of no consequence, is it, what any individual thinks?"
"Why yes, as it seems to me. By comparing views and the reasons given in support of the views, one may hope to attain some sound conclusion."
"Is it a matter for reason to consider?"
Mrs. Busby opened her eyes. "Is not everything that, Mr. Southwode?"
"I should answer 'no,' if I answered."
"Please answer, because I am very much in earnest; and I like to drive every question to the bottom. Give me an instance to the contrary."
"When you tell Miss Antoinette, for example, to put on india rubbers when she goes out in the wet, is she to exercise her reason upon the thickness of the soles of her boots?"
"Yes," cried the young lady referred to; "of course I am! India rubbers are horrid things anyhow; do you think I am going to put them on with boots an inch thick?"
Mr. Southwode turned his eyes upon her with one of his grave smiles. Mrs.Busby seemed to ponder the subject.
"Is it raining to-night, Mr. Southwode?" Antoinette went on.
"Yes."
"How provoking! then I can't go out. Mr. Southwode, you never took me anywhere, to see anything."
"True, I believe," he answered. "How could I ask Mrs. Busby to trust me with the care of such an article?"
"What 'such an article'?"
"Subject to damage; in which case the damage would be very great."
"I am not subject to damage. I never get cold or anything. Mr. Southwode, won't you take me, some night, to see the Minstrels?"
"They are not much to see."
"But to hear, they are. Won't you, Mr. Southwode? I am crazy to hear them, and mamma won't take me; and papa never goes anywhere but to his office and to court; won't you, Mr. Southwode?"
"Perhaps; if Mrs. Busby will honour me so much."
"O mamma will trustyou, I know. Then the first clear evening, Mr.Southwode? the first that you are at leisure?"
Without answering her he turned to Mrs. Busby.
"How is Rotha?"
"Very well!" the lady answered smoothly.
"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing her?"
"I am afraid, not to-night. She was unable to come down stairs this afternoon, and so took her dinner alone. Next time, I hope, she will be able to see you."
Mr. Digby privately wondered what the detaining cause could be, but thought it most discreet not to inquire; at least, not in this quarter. "Is the school question decided?" he therefore went on quietly.
"Why no. I have been debating the pros. and cons.; in which process one is very apt to get confused. As soon as one makes up one's mind to forego certain advantages in favour of certain others, the rejected ones immediately rise up in fresh colours of allurement before the mind, and disturb one's judgment, and the whole calculation has to be gone over again."
"The choice lies between—?"
"Mrs. Mulligan, Miss Wordsworth, and Mrs. Mowbray, have the highest name in the city."
"And may I know the supposed counter advantages and disadvantages?"
"I'll tell you, Mr. Southwode," said Antoinette. "At Mrs. Mulligan's you learn French and manners. At Miss Wordsworth's you learn arithmetic and spelling. At Mrs. Mowbray's you learn Latin and the Catechism."
Mr. Southwode looked to Mrs. Busby.
"That's rather a caricature," said the lady smiling; "but it has some truth. I think Mrs. Mowbray's is quite as fashionable a school as Mrs. Mulligan's. It is quite as dear."
"Is it thought desirable, that it should be fashionable?"
"Certainly; for that shews what is public opinion. Besides, it secures one against undesirable companions for a girl. Both at Mrs. Mulligan's and Mrs. Mowbray's the pupils come from the very best families, both South and North. There is a certain security in that."
Mr. Southwode allowed the conversation presently to take another turn, and soon took his leave.
Rotha had watched and listened from the upper hall; had heard him come in, and then had waited in an ecstasy of impatient eagerness till she should be sent for. She could hear the murmur of voices in the parlour; but otherwise the house was ominously quiet. No doors opening, no bell to call the servant, no stir at all; until the parlour door opened and Mr. Digby came out. Rotha was in a very agony, half ready to rush down, unsummoned, and see him; and yet held back by a shy feeling of proud reserve. He could ask for her if he had wanted her, she thought bitterly; and while she lingered he had put on his overshoes and was gone. Rotha crept up stairs to her own room, feeling desperately disappointed. That her aunt might have made excuses to keep her up stairs, she divined; but the thought put her in a rage. She had to sit a long while looking out of her window at the lights twinkling here and there through the rain, before the fever in her blood and her brain had cooled down enough to let her go to bed and to sleep.
