Kitabı oku: «The Letter of Credit», sayfa 11

"But you must have more care than mine, my child; at least you must have other care. You must have some lady friend, to look after you as I cannot do. I am going to put you under your aunt's protection."

Rotha's pencil fell from her hand and she raised her head now.

"My aunt?" she repeated.

"Yes. Your mother's sister; Mrs. Busby. You knew you had an aunt in the city?"

Rotha disregarded the question. She left her seat and came and stood before the lounge, in the attitude of a young tragedy queen; her hands interlocked before her, her face pale, and not only pale but spotted with colour, in a way that shewed a startling interruption of the ordinary even currents of the blood.

"O Mr. Digby," she cried, "not her! not her! Do not give me up to her!"

"Why not?" he asked gently.

"She is not good. She is not a good woman. I don't like her. I can't bear the thought of her. I don't want to have anything to do with her.Please, keep me from her! O Mr. Digby, don't let her have me!" These words came out in a stream.

"My dear Rotha, is this reasonable? What cause have you to dislike your aunt?"

"Because she wasn't good to mother – she didn't love her – she wasn't kind to her. She is not a good woman. She wouldn't like me. I don't like herdreadfully, Mr. Digby!"

The words Rotha would have chosen she did not venture to speak.

"Hush, hush, child! do not talk so fast. Sit down, and let us see what all this means."

"O Mr. Digby, you will not put me with her?"

"Yes, Rotha, it is the best. We will try it, at least. Why Rotha! —

Rotha! – "

She had flung herself down on the floor, on her knees, with her head on a chair; not crying, not a tear came; nor sobbing; but with the action of absolute despair. It would have done for high tragedy. Alas, so it is with trouble when one is young; it seems final and annihilating. Age knows better.

"Rotha," Mr. Digby said very quietly after a minute, "why do you dislike your aunt so? You do not know her."

"O Mr. Digby," cried the girl in accents of misery, "are you going to give me up to somebody else? Are you going to give me up to her?"

"No. Not to her nor to anybody. I am not going to give you up to anybody. Look here, Rotha. Look up, and bring your chair here and sit down by me, and we will talk this over. Come!"

Yielding to the imperative tone in his words, she obeyed; rose up and brought her chair close and sat down; but he was startled to see the change in her face. It was livid; and it was woe-begone. She took her place submissively; nevertheless he could perceive that there was a terrible struggle of pain going on in the girl. He put out his hand, took hers kindly and held it.

"Rotha – my child – I am not going to give you up to anybody," he repeated gravely.

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.

"I could not help it. I tried – "

"I believe you tried; and for a time you did help it."

"I know it displeases you," she said. "I did not want to do so before you."

"It is not because it displeases me, that I want you not to do it; but because it is not right."

"Why not right?" she asked somewhat defiantly.

"Because it is not right for any one ever to lose command of himself."

Rotha seemed to prick up her ears at that, as if the idea were new, but she said nothing.

"You will ask me again perhaps why? Rotha, if you lose command of yourself, who takes it?"

Rotha's eye carried a startled inquiry now. "I suppose – nobody," she said.

"Do you think we have such an enemy as we have, and that he will let such an advantage go unimproved? No; when you lose command of yourself Satan takes it, – and uses it."

"What does he do with it?" said Rotha in full astonishment.

"According to circumstances. To tempt you to wrong, or to tempt you to folly; or if neither of those, to break down your mental and bodily powers, so that you shall be weaker to resist him next time."

"Mr. Digby – do you think so?"

"Certainly. And when people go on in a way like this, giving ground to Satan, he takes all they give, until finally he has the whole rule of them. Then they seem to their neighbours to be slaves of passion, or of greed, or of drink; but really they are 'possessed of the devil,' and those are the chains in which he holds them."

"Mr. Digby," said Rotha humbly, "do you think I have been losing ground?"

"I think you have been gaining ground, for a good while."

"I am sorry," she said simply. "But how can I help it, Mr. Digby?"

