FORT WASHINGTON.
No such hope was to be realized. With all that care and kindness could
do, the sick woman failed more and more. The great heats weakened her.
The drives in the Park were refreshing, but alas, fatiguing, and
sometimes had to be relinquished; and this happened again and again.
Rotha behaved unexceptionably; was devoted to the service of her mother;
untiring, and unselfish, and quiet; "another girl," Mrs. Cord said. Poor
child! she was another girl in more ways than one; her fiery brightness
of spirits was over, her cheeks grew thin, her eyes had dark rings round
them, and their brown depths were heavy with a shadow darker yet.
Energetic she was, as ever, but in a more staid and womanly way; the
gladness of her doings was gone. Still, Mrs. Carpenter never saw her
weep. In the evenings, or in the twilight, when there was nothing
particular to be done, the child would nestle close to her mother, lay
her head in her lap or rest it against her knee, and sit quiet. Still, at
least, if not quiet; Mrs. Carpenter did sometimes fancy that she felt the
drawing of a convulsive breath; but if she spoke then to Rotha, Rotha
would answer with a specially calm and clear voice; and her mother did
not get at her sorrow, if it were that which moved her. And Mrs.
Carpenter was too weak now to try.
Mr. Digby came as usual, constantly. It was known to none beside himself,
that he staid in town through the hot July and August days for this
purpose solely. He saw that his sick friend grew weaker every day, yet he
did not expect after all that the end would come so soon as it did. He
had yet a lingering notion of bringing the sisters together, when Mrs.
Busby should return. He was thinking of this one August afternoon as he
approached the house. Mrs. Marble met him in the hall.
"Well, Mr. Digby,--it's all up now!"
The gentleman paused on his way to the stairs and looked his inquiry.
"She aint there. Warn't she a good woman, though!" And Mrs. Marble's face
was all quivering, and some big tears fell from the full eyes.
"_Was?_" said Mr. Digby. "You do not mean--"
"She's gone. Yes, she's gone. And I guess she's gone to the good land;
and I guess she aint sorry to be free; but--_I_'m sorry!"
For a few minutes the kind little woman hid her face in her apron, and
sadly blotched with tears the apron was when she took it down.
"It's all over," she repeated. "At two o'clock last night, she just
slipped off, with no trouble at all. And the house does feel as lonely as
if fifty people had gone out of it. I never see the like o' the way I
miss her. I'd got to depend on her living up there, and it was good to
think of it; there warn't no _noise_, more'n if nobody had been up there;
but if I aint good myself and I don't think I be--I do love to have good
folks round. She _was_ good. I never see a better. It's been a blessin'
to the house ever since she come into it; and I always said so. An' she's
gone!"
"Where is Rotha?"
"Rotha! she's up there. I guess wild horses wouldn't get her away. I
tried; I tried to get her to come down and have some breakfast with me;
but la! she thinks she can live on air; or I suppose she don't think
about it."
"How is she?"
"Queer. She is always a queer child. I can't make her out. And I wanted
to consult you about her, sir; what's to be done with Rotha? who'll take
care of her? She's just an age to want care. She'll be as wild as a hawk
if she's let loose to manage herself."
"I thought she was very quiet."
"Maybe, up stairs. But just let anybody touch her down here, in a way she
don't like, and you'd see the sparks fly! If you want to know how, just
take and knock a firebrand against the chimney back."
"Who would touch her, here?" asked the gentleman.
"La! nobody, except with a question maybe, or a bit of advice. I
shouldn't like to take hold of her any other way. I never did see a more
masterful piece of human nature, of fourteen years old or any other age.
She aint a bad child at all; I'm not meaning that; but her mother let her
have her own way, and I guess she couldn't help it. It'll be worse for
Rotha now, for the world aint like that spring chair you had fetched for
her poor mother. You've been an angel of mercy in that room, sure
enough."
Mr. Digby passed the good woman and began to ascend the stairs.
"I wanted to ask you about Rotha," Mrs. Marble persisted, speaking up
over the bannisters, "because, if that was the best, I would take her
myself and bring her up to my business. I don't know who is to manage
things now, or settle anything."
"I will," said Mr. Digby. "Thank you, Mrs. Marble; I will see you again."