The next day she began her school experience. The intervening day had been used by Mrs. Busby to make a call upon Mrs. Mowbray, in which she explained that she had an orphan niece left under her care, for whom she much desired the training and the discipline of Mrs. Mowbray's excellent school. The girl had had no advantages; her mother had been ill and the child neglected; she supposed Mrs. Mowbray would find that she knew next to nothing of all that she ought to know. So it was arranged that Rotha should accompany her cousin the very next morning, and make her beginning in one of the younger classes.
Rotha went in her old grey dress. The walk was not long. Antoinette stopped at the area gate of a house in a fine open street.
"Where are you going?" said Rotha.
"Here. This is the place."
"This? Why it is a very handsome house," said Rotha. "As good as yours."
"Of course it is handsome," Antoinette replied. "Do you think my mother would let me go to a shabby place. Handsome! of course it is. Come down this way; we don't ring the bell."
What a new world it was to Rotha! In the lower hall the girls took off bonnets and wraps, hanging them up on hooks arranged there. Then Antoinette took her up stairs, up a second flight of stairs, through halls and stairways which renewed Rotha's astonishment. Was this a school? All the arrangements seemed like those of an elegant private home; soft carpet was on the stairs, beautiful engravings hung on the walls. The school rooms filled the second floor; they were already crowded, it seemed to Rotha, with rows and ranks of scholars of all sizes, from ten years old up. Antoinette and she, being later than the rest, slipped into the first seats they could find, near the door.
There was deep silence and great order, and then Rotha heard a voice in the next room beginning to read a chapter in the Bible. The sound of the voice struck her and made her wish to get a sight of the reader; but that was impossible, for a bit of partition wall hid her and indeed most of the room in which she was from Rotha's view. So Rotha's attention concentrated itself upon what she could see. The pleasant, bright apartments; the desks before which sat so many well-dressed and well- looking girls; ah, they were very well dressed, and many of them, to her fancy, very richly dressed; as for the faces, she found there was the usual diversity. But what would anybody think of a girl coming among them so very shabby and meanly attired as she was? If she had known— However, self-consciousness was not one of Rotha's troubles, and soon in her admiration of the maps and pictures on the walls she almost forgot her own poor little person. She was aware that after the reading came a prayer; but though she knelt as others knelt, I am bound to say very little of the sense of the words found its way to her mind.
After that the girls separated. Rotha was introduced by her cousin to a certain Miss Blodgett, one of the teachers, under whose care she was placed, and by whom she was taken to a room apart and set down to her work along with a class of some forty girls, all of them or nearly all, younger than she was. And here, for a number of days, Rotha's school life went on monotonously. She was given little to do that she could not do easily; she was assigned no lessons that were not already familiar; she was put to acquire no knowledge that she did not already possess. She got sight of nobody but Miss Blodgett and the girls; for every morning she was sure to be crowded into that same corner at school-opening, where she could not look at Mrs. Mowbray; nobody else wanted that place, so they gave it to her; and Rotha was never good at self-assertion, unless at such times as her blood was up. She took the place meekly. But school was very tiresome to her; and it gave her nothing to distract her thoughts from her troubles at home.
Those were threefold, to take them in detail. She wore still the old dress; she was consequently still kept up stairs; and it followed also of course that Mr. Digby came and went and she had no sight of him. It happened thus.
Several days he allowed to pass without calling again. Not that he forgot Rotha, or was careless about her; but he partly knew his adversary and judged this course wise, for Rotha's sake. His first visit had been on Tuesday evening; he let a week go by, and then he went again. Mrs. Busby was engaged with other visitors; he had to post-pone the inquiries he wished to make. Meanwhile Antoinette attacked him.
