On the day of the Joachim concert Tom and Rose went up to London soon after breakfast. Tom was not going to the concert. After taking Rose to Cadogan Mansions he meant to hurry back.
He was anxious about his aunt. She had been so unlike herself during the last few days, he feared she must be ill. And he felt sure he must have offended her in some way, for she had seemed anxious to avoid him, and he had hardly spoken to her since she came back from London.
Did she think he was taking too much on himself? He had got into the habit lately of settling matters of minor importance without consulting her, so as to save her trouble. Perhaps he had annoyed her by doing so. At any rate, he would ask her if this was so. Tom’s nature was so simple and straightforward that this was the natural course for him to take. He believed half the difficulties of life arose from the want of a little plain speaking.
Miss Merivale had said little about her journey to town. She left Tom and Rose under the impression that she had called at the lawyer’s, and it was not till the next day that she casually mentioned her visit to Mrs. M’Alister.
“I have asked Miss Sampson to come and see me,” she added, after telling them that Rhoda was to do some typewriting for her. “I am interested in her, Rose. Did you know that poor Lydia’s second husband was named Sampson? It is not at all certain that this girl is of the same family, as she comes from quite a different part of Australia. But I should like to see her.”
Miss Merivale had had this speech carefully prepared ever since she came home, and she uttered it so carelessly that neither Rose nor Tom suspected how her heart beat as she said it. Their cousin Lydia was a faint, shadowy figure to them, and the suggestion that Miss Sampson might prove to be related to her husband aroused no interest in their minds. Tom never thought of it again till Rose mentioned Miss Sampson as they were travelling up to Victoria.
“I wish Aunt Lucy hadn’t taken her up like this,” she said impatiently. “Pauline will be vexed, for she advised Aunt Lucy to have nothing to do with her.”
“But if she is our cousin,” suggested Tom, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “don’t you think we are bound to patronise our relations?”
“How could she be our cousin? Don’t be so foolish, Tom,” Rose answered sharply.
“A family connection, then,” returned Tom. “But perhaps you had better not mention the possibility to Miss Smythe. It would shock her too much. All her relations are in Debrett, aren’t they?”
Rose looked doubtfully at him. “I never know whether you like Pauline or not, Tom,” she said. “But I am sure you never heard her boast of her relations.”
“No, I never did, my dear; but I have somehow gathered the fact that they are very fine people indeed. I always feel I ought to be ashamed that we did not come over at the Conquest when I am talking to Miss Smythe.”
“Now you are laughing at her,” returned Rose, with some indignation in her voice. “I believe you are always laughing at her, Tom. And it is just because she is clever. Men always like stupid girls best, who think everything they say is wonderful.”
At this Tom laughed outright. “There is one clever little girl I am very fond of,” he said, “and it is going to be dull at Woodcote without her. When will you come back, Rosie? Don’t stay very long. I am sure Aunt Lucy is not well.”
“I must stay till Thursday. Pauline and Clare are going to have a musical At Home on Thursday. But I will come back on Friday, Tom. I must, I suppose.” And Rose tried to suppress a sigh.
“Do you really want to stay longer?” said Tom, with a wondering look at her. “I daresay Laura would spend a day or two with Aunt Lucy. I don’t think she ought to be alone, Rose.”
“Laura fidgets Aunt Lucy to death,” Rose answered quickly. “You know she does, Tom. Of course I shall come back on Friday. I promised Aunt Lucy I would.”
While Tom and Rose were talking thus, Miss Merivale was waiting anxiously for Rhoda. She had arranged that she should come to Woodcote that morning while Tom and Rose were away. The station was only half a mile from the house, and she did not send to meet her; but she sat by the drawing-room window, looking with painful eagerness down the drive for the first glimpse of the slim figure she remembered.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Rhoda came up the quiet country road and turned in at the iron gates. It was a delightful day, the first real day of spring. Though no leaves were yet on the trees, ruddy brown buds just ready for bursting clothed every branch. And the grass along the hedges was starred with celandines and daisies, while yellow catkins sprinkled the bushes above them. A blackbird was singing loudly as Rhoda passed the big chestnut trees by the gate, and a squirrel darted down from a fir and scurried across the drive to hide himself in the little wood. Rhoda waited a moment, hoping for another glimpse of the bright-eyed little fellow. She was a child still in her delight in small animals, and this visit to Woodcote was a great treat to her. She loved the country as only country-bred people forced to live in a big town can love it. And this sweet English countryside, with its breezy uplands and smiling pastures, seemed more beautiful to her than even her dear Australia.