"'Thank you, Mrs. Marble, I don't want you,' that means," said the little
woman as she retreated to her own apartments. "There's somebody else a
little bit masterful, I expect. Well, it's all right for the men, I
s'pose, at least if they take a good turn; any way, we can't help it; but
for a girl that aint fifteen yet,--it aint so agreeable. And poor child!
who'll have patience with her now?"
Meanwhile Mr. Digby went up stairs and softly opened the door of the
sitting room. For some time ago, since Mrs. Carpenter became more feeble,
he had insisted on her having her old sleeping apartment again, other
quarters being found or made for Mrs. Cord in the house. Mrs. Cord had
naturally assumed the duties of her profession, which was that of a
nurse; for the sake of which, knowing that they would be needed, Mr.
Digby had first introduced her here.
At the window of the sitting room, looking out into the street, Rotha was
sitting listlessly. No one else was in the room. She turned her head when
she heard Mr. Digby's footsteps, and the face he saw then smote his
heart. It was such a changed face; wan and pale, with the rings round the
eyes that come of excessive weeping, and a blank, dull expression in the
eyes themselves which was worse yet. She did not move, nor give any
gesture of greeting, but looked at the young man entering as if neither
he nor anything else in the world concerned her.
Mr. Digby felt then, what everybody with a heart has felt at one time or
another, that the office of comforter is the most difficult in the world.
In one thing at least he imitated Job's friends; he was silent. He came
close up to the girl and stood there, looking down at her. But she turned
her wan face away from him and looked out of the window again. She
looked, but he was sure she saw nothing. He did not venture to touch her;
he saw that she was not open to the least token of tenderness; such a
token would surely turn her apathetic calm into irritation. Perhaps even
his standing there had some such effect; for after a little while, Rotha
said,
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Digby?"
He sat down, and waited. However, people do not live in these days to be
several hundred years old; and proportionately, seven days of silence
would be more of that sort of sympathy than can be shewn since Job's
time. Yet what to say, Mr. Digby was profoundly doubtful. Finding nothing
that would do, of his own, he took his little Testament from his pocket,
and turning the leaves aimlessly came upon the eleventh chapter of the
Gospel of John. He began at the beginning and read slowly and quietly on
till he came to the words,
'"Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother
had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God,
God will give it thee.
"'Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again.'--"
"Please don't, Mr. Digby!" said Rotha, who after a few verses had buried
her face in her hands.
"Don't what?"
"Don't read any more."
"Why not?"
"I know how it goes on. I know what he did. But he will not do that--
here."
"Yes, he will. Not immediately, but by and by."
"I don't care for by and by."
"Yes you do, Rotha. By and by the Lord Jesus will come again; and when he
comes he will send his angels to gather up and bring to him all his
people who are then living, scattered about in the world, and at the same
time all his people who once lived and have died shall be raised up. Then
will come your dear mother, with the rest, in beauty and glory."
"But," said Rotha, bursting out into violent sobs, "I don't know where I
shall be!"--
The paroxysm of tears and sobs that followed, startled Mr. Digby; it was
so extreme in its passion beyond anything he had ever seen in his life;
even beyond her passion on the sea shore. It seemed as if the girl must
almost strangle in her convulsive oppression of breath. He tried soothing
words, and he tried authority; and both were as vain as the recoil of
waves from a rock. The passion spent itself by degrees, and was succeeded
by a more gentle, persistent rain of tears which fell quietly.
"Rotha," said Mr. Digby gravely, "that is not right."
"Very likely," she answered. "How are you going to help it?"
"I cannot; but you can."
"I _can't!_" she exclaimed, with almost a cry. "When it comes, I must."
"No, my child; you must learn self-command."
"How can I?" she said doggedly.
"By making it your rule, that you will always do what is _right_--not
what you like."
"It never was my rule."
"Perhaps. But do you mean that it never shall be?"
There followed a long silence, during which Rotha's tears gradually
stilled; but she said nothing, and Mr. Digby let her alone. After this
time, she rose and came to him and laid one hand half timidly, half
confidingly, upon his shoulder.
"Mr. Digby," she said softly, "because I am so wicked, will you get tired
and forsake me?"