"Mr. Southwode,—now it is a nice evening, and you promised;—will you take me to the Minstrels?"
"I always keep my promises."
"Then shall we go?" with great animation.
"Did I say I would go to-night?"
"No; but to-night is a good time; as good as any. Ah, Mr. Southwode! let us go. You'll never take me, if you do not to-night."
"What would Mrs. Busby say?"
"O she'd say yes. Of course she'd say yes. Mamma always says yes when I ask her things. Mamma! I say, mamma! listen to me one moment; may I go with Mr. Southwode?"
One moment Mrs. Busby turned her head from the friend with whom she was talking, looked at her daughter, and said, "Yes"; then turned again and went on with what she was saying. Antoinette jumped up.
"And bring your cousin too," said Mr. Southwode as she was flying off.Antoinette stopped.
"Rotha? she can't go."
"Why can she not go?"
"She has got nothing ready to wear out yet. Mamma hasn't had time to get the things and have 'em made. She couldn't go."
"She might wear what she wore when I brought her here," Mr. Digby suggested. Antoinette shook her head.
"O no! Mamma wouldn't let her go out so. Shecouldn't, now that she is under her care, you know. Her things are not fit at all."
"Will you have the kindness to send word to your cousin that I should like to see her for a few minutes?"
"O she can't come down?"
"Why not?"
"O she's in no condition. Mamma—mamma! Mr. Southwode wants to seeRotha."
"I am very sorry!" said Mrs. Busby smoothly and calmly, turning again from the discourse she was carrying on,—"I have sent her to bed with a tumbler of hot lemonade."
"What is the matter?"
"A slight cold—nothing troublesome, I hope; but I thought best to take it in time. I do not want her studies to be interrupted."
Mr. Southwode was powerless against this announcement, and thought his own thoughts, till Mrs. Busby drew him into the discussion which just then engaged her. Upon this busy talk presently came Antoinette, hatted and cloaked, and drawing on her gloves. Stood and waited.
"Mr. Southwode—I am ready," she said, as he did not attend to her.
"For the Minstrels?" said he, with that very unconcerned manner of his."But, Miss Antoinette, would not your cousin like to go?"
"Shecan't, you know. Where are your ears, Mr. Southwode? Mamma explained to you that she was in bed."
"Then do you not agree with me, that it would be the kindest thing to defer our own pleasure until she can share it?"
Antoinette flushed and coloured, and tears of disappointment came into her eyes. A little tinge rose in Mrs. Busby's cheeks too.
"Go and take your cloak off," she said coldly. "And Antoinette, you had better see that your lessons for to-morrow morning are all ready."
Mr. Southwode thereupon took his departure. If he had known what eyes and ears were strained to get knowledge of him at that moment, I think he would have stood his ground and taken some very decided measures. But he could not see from the lighted hall below up into the darkness of the third story, even' if it could have occurred to him to try. There stood however a white figure, leaning over the balusters, and very well aware whose steps were going through the hall and out at the front door. Poor Rotha had obeyed orders and undressed and gone to bed, though she insisted her throat was only a very little irritated; and neither the one fact nor the other had prevented her from jumping tip to listen when the door bell rang, and again when steps she knew came out from the parlour. Again he had been here, and again she had missed him. Of course he could do nothing when told that she was in bed with a cold. Rotha went back into her room and stood trembling, not with a chill, though the night was cold enough, but with a fever of rage and desperation. She opened the window and poured out the lemonade which she had not touched; she shut the window and wrung her hands. She seemed to be in a net, in a cage, in a prison; and the walls of her prison were so invisible that she could not get at them to burst them. She would write to Mr. Digby, only she did not know his address. Would he not write to her, perhaps? Rotha Was in a kind of fury of impatience and indignation; this thought served to give her a little stay to hold by.