She drew a breath of delighted admiration when she came out on the lawn and saw the old house with its beds of tulips before it flaming in the sun. It was such a house as she had read of but had never seen, a haunt of ancient peace, time-worn, yet smiling still, its walls mellowed by the sunshine of many a hundred summers. She would have stood a moment to notice the delightful lines the gables made against the sky, but a figure at one of the deep, narrow-paned windows to the right of the porch caught her attention, and remembering that she had come on sober business, she walked briskly up to the heavy iron-studded door within the porch and pulled the twisted bell rope.
By Miss Merivale’s orders she was shown into the library, a delightful room looking out on the garden at the back of the house. She had ample time to notice what a dear old garden it was, for Miss Merivale kept her waiting quite a quarter of an hour.
More than once Miss Merivale went across the narrow hall and put her hand on the door, and then went back to the drawing-room, finding her courage fail her. And when at last she entered, she was so deadly pale, Rhoda lost all her nervousness in pity for her; she felt sure that she must be ill.
“Yes, that will do very nicely,” Miss Merivale said, after giving the typewritten programmes a cursory glance and pushing them from her. Her eyes went back to Rhoda’s face. She saw now that the fleeting glimpse she had got of her on the staircase had somewhat deceived her. Rhoda was not as pretty as she had thought. Her mouth was a little too wide, and her nose had too blunt a tip for beauty. But it was a charming face, nevertheless, full of heart-sunshine; and the dark brown, darkly-fringed eyes would have redeemed a plainer face.
Miss Merivale remembered with a sharp pang how Lydia had written of her dark-eyed girl. She spoke of her sister, after a moment or two.
“It has struck me that your father might have been related to her second husband,” she said. She had determined after leaving Acacia Road to mention this as possible both to Rhoda and to Tom and Rose.
Many people knew that Lydia had been Mrs. Sampson when she died, though Miss Merivale believed that she herself was the only person who was aware that her child had been named Rhoda.
But she soon found that Rhoda knew very little of her father. She had lived so long with the M’Alisters that she had come to identify herself with them, and had never desired to learn more of her own people. She could scarcely remember her father, and could not remember his Christian name. “J. Sampson is written in my little Bible,” she said. “It is the only book I have which belonged to him. Our house was burnt down when I was about two years old, and all his books and papers were burnt with it. Uncle Tom and Mr. Harding used to call him Jack, I have heard Aunt Mary say.”
“Who was Mr. Harding?” asked Miss Merivale quickly.
“He was father’s partner for a little while. I don’t remember him at all. He is a rich man now, and lives in Adelaide.”
“Your father came from Adelaide, Mrs. M’Alister told me. My sister lived in Melbourne. Then you can tell me nothing else?”
Rhoda hesitated a moment. Miss Merivale’s voice had been cold and constrained, but there was a beseeching eagerness in her glance. She unclasped a little locket from her watch-chain and passed it across the table. “That and my little Bible is all I have. It must have been my mother’s, I think.”
Miss Merivale caught up the little locket with trembling fingers. She rose and went to the window, and stood with her back to Rhoda, apparently examining it.
But her eyes were too full of tears for her to see it plainly. She knew the little locket well. She herself had given it to Lydia one birthday. It was her own hair under the glass, with the ring of tiny pearls round it. All doubt vanished from her mind. She was certain now that Rhoda was her niece.
She came back to the side of the table where Rhoda was sitting, and put her hand on her shoulder as she gave her back the locket.
“Thank you for letting me see it, my dear,” she said in a voice that trembled a good deal in spite of the intense effort she was making to hide her agitation. “And now can you make yourself happy in the garden for a little while? I want you to stay to luncheon with me. I will talk to you afterwards of the work I want you to do for me. And you must tell me more about yourself. Try and think of me as a friend, my dear.”
