"No. I shall want some sort of a carriage by and by, to drive me out to Mrs. Busby's place; do you know where that is? And can I get a carriage here?"
"You can get carriages enough. I don't know about no places. Then you'll take breakfast at six, ma'am? You'll be called."
With which she shewed Rotha into a bare little hotel room, lit a lamp, and left her.
Rotha refreshed herself with cold water and put her hair in order. It must be half past three then. She went to the window, pulled up the shade and opened the sash and sat down. At half past three in the morning, when the season is no further advanced than May, the world is still nearly dark. Yet two cocks were answering each other from different roosts in the neighbourhood, and announcing that morning was on its way. The sky gave little token yet, however; and the stars sparkled silently out of its dark depths. The rush and the roar of the train, and of life itself, seemed to be left behind; the air had the fresh sweetness which it never can have where human beings do greatly congregate; there was a spice in it which Rotha had not tasted for a long while. That sort of spice is enlivening and refreshing; there is a good tonic in it, which Rotha felt and enjoyed; at the same time it warned her she was in new circumstances. She had an uneasy suspicion, or intuition rather, that these new circumstances were not intended, so far as her aunt's intentions affected them, to be of transient duration. It was all very well to talk of July or the beginning of August; truth has a way of making itself known independent of words and even athwart them; and so it had been now; and while Mrs. Busby talked of the middle of summer, some subtle sense in Rotha's nature translated the words and made them signify an indefinite and distant future, almost as uncertain as indefinite. Rotha could not help feeling that it might be long before she saw New York or Mrs. Mowbray again; and anew the wondering thought arose, why Mrs. Mowbray should have been incapacitated for helping her precisely at this juncture? It was mysterious. It was evident that a higher rule than Mrs. Busby's was taking effect here; it was plain that not her aunt alone had willed to put her away from all she trusted and delighted in, and bring her to this strange place; where she would be utterly alone and uncared- for and shut off from all her beloved pursuits. But why?
It is the vainest of questions; yet one which in such circumstances mortals are terribly tempted to ask. If they could be told, then, the design of the movement would be lost upon their mental and spiritual education; and ten to one the ulterior developments would be hindered also which are meant to turn to their temporal advantage. It is in the nature of things, that the "why" should be hidden in darkness; without being omniscient we cannot see beforehand the turns that things will take; and so now is Faith's time to be quiet and trust and believe. And somehow faith is apt to find it hard work. Most of us know what it is to trust a human fellow creature absolutely, implicitly; with so full a trust that we are not afraid nor doubtful nor unwilling; but with one hand in the trusted one's hand are ready to go blindly anywhere, or to dare or to do gladly, counting with certainty that there is no hazard about it. So children can trust their father or their mother; so friends and lovers can trust one another. But it is very hard, somehow, to trust God so. Precisely such trust is what he wants of us; but—we do not know him well enough! "They that know thy name will put their trust in thee." Yet it is rare, rare, to find a Christian who can use Faber's words—
"I know not what it is to doubt;
My mind is ever gay;
I run no risk, for come what will,
Thou always hast thy way."
Rotha at any rate had not got so far. Her mind was in a troubled state, as she sat at the window of the Tanfield hotel and stared out into the dewy dusk of the morning. It was indignant besides; and that is a very disturbing element in one's moods. She felt wronged, and she felt helpless. The sweet trust of the night seemed to have deserted her. A weary sense of loneliness and forlornness came instead, and at last found its safest expression in a good hearty fit of weeping. That washed off some of the dust from her tired spirit.
When she raised her head again and looked out, the dawn was really coming up in the sky. Things were changed. There was a sweeter breath in the air; there was an indefinable stir of life in all nature. The grey soft light was putting out the stars; the tops of the trees swayed gently in a morning breeze; scents came fresher from flowers and fields; scents so rarely spicy and fragrant as dwellers in towns never know them, as all towns of men's building banish them. Birds were twittering, cocks were crowing; and soon a stir of humanity began to make itself known in the neighbourhood; a soft, vague stir and movement telling of the awaking to life and business and a new day. Feet passed along the corridor within doors, and doors opened and shut, voices sounded here and there, horses neighed, dogs barked. Rotha sat still, looking, watching, listening, with a growing spring of life and hope in herself answering to the movement without her. And then the light broadened; dusky forms began to take colour; the eastern sky grew bright, and the sun rose.
Now Rotha could see about her. She was in a well-built village. Well-to- do looking house tops appeared between the leafy heads of trees that were much more than "well-to-do"; that were luxuriant, large, and old, and rich in their growth and thriving. The road Rotha could not see from her window; however, what she did see shewed that the place was built according to the generous roomy fashion of New England villages; the houses standing well apart, with gardens and trees around and between them; and furthermore there was an inevitable character of respectability and comfort apparent everywhere. Great round elm heads rose upon her horizon; and the roof trees which they shadowed were evidently solid and substantial. This town, to be sure, was not Rotha's place of abode; yet she might fairly hope to find that, when she got to it, of the like character.
She sat at the window almost moveless, until she was called to her early breakfast. It was spread in a very large hall-like room, where small tables stood in long rows, allowing people to take their meals in a sort by themselves. Rotha placed herself at a distance from all the other persons who were breakfasting there, and was comfortably alone.