"Kind judgment," said Mr. Southwode; "but in this case not true. The rest is true, that I have a large property."
He went on to tell Rotha several things about himself; not using many words, at the same time not making any mystery of it. He told her that his very large means came from business; that the business was in hands which made it unnecessary that he should give to the oversight of it more than a portion of his time. He had a home in England, and he described it; in the Lake country, surrounded with beautiful scenery. He was very fond of it, but he was not a fixture there; on the contrary, he went wherever there was reason for him to go, or work to be done by his going. "So I am here now, you see." he concluded.
And so, something else may take you back again, and keep you there! thought Rotha; but she did not say what she thought, nor indeed say anything. Mr. Southwode's detail, while it interested her terribly, and in a sort nattered her, also reduced her to a very low feeling of downheartedness. What was she to him, the poor little American orphan, to the rich English gentleman? what but just one of his various and probably many objects of benevolence? What more could she be, in the nature of things? No; she had been quite right; what she had to do was to equip herself as speedly as possible for the battle of life, and dash into it as a teacher; and only remember as a kind of fairy tale the part of her life when he had been its guardian and protector. Rotha's heart swelled; yet she would shew nothing of that. She sat still and moveless; too still and unchanging, in fact, for the supposition that her thoughts were not whirling round a fixed centre. I do not know how much of this Mr. Southwode read, I am not sure but the whirl of his own thoughts occupied him sufficiently. However, when this still silence had lasted a little while, he broke it up by proposing to take Rotha a drive. "You used to like it," he remarked. Rotha did not like it less now. She went to get ready; thinking to herself that it was maybe the very last time. Why had she come to Tanfield at all? and why had Mr. Southwode sought her out there? Better if she could have remained as she was, and he no more than a locked up treasure of the past kept in her memory.
CHAPTER XXX.
DOWN HILL.
The afternoon was on the wane by the time they set out. The afternoon of a fair day in October. For Rotha's present mood it was almost too fair. The country around Tanfield is level for a mile or two, and well cultivated; the hues of the forest at the change of tire leaf are not seen here. Yet October was not left without witnesses. Here and there a warm stubble field told of summer gone and harvests gathered; her and there the yellowing green of a weeping willow proclaimed that autumn was passing away. Hay ricks carefully covered; wood sheds carefully filled; now and then a plough upturning the rich soil, and leaving furrows of ruddy brown creeping over the field; they all told the time of year; and so did at intervals a great maple tree in its livery of red and green, or a hickory all in gold, or a great red oak in its dark splendour. There was no mistaking October; even without the genial, gracious sun which shed over all the landscape such mellow and mellowing rays. Mr. Southwode had obtained an easy-going phaeton, with a pair of lively ponies; and through this level, quiet, rich, farm country they bowled along smoothly and fast. The pleasure, to Rotha, was so keen that it almost took on the semblance of pain. "This once," she was saying to herself; "and if only this once, then why this once?" And then she chid herself, and bade herself enjoy thoroughly and thankfully what was given her. She tried, and did not perfectly succeed.
Mr. Southwode was silent on his part, more than usual. Certainly his reflections were in no sort like Rotha's, as they had no need; yet he was not clear in his own mind as to the best, or even the possible, issues of things. He found that he was not willing to entertain for a moment Rotha's proposition about striking off from his protection and making a livelihood for herself. Yet it was good sense. In fact, what else could be done? If Mr. Southwode had had a mother, and so a home, to which he could have introduced her; that would have been simple enough. She might have taken the place of a young sister. Failing that, what plan could be substituted, short of the one Mrs. Purcell had rudely proposed? He had no idea that Rotha was ready for that. Yes, undoubtedly she loved him, after another fashion; he was her childhood's friend and guardian and tutor; and as a child, no doubt, she still paid him reverence and affection. Mr. Southwode would never take advantage of the power this fact gave him, to draw Rotha into an alliance which her free mind would not have chosen. Some men would; many men might; it did not suit him. He could never take a wife on such doubtful terms. He was not clear that he wanted her on any terms. Yet oddly, and inconsistently, when he looked at the fine, honest, thoughtful, sensitive face beside him, something within him said, "I shall never let you go." It was very inconsistent. How he was to keep her, he could not see. He did not look at her often, for every look perplexed him. And Mr. Southwode was not in the least used to being perplexed. That perplexed him. Meanwhile he kept his horses well in hand and drove admirably. Over the level roads, through the still air, they went with the steadiness and almost the swiftness, of a locomotive. It was glorious driving. Rotha caught her breath with delight.
At this rate of progress however the small ex-tent of level country was soon passed over. They began to get among broken ground and low hills; hills and round heights covered with tufts of wood growth, now in all the colours of the gay time of year. Hickories all gold, ashes in sad purple, bronzed chestnut oaks, yellow birches, and sometimes sober green savins; and maples in abundance and in brilliant variegation. There were risings and fallings of ground now, and turning of angles; and as they went the hills grew higher and set closer upon the road, and the road was often too steep for the pace the horses had hitherto kept up. Now they must walk up a hill, and sometimes walk down again.
"Do you know where you are, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha, one of these times.
"Not perfectly."