A Letter of Credit Part 51

"I know he did," said Rotha. "What did he go to England for, Mr. Busby?"

"Mr. Busby," said his wife, "I request you not to reply. Rotha is behaving improperly, and must be left to herself till she is better- mannered."

"I don't know, my dear," said the gentleman, rising and gathering his newspapers together, previous to taking his departure. "'Seems to me that's an open question--public, as you say. I do not see why you should not tell Rotha that Mr. Southwode is called home by the illness and probable death of his father. Good-morning, my dear!"

"Did you ever see anything like papa!" said Antoinette with an appealing look at her mother, as the door closed. "He don't mind you a bit, mamma."

Mrs. Busby's slight air of the head was more significant than words.

"He is the only fraction of a friend I have in this house," said Rotha.

"But you needn't think, aunt Serena, that you can do what you like with Mr. Southwode and me. I belong to him, not to you; and he will come back, and then he will take me under his own care, and I will have nothing to do with you the rest of my life. I know you now. I thought I did before, and now I know. You let mamma want everything in the world; and now perhaps you will let me; but Mr. Southwode will take care of me, sooner or later, and I can wait, for I know him too."

Rotha left the room, unconsciously with the air of a tragedy queen. Alas, it was tragedy enough with her!

"Mamma!" said Antoinette. "Did you ever see anything like that?"

"I knew it was in her," Mrs. Busby said, keeping her composure in appearance.

"What will you do with her?"

"Let her alone a little," said Mrs. Busby icily. "Let her come to her senses."

"Will you go to get her cloak to-day?"

"I don't know why I should give myself any trouble about her. I will let her wait till she comes to her senses and humbles herself to me."

"Do you think she ever will?"

"I don't care, whether she does or not. It is all the same to me. You let her alone too, Antoinette."

"_I_ will," said Antoinette. "I don't like spitfires. High! what a powder-magazine she is, mamma! Her eyes are enough to set fire to things sometimes."

"Don't use such an inelegant word, Antoinette. 'High!' How can you? Where did you get it?"

"You send me to school, mamma, to learn; and so I pick up a few things.

But do you think it is true, what she says about Mr. Southwode?"

"What?"

"That he will come and take her away from you."

"Not if I don't choose it,"

"And you will not choose it, will you?"

"Don't be foolish, Antoinette. Rotha will never see Mr. Southwode again.

She has defied me, and now she may take the consequences."

"But he _will_ come back, mamma? He said so."

"I hope he will."

"Then he'll find Rotha, and she'll tell him her own story."

"Will you trust me to look after my own affairs? And get yourself ready to go out with me immediately."

CHAPTER XIV.

IN SECLUSION.

Rotha climbed the three flights of stairs from the breakfast room, feeling that her aunt's house, and the world generally, had become a desert to her. She went up to her own little room, being very sure that neither in the warm dressing room on the second floor, nor indeed in any other, would she be welcome, or even perhaps tolerated. How should she be, after what had taken place? And how could she breathe, anyhow, in any atmosphere where her aunt was? Imprudent? had she been imprudent? Very possibly; she had brought matters to an unmanageable point, inconvenient for all parties; and she had broken through the cold reserve which it had been her purpose to maintain, and lost sight wholly of the principles by which it had Been Mr. Digby's wish that she should be guided. Rotha had a mental recognition of all this; but pa.s.sion met it with simple defiance.

She was not weeping; the fire at her heart scorched all tender moisture, though it would not keep her blood warm. The day was wintry indeed. Rotha pulled the coverlet off her bed and wrapped herself in it, and sat down to think. .

Thinking, is too good a name to give to what for some time went on in Rotha's mind. She was rather looking at the procession of images which pa.s.sion called up and sent succeeding one another through the chambers of her brain. It was a very dreary time with the girl. Her aunt's treachery, her cousin's coldness, Mr. Digby's pitiless desertion, her lonely, lonely place in the world, her unendurable dependence on people that did not love her; for just now her dependence on Mr. Digby had failed; it all rushed through and through Rotha's head, for all the world like the changing images in a kaleidoscope, which are but new combinations, eternally renewed, of the same changeless elements. At first they went through Rotha's head in a kind of storm; gradually, for very weariness, the storm laid itself, and cold reality and sober reason had the field.

But what could reason do with the reality? In other words, what step was now to take? What was to be done? Rotha could not see. She was at present at open war with her aunt. Yes, she allowed, that had not been exactly prudent; but it would have had to come, sooner or later. She could not live permanently on false social grounds; as well break through them at once. But what now? What ground did she expect to stand and move on now?

She could not leave her aunt's house, for she had no other home to go to.

How was she to stay in it, if she made no apology or submission? And I cannot do that, said the girl to herself. Apology indeed! It is she who ought to humble herself to me, for it is she who has wronged me, bitterly, meanly. Pa.s.sion renewed the storm, for a little while. But by degrees Rotha came to be simply cold and tired and miserable. What to do she did not know.

n.o.body was at home to luncheon. She knew this, and got some refreshment from Lesbia, and also warmed herself through at the dressing-room fire.

But when the door bell announced the return of her aunt and cousin, she sped away up stairs again and wrapped herself in her coverlet, and waited. She waited till it grew dark. She was not called to dinner, and saw that she would not be. Rotha fed upon indignation, which furnished her a warm meal; and then somebody knocked softly at her door. Lesbia had brought a plate with some cold viands.

"I'll fetch it agin by and by," she whispered. "I'm allays agin seein'

folks starve. What's the matter, Miss Rotha?"

Lesbia had heard one side down stairs, and impartially was willing now to hear the other. Rotha's natural dignity however never sought such solace of her troubles.

"Thank you, Lesbia," she simply said. "My aunt is vexed with me."

"She's vexed worse'n ever I seen her. What you gone and done, Miss Rotha?"

"It can't be helped," said Rotha. "She and I do not think alike."

"It's convenientest not to quarrel with Mrs. Busby if you live in the house with her," said Lesbia. "She's orful smart, she is. But she and me allays thinks just alike, and so I get on first rate with her."

"That's a very good way, for you," said Rotha.

She went to bed, dulled that night with pain and misery, and slept the night through. When the light of a bright Sunday morning awoke her, she opened her eyes again to the full dreariness of her situation. So terribly dreary and cold at heart Rotha had never felt. Deserted by her one friend--and with that thought Rotha broke down and cried as if she would break her heart. But hearts are tough, and do not break so easily.

The necessity of getting dressed before breakfast obliged her to check her pa.s.sion of grief and dry her eyes; though _that_ she did not; the tears kept dripping on her hands and into her basin of water; but she finished dressing, and then queried what she should do about going to the breakfast-table. She was very uncertain whether she would be allowed there. However, it was disagreeable, but the attempt must be made; she must find out whether it was war to the knife or not. And although the thought choked her, she was hungry; and be it the bread of charity, and her aunt's charity to boot, she could not get along without it. She went down stairs, rather late. The family were at breakfast.

Her aunt did not look at her. Antoinette stared at her. Mr. Busby, as usual, took no notice. Rotha came up to the side of the table and stood there, changing colour somewhat.

"I do not know," she said, "if I am to be allowed to come to breakfast. I came to see."

Mrs. Busby made no answer.