A Letter of Credit Part 106

"You do not fancy that you can 'help yourself' now?"

"No."

"You do not judge that you are empowered to take back her gift?"

"Not exactly. But Mr. Southwode," said Rotha half laughing, "I do not see how you can keep it. I _must_ do something for myself."

"Not till I give permission. Eat your pear, and leave business to me."

It rather comforted Rotha that this command was given to her; nevertheless and although the pear was a fine one, she 'chewed the cud of meditation' along with it. Very inopportunely those words heard long ago came floating back upon her memory, making her uncomfortable; making her doubt whether she could possibly remain long under the care that was so genial to her. Still, the present was too good to be spoiled, albeit the enjoyment of it was shadowed, by these reflections. I think, rather, according to some perverse principle of human nature, they made the enjoyment of it more tremblingly acute. However, the fruit was consumed in silence; Mr. 'Southwode having, as I hinted, his own thoughts. They left the table and took seats before the fire.

"Now Rotha," said her guardian, "I should like to know what you have done in these three years. Are you willing that I should try to find out?"

"By questioning me?" said Rotha laughing and flus.h.i.+ng. "It would not be a new thing, Mr. Digby."

Whereupon Mr. Southwode went into an examination of Rotha's acquirements and mental standing. It was pleasant enough and easy enough, though it was searching; it had too much savour of old times about it to be anything but easy and pleasant. Rotha did not fear it, and so enjoyed it.

And so did her examiner. He found all that he had once known possible and hoped for her. The quick intelligence of the child he found matured; the keen apprehension practised; the excellent memory stored, even beyond what he expected. And then, Rotha's capital powers of reasoning were as true and clear-sighted as ever, her feeling as just and unperverted; the thirst for knowledge was more developed and very strong; and the knowledge already laid up amounted to a stock of surprising amount and variety.

That was to both parties a very pleasant two hours. Rotha was looking, by turns, into the face she loved so well and watching the familiar face play, with the delight of one whose eyes have been long without the sight of what they loved. Moreover, she was taking up again the various threads of learning which had slipped from her hand, feeling now that her hold of them would not loose again. There was a savour of old a.s.sociations, too, about this talk, which was very fascinating; and further yet, Rotha had a subtle consciousness that she was satisfying Mr. Southwode. And he on his part was making new acquaintance with his little friend of old, and noticing with a little surprise and much admiration how she had changed and grown. The face which was always so eager and expressive had taken on womanly softness and mature richness, without losing a bit of its changeful fire. The sallow skin had become clear and fine; the lines of the lips, not less pa.s.sionate and not less decided than they used to be, were soft and pure; refinement was in every curve of them, and in all the face, and all the figure, and in every movement of either; and the deep, flas.h.i.+ng eyes could be innocently merry and sweet too, and constantly answered him before the lips could speak. As one quarter of an hour sped on after another, Mr. Southwode grew less and less ready to be relieved of his charge. Yet, he asked himself, what should he do with her? He did not entertain the idea Mrs. Purcell had suggested; it was not precisely a disagreeable idea, and it recurred to him, in the midst of philosophy and mathematics; it was not a disagreeable idea, but--he had never entertained it! And he doubted besides if Rotha would easily entertain it. He knew she was fond of him, fond of being with him; but it was a childish fondness, he said to himself; it could be nothing else. It was a childish fondness, too frankly shewn to be anything more or deeper. And Rotha was very young, had seen n.o.body, and could not know what she would like. That she would do anything he asked her, he had little doubt; she would marry him if he asked her; but Mr. Southwode did not want a wife on those terms. What should he do with her? Yes, he knew the difficulties, much better than she knew them; he knew how people would talk, and how under the circ.u.mstances they would have reason to talk; which Rotha knew not.

All which troublesome elements of the relation subsisting between them, only somehow made Mr. Southwode hold to it the faster. Probably he was by nature an obstinate man.

Upon the pause which followed the end of her examination came a question of Rotha.

"Are you going to stay in this country now, Mr. Southwode?"

"My home is in England," he answered, rousing himself out of reverie.

Rotha's heart sank at that; sank sadly. Next came a recoil of her reason--Yes, you had better go away, if I cling to you in this fas.h.i.+on!

"Why?" was his next counter question. "What makes you ask?"

"I did not know," said Rotha. "I wanted to know. I heard people say you would live over there."

"What else have you heard people say about me?"

"Not much. Aunt Serena never spoke of you, I think, if she could help it.

I have only heard somebody say that you were very rich--that your home would be over there now, probably;--and that you would concern yourself no more about me," Rotha added, in the instinct of truth.

"Kind judgment," said Mr. Southwode; "but in this case not true. The rest is true, that I have a large property."

