A Letter of Credit Part 99

"I did not want you to think that. The least you can do to a friend, if you have got him, is to trust him."

"But then, I thought--they said--I thought, maybe, after you had put me in aunt Serena's care, you had done--or thought you had done--the best you could for me."

"The best I could just at the moment. I never promised to leave you with Mrs. Busby always, did I?"

"But you were in England, and busy," said Rotha. "It seemed--No, it _didn't_ seem very natural that you should forget all about me, for I did not think it was at all like you; but that was what people said."

"And Rotha believed?"

"I almost believed it at last," said Rotha, very sorry to confess the fact.

"What do you think now?"

"I think I was mistaken. But, Mr. Digby, three years is a long time; and after all, why should you remember me? I was nothing to you; only a child that you had been very kind to."

He was silent. What was she to him indeed? And what sort of relations was he to maintain between them now? She was not a child any longer. Here was a tall, graceful girl, albeit dressed in exceedingly plain garments; the garments could not hide and even rather emphasized the fact, for she was graceful in spite of them. And the promise of the child's face was abundantly fulfilled in the woman. Features very fine, eyes of changing and flashing power, all the indications that he well remembered of a nature pa.s.sionate, tender, sensitive and strong; while there was also a certain veil of sweetness and patience over them all, which he did not remember. Mr. Southwode began dimly to perceive that he could not take up things just where he left them; what he left was not in existence. In place of the pa.s.sionate, variable, wilful child, here was a developed, sensitive, and withal very beautiful woman. What was he to do with her?

or what could he do for her?

Unconsciously, the two had begun slowly pacing towards the house, and Rotha was the one to break the silence. Happily, her companion's scruples did not enter her head.

"What brought you here, Mr. Digby? How ever came you to Tanfield?"

"To look after that little girl you thought I had forgotten," he said with a slight smile.

"But what made you come _here?_ Did you know I was here?"

"Not at all. I could not find out anything of your whereabouts; except indeed that you were 'in the country.' So much I learned."

"From whom?"

"From Mrs. Busby."

"From my aunt! You have seen her! When did you see her?"

"Yesterday; immediately upon my arrival."

"Then you have only just come? From England, I mean."

"Only just come."

Rotha paused. This statement was delightfully soothing.

"And you saw aunt Serena? And what did she say?"

"She said nothing. I could get nothing out of her, of what I wanted to hear. She said you were quite well, making a visit at a friend's house in the country."

"That--is--not--true!" said Rotha slowly and indignantly. "Did she tell you that?"

"Are you not making a visit here?"

"What is a 'visit'? No, I am not. And, it is not a friend's house, either."

"How came you here? and when? and what for, then?" said he now in his turn.

"I came--some time in last May; near the end, I believe."

"Why?"

Rotha lifted her eyes to his. "I do not know," she said.

"What was the alleged reason for your coming?"

"Aunt Serena was going, she said, to Chicago, on a visit, and my presence would not be convenient. I could not stay in the house in New York alone.

So I was sent here. That is all I know."

"_Sent?_"

Rotha nodded. "Yes."

"Not _brought?_"

"O no!"

"Did you come _alone?_"

A sudden spasm seemed to catch the girl's heart; she stopped and covered her face with her hands; and for a minute or two there came a rush of hot tears, irrepressible and unmanageable. Why they came Rotha did not know, and was surprised at them; but there was a quiver and a glitter in her face when she took her hands down, which shewed to her companion that the clouds and the sunshine were at strife somewhere. They walked on a few paces more, and then, coming full in sight of the house, Rotha's steps stayed.

"Where are we going?" she said. "I have no place to take you to, in there."

Mr. Digby's eyes made a survey of the building before him.

"O it is large enough--there is room, and rooms, enough," said Rotha; "but it is all unused and unopened. I have one corner, at the top of the house; and down in another corner Mr. and Mrs. Purcell have their kitchen and a little sleeping place off it; all the rest is desert."

"Who are Mr. and Mrs. Purcell?"

"Aunt Serena's tenants--farmers--I do not know what to call them. They might be servants, but they are not that exactly."

"Do you mean that there is no other person in the house?"

"No other person."

Mr. Southwode began to go forward again, slowly, looking at everything as he went.

"What do you hear from your aunt?"

"Nothing. O yes, I have had one sc.r.a.p of a note from her; some time ago; but it told me nothing:"

"Have you written to her?"