"Never!" he answered heartily, putting his arm round the forlorn child
and drawing her a little nearer. And Rotha, in her forlornness and in the
gentle mood that had come over her, laid her head down on his shoulder,
or rather in his neck, nestling to him. It was an unconscious, mute
appeal to his kindness and _for_ his kindness; it was a very unconscious
testimony of Rotha's trust and dependence on him; it was very child-like,
but coming from this girl who was so nearly not a child, it moved the
young man strangely. He had no sisters; the feeling of Rotha's silky,
thick locks against the side of his face and the clinging appeal of her
hand and head on his shoulder, gave him an entirely new sensation. All
that was manly in him stirred to meet the appeal, and at the same time
Rotha took a suddenly different place in his thoughts and regards. He was
glad Mrs. Cord was not there to see; but if she had been, I think he
would have done just the same. He drew the girl close to him, and laid
his other hand tenderly upon those waving, thick, dark locks of hair.
"I will never forsake you, Rotha. I will never be tired. You shall be
like my own little sister; for your mother left you in my charge, and you
belong to me now, and to nobody else in the world."
She accepted it quietly, making no response at all; her violent passion
had been succeeded by a gentle, subdued mood. Favourable for saying
several things and making sundry arrangements; only that just then was
not the time that would do. Both of them remained still and silent, Mr.
Digby thinking this among other things; poor Rotha was hardly thinking at
all, any more than a shipwrecked man just flung ashore by the waves, and
clinging to the rock that has saved him from sweeping out to sea again,
lie blesses the rock, maybe, but it is no time for considering anything.
The one idea is to hold fast; and Rotha mentally did it, with an
intensity of trust and clinging that her protector never guessed at.
"Then I must do what you say, now?" she remarked after a while.
"I suppose so," he answered, much struck by this tone of docility.
"I will try, Mr. Digby."
"Will you trust me too, Rotha?"
"For what?"
"I mean, will you trust me that what I do for you, or want you to do, is
the best thing to be done?"
Rotha lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Nothing, to-day; by and by, perhaps many things. My question was
general."
"Whether I will trust that what you say is the best?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Digby, mightn't you be mistaken?"
"Rotha, might not you? And would it not be more likely?"
Rotha began to reflect that in her past life she had not been wont to
give such unbounded trust to anybody; not even to her father, and not
certainly to her mother. She had sometimes thought them mistaken; how
could she help that? and how could she help it in any other case, if
circumstances warranted it? But with the thought of her mother, tears
rose again, and she did not speak. Just then Mrs. Cord came in.
"O I am glad you are there, sir!" she began. "I wanted to speak to you,
if you please."
Mr. Digby unclosed his arm from about Rotha, and she withdrew quietly to
her former station by the window. The other two went into the adjoining
room, and there Mrs. Cord received instruction and information as to
various points of the arrangements for the next few days.
"And what will I do with Rotha, sir?" she asked finally.
"Do with her? In what respect?"
"She won't eat, sir."
"She will, I fancy, the next time it is proposed to her."
"She's very hard to manage," said Mrs. Cord, shaking her head. "She will
have her own way, always."
"Wel--let her have it."
"But other people won't, sir; and I think it's bad for her. She's had it,
pretty much, all along; but now--she don't care for what I say, no more'n
if I was a post! Nor Mrs. Marble, nor anybody. And is Mrs. Marble going
to take her, sir?"
"Not at all. Her mother left her in my care."
"Oh!--" said the good woman, with a rather prolonged accent of
mystification and disapprobation; wondering, no doubt, what disposal Mr.
Digby could make of her, better than with Mrs. Marble; but not venturing
to ask.
"Nothing can be done, till after the funeral," the young man went on.
"Take all the care of her you can until then. By the way, if you can give
me something to eat, I will lunch here. If you have nothing in the house,
I can get something in a few minutes."
Mrs. Cord was very much surprised; however, she assured Mr. Digby that
there was ample supply in the house, and went on, still with a mystified
and dissatisfied feeling, to prepare and produce it. She knew how, and
very nicely an impromptu meal was spread in a few minutes. Mr. Digby
meanwhile went out and got some fruit; and then he and Rotha sat down
together. Rotha was utterly gentle and docile; did what he bade her and
took what he gave her; indeed it was plain the poor child was in sore
need of food, which she had had thus far no heart to eat. Mr. Digby
prolonged the meal as much as he could, that he might spend the more time
with her; and when he went away, asked her to lie down and go to sleep.
Those must be heavy days, he knew, till the funeral was over. What then?