He went on to tell Rotha several things about himself; not using many words, at the same time not making any mystery of it. He told her that his very large means came from business; that the business was in hands which made it unnecessary that he should give to the oversight of it more than a portion of his time. He had a home in England, and he described it; in the Lake country, surrounded with beautiful scenery. He was very fond of it, but he was not a fixture there; on the contrary, he went wherever there was reason for him to go, or work to be done by his going.

"So I am here now, you see." he concluded.

And so, something else may take you back again, and keep you there!

thought Rotha; but she did not say what she thought, nor indeed say anything. Mr. Southwode's detail, while it interested her terribly, and in a sort nattered her, also reduced her to a very low feeling of downheartedness. What was she to him, the poor little American orphan, to the rich English gentleman? what but just one of his various and probably many objects of benevolence? What more could she be, in the nature of things? No; she had been quite right; what she had to do was to equip herself as speedly as possible for the battle of life, and dash into it as a teacher; and only remember as a kind of fairy tale the part of her life when he had been its guardian and protector. Rotha's heart swelled; yet she would shew nothing of that. She sat still and moveless; too still and unchanging, in fact, for the supposition that her thoughts were not whirling round a fixed centre. I do not know how much of this Mr.

Southwode read, I am not sure but the whirl of his own thoughts occupied him sufficiently. However, when this still silence had lasted a little while, he broke it up by proposing to take Rotha a drive. "You used to like it," he remarked. Rotha did not like it less now. She went to get ready; thinking to herself that it was maybe the very last time. Why had she come to Tanfield at all? and why had Mr. Southwode sought her out there? Better if she could have remained as she was, and he no more than a locked up treasure of the past kept in her memory.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

DOWN HILL.

The afternoon was on the wane by the time they set out. The afternoon of a fair day in October. For Rotha's present mood it was almost too fair.

The country around Tanfield is level for a mile or two, and well cultivated; the hues of the forest at the change of tire leaf are not seen here. Yet October was not left without witnesses. Here and there a warm stubble field told of summer gone and harvests gathered; her and there the yellowing green of a weeping willow proclaimed that autumn was pa.s.sing away. Hay ricks carefully covered; wood sheds carefully filled; now and then a plough upturning the rich soil, and leaving furrows of ruddy brown creeping over the field; they all told the time of year; and so did at intervals a great maple tree in its livery of red and green, or a hickory all in gold, or a great red oak in its dark splendour. There was no mistaking October; even without the genial, gracious sun which shed over all the landscape such mellow and mellowing rays. Mr. Southwode had obtained an easy-going phaeton, with a pair of lively ponies; and through this level, quiet, rich, farm country they bowled along smoothly and fast. The pleasure, to Rotha, was so keen that it almost took on the semblance of pain. "This once," she was saying to herself; "and if only this once, then why this once?" And then she chid herself, and bade herself enjoy thoroughly and thankfully what was given her. She tried, and did not perfectly succeed.

Mr. Southwode was silent on his part, more than usual. Certainly his reflections were in no sort like Rotha's, as they had no need; yet he was not clear in his own mind as to the best, or even the possible, issues of things. He found that he was not willing to entertain for a moment Rotha's proposition about striking off from his protection and making a livelihood for herself. Yet it was good sense. In fact, what else could be done? If Mr. Southwode had had a mother, and so a home, to which he could have introduced her; that would have been simple enough. She might have taken the place of a young sister. Failing that, what plan could be subst.i.tuted, short of the one Mrs. Purcell had rudely proposed? He had no idea that Rotha was ready for that. Yes, undoubtedly she loved him, after another fas.h.i.+on; he was her childhood's friend and guardian and tutor; and as a child, no doubt, she still paid him reverence and affection. Mr.

Southwode would never take advantage of the power this fact gave him, to draw Rotha into an alliance which her free mind would not have chosen.

Some men would; many men might; it did not suit him. He could never take a wife on such doubtful terms. He was not clear that he wanted her on any terms. Yet oddly, and inconsistently, when he looked at the fine, honest, thoughtful, sensitive face beside him, something within him said, "I shall never let you go." It was very inconsistent. How he was to keep her, he could not see. He did not look at her often, for every look perplexed him. And Mr. Southwode was not in the least used to being perplexed. That perplexed him. Meanwhile he kept his horses well in hand and drove admirably. Over the level roads, through the still air, they went with the steadiness and almost the swiftness, of a locomotive. It was glorious driving. Rotha caught her breath with delight.