"You remember," he said. "You must be under one king or the other; there is no middle ground. 'Whosoever committeth sin, is the servant of sin'; – but, 'If the Son shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.'" Rotha drew a deep sigh, and one or two fresh tears fell.

"Now," said he very gently, "do not let us get excited again, but let us talk quietly. What is all this about?"

"You are sending me away," said Rotha; "and you are all I have got."

"You are not going to lose me. That is settled. Now go on. What next?"

"But I shall not be with you?"

"Not every day, as here. But I hope to see you very often; and you can always write to me if you have anything in particular upon your mind."

"Then," said Rotha, her voice several shades clearer, "you are sending me to be with a person that I don't – respect."

"That is serious! Are you sure you are justified in such an opinion, with no more grounds?"

"I cannot help it," said Rotha. "I do not think I have reason to respect her."

"Then how are you going to get along together?"

"I am sure I do not know."

"Rotha, I may ask this of you. I ask of you to behave as a lady should, in your aunt's house. I ask you to be well-bred and well-mannered always; whatever you feel."

"Do you think I can, Mr. Digby?" said the girl looking earnestly at him.

"I am sure of it."

"But – do I know how?"

"I will give you an unfailing recipe," said Mr. Digby smiling.

"'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them';

and for details, study the 13th chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians."

"Is that the chapter about charity?"

"About love. The word means love, not charity."

"Mr. Digby, it is very hard to act as if you loved people, when you do not."

"True," said he smiling. "That is what the world means by good manners.

But what Christians should mean by that term is the real thing."

"And I do not think I can," Rotha went on.

"Do not try to make believe anything. But the courtesy of good manners you can give to everybody."

"If I do not lose command of myself," said Rotha. "I will try, Mr.

Digby."

"I think you can do, pretty nearly, Rotha, whatever you try."

This declaration was a source of great comfort to the girl, and a great help towards its own justification; as Mr. Digby probably guessed. Nevertheless Rotha grieved, deeply and silently, through the days that followed. Her friend saw it, and with serious disquiet. That passion of pain and dismay with which she had greeted the first news of what was before her was no transient gust, leaving the air as clear as it had been previously. True, the storm was over. Rotha obtruded her feelings in no way upon his notice; she was quiet and docile as usual. But the happiness was gone. There were rings round her eyes, which told of watching or of weeping; her brow was clouded; and now and then Mr. Digby saw a tear or two come which she made good efforts to get rid of unseen. She was mourning, and it troubled him; but, as he said to himself over and over again, "there was no help for it." He was unselfish about it; for to himself personally there was no doubt but to have Rotha safely lodged with her aunt would be a great relief. He had other business to attend to.

CHAPTER XII.
MRS. BUSBY'S HOUSE

By the beginning of the week Rotha had recovered command of herself, externally at least; and on the Monday Mr. Digby and his charge were to go to Mrs. Busby's. It was the first of November; dull, cloudy and cold; getting ready for snow, Mr. Digby said, to judge by the sky. From the clouds his eye came down to Rotha, who had just entered the room dressed for her departure.

"Rotha," said he, "what is that you have on?"

"My brown lawn, Mr. Digby."

"Lawn? on such a day as this? You want a warmer dress, my child."

Rotha hesitated and coloured.

"My warm dresses – are not very nice," she said with some difficulty. "I thought I must look as well as I could."

"And I have forgotten that the season was changing! and left you without proper provision. You see, Rotha, I never had the charge of a young lady before. Never mind, dear; that will soon be made right. But put on something warm, no matter how it looks. You will take cold with that thin dress."

Rotha hesitated.

"I don't think you will like it, if I put on my old winter frock," she said.

"I would like it better than your getting sick. Change your dress by all means."

