I."
One or two sore, sorrowful tears forced their way out of the speaker's eyes; but she said no more. And Mr. Digby did not know what further to counsel, and was also silent. The silence lasted some little time, while a strawberry seller was making the street ring with her cries of "Straw....berr_ees_," and the hot air wafted in the odours from near and far, and the water trickled from the pump nose again. At last Mrs. Carpenter began again, with some difficulty and effort; not bodily however, but mental.
"You have been so exceedingly kind to me, to us, Mr. Digby, I--"
"Hush," he said. "Do not speak of that. You have done far more for me than I ever can do for you?"
"I? No. I have done nothing."
"You saved my father's life."
"Your father's life? You are under some mistake. I never knew a Mr. Digby till I knew you I never even heard the name."
"You knew a Mr. Southwode," said he smiling.
"Southwode? Southwode! The English gentleman! But you are not his son?"
"I am his son. I am Digby-Southwode. I took my mother's name for certain business reasons."
"And you are his son! How wonderful! That strange gentleman's son!--But I did not do so much for your father, Mr. Southwode. You have done _everything_ for me."
"I wish I could do more," said he shortly.
"I am ashamed to ask,--and yet, I was going to ask you to do something more--a last service--for me. It is too much to ask."
"I am sure it is not that," he said with great gentleness. "Let me know what you wish."
Mrs. Carpenter hesitated. "Rotha does not know,"--she said then. "She has no idea--"
"Of what?"
"She has no idea that I am going to leave her."
"I am afraid that is true."
"And it will be soon Mr. Digby."
"Perhaps not; but what is it you wish of me?"
"Tell her--" whispered Mrs. Carpenter.
The young man might feel startled, or possibly an inevitable strong objection to the service demanded of him. He made no answer; and Mrs. Carpenter soon went on.
"It is wrong to ask it, and yet whom shall I ask? I would not have her learn it from any of the people in the house; though they are kind, they are not discreet; and Rotha would in any case come straight to me; and I--cannot bear it. She is a passionate child; violent in her feelings and in the expression of them. I have been thinking about it day and night lately, and I _cannot_ get my courage up to face the first storm of her distress. My poor child! she is not very fitted to go through the world alone."
"What are your plans for her?"
"I am unable to form any."
"But you must tell me what steps you wish me to take in her behalf--if there is no one whom you could better trust."
"There is no one whom I can trust at all. Except only my Father in heaven. I trust him, or I should die before my time. I thought my heart _would_ break, a while ago; now I have got over that. Do you know He has said, 'Leave thy fatherless children to me'?"
Yet now the mother's tears were falling like rain.
"I will do the very best I can," said the young man at her side; "but I wish you would give me some hints, or directions, at least."
"How can I? There lie but two things before me;--that Mrs. Cord should bring her up and make a sempstress of her; or that Mrs. Marble should teach her to be a mantua-maker; and I am so foolish, I cannot bear the thought of either thing; even if they would do it, which I do not know."
"Make your mind easy. She shall be neither the one thing nor the other. Rotha has far too good abilities for that. I will not give her to Mrs. Cord's or Mrs. Marble's oversight. But what _would_ you wish?"
"I do not know. I must leave you to judge. You can judge much better than I. I have no knowledge of the world, or of what is possible. Mrs. Marble tells me there are free schools here--"
"Of course she shall go to school. I will see that she does. And I will see that she is under some woman's care who can take proper care of her. Do not let yourself be troubled on that score. I promise you, you need not. I will take as good care of her as if she were a little sister of my own."
There was silence at first, the silence of a heart too full to find words. Mrs. Carpenter sat with her head a little bowed.
"You will lose nothing by it," she said huskily after a few minutes. "There is a promise somewhere--"
But with that she broke down and cried.
"I don't know what you will do with her!" she said; "nor what anybody will do with her, except her mother. She is a wayward child; passionate; strong, and also weak, on the side of her affections. She has never learned yet to submit her will, though for love she is capable of great devotion. She has shewed it to me this past winter."
"Is there any other sort of devotion that is worth much?" asked the young man.
"Duty?--"
"Surely the devotion of love is better."
"Yes--. But duty ought to be recognized for what it is."
"Nay, I think it ought to be recognized for a pleasure. Here she comes.--Well, Rotha, was the walk pleasant?"
"No."
"Indeed? Why not?"
"How could it be, Mr. Digby? Not a bit of good air, nor anything pleasant to see; just all hot and dirty."
"I thought you said there were some flowers in front of some of the shops?" her mother said.
"Yes, mother; but they looked melancholy."
"Did they?" said Mr. Digby smiling. "Suppose you go with me to-morrow, and I will take you to the Park."
"O! will you?" said Rotha with suddenly opening eyes. "Can you?"
"If Mrs. Carpenter permits."
CHAPTER VII.
MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
The next day being again warm, Mr. Digby did not come for Rotha till the afternoon was far advanced. They took then one of the street cars, which would bring them to the Park entrance. The way was long and the drive slow. It was also silent, of necessity; and both parties had leisure for thoughts, as well as material enough.
Rotha was at first divided between the pleasure of seeing things, and a somewhat uneasy reflection upon her own appearance. She was not in general a self-conscious child; very much the reverse; but to-day she was with Mr. Digby, and she had an exalted idea of the requirements of everything even remotely connected with him. She was going in his company; under his charge; how did she look? She was not satisfied on that point. Mr. Digby himself was always so nice and perfect in his dress, she said to herself; she ought to be very nice to go with him. Truly she had put on the best she had; a white cambrick frock; it was clean and white; but Rotha had none but her everyday brown straw hat, and she knew _that_ was not "smart"; and her dress, she pondered it as she went along, she was sure it was very old-fashioned indeed. Certainly it was not made like the dresses of other girls of her own age, whom she saw in the car or on the sidewalk. Theirs were ruffled; hers was plain; theirs generally stood out in an imposing manner; while her own clung in slim folds around her slim little person. She concluded that she could not be in any degree what Mrs. Marble called "stylish." The exact meaning of that word indeed Rotha could not define; undefinedly she felt it to be something vastly desirable. She decided in her own mind that Mr. Digby was stylish; which it is true proved that the young girl had a nice feeling for things; since the fact, which was undoubted, was entirely unaccompanied by anything in matter or manner of wearing which could take the vulgar eye. Would he dislike going in public, she wondered, with a little figure like herself? She hoped not, she thought not; but thought it with a curious independence, which I am afraid was really born of pride though it took the semblance of good sense.
Gradually the interest of other figures made Rotha forget her own. They came out from the poor part of the city where she dwelt; streets grew wide and shops lofty and imposing; equipages drove along, outstripping the slow-going car; and in them, what ladies, and what gentlemen, and what little girls now and then! This was the wonderfu
l New York, at which she had now and then had a peep; this was something five hundred miles removed from Jane Street. What sort of human beings were these? and what sort of life did they live? and did money make all the difference, or was there some more intrinsic and essential distinction between them and their fellows in Abingdon Square? At any rate, how very, very much better off they were!
Mr. Digby's musings had much less to do with the surface of things. I doubt indeed if he saw ought that was before his eyes, all the way to the Park. Not even Rotha herself; and yet she was the main subject of his cogitations. He was feeling that his kindness to Mrs. Carpenter