At this rate of progress however the small ex-tent of level country was soon pa.s.sed over. They began to get among broken ground and low hills; hills and round heights covered with tufts of wood growth, now in all the colours of the gay time of year. Hickories all gold, ashes in sad purple, bronzed chestnut oaks, yellow birches, and sometimes sober green savins; and maples in abundance and in brilliant variegation. There were risings and fallings of ground now, and turning of angles; and as they went the hills grew higher and set closer upon the road, and the road was often too steep for the pace the horses had hitherto kept up. Now they must walk up a hill, and sometimes walk down again.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, one of these times.

"Not perfectly."

"Is not that a very favourable statement of the case?"

"Let us take an observation," said he, pulling up at the top of the hill.

"There is the west, by the sun. We have kept our backs upon Tanfield generally; it must lie well to the south, and a little to the east of us.

I am going to take the first turning that promises to bring us round, and back by another road. There is the railway!--do you see, yonder, its straight level line? Now I know where we are. That is the Tanfield railway, running on to the north. We must come about and meet it, somewhere."

The coming about, however, proved to be a long and gradual process. The first turning they took did not lead immediately in the desired direction, only as it were inclined towards it; the second turning was not more satisfactory. Meanwhile they got deeper among the hills; the ground was more and more rough; farming land disappeared; rocks and woodland filled the eye, look where it would; the roads were less travelled and by no means smooth going any longer. Even so, they were prettier; the changes of hill and valley, sudden and varied as they were, gave interest to every foot of the way. All this took time; but n.o.body was in a hurry. Rotha was thinking that perhaps it was her last drive with Mr. Southwode; and Mr. Southwode was thinking, I do not know what; nor perhaps did he.

The point was found at last where they could turn their faces towards Tanfield; they were sure of their way when they reached the top of a hill and saw, spread out before them for many a square mile, the plain country in which the town stood, and far away in the midst of it could discern the glinting of the light upon its spires and houses. The sun was very low; its level rays gave an exquisite illumination to the whole scene, lighting every rise of ground and every tuft of woodland, and even coming back from scattered single trees with beautiful defining effect. Mr.

Southwode drew up his horses; and for a few minutes he and Rotha fed their eyes with what was before them. The sun was just kissing the horizon.

"That is worth coming all the way for!" he said.

"And we shall not have it but just half a minute longer," said Rotha.

"There--the light is going now. O what a sight it is!--There! now it is all gone. How far are we from home, do you suppose?"

"By the roads, I do not know; but once at the bottom of this hill we shall have nothing but level travelling, and the horses go pretty well."

"_Pretty_ well!" said Rotha laughing. "I am wondering then what you would call very well? We have got to cross the railway, Mr. Southwode. It runs by the foot of the hill."

"There is no train near," he answered as he put his horses in motion.

They went slowly down the hill, which was rough and steep. The horses behaved well, setting down their feet carefully, and holding back the carnage with the instinct or training which seems to be aware what would be the consequence of letting themselves and it go. But then happened one of those things against which instinct is no protection and training cannot provide. Just as a sharp turn in the road was reached, from which it went on turning round a shoulder of the hill till it reached the lower ground, this thing happened. It was the worst possible place for an accident; the descent was steep and rough and winding, the road disappearing from view behind the turn; and crossed evidently, just a little further below, by the railway track. The horses at this point came to a sudden stop. Mr. Southwode alone saw why. Some buckle or pin or strap, which had to do with the secure holding of the end of the carriage pole to the harness, was broken or had given way, and the pole had fallen to the ground. The horses had made an astonished pause, but he knew this pause would be followed the next instant by a mad headlong rush down the hill and a swallowing of the plain with their hoofs, if they ever reached it; which was in u high degree unlikely for them and impossible for the carriage. Rotha only knew that the horses quietly stopped, and that Mr.

Southwode said quietly,

"Jump, Rotha!"

Yes, he said it quietly; and yet there was something in tone or accent which left no room for disobedience or even hesitation. That something was very much the matter, Rotha at once knew; and if there was danger she did not at all wish to get out of it and leave him to face it alone. She would rather have sat still and taken what came, so she took it with him.

Moreover she had always been told that in case of a runaway the last thing to be done is to try to get out of the carriage. All this was full in her mind; and yet when Mr. Southwode said "Jump," she knew she must mind him. He offered her no help; but light and active as she was she did not need it; a step on the wheel and a spring to the ground, and she was safe. Just for that instant the horses stood still; then followed what their driver had known would follow. Almost as Rotha's foot touched the ground they dashed forward, and with one confused rush and whirl she saw them, phaeton and all, disappear round the turn of the hill.

And there was the railway track to cross! Rotha stood still, feeling stunned and sick. It was all so sudden. One minute in happy safety and quiet, beside the person she liked best in the world; only the next minute alone and desolate, with the sight of him before her eyes hurled to danger and probable death. Danger? how could anything live to get to the bottom of that hill at the rate the horses took?