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, 'No _ma'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 was _that_ the 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 on _my_ hands 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--she _couldn't_ be 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. _He_ had 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.
CHAPTER XIII.
NOT DRESSED.
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