She hurried away, not trusting herself to say more just then, and Rhoda gladly went into the garden. Her heart was very light as she wandered up and down the turf paths. Miss Merivale’s sudden interest in her and the great kindness with which she spoke when she gave her back the locket did not surprise her as it might have surprised a girl more versed in the world’s ways. But she was eagerly grateful. She felt it would be easy to tell Miss Merivale of the hard struggle she and Aunt Mary had had to keep the younger boys at school and pay the premium for Ned’s apprenticeship to that big engineering firm.
She was sure Miss Merivale would not suppose she wanted money help. She had talked of giving her work, and it was work that Rhoda was pining for. Her strong young hands and willing brain were eager to be employed to the utmost.
It had been a hard blow to hear that she was to lose her post with Miss Desborough. But perhaps Miss Merivale would be able to help her to get something better. If she could earn a pound a week, there would be no need for Aunt Mary to tire her eyes out over that weary needlework. A pound a week would be riches added to the weekly wages Ned brought home and the interest from the money they had laid by for a rainy day. There would be no need for Aunt Mary to work for those hard shop-people any more. And Rhoda’s eyes sparkled as she thought of packing up the last parcel of fine needle-work and taking it back with the message that no more was wanted.
She had been in the garden about ten minutes when Tom, after vainly looking for his aunt in the house, came through the glass door of the library to seek for her out of doors. It startled him for a moment to see a strange young lady in the garden, but before she turned and saw him he had remembered who she must be, and he went forward quickly, taking off his hat, to introduce himself.
No touch of awkwardness marred their first words to each other. Tom’s frank face and pleasant greeting won Rhoda’s confidence at once, and in a few moments they were chatting like old acquaintances. Tom soon found that she loved a garden as much as he did, though this was the first large English garden she had seen. He was eagerly questioning her about Australian flowers when Miss Merivale entered the library and caught sight of them through the window.
The colour flowed into her pale face as she watched them talking to each other. For the first time she saw how Woodcote might be Tom’s and yet be Rhoda’s too.
Dusk had fallen before Rhoda got back to Acacia Road. The omnibus stopped at the corner, and as she went down the dreary street carrying a big bunch of flowers from the old garden, she might have come straight from Arcady, so bright her face was. Mrs. M’Alister was watching for her from the window with the boys, and they were all at the door to meet her.
“My dear, I was getting anxious about you,” said Mrs. M’Alister, as they went into the sitting-room, Rhoda holding little Willie in her arms. “You are much later than you expected.”
“Miss Merivale begged me to stay. Oh, Aunt Mary, she has been so kind! But I will tell you all about it presently. How tired you look, Aunt Mary! Jack and Willie, I hope you have been good?”
“They have been very good,” said Mrs. M’Alister hastily. “I have been trying to get my work finished. Give me your hat and jacket, darling; Jack shall take them upstairs for you. You have had a long day. How beautiful those flowers are! They scent the room already. English flowers are sweeter than our flowers used to be. But we had a lovely garden, hadn’t we?” She was speaking very nervously, and she kissed Rhoda again as she took her hat and jacket from her. “I am so glad Miss Merivale was so kind, dear.”
“Oh, she was wonderfully kind. And she has given me some more programmes to do. I am to take them to her on Thursday.”
“That will be another nice change for you, dear. You look all the better for a breath of country air,” was Mrs. M’Alister’s nervously-spoken answer.
“Uncle James says we are all to live in the country with him,” broke in Jack, who had been watching for an opportunity to make his voice heard. “And we shall have cream every day, and see the pigs fed.”
“Uncle James?” said Rhoda, looking at Mrs. M’Alister. A little shadow had fallen on her face. Mrs. M’Alister’s elder brother had been the only person who had ever made her feel that she was an outsider and had no real claim to the place she held in the family.
Mrs. M’Alister’s anxious face had clouded over too. “My dear, I did not want to speak of it till after tea. James is coming in again this evening, when Ned is home. Jack and Willie, run and ask Mrs. Ellis if the kettle is boiling yet. Rhoda will want some tea.”
