Easily! Well, Rotha could not explain that, nor discuss the whole matter at all with Mrs. Mowbray. She went up to her room, feeling glad this talk was over.
And then things fell immediately into school train. And of all in the house, there was no such diligent worker as Rotha during the months of that school term. She was not only diligent. Mrs. Mowbray greatly admired the quiet dignity and the delicate gravity of her manner. She was grave with a wonderful sweet gravity, compounded of a happy consciousness of what had been given her, and a very deep sense of what was demanded of her. Her happiness, or rather the cause of it, for those months remained secret. n.o.body in the house, excepting Mrs. Mowbray, knew anything about it; and if anybody surmised, there was nothing in Rotha"s quiet, reserved demeanour to embolden any one to put questions. All that Antoinette and Mrs. Busby knew was, that Mr. Southwode had found Rotha and brought her back. "Like his impudence!" Antoinette had said; but Mrs. Busby compressed her lips and said nothing. Both of them kept aloof.
Mr. Southwode himself was little seen by Rotha during those months. He came sometimes, as a guardian might; and there did arise in the house a subdued murmur of comment upon Rotha"s very distinguished-looking visiter. Once or twice he took her out for a drive; however, he during that winter played the part of guardian, not of lover, before the eyes of the world; as he had said he would. When spring came, Mr. Digby went home, and was gone three months; not returning till just before the school term closed.
The story is really done; but just because one gets fond of people one has been living with so long, we may take another look or two at them.
School was over, and the girls were gone, and the teachers were scattered; the house seemed empty. Mrs. Mowbray found Rotha one day gathering her books together and trifles out of her desk. She stood and looked at her, lovingly and longingly.
"And now your school days are ended!" she said, with a mixed expression which spoke not only of regret but had a slight touch of reproach in it.
"O no indeed!" said Rotha. "Mr. Southwode used always to be teaching me something, and I suppose he always will."
"I wish I could have you two years more! I grudge you to anybody else for those two years. But I suppose it is of no use for me to talk."
Rotha went off smiling. It was no use indeed! And Mrs. Mowbray turned away with a sigh.
Down stairs, a few hours later, Mr. Southwode was sitting in the little end room back of the library--Mrs. Mowbray"s special sanctuary. He was trying to see what was the matter with a cuckoo clock which would not strike. The rooms were all in summer order; sweet with the fragrance of India matting, which covered the floors; cool and quiet in the strange stillness of the vacation time. Mrs. Mowbray was a wonderful housekeeper; everything in her house was kept in blameless condition of purity; the place was as fresh and sweet as any place in a large city in the month of July could be. It was July, and warm weather, and the summer breeze blew in at the windows near which Mr. Southwode was sitting, with a fitful, faint freshness, pushing in the muslin curtains which were half open.
There was the cool light which came through green India jalousies, but there was light enough; and everywhere the eye could look there was incentive to thought or suggestion for conversation, in works of arts, bits of travel, reminiscences of distant friends, and tributes from foreign realms of the earth. Books behind him, books before him, books on the table, books on the floor, books in the corners, and books in a great revolving bookstand. There was a dainty rug before the fireplace; there were dainty easy chairs large and small; there was a lovely India screen before the grate; and there was not much room left for anything else when all these things were accommodated. Mr. Southwode however was in one of the chairs, and a cuckoo clock, as I said, on his knees, with which he was busy.
Then came a light step over the matting of the library, and Rotha entered the sanctuary. She came up behind his chair and laid her two hands on his shoulder, bending down so as to speak to him more confidentially. There came to Mr. Southwode a quick recollection of the first time Rotha had ever laid her hand on his shoulder, when her mother was just dead; and how in her forlorn distress the girl had laid her head down too. He remembered the feeling of her thick locks of wavy hair brushing his cheek. Now the full locks of dark hair were bound up, yet not tightly; it was a soft, natural, graceful style, which indeed was the character of all Rotha"s dressing; she had independence enough not to be unbecomingly bound by fashion. Mr. Southwode knew exactly what was hanging over his shoulder, though he did not look up. I may say, he saw it as well as if he had.