And a letter did come for her the very next evening; and Rotha's eyes never saw it, nor did her ears hear of it.
Neither did her new dresses come to light; and evening after evening her condition was not changed. She was prisoner up stairs with her books and studies, which did not occupy her; and hour after hour Rotha stood in the hall and listened, or sat watching. She could not hear Mr. Digby's voice again. She wondered what had power to detain him. With craving anxiety and the strain of hope and fear, Rotha's cheek began to grow pale. It was getting at last beyond endurance. She went through her school duties mechanically, thinking of something else, yet doing all that was required of her; for, as I said, it was ground that she had gone over already. She queried with herself whether Mr. Southwode might not come even to the school to seek her; it seemed so impossible that she should be utterly kept from the sight of him. All this while Rotha never spoke his name before her aunt or cousin; never asked a question about him or his visits. By what subtle instinct it is hard to tell, she knew the atmosphere of the house was not favourable to the transmission of those particular sounds.
One thing, one day, had made a break in her gloomy thoughts. She was in her class, in the special room appropriated to that class, busy as usual; when the door opened and a lady came in whom Rotha had not fairly seen before, yet whom she at once recognized for what she was, the head of the establishment. Rotha's eyes were fascinated. It was a tall figure, very stately and dignified as well as graceful; handsomely and carefully dressed; but Rotha took in that fact without knowing what the lady wore, she was so engrossed with the face and manner of this vision. The manner was at once gracious and commanding; courteous exceedingly, while the air of decision and the tone of authority were well marked. But the face! It was wonderfully lovely; with fair features and kind eyes; the head sat well upon the shoulders, and the hair was arranged with very rare grace around the delicate head. So elegant a head one very rarely sees, as was Mrs. Mowbray's, although the dressing of the hair was as simple as possible. The hair was merely twisted up in a loose knot or coil at the back; the effect was what not one in a thousand can reach with all the arts of the hair-dresser. This lovely apparition paused a minute or two before Miss Blodgett, while some matter of business was discussed; then the observant eyes came to the young stranger in the class, and a few steps brought them close up to her.
"This is Miss Carpenter, isn't it?—yes. How do you do, my dear." She took Rotha's hand kindly. "How is your aunt, Mrs. Busby?"
Rotha answered. Perhaps those watchful eyes saw that there was no pleasure in the answer.
"Your cousin—she is in Miss Graham's class, is she not?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, I hope you have made some friends here. Miss Doolittle, won't you be helpful to Miss Carpenter if you can? she is a stranger among us.— Good morning, young ladies!"
The lady swept away from the room; but all that day there hovered in Rotha's thoughts a vision of beauty and grace and dignity, an accent of kindness, a manner of love and authority, which utterly fascinated and wholly captivated her. It was quite a sweetener of that day's dry work. She looked to see the vision come again the next day, and the next; in vain; but Rotha now knew the voice; and not a word was let fall from those lips, in reading or prayer, at the school opening now, that she did not listen to.
Days went on. At last one day Mrs. Busby said it was no use to wait any longer for the mantua-makers; Rotha might as well come down and have her dinner with the family. She could not stay in the drawing room of course, until she was decently dressed; but she might as well come to dinner. Rotha could not understand why so much could not have been granted from the first; there was nobody at the dinner table but her aunt and cousin and Mr. Busby. Mr. Busby was a very tall, thin man, always busy with newspapers or sheets of manuscript; whose "Good morning, my dear!" in that peculiar husky voice of his, was nearly all Rotha ever heard him say. He took his breakfast, or his dinner, and went off to his study at once.
Rotha climbed the stairs to Mrs. Busby's dressing room, after the meal was over, and sat down to think. She was consuming herself in impatience and fretting. By and by Lesbia came in to see to the fire.
"Lesbia," said Rotha with sudden resolution, "will you do something for me?" She looked at the girl eagerly.
"Mebbe, miss. Like to know what 'tis, fust."