“I had tea before I came away,” Rhoda said, as the boys ran off. “When did Uncle James come, Aunt Mary?”
“This afternoon, dear. He got to London last night. And he went down to the works this morning, and saw Ned and Mr. Howard. Oh, Rhoda, they want Ned to go to Plymouth!”
Rhoda looked at her aunt. She understood now what those new lines of anxiety in her face meant which she had noticed the moment she came in. “To Plymouth, Aunt Mary? But that is a long way off.”
“They have a branch there, and they want Ned to go. James says it is a splendid thing for him. And he wants me to go down there and live with him, Rhoda. His farm is only three miles from Plymouth.”
She did not look at Rhoda as she spoke, but kept fingering the tablecloth nervously, with her eyes cast down. For a few seconds Rhoda was silent. Then her voice was very cheerful. “Why, you will be quite close to Ned, Aunt Mary. And the country air will be so good for the boys. I think it is a splendid plan.”
Mrs. M’Alister gave her a piteous glance. “If only you could go too, Rhoda darling. But James says”—
“How could I get work in the country, Aunt Mary? And Miss Merivale has promised that she will get me plenty of work.” Rhoda’s lips quivered a little as she thought of her day-dreams as she came home—how if she got plenty of work they might take a little house and have a little garden of their own. But she went bravely on. “It would be foolish of me to think of leaving London, Aunt Mary. And of course you must go with Ned. Is he pleased about it? They must think a good deal of him to promote him like this.”
“Yes, it is a promotion,” said the mother eagerly. She was very fond of Rhoda, but her eldest boy was her heart’s darling. “James said Mr. Howard spoke so highly of him. And James is very anxious I should go to Coombe. His old housekeeper is leaving him, and he wants me. If only”—
But Rhoda again interrupted her. She knew perfectly well how reasonably and firmly the shrewd, hard-headed farmer had spoken that afternoon. He was both anxious and willing that his sister and her boys should make their home with him, but he did not want her. He considered her old enough to fight the battle of life for herself. And she was determined that her aunt should not guess how hard the parting would be to her.
“It is a delightful plan, Aunt Mary. You would not have come to London if Ned wasn’t here. I know how you have hated it. And you must not trouble about me. There are heaps of places now where girls can live comfortably for very little. I will ask Miss Desborough to-morrow. And if I can pass the Post Office examination, I might get appointed to Plymouth. Aunt Mary, don’t cry. I can’t bear it.”
“You don’t feel it as I shall,” sobbed Mrs. M’Alister, without looking up. “But I couldn’t let Ned go to Plymouth alone, Rhoda. I couldn’t be parted from him.”
“Of course not,” Rhoda answered cheerily. She was glad her aunt did not look up, for she knew her face had turned very white, and slow hot tears had forced themselves into her eyes. But her voice was cheery. “And you will be quite close to him at Coombe.”
“He will be able to live with us. There is a station quite close,” said Mrs. M’Alister, drying her tears. Now that Rhoda seemed to bear the news so well, she was able to think of the bright side of things. “And you must spend a long month with us in the summer, Rhoda darling. James means to insist on that. He does mean to be kind, dear.”
“I am sure he does. And when he hears about Miss Merivale he will make you see that it would be foolish of me to think of leaving London. But here comes the tea at last. I will run up and wash my hands first. Don’t wait for me, Aunt Mary.”
No one could have guessed, when Rhoda came down, with her hair freshly done, and a new pink ribbon round the neck of her brown dress, what bitter tears she had been shedding upstairs. And when Mr. Price came in, he was pleasantly surprised at the sensible view she took of things, and his invitation to her to spend the August holidays at Coombe was far heartier than Mrs. M’Alister had dared to hope for.
“And you will be able to run down to Leyton for a Sunday every now and then,” he said, regarding her approvingly out of his hard grey eyes. “Mary, here, seems to think you’re a baby still, but I know better. Girls aren’t what they used to be, Mary—silly creatures who couldn’t look after themselves. They don’t want to stay at home by the chimney corner all the time.”