"I do not know how to speak to you," Rotha began abruptly. "You do not like me to call you "Mr. Southwode.""
"No."
"But I do not think I know your Christian name."
"My name is Digby."
"That is your surname--your half surname, I thought."
"Yes, but I was christened Digby. That is my name. I took the surname Digby afterwards in compliance with the terms of a will, and legally my name is Digby Digby; but I am of course by birth Southwode."
"Then if I called you "Digby," it would sound as if I were simply dropping the "Mr." and calling you by your surname; and that is very ugly. It does not sound respectful."
"Drop the respect."
"But I cannot!" cried Rotha, laughing a little. "I have heard women speak so, and it always seemed to me very ungraceful. Fancy aunt Serena saying "Busby" to her husband! She always says so carefully "Mr. Busby"--"
"She is a woman of too much good taste to do otherwise."
"She _has_ a good deal," said Rotha, "in many ways. Then what will you think of me, if _I_ do "otherwise"?"
"You are not logical this afternoon," said Mr. Southwode laughing. "Am I an equivalent for Mr. Busby, in your imagination?"
"Will you make that clock go?"
"I think so."
There was a little pause. Rotha did not change her position, and Mr.
Southwode went on with his clock work.
"What shall I do about aunt Serena?" Rotha then began again, in a low voice.
"In what respect?"
"Must I ask her to come here?--Monday, I mean?"
"Do you wish to have her come?"
"Oh no, indeed!"
"Then I do not see the "must.""
"But they are dying to come."
"Have they asked? If so, there is no more to be said."
"O they have not asked in so many words. But they have done everything _but_ ask. Aunt Serena even proposed that I should come there--just fancy it!"
"And be married from her house?"
"Yes."
"I am glad it did not occur to you to agree to the proposal."
"Agree!--But what ought I to do?"
"State the arguments, for and against."
"Well!--I cannot help feeling that it would not be pleasant to have them."
"That is my feeling."
"But then, one ought to forgive people?"
"Forgiveness is one thing, and reinstating in forfeited privileges is another. I have forgiven Mrs. Busby, I hope; but only her repentance could restore her to my respect. I have seen no sign of repentance."
"That involves, and means, punishment."
"Involuntary--and unavoidable."
"I am sorry for aunt Serena!"
"So am I," said Mr. Southwode laughing; "but I do not see why, to save her from being punished, I should punish myself."
Through the rooms behind them now came another step, and Mrs. Mowbray presently entered the little room, which was full when the three were in it. She was in a white summer robe, her hair in its simple coil at the back of her head shewing the small head and its fine setting to great advantage. Nothing more elegant, more sweet, more gracious can be imagined, than her whole presence. It was not school time; duty was not laying a heavy hand of pressure upon her heart and brain; there was the loveliest expression of rest, and good will, and sparkling sympathy, and ready service, in her whole face and manner. She sat down, and for a while the talk flowed on in general channels, full of interest and vitality however; Mrs. Mowbray had learned to know Mr. Southwode by this time, and had thoroughly accepted him; in fact I think she liked him almost as well as she liked Rotha. The talk went on mainly between those two. Rotha herself was silent when she could be so. She was grave and soft, full of a very fair dignity; evidently her approaching marriage was a somewhat awful thing to her; and though her manner was simple and frank as a child in her intercourse with Mr. Southwode, yet after the fashion of her excitable nature the sensitive blood in her cheeks answered every allusion to Monday, or even the mention of her bridegroom"s name when he was not by, or the sound of his step when he came. Mrs. Mowbray was delighted with her; nothing could be more sweet than this delicate consciousness which was grave and thoughtful without ever descending to shyness or hardening to reserve. As for Mr. Southwode, he saw little of it, Rotha was so exactly herself when she was with him; yet now as the talk went on between him and Mrs. Mowbray his eye wandered continually to the eyes which were so downcast, and the quiet withdrawn figure which held itself a little more back than usual.