Part 40 (2/2)

In spite of all which certainty in his own mind, Mr. Digby looked forward with positive uneasiness to the telling Rotha what was in store for her.

There was no help for that either; it must be done; and Mr. Digby was not one to put off a duty because it was disagreeable.

The next morning Rotha was at her drawing again, and Mr. Digby lay on the lounge, thinking how he should begin what he had to say. Rotha was looking particularly well; fresh and bright and happy; very busily intent over her drawing. How the girl had improved in these weeks, softened and refined and grown mannerly. She has good blood in her, thought Mr. Digby; her features shew it, and so do her instincts, and her apt.i.tudes.----

”How would you like to go to school, Rotha?”

She looked up, with the flash of interest and of feeling which came so readily to her eye.

”I shouldn't like it as well as _this_, Mr. Digby,”--(”this” meant the present course and manner of her education;) ”but I suppose you could not go on teaching me always.”

”I am not tired of it, Rotha; but I think it would be better in many respects for you to be at school for a while. You will like it, too.”

”When shall I go, Mr. Digby?” she asked in a subdued voice, without looking up this time.

”The sooner the better, now. The schools have all begun their terms some weeks ago. And then, Rotha, you must have a home in the city. You could not live out here at Fort Was.h.i.+ngton, and attend school in New York. I shall be obliged to go back to the city, too.”

”Then I would like to go,” said Rotha simply.

”But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection.”

Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now.

”My aunt?” she repeated.

”Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?”

Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the att.i.tude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood.

”O Mr. Digby,” she cried, ”not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!”

”Why not?” he asked gently.

”She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her.

_Please_, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!” These words came out in a stream.

”My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?”

”Because she wasn't good to mother--she didn't love her--she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like her _dreadfully_, Mr. Digby!”

The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.

”Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means.”

”O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?”

”Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha!-- Rotha!--”

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