“I want to work,” said Rhoda, speaking rather proudly. She could have added that she might have got work at Plymouth and come home every night, as Ned was going to do, but she knew that it would be no use to say it. He had plainly made up his mind that she must shift for herself. And the only excuse she could make for him was that he did not know how hard it was for her to be suddenly deprived of a home. Shabby and uncomfortable as their lodgings were, not even beautiful Woodcote could have been a dearer home. And a deadly chill seized her heart as she thought of living alone or with strangers. Rhoda was a thorough woman in her need of a home to fill her life. She had never felt Rose’s desire to be free from home ties; she could not have understood it.
“Rhoda means to ask Miss Desborough’s advice, James,” said Mrs. M’Alister, putting down her sewing. “She knows a great many girls who get their living in London and board out somewhere. I shan’t feel happy till I see Rhoda comfortably settled.”
“Oh, we’ll manage that for her,” returned the farmer briskly. “And now this Miss Merivale has taken her up she’ll get plenty of work, never fear.”
“How would it do for you to live with Miss Smythe?” suggested Mrs. M’Alister, looking anxiously at Rhoda. “Now Miss Desborough is going away, she will want somebody, won’t she?”
A smile broke over Rhoda’s face. She had never spoken of Pauline’s contemptuous rudeness to her aunt. She had felt too indifferent to her to be hurt by her behaviour; and since her visit to Leyton, the week before, she had a special reason for being amused at it. But this she had not mentioned.
“Miss Smythe would think me very bold if I suggested living with her, Aunt Mary,” she said, in a voice that had a ripple of laughter in it. “But don’t be anxious about me. I can stay here with Mrs. Ellis if I can’t hear of anything I like better. But I will speak to Miss Desborough to-morrow.”
As it happened, however, Rhoda did not see Clare next day. When she arrived at the flat, she found that Lady Desborough had reached town the day before, and had taken her daughter for a day’s shopping with her, preparatory to their journey into Lincolnshire.
It was Rose who told Rhoda this. Mrs. Richards had gone out to buy some chops for dinner, and Rose opened the door. Rhoda thought her the prettiest creature she had ever seen in her life. She had a blue dress on and a white cooking apron, and her yellow hair was brushed loosely back from her face and fastened in a loose knot.
“Miss Desborough has left some letters for you to answer,” she said to Rhoda pleasantly. “Can you do them at the side table? I am cooking in the sitting-room this morning. It was so hot in the kitchen. Miss Smythe will be in presently. She has a message for you from Clare.”
It was rather difficult to work at the side table, which was small and decidedly rickety; but Rhoda made no objection. She found her eyes wandering now and then to Rose, who had gone back to her pastry, and was spending many puzzled glances on the cookery book that was propped open before her.
“I mean to write a cookery book one day,” she exclaimed presently, in a tone of deep disgust. “And I mean to use simple language, and explain everything. I can’t understand this book a bit.”
Rhoda was on the point of offering her help, when the door was hastily opened and Pauline came in, with a bunch of daffodils in her hand. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the pastry board.
“My darling Rose! Suppose Lady Desborough were to come back with Clare, what would she think?”
“It was so hot in the kitchen, Pauline,” Rose answered meekly. “And I do so want to learn how to cook. Mrs. Richards’ pastry is like leather. Just look here. This book says”—
But Pauline laughingly put it from her. “My dear child, it is worse than Greek to me. And I really do object to see lumps of raw dough about. Please take them away. I never like to think of my food till I see it on the table. Good-morning, Miss Sampson. When you have finished those letters you will not be required any more. I will pay you before you go. Miss Desborough has gone out with Lady Desborough.”
Clare had left a kind message for Rhoda, and when Pauline went into the next room to take off her hat, Rose hastened to give it.
“She was so sorry not to be here to say good-bye to you, Miss Sampson. She feels that you have been such a help to her.”
Rhoda had listened to Pauline with a smile faintly lurking at the corner of her firm lips, but now the smile flashed brightly out at Rose.