When Rotha came in again, she was a different figure. She had put on an old grey merino, which had once belonged to her mother and had been made over for her. At the time she had rejoiced much over it; now Rotha had got a new standard for judging of dresses, and she seemed to herself very "mean" looking. Truly, the old grey gown had been made a good while ago; the fashion had changed, and Rotha had grown; it was scant now and had lost even a distant conformity with prevailing modes. Moreover it was worn, and it was faded, and it was not even very clean. Rotha thought Mr. Digby would hardly endure it; she herself endured it only under stress of authority. He looked at her a little gravely.

"That's the best you have, is it? Never mind, Rotha; it is I who am to blame. I am very much ashamed of myself, for forgetting that winter was corning."

He had never known what it was, in all his life, to want a thick coat or a thin coat and not find it in his wardrobe; and that makes people forget.

"This will not do, do you think it will, Mr. Digby?" said Rotha tentatively.

"Better than to have you get sick. It will keep you warm, will it not? and we will soon have you fitted up with better supplies."

It was not time quite for the carriage to be at the door, and Mr. Digby sat down to a bit of drawing; he was making a copy for Rotha. Rotha stood by, doubtful and thoughtful.

"Mr. Digby," she said at last shyly, "there is something I should like very much to ask."

"Ask it, Rotha."

"But I do not know whether you would like it – and yet I cannot know without asking – "

"Naturally. What is it, Rotha?"

"Mr. Digby, my mother hadn't anything at all, had she? Money, I mean."

"Of late? No, Rotha, I believe not."

The girl hesitated and struggled with herself.

"I thought so," she said. "And while it was you, I didn't mind. But now, – how will it be, Mr. Digby?"

Mr. Digby got at the sense of this by some intuition.

"Who will be at the charge of your schooling, you mean? and other things? Certainly I, Rotha, unless your aunt wishes very decidedly that it should be herself."

"She will not wish that," said the girl. "Then, Mr. Digby, when I am done with school – what am I to do? What do you want me to do? Because if I knew, I might work better to get ready for it."

"Well," said Mr. Digby, making some easy strokes with his pencil, every one of which however meant something, – "there is generally something for everybody to do in this world; but we cannot always tell what, till the time comes. The best way is to prepare yourself, as far as possible, for everything."

"But I cannot do that," said Rotha, with the nearest approach to a laugh that she had made since the previous Friday.

"Yes, you can. First, be a good woman; and then, get all the knowledge and all the accomplishments, and all the acquirements, that come in your way. Drawing, certainly, for you have a true love for that. How is it with music? Are you fond of it?"

"I don't know," Rotha said low. "Mr. Digby, can I not – some time – do something for you?"

"Yes," said he, looking up at her with a laughing glance, "you can do all these things for me. I want you to be as good a woman, and as wise a woman, and as accomplished a woman, as you are able to become."

"Then I will," said Rotha very quietly.

The carriage came. Rotha covered up her old dress as well as she could under her silk mantle, very ill satisfied with the joint effect, She behaved very well, however; was perfectly quiet during the drive, and only once asked,

"Mr. Digby, you said I might write to you?"

"As often as you like. But you will see me too, Rotha, though not every day. If anything goes wrong with you, let me know."

That was all; and then the carriage turned a corner and stopped in a street of high, regular, stately houses, with high flights of doorsteps. Poor Rotha felt her gown dreadfully out of place; but her bearing did not betray her. She was trying hard to form herself on Mr. Digby's model, and so to be even and calm and unimpassioned in her manners. Not easy, when a young heart beats as hers was beating then. They entered the house. Mrs. Busby was not in, the servant said; at the same time she opened the door of the parlour, and Mr. Digby and Rotha went in.

Nobody was there; only the luxurious presence of warmth and colour and softness and richness, whichever way the girl looked. She tried not to look; she fixed her eyes on the glowing grate; while a keen sense of wrong and a bitter feeling of resentment and opposition swelled her heart. This was how her aunt lived! and her mother had done sewing for her bread, and not got it. If the flowers in the carpet had been living exotics, they would have thriven in the warm air that surrounded them, and feared no frost; and her mother's fire had been fed by charity! It was to the credit of Rotha's budding power of self-command that she shewed nothing of what she felt. She was outwardly calm and impassive.