It was a question. Mrs. Busby would not be in town perhaps before the end
of September; and here it was the middle of August. Near two months of
hot weather to intervene. What should he do? He would willingly be out of
the city himself; and for Rotha, the spending all these weeks in her
mother's old rooms, in August weather, and with Mrs. Cord and Mrs. Marble
for companions, did not seem expedient. It would be good for neither body
nor mind. But he could not take her to any place of public resort; that
would not be expedient either. He pondered and pondered, and was very
busy for the next two or three days.
The result of which activity was, that he took rooms in a pleasant house
at Washington Heights, overlooking the river, and removed Rotha there,
with Mrs. Cord to look after her. But as he himself also took up his
abode in the house, Mrs. Cord's supervision was confined to strictly
secondary matters. He had his meals in company with Rotha, and was with
her most of the time, and was the sole authority to which she was obliged
to refer.
It was an infinite blessing to the child, whose heart was very sore, and
who stood in need of very judicious handling. And somewhat to Mr. Digby's
surprise, it was not a bore to himself. The pleasure of ministering is
always a pleasure, especially when the need is very great; it is also a
pleasure to excite and to receive affection; and he presently saw, with
some astonishment, that he was doing this also. Certainly it was not a
thing in the circumstances to be astonished at; and it moved Mr. Digby
so, simply because he was so far from thinking of himself in his present
plan of action. All the pleasanter perhaps it was, when he saw that the
forlorn girl was hanging upon him all the dependence of a very trusting
nature, and giving to him all the wealth of a passionate power of loving.
This came by degrees.
At first, in a strange place and with new surroundings and utterly
changed life, the girl was exceedingly forlorn. The days passed in
alternations of violent outbreaks of grief and fits of seeming apathy,
which I suppose were simply nature's reaction from overstrain and
exhaustion. The violence she rarely shewed in Mr. Digby's presence; Rotha
was taking her first lessons in self-command; nevertheless he saw the
work that was going on, knew it must be, for a time, and wisely abstained
from interference with it. "There is a time to weep"; and he knew it was
now; comfort would be mockery. He was satisfied that Rotha should have so
much diversion from her sorrow as his presence occasioned; that she
should be obliged to meet him at meals, and to behave then with a certain
degree of outward calm, and the necessary attention to little matters;
all useful in a sort of slow, unnoticed way. Otherwise for a few days he
let her alone. But then he began to give her things to do. Lessons were
taken up again, by degrees multiplied, until Rotha's time was well filled
with occupation. It went very hard at first. Rotha even ventured on a
little passive rebellion; even declared she could not study. Mr. Digby
shewed her that she could; helped her, led her on, and let her see
finally that he expected certain things of her, which she could not
neglect without coming to an open rupture with him. That was impossible.
Rotha bent her will to do what was required of her; and from that time
the difficulty of Mr. Digby's task was over. She began soon to be
interested again in what she was about and to make excellent progress.
Then Mr. Digby would put himself in a hammock on the piazza or out under
a great walnut-tree, and make Rotha read to him, and incite her to talk
of what she read; or he would give her lessons in drawing; both occasions
of the utmost gratification to Rotha; and when the scorching sun had got
low down over the Palisades, he would take her in an easy little vehicle
and go for a long drive. So one way and another they came to be together
all the time. And after the first miserable days were past, and Rotha had
been constrained to busy herself with something besides herself; her
mental powers called into vigorous exertion and furnished with an
abundant supply of new food; by degrees a sort of enjoyment began to
creep into her life again, and grew, and grew. It was a help, that
everything was so strange about her. Even her own dress.
"Mrs. Cord," Mr. Digby had said in the first week of this new life,--"how
is Rotha off for clothes?"
"Well, sir," said the nurse, "of course they were people not likely to
have much of that sort of thing; but Rotha has what will do her through
the warm season."
"But is she supplied as a young lady ought to be, with everything
needful?"
"As a young lady!--no, sir. It's what she never set up for, and don't
need, and knows nothing about. Her mother was a very good woman, and
didn't pretend to dress her as a young lady. But she's comfortable."
Mr. Digby half smiled at the collocation of things, however he went on
with full seriousness.
"She will go to school by and by, and she will go there as a young lady.
I wish, Mrs. Cord, you would see to it, as far as you know, that she has
a full supply of everything. Go to one of the best shops for outfits and
get plenty of every thing and of good quality, and send the bills to me.