"It is only, to tell me something," said Rotha lowering her voice.
"Aint nothin' harder 'n to tell things," said the girl. "That's the hardest thing I know."
"It isn't hard, if you are willing."
"Don' know about that. Well, fire away, Miss Rotha. What you want?"
Rotha went first to the door and shut it. Then came back and stood by the table where Lesbia was lighting the gas drop.
"Lesbia, I want you to tell me— You always open the door, don't you?"
"'Cept when I aint there."
"But in the evenings you do?"
"I'm pretty likely to, miss—if it aint my evening out."
"I want you to tell me—" Rotha lowered her voice to a whisper,—"if Mr.Southwode has been here lately?"
Lesbia stood silent, considering.
"You know him? You know Mr. Southwode?"
"He brought you here the fust, didn't he?"
"Yes. Yes, that is he. When was he here last?"
"Don't just 'member."
"Butaboutwhen? Two weeks or three weeks ago?"
"Well, 'pears to me as if I'd seen him later 'n that."
"When, Lesbia? Oh do tell me! do tell me!"
"Why he aint nothin' particular to you, is he?"
"He iseverythingto me. He is the only friend I have got in the world.When was he here, Lesbia?"
"He's a mighty handsome gentleman, with hair lighter than your'n, and a mustaches?"
"Yes. He came with me that first day. Tell me, Lesbia!"
"But Miss Rotha, I can't see what you want to know fur?"
"Never mind. I tell you, he is all the friend I have got; and I'm afraid something is wrong, because I don't see him."
"I reckon there is," said Lesbia, not reassuringly.
"What?"
"Mrs. Busby will kill me."
"No, I shall not tell her you told me. O Lesbia, Lesbia, speak, speak!"
Lesbia glanced at the girl and saw her intense excitement, and seemed doubtful.
"You'll be so mad, you'll go tellin' the fust thing," she said.
Rotha sat down, in silence now, and gazed in Lesbia's face with her own growing white. Lesbia seemed at last overcome.
"He was here last week, and he was here this week," she said.
"This week!—and last week too. What day this week, Lesbia?"
"This here is Friday, aint it. Blessed if I kin keep the run o' the days.Let us see—Mr. Southwode was here the last time, Tuesday."
"Tuesday? And I was here studying."
"Then you don't know?" said Lesbia eyeing her. "He's done gone away."
"What do you mean? That can't be."
"He's done gone, miss. Sailed Wednesday. I heerd 'em talking about it at dinner. His name was in the list, they was sayin'; in the papers."
"Sailed Wednesday? O where to, Lesbia?"
"Don' know, miss; some place where the ships goes."
"England?"
"Mebbe. I doesn't know all de places on dis yere arth."
"How long is he going to be gone?"
"Can't tell dat, miss. I haint heerd nobody say. La, I dare say he'll come back. It's as easy to come as to go. Folks is allays goin' and comin'. But if you tell Mis' Busby, then I've done gone and lost my place, Miss Rotha."
Rotha stood still and said not a word more. But she turned so white that Lesbia looked on in alarm, expecting every moment she would faint. There was no faintness, however. Rotha was not one of those who lose present knowledge of misery in the weakness of a swoon. She turned white and even livid in the intensity of passion, the fury of rage and despair which held her; then, knowing that she must not betray Lesbia and that accordingly she must not meet anybody's eyes, she seized her books and rushed up stairs to her own little room.
It was dark there, but so much darker in the child's heart that she never noticed that. It was cold, yet not to her, for in her soul a fire was burning, hot enough to dispense with material warmth. She never missed that. But the walls of her room did seem to her a prison, a dreadful prison, from which she must flee if there were any place to flee to. Had her only refuge failed her? Was her one heart's treasure lost to her? Was the world empty, and all gone? The bewilderment of it almost equalled the pain. Rotha held her head in both hands and tried to find some hope, or some stay for her thoughts and for her feelings.