“It has been very pleasant work,” she said. “I am sorry it is over. But your aunt has promised me some more work, Miss Merivale. I am to go down to Woodcote again on Thursday.”
Rose was surprised, and she could not help showing it. “You went yesterday, didn’t you?” she said rather stiffly. “It is a long way for you to go.”
“I am very glad to go,” Rhoda answered. She did not tell Rose she had spent the day at Woodcote; something in Rose’s manner checked her. But she did not begin her writing at once. Rose had taken up the cookery book again, and was bending puzzled brows over it. Rhoda watched her for a moment, her eyes full of admiration. Miss Desborough was pretty, but there was not a soft line in her face. Rose looked a child still for all her womanly height. Rhoda said to herself that she must be much younger than her brother. It was easy to see that they were brother and sister. Rose had just the same straight brow she had noticed in him yesterday, and her eyebrows, like his, were a shade or two darker than her hair.
“Would you let me see if I could help you, Miss Merivale?” Rhoda said, after a moment. “I did all the cooking at home before we came to England.”
But Rose shut up her book. “Pauline will scold again if I don’t carry all this away,” she said, with a laugh. “And I mean to have some cookery lessons, if I can get them. But Woodcote is so far from everywhere. It is like being buried alive.”
Rhoda, who had known what it was to live for years fifty miles from a town, did not know how to answer this. And Rose, angry with herself for saying so much to Miss Sampson, caught up the pastry board and rolling-pin and retreated to the kitchen. She came back in a few moments with her apron off, and found Rhoda busy at work, and Pauline in a low chair by the fire with her hands clasped round her knees. Pauline had changed her outdoor dress for an odd, picturesque frock of sage green Liberty serge, touched with yellow. She had fastened some daffodils in her belt, and looked like an aesthetic picture of Spring.
“Arrange my daffodils for me, there is a good little Rose,” she said, smiling lazily at Rose as she entered. “The brown pots, not the blue ones. Now Clare is going to her native fens, I mean this room to be a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. How good it will be to get rid of the click of that typewriter!”
“Don’t say that to Clare,” laughed Rose, as she brought the brown pots to the table. “She was telling me this morning it was the thing she would miss most.”
Pauline lifted her dark eyebrows. “Did she really say that? But it is exactly like Clare; she is more a machine herself than a human being. I was very fond of her once, but I have found her trying to live with. They say you never know a woman till you have lived six months with her. Don’t put too many daffodils in one pot, my Rose; they want plenty of room to show themselves.”
Rhoda had finished the work Clare had left for her. She carefully put her papers together, and rose from the table. Pauline looked carelessly round at her. “Ah, are you going, Miss Sampson? Here is the money Miss Desborough left for you. Just write a receipt and leave it on the table, please. You understand that you are not wanted any more, don’t you?”
“I knew this was to be my last day, thank you,” said Rhoda composedly. She smiled to herself as she wrote her receipt. She half thought of mentioning her visit to Leyton, but she refrained. There was not a touch of spitefulness in Rhoda’s nature, and she had no wish to humiliate Pauline; but the humorous side of the situation was thoroughly enjoyed by her.
Rose went on arranging her flowers in silence for a minute or two after Rhoda went away; then she spoke rather constrainedly.
“Why do you dislike poor Miss Sampson so, Pauline? Do you know that you were quite unkind to her?”
“Was I? It is necessary to keep that sort of girl at arm’s length; she would become intolerable if you didn’t. Thank goodness, we have seen the last of her. Now, come and sit down here and have a talk. What shall we do this afternoon, Rose? Only two more days! What do you want to do most?”
“Clare and Lady Desborough are coming back to tea,” suggested Rose, with a laugh. “You are not very hospitable, Pauline. And to-morrow we shall be busy all day. My time will soon be over, won’t it? Do you know, Aunt Lucy has asked Miss Sampson down to Woodcote again to-morrow, Pauline? I wonder if she has found out that she is related to Cousin Lydia’s husband. I don’t see what Aunt Lucy can want her for.”
“Poor relations are a great nuisance,” said Pauline sharply. “It is foolish of your aunt to have anything to do with her. But don’t let us talk of