And get Mrs. Marble to make her some dresses."
"Mourning, sir?"
"No. Simple things, but no black."
"I asked, because it's customary, sir."
"It's a bad custom; better broken."
"Then what shall I get, sir?" asked Mrs. Cord with unwonted stolidity.
"You need not get anything. I will see to it myself. Only the linen and
all that, Mrs. Cord, which I should not know how to get. The rest I will
take care of."
And he took such good care, that the good woman was filled with a
displeased surprise which was inexplicable. Why should she be displeased?
Yet Mrs. Cord was quite "put about," as she said, when the things came
home. They were simple things, indeed; a few muslins and ginghams and the
like. But the ginghams were fine and beautiful, and the muslins of
delicate patterns and excellent quality; and with them came a set of fine
cambrick handkerchiefs, and ruffles, and lace, and a little parasol, and
a light summer wrap; for Rotha had nothing to put on that made her fit to
go to drive with her guardian. He had taken her, all the same, dressed as
she was, but it seems he thought there must be a change in this state of
things. Mrs. Cord was full of dissatisfaction; and when she took the
dresses to Mrs. Marble to be made up, the two good women held a regular
pow wow over them.
"Muslin like that!" cried the little mantua-maker with an expression of
strong distaste. "Why that _never_ cost less than fifty cents, Mrs. Cord!
My word, it didn't."
"Just think of it! And for that girl, who never wore anything but
sixpenny calico if she could get it. Men are the stupidest!--"
"That ashes-of-roses lawn is the prettiest thing I've seen yet. Mrs.
Cord, she don't want all these?"
"So I say," returned the nurse; "but I wasn't consulted. That aint all;
you should have seen the ruffles, and the ribbands, and the
pockethandkerchiefs; and then he took her somewhere, Stewart's, I
shouldn't wonder, and got her gloves and gloves; and then a lovely
Leghorn hat, with a brim wide enough to swallow her up. And now you must
make up these muslins, and let us have one soon; for my master is in a
hurry."
The little mantua-maker contemplated the muslins, and things generally.
"There's not the first sign o' black among 'em all! Not a line, nor a
sprig, nor a dot."
"Maybe that's English ways," returned the nurse; "but if it is, I never
heerd so before."
"Well I like to see mournin' put on, if it's only respect," went on the
dress-maker; "and a girl hadn't ought to be learnt to forget her own
mother, before she's well out of sight. I'd ha' dressed her in black,
poor as I am, and not a sign o white about her, for one year at least. I
think it looks sort o' rebellious, to do without it. Why I've known folks
that would put on mourning if they hadn't enough to eat; and I admire
that sort o' sperit."
The nurse nodded.
"Just look here, now! What's he thinkin' about, Mrs. Cord?"
"Just that question I've been askin' myself, Mrs. Marble; and I can't get
no answer to it."
"What's he goin' to do with her?"
"He says, send her to school."
"These aint for school dresses."
"O no; these are to go ridin' about in, with him."
"Well _I_ think, somebody ought to take charge of her. A young man like
that, aint the person to do it Taint likely he's goin' to bring her up to
marry her, I suppose."
"She's too young for such thoughts," said the nurse.
"She's young, but she aint far from bein' older," Mrs. Marble went on
significantly. "When a girl's once got to fifteen, she's seventeen before
you can turn round."
"There'll have to be somebody else to wait upon her, I know, besides me,"
returned the nurse. "That aint my business. And it's all I'm wanted for
now. Nobody can say a word to my young lady if it isn't the gentleman
hisself; and she's with him all the while, and not with me. I aint goin'
to put up with it long, I can tell 'em."
Mr. Digby's pay was good however, and Mrs. Cord did not find it
convenient to give notice immediately; and also the muslin dresses were
made and well made, and sent home to the day.
