Whether Mr. Busby forgot it, or whether he did not care, he made no reply to this suggestion.
"I _never_ tell Antoinette she will be a beauty," Mrs. Busby went on severely.
"Well, I don"t think she will. Not her style."
"Is it my style to be ugly, papa?" cried the injured daughter.
"Where will you see such a skin as Antoinette"s?" asked the mother.
"Skin isn"t everything. My dear, don"t be perverse," said Mr. Busby, in his husky tones which sounded so oddly. "Nettie"s a pretty little girl, and I am glad of it; but don"t you go to making a fool of her by making her think she is more. You had just as fine a skin when I married you; but that wasn"t what I married you for."
Rotha wondered what her aunt had married Mr. Busby for! However, if there had once been a peach-blossom skin at one end of the table, perhaps there had been also some corresponding charm at the other end; a sweet voice, for instance. Both equally gone now. Meantime Antoinette was crying, and Mrs. Busby looking more annoyed than Rotha had ever seen her. Her self- command still did not fail her, and she pursed up her lips and kept silence. Rotha wanted a potatoe, but the potatoes were before Mrs. Busby, and she dared not ask for it. The silence was terrible.
"What"s the matter, Nettie?" said her father at length. "Don"t be silly.
I don"t believe Rotha would cry if I told her her skin was brown."
"You"ve said enough to please Rotha!" Antoinette sobbed.
"And it is unnecessary to be constantly comparing your daughter with some one else," said Mrs. Busby. "Can"t we talk of some other subject, more useful and agreeable?"
Then Rotha summoned up her courage, with her heart beating.
"May I speak of another subject?" she said. "Aunt Serena, I have been wanting to tell you--I have been waiting for a chance to tell you--that I want to beg your pardon."
Mrs. Busby made no answer; it was her husband who asked, "For what?"
"To-day, sir, and a good while ago when I was here--different times--I spoke to aunt Serena as I ought not; rudely; I was angry. I have been wanting to say so and to beg her pardon."
"Well, that"s all anybody can do," said Mr. Busby. "Enough"s said about that. It"s very proper, if you spoke improperly, to confess it and make an apology; that"s all that is necessary. At least, as soon as Mrs. Busby has signified that she accepts the apology."
But Mrs. Busby signified no such thing. She kept silence.
"My dear, do you want Rotha to say anything more? Hasn"t she apologized sufficiently?"
"I should like to know first," Mrs. Busby began in constrained tones, "what motive prompted the apology?"
"Motive!--" Mr. Busby began; but Rotha struck in.
"My motive was, that I wanted to do right; and I knew it was right that I should apologize."
"Then your motive was not that you were sorry for what you said?" Mrs.
Busby inquired magisterially.
Rotha was so astonished at this way of receiving her words that she hesitated.
"I am sorry, certainly, that I should have spoken rudely," she said.
"But not sorry for what you said?"
"You are splitting hairs, my dear!" said Mr. Busby impatiently.
"Let her answer--" said his wife.
"I do not know how to answer," said Rotha slowly, and thinking how to choose her words. "I am sorry for my ill-manners and unbecoming behaviour; I beg pardon for that. Is there anything else to ask pardon for?"
"You do not answer."
"What else can I say?" Rotha returned with some spirit. "I am not apologizing for thoughts or feelings, but for my improper behaviour.
Shall I not be forgiven?"
"Then your _feeling_ is not changed?" said the lady with a sharp look at her.
Rotha thought, It would be difficult for her feeling to change, under the reigning system. She did not answer.
"Pish, pish, my dear!" said the master of the house,--"you are splitting straws. When an apology is made, you have nothing to do but to take it.
Rotha has done her part; now you do yours. Has Santa Claus come your way this year, Rotha?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he bring you, hey?"
"Mrs. Mowbray gave me a Bible."
"A Bible!" Mrs. Busby and her daughter both exclaimed at once; "you said a bag?"
"I said true," said Rotha.
"She gave you a Bible and a bag too?"
"Yes."
"What utter extravagance! Had you no Bible already?"
"I had one, but an old one that had no references."
"What did you want with references! That woman is mad. If she gives to everybody on the same scale, her pocket will be empty enough when the holidays are over."
"But she gets a great deal of pleasure that way--" Rotha ventured.
"You do, you mean."
"Well, I am not so rich as Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Busby said; "but I must remember you, Rotha." And he rose and went to a large secretary which stood in the room; for that bas.e.m.e.nt room served Mr. Busby for his study at times when the table was not laid for meals. Three pair of eyes followed him curiously. Mr. Busby unlocked his secretary, opened a drawer, and took out thence a couple of quires of letter paper: "sought out then some envelopes of the right size, and put the whole, two quires of paper and two packages of envelopes, into Rotha"s astonished hands.
"There, my dear," said he, "that will be of use to you."
"What is she to do with it, papa?" Antoinette asked in an amused manner.
"Rotha has n.o.body to write letters to."