"If you have company"—said Rotha.
"And if the cars don't run off nor anything," added Antoinette. "All the awful accidents happen in the night."
"I would not have Rotha go alone," said Mrs. Busby grimly; "but she don't want my companionship."
Rotha would have been glad of it; however, she did not say so. She stood confounded. What possible need of this haste?
"Put your things away, Rotha," said Mrs. Busby glancing up,—"and come down to dinner. You must leave at seven o'clock, and I have had dinner early for you."
The dinner being early, Mr. Busby was not there; which Rotha regretted. From him she hoped for at least one of his dry, sensible remarks, and possibly a hint of sympathy. She must go without it. Dinner had no taste, and the talk that went on no meaning. Very poor as this home was, it was better than an unknown country, and uncongenial as were her companions, she preferred them to nobody. Gradually there grew a lump in her throat which almost choked her.
Meantime she was silent, seemed to eat, and did quietly whatever she was told She put up sandwiches in a paper; accepted an apple and some figs; looked curiously at the old basement dining room, which she had never liked, but which had never seemed to her so comfortable as now; and at last left it to get herself ready. Taking her Russia bag in her hand, she seemed to grasp Mrs. Mowbray's love; and it comforted her.
Her aunt and she had a silent drive through the streets, already dark and lamp-lit. All necessary directions were given her by the way, and a little money to pay for her drive out from Tanfield. Then came the confusion of the Station—not the Grand Central by any means; the bustle of getting her seat in the cars; her aunt's cold kiss. And then she was alone, and the engine sounded its whistle, and the train slowly moved away into the darkness.
For a while Rotha's mind was in a tumult of confusion. If Mrs. Mowbray knew where she was at that minute! She had had no chance to write to her. If she only knew! What then? she could not help matters. O but she could! Mrs. Mowbray could always find help. Love that would not rest, energy that would not tire, a power of will that would not be denied, and a knowledge and command of men and things which enabled her always to lay her hand on the right means and apply them; all this belonged to Mrs. Mowbray, and made her the most efficient of helpers. But just now, doubtless, the affairs of her own house laid full claim to all her energies; and then, she did not know about Rotha's circumstances. How strange, thought Rotha, that she does not—that things should have come together so that she cannot! I seem to be cut off designedly from her, and from everybody.
There crept slowly into her heart the recollection that there was One who did know the whole; and if there were design in the peculiar collocation of events, as who could doubt, it was His design. This gave a new view of things. Rotha looked round on the dingy car, dingy because so dimly lighted; filled, partly filled, with dusky figures; and wondered if one there were so utterly alone as she, and marvelled greatly why she had been brought into such a strange position. Separated from everything! Then her Russia bag rebuked her, for her Bible was in it. Not separated from God, whose message was there; perhaps, who knows? she was to come closer to him, in the default of all other friends. She remembered the words of a particular psalm which not long ago had been read at morning prayers and commented on by Mrs. Mowbray; it came home to her now.