All these her new possessions and equipments were regarded by Rotha
herself with a mixture of pleasure and mortification. The pleasure was
undeniable; the girl had a nice sense of the fitness of things, inborn
and natural and only needing cultivation. It was getting cultivation
fast. She had a subtle perception that the new style of living into which
she had come was superior to the old ways in which she had been brought
up; not merely in the vulgar item of costliness, but in the far higher
qualities of refinement and propriety and beauty. Her mother and father
had been indeed essentially refined people, of good sense and good taste
as far as their knowledge went. Rotha began to perceive that it had
stopped short a good deal below the desirable point. Also she felt
herself thoroughly in harmony with the new life, little as she had known
of it hitherto; and was keen to discern and quick to adopt every fresh
point of greater refinement in habits and manners. Mr. Digby now and then
at table would say quietly, "This is the better way, Rotha,"--or,
"Suppose you try it _so_."--He never had to give such a hint a second
time. He never had to tell her anything twice. What he did, Rotha held to
be "wisest, discreetest, best," the supreme model in everything; and she
longed with a kind of passion to be like him in these, and in all
matters. So it was with a gush of great satisfaction that the girl for
the first time saw herself well and nicely dressed. She knew the
difference between her old and her new garments, knew it correctly; did
not place the advantage of the latter in their colour or fineness; but
recognized quite well that now she looked as if she belonged to Mr.
Digby, while before, nobody could have thought so for a moment. The
pleasure was keen. Yet it mingled, as I said, with a sting of
mortification. Not simply that her new things were his gift and came to
her out of his bounty, though she felt that part of the whole business;
but it pained her to feel that her own father and mother had stood below
anybody in knowledge of the world and use of its elegant proprieties.
Rotha was perfectly clear-sighted, and knew it, from the very keen
delight with which she herself accepted and welcomed this new initiation.
The prevailing feeling however was the pleasure; though in Rotha's face
and manner I may say there was no trace of it, the first day she was what
Mr. Digby would have called "properly dressed," and met him in their
little sitting room. She came in gravely, (she was already trying to
imitate his quietness of manner) and came straight up to Mr. Digby where
he was standing in the window. Rotha waited a minute, and then looked up
at him, blushing.
"Do you like it?" she asked frankly.
His eye caught the new muslin, and he stepped back a step to take a view.
"Yes," he said smiling. "That's very well. Is it comfortable?"
"O yes."
"That's well," he said. "I always think it the prime question in a coat,
whether it is comfortable."
He came back to his place in the window, so making an end of the subject;
but Rotha had not said all that she wished to say.
"Mrs. Cord wanted me to put this on to-day, though it was not Sunday; was
she right?"
"Eight? certainly. Why should one be better dressed Sunday than any other
day?"
"I thought people did--" said Rotha, much confused in her ideas.
"And right enough," said Mr. Digby, recollecting himself, "in the cases
where the work to be done in the week would injure or soil a good dress.
But in other cases?--"
"On Sunday one goes to church," said Rotha.
"Well,--what then?"
"Oughtn't one to be better dressed to go to church?"
"Why should you?"
Rotha was so much confounded that she had nothing to say. This was
overturning all her traditions.
"What do you go to church for, Rotha?"
"I _ought_ to go--to think about God, I suppose."
"Well, and would much dressing help you?"
Rotha considered. "I don't think it helps much," she confessed.
"You say, you ought to go for such a reason;--what is your real reason?"
"For going? Because mother took me; or made me go without her."
"You are honest," said Mr. Digby smiling. "You will agree with me that
that is a poor reason; but I am glad you understand yourself, and are not
deceived about it."
"I don't think I understand myself, Mr. Digby."
"Why not?"
"Because, sometimes I am in great confusion, and can _not_ understand
myself."
"Let me help you when those times come."
"One of the times is to-day," said Rotha in a low tone.
"Ah? What's the matter?" said he looking down kindly at her. Rotha had
laid her forehead against the edge of the window frame, and was looking
out with an intent grave eye which amused him, and made him curious too.
"Because I want to tell you something of how feel, Mr. Digby, and I
cannot."--(He had told her not to say _can't_, and now she never did.)
"It's all mixed up, and I don't know what comes first; and you will think
I am--ungrateful."
"Never in the world!" said he heartily. "I shall never think that. I
think I know you pretty well, Rotha."
Yet he was hardly prepared for the look she gave him; a glance only, but
so intent, so warm, so laden with gratitude, ay, and so burdened with a
yet deeper feeling, that Mr. Digby was well nigh startled. It was not the
flash of brilliancy of which Rotha's eyes were quite capable; it was a
rarer thing, the dark glow of a hidden fire, true, and deep, and pure,
and unconscious of itself. It gave the young man something to think of.