Rotha thought it practically amounted to that, to place her in her aunt's house; words were not at command. A sort of sob wrung from her breast.
"What do you know about your aunt?"
"Not much,—but too much," Rotha laconically answered.
"Tell me what you know."
"I know she wasn't good to mother." Then, as Mr. Digby made no reply to this unanswerable statement, she went on;—"She is a hard woman; she didn't help her. She is rich, rich! and we were—She has everything in the world; she can do whatever she likes; she rides about in her beautiful carriage; and we—we were—you know!—we were—if it hadn't been for you—"
Rotha had choked and swallowed several times, and then the gathered passion overcame her. Thoughts and feelings and memories came like the incoming waves on a level shore piling up one upon another, until they could bear their own weight and rush no more and broke all together. The girl had striven to command herself and prevent the outbreak which Mr. Digby did not like; and the restraint had acted like the hindrance of the underlying sands, and allowed the tide of feeling to swell till there was no longer any check to it. Restraint was gone now, although Rotha did try to keep her sobs down; passion and grief burst out now and then in a wail of despair, and she struggled with the sobs which seemed to come from a breaking heart.
Mr. Digby let the storm have its way, meanwhile feeling a renewed presentiment that the aunt and niece would never get on well together. In the granite of Mrs. Busby's composition there lay, he judged, a good deal of iron, in the rough state of unpurified ore. Waves beat on such rock without making much impression, only breaking themselves to pieces. Would such encounters take place between them? Rotha's character was not soft, and did not lack its iron either; but in another and much more refined form, and in a widely different combination. Had he done well after all? And yet what else could he do? And at any rate it was too late now to go back.
He waited till the passion of the storm had somewhat lulled, and then called Rotha gently. Gently, but there was a certain ring in his voice too; and Rotha obeyed. She rose from the floor, dried her eyes and came and stood by the couch. She was in no manner relieved; passion had merely given place to an expression of helpless despair.
"Sit down, Rotha," said Mr. Digby. And when she had done it he took her hand again.
"You ought not to allow yourself such outbursts," he went on, still very gently.