Then the heavy door was pushed inward and a figure appeared for which she was scarcely prepared. A young girl of about her own age, also a contrast. There was nothing but contrasts here. She was excessively pretty, and as lively as a soap bubble. Something of her mother's hardness of outlines, perhaps; but in that fifteen must needs be far different from fifty; and this face was soft enough, with a lovely tinting of white and red, charming little pearly teeth, a winning smile, and pretty movements. She was not so tall as Rotha; and generally they were as unlike as two girls could be. In dress too, as in everything else. This new-comer on the scene was as bright as a flower; in a new cashmere, fashionably made, of a green hue that set off the fresh tints of her skin, edged with delicate laces which softened the lines between the one and the other. She came in smiling and eager.

"Mr. Southwode! how long it is since we have seen you! What made you stay away so? Mamma is out; she told me if you came I must see you. I am so sorry she is out! No, I am very glad to see you; but I know you wanted to see mamma. I'll do as well as I can." And she smiled most graciously on him, but hitherto had not looked at Rotha, though Mr. Digby knew one glance of her eye had taken her all in.

"Miss Antoinette," said he, shaking hands with her, "this is your cousin."

The eyes came round, the smile faded.

"Oh! – " said she. "I knew it must be you. How do you do? Mamma is out; she'll be so sorry. But your room is ready. Would you like to go up to it at once, and take off your things?" – Then without waiting for an answer, she pulled the bell twice, and springing to the door cried out, "Lesbia! Lesbia! – Lesbia, where are you? O here you are. Lesbia, take this young lady – up stairs and shew her her room – you know, the little room that you put in order yesterday. Take her up there and shew her where things are; and then take her to mamma's room; do you understand? Miss Carpenter what is her name, Mr. Southwode? Rotha? O what a lovely name! Rotha, if you will go up stairs with the girl, she will shew you your way."

"I will not go yet, thank you," said Rotha.

Antoinette looked at her, seemingly taken aback at this.

"Don't you want to go up and take off your things?" she said. "I think you will be more comfortable."

"I would rather stay here."

Mr. Digby suppressed a smile, and had also to suppress a sigh. This by- play was very clear to him, and gave him forebodings. He hoped it was not clear to Rotha. However, he did not much prolong his stay after that. He knew it was pain to Rotha and better ended; she must learn to swim in these new waters, and the sooner she was pushed from her hold the kinder the hard service would be. So he took leave of Miss Antoinette, and then, taking Rotha's cold hand, he did what he had never done before; stooped down and kissed her. He said only one word, "Remember!" – and went away.

He had thought to give the girl a little bit of comfort; and he had not only comforted her, but lifted her up into paradise, for the moment. A whole flood tide of pleasure seemed to pour itself into Rotha's heart, making her deaf and blind to what was around her or what Antoinette said. She went up stairs like one on wings, with the blood tingling in every corner of her frame. If she had known, or if Mr. Digby had guessed, what that kiss was to cost her. But that is the way in this life; we start and shiver at the entrance of what is to be a path of flowers to our feet; and we welcome eagerly the sugared bait which is to bring us into a network of difficulty.

There was an under current of different feeling however, in Rotha's mind; and the two girls as they went up stairs were as great a contrast to each other as could be imagined. The one carried a heart conscious of a secret and growing weight; the other had scarce gravity enough to keep her to the earth's surface. So the one tripped lightly on ahead, and the other mounted slowly, rebelling inwardly at every step she set her foot upon. What a long flight of stairs! and how heavily carpeted; and with what massive balusters framed in. Nothing like it had Rotha ever seen, and she set her teeth as she mounted. Arrived at last at the second floor, Antoinette passed swiftly along to the foot of another flight. "There is mamma's room," said she, pointing to an open door; "and that is mine," indicating a small room adjoining; "now here is yours." She had got to the top, and preceded Rotha into the small room off the hall at the head of the stairs.

It was very small, of course; furnished with sufficient neatness, but certainly with old things. It was not like the rest of the house. That was no matter; the furniture was still as good as Rotha had been accustomed to in her best days, at home; yet she missed something. It looked poor and bare, and very cramped. Perhaps one reason might be, that the day was chill and dark and here were no signs of a fire, nor even a place to make one; and that luxury Rotha had never missed. Her mother and she had kept scant fires at one time, it is true; but since Mr. Digby had taken the oversight of their affairs, their rooms had been always deliciously warm. Anyhow, the place made a cheerless impression on Rotha. She took off her hat and mantle.

"Where are they to go?" she asked her companion.

"You can put the mantle in one of those drawers."

"Not my hat, though."

"Yes, you could, if you turn up the edges a little. O never mind; it'll go somewhere, and you can't wear that hat any longer now. It's too cold. Let us go down to mamma's room."

This was the large front room on the second floor. Here was a warm fire, a cosy set of easy chairs, tables with work, a long mirror in the door of the wardrobe between the windows; a general air of comfort and household living. Antoinette's room opened into this, and the door stood thrown back, letting the fire warmth penetrate there also; and a handsome dressing table was visible standing before the window. Antoinette stirred the fire and sat down. Rotha stood at the corner of the hearth, charging herself to be cool and keep quiet.

"Where did you come from?" Antoinette began cheerfully. "We might as well get acquainted."

"Will that help you?" said Rotha.

"Help me what?"

"You said we might as well get acquainted."

"Well I want to know where you come from, to be sure," said the other girl laughing. "I always want to know where people come from. It's one of the first things I want to know."

"I come from Medwayville," said Rotha. "That is a place in the western part of the state."

"But you don't come from there now. I know you did live in Medwayville.

But where do you come from now?"

There sprang up in Rotha's mind an instant and unwonted impulse of reserve; she hardly knew why. So she answered,

"Mr. Digby brought me; he can tell you about the place better than I can."

"Why, don't you know where you have been living?"

"I know the place when I see it. I could not find my way to it."

"Then you can't have the organ of locality. Do you know about organs, and bumps on the head? That's what is called phrenology. Mamma thinks a great deal of phrenology; she'll be examining your head, the first thing."

"Examining my head!"

"Yes, to find out what you are, you know. She has a little map, with everything marked on it? so she'll feel your head to see where the bumps are, and where she finds a bump she will look in her map to see what's there, and then she'll know you have it."

"What?" said Rotha.

"That; whatever the map says the bump ought to be."

"There are no bumps on my head," said Rotha a little proudly; "it is quite round."

"O you're mistaken; everybody has bumps; when the head is round, it means something, I forget what; whether bad or good. Mamma'll know; and she'll judge you by your head. How long have you known Mr. Southwode?"

"I don't know."

"Don't know how long you have known him?"

"I do not know just how long it is."

"O I didn't mean that. Have you known him a month?"

"More than that."

"How came you to know him at all?"

"He came to see us?"

"Us? You and aunt Eunice? What made him go to see you? at first, I mean."

"How can I tell?" said Rotha, more and more displeased.

"Well, do you like him?"

The answer did not come suddenly.

"Do I like Mr. Digby?" Rotha said slowly. "I think I do."

"We do. What sort of a carriage was he in when he was overturned?"

"A little phaeton."

"One-horse?"

"Yes."

"Was he alone?"

"No."

"What became of the other person?"

"Thrown out, like him."

"Hurt?"

"No."

"Do you know who it was?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"It was I."

"You?" exclaimed Antoinette. "Were you driving with Mr. Southwode? How came you to be going with him?"

"Why should I not?"

"Why – " with a glance at Rotha's dress. Rotha saw and understood, but would not enlighten her.

"Did you ever go with him before?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

But Rotha was getting amused now, and was mistress of the situation.

"Does it matter how many times?" she said quite unexcitedly.

"He never took me anywhere," said Antoinette. "I declare, I'll make him. It isn't using me well. What makes you call him Mr. Digby?"

"I have been accustomed to call him so."

"Did he tell you to?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if he'd let me? I don't believe mamma would, though. She won't let you either do it any more. Digby is Mr. Southwode's first name. She would say it was too familiar, to call him by his first name, even with a 'Mr.' to it. Mamma's a little poky at times. But how did you come to know him first? you haven't told me."

"I suppose, the same way you came to know him," said Rotha slowly.

But the suggestion of anything similar in what concerned the social circumstances of her and her cousin, struck Antoinette with such a sense of novelty that, for a moment she was nonplussed. Then her eye fell upon the clock on the mantel-piece, and she started up.

"I must rush right off," she said; "it is time for my drawing lesson.

That's one thing I don't get in school. Have you ever been to school?"

"No."

"I suppose you don't know much, then. Won't you have to work, though! I am sorry I must go and leave you alone; but mamma will be in by and by."

While she was speaking, Antoinette had been putting on her wraps to go out; handsome, ample, and becoming they were. A dark green cloak of some figured, lustrous stuff; a little green hat with a coquettish leather; gloves fitting nicely; and finally a little embroidered pocket- handkerchief stuffed into an outer pocket of her cloak. Then taking her portfolio, Antoinette hurried away.

Rotha felt a sense of uneasiness growing upon her. She was not at home, and nothing promised her that she ever would be, in this house. For awhile she sat still where she was, looking and thinking; or rather feeling; for thought was scarcely organized. She was tired at last of the stillness, the ticking of the clock and the soft stir of the coals in the grate or falling of ashes into the pan. She went down to the parlour again, having a mind to become a little acquainted with her new surroundings while she could make her observations unobserved; and besides, that parlour was a study to Rotha; she had seen nothing like it. She went down and took her seat upon an ottoman, and surveyed things. How beautiful it all was, she thought; beyond imagination beautiful. The colours and figures in the carpet; the rich crimsons and soft drabs, and the thick, rich pile to the stuff, what a wonder they were to her. The window curtains, hanging in stately folds and draperies of drab, with broad bands of crimson satin shot through the tamer colour, how royal they were! And did anybody ever see anything so magnificent as the glass in the pier, which filled the space from floor to ceiling between those royal draperies? The furniture was dark and polished, as to the wood; covers of striped drilling hid what might be the beauty of cushions beneath, and Rotha was not one of the sort that can lift a corner to see what was hidden. There was enough not hidden, and she could wait. But as her eye roved from one thing to another, her heart gathered fuel for a fire that presently rivalled its more harmless neighbour in the grate; a fierce, steady, intense glow of wrath and indignation. This was how her mother's sister lived and had been living; and her mother in the poor little rooms in Jane Street. Magnificence and luxury here; and there toil and the bread of charity. And not a hand held out to help, nor love enough to be called upon for it. Rotha's heart fed its fire with dark displeasure. There was built up a barrier between her and her aunt, which threatened perpetual severance. Kindness might break it down; Rotha was open to kindness; but from this quarter she did not expect it. She bent her determination however on behaving herself so as Mr. Digby had wished. She would not shew what she thought. She would be quiet and polite and unexcited, like him. Poor Rotha! The fire should burn in her, and yet she would keep cool!

She was studying the gas reading stand on the centre table, marvelling at the beauty of its marble shaft and the mystery of its cut glass shade, where bunches of grapes and vine leaves wandered about in somewhat stiff order; when the door of the room opened softly and Mrs. Busby came in. Rotha divined immediately that it was her aunt; the lady wore still the bonnet and the shawl in which she had been abroad, and had the air of the mistress, indefinable but well to be recognized. Softly she shut the door behind her and came towards the fire. Rotha did not dislike her appearance. The features were good, the eyes keen, the manner quiet

"And this is my niece Rotha," she said with a not unkindly smile. "How do you do?" She took her hand and kissed her. Alas! the kiss was smooth ice. Rotha remembered the last kiss that had touched her lips; how warm and soft and firm too it had been; it meant something. This means nothing but civility, thought Rotha to herself.