"And what are your movements?" inquired Mrs. Mowbray at length. "Do you go straight home?"

"I think we shall take a roundabout way through Switzerland and Germany, and stay there awhile first."

"You are carrying away from me my dearest pupil," said Mrs. Mowbray. "She has never been anything but a blessing in my house, ever since she came into it. If she is as good to you as she has been to me, you will have nothing left to ask for. But I grudge her to you!"

"I find that very pardonable," said Mr. Southwode with a smile.

"I was dreadfully set against you at first," Mrs. Mowbray went on, with a manner between seriousness and archness. "I tried hard to make out to my satisfaction that Rotha had accepted you only out of grat.i.tude--in which case I should have made fight; but I found I had no ground to stand on."

Here Rotha made a diversion. She came, as Mrs. Mowbray finished her speech, and kneeled down on a cushion at her feet, laying one hand in her friend's hand.

"Mrs. Mowbray--_this_ vacation we shall not be there but next summer, if all's well, you will come and spend the whole time at Southwode?"

"Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "I never know a year beforehand what will become of me!"

"But I said, if all's well?"

"What Rotha pet.i.tions for, I pet.i.tion for also, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr.

Southwode added; "and this time with double urgency, for I ask on her account and on mine too."

"You will come," said Rotha. "And," she went on, laying her other hand on Mrs. Mowbray's shoulder,--"And some day, you know, you will give up schooling; and then--then--Mr. Southwode says, you must come and live the rest of your days with us. He says the house is big enough, and you shall have a separate establishment to yourself, if you like."

Mrs. Mowbray looked silently at the eager face so near her, and her eyes gathered a little moisture, a tendency which probably she repelled.

"I expect to die in harness,"--she said, while the two pair of eyes looked steadily into one another.

"In one way--but not in school harness! Don't say anything about it; but when you stop work--this work--your home is there."

The beautiful lips trembled a little, but Mrs. Mowbray would not give way.

"That would be a delightful dream!" she said. "Thank you, my dear. When I am tired out with people and things, I will think of this and be refreshed. Now will you bring Mr. Southwode in to tea?"

She rose and swept on before them, leading the way. Her self-command had been successful. Rotha was less in training, and several tears dropped from her eyes as she followed through the library. She was a little disappointed, and the girl's heart was full. Her eager affection had not got the answer it wanted. Rotha did not mistake her friend's manner; she did not think Mrs. Mowbray was without feeling because she would not shew feeling; nor that her appeal had not met a response due and full, because the response was not given in words. She knew that probably Mrs. Mowbray could not trust herself to put it in words. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrown back and disappointed, and "Monday" was near; and I suppose she felt what any girl feels at such a time, the want of a mother. Rotha had n.o.body but Mrs. Mowbray, and she was parting from her. Two or three tears fell before she could prevent it. And then Mr. Southwode, who had been watching her, and could read her feelings pretty well, stretched out his hand, took one of hers and drew it through his arm. It was a little thing, but done, as some people can do things, in a way that quite took it out of the category. There was in it, somehow, an a.s.surance of mutual confidence, of understanding, and sympathy, and great tenderness. He had not looked at her, nor spoken, but Rotha's step grew lighter immediately; and in quiet content she followed Mrs. Mowbray up stairs and down and along pa.s.sages and through one room after another. The tea table was not set in the great dining rooms; they too were sweet with fresh matting, and lay in summer coolness and emptiness, giving a long dusky vista towards the front windows, where the blinds shaded the light and muslin curtains shielded from the dust of the streets. But in the smaller end room at the back the great windows were open, and the sea breeze came in fitfully, and the colours of the evening sky were discernible, and there the table was prepared. What a table! Mrs. Mowbray had gathered all sorts of delicacies together; cold birds, and fruit, and dainty India sweetmeats, and rich cheese of best English make, and a cold ham; together with some very delicate warm tea cakes, which I am afraid Mr.

Southwode, being an Englishman, did not appreciate properly.

"Do not think this is our usual and ordinary tea!" Rotha said laughing.

"All this extreme luxury is on your account."

"Rotha and I dine early, these summer days," said Mrs. Mowbray; "and I did not wish to starve you when I asked you to stay to tea. This is not dinner, nor any meal that deserves a name--but perhaps you will kindly put up with it, in place of dinner."

"Dinner!" said Mr. Southwode. "This looks festive!"

"O we are always festive in vacation time," said Rotha joyously. "In other houses people call in numbers to help them make merry; here we are merry when the people go!"

They were softly merry round that board. Rotha had got back her gayety, and Mrs. Mowbray was the most charming of hostesses. No one could take such care of her guests; no one could make the time pa.s.s so pleasantly; no one had such store of things to tell or to talk of, that were worth the while, and that at the same time were not within the reach of most people; no one had a more beautiful skill to give the conversation a turn that might do somebody good, without in the least allowing it to droop in interest. To-day there was no occasion for this particular blessed faculty to be called into exercise; she could let the talk run as it would; and it ran delightfully. In general society Mr. Southwode was very apt to play a rather quiet part; keeping the ball going indeed, but doing it rather by apt suggestion and incentive applied to other people; this evening he came out and talked, as Rotha was accustomed to hear him; seconding Mrs. Mowbray fully, and making, which I suppose was partly his purpose, an engrossing entertainment for Rotha.

Following a little pause which occurred in the conversation, Mrs. Mowbray broke out,--

"What are you going to do about Mrs. Busby?"

The question was really addressed to Rotha; but as Rotha did not immediately answer, Mr. Southwode took it up, and asked "in what respect?"

"Is she to be invited?"

"I was just talking to Mr. Southwode about it," said Rotha. "Why should she be invited? It would be no pleasure to any one."

"It would be a pleasure to her."

"I do not think it, Mrs. Mowbray! O yes, she would like to come; but _pleasure_--it would be pleasure to n.o.body. I know she wants to come."

"Well, my dear, and she is your mother's sister. Always keep well with your relations. Blood is thicker than water."

"I do not think so!" cried Rotha. "I do not feel it so. If she were not my mother's sister, I would not care; she would be nothing to me, one way or another; it is _because_ she is my mother's sister that she is so exceedingly disagreeable. If people who are your relations are disagreeable, it is infinitely worse than if they were not relations. It is the relationship that puts them at such an unapproachable distance.

You are near to me, Mrs. Mowbray, and my aunt Serena is a thousand miles away."

"It is best the world should not know that, my dear. Do you not agree with me, Mr. Southwode?"

"Better still, that there should be nothing to know," he answered somewhat evasively.

"Yes!" said Rotha; "and if I could have been good and gentle and sweet when I first went to her, things might have been different; but I was not. I suppose I was provoking."

"Cannot you make up the breach now?"

"I have not the wish, Mrs. Mowbray. I see no change in aunt Serena; and unless she could change, I can only wish she were not my mother's sister.

I have forgiven her; O I have forgiven her!--but love and kinship are another thing."

"My dear, it would not hurt you, much, to let her come. I know she would feel it a gratification."

"I know that well enough."

"Always gratify people when you can innocently."

"How far?" said Rotha, laughing now in the midst of a little vexation. "I know they are just aching for an invitation to Southwode. There has been enough said to let me see that."

"That must be as your husband pleases."

"_That_ must be as my wife pleases," said Mr. Southwode with a smile.

Poor Rotha pa.s.sed both hands hastily over her face, as if she would wipe away the heat and the colour; then letting them fall, turned her face full to the last speaker.

"Mr. Southwode, you do not want to see them there!"

"Miss Rotha, I do not. But--if you do, I do."

"That throws all the responsibility upon me."

"My dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "that is what men always like to do--get rid of responsibility--if they can find somebody else to put it on."

"Ever since Adam's day--" Mr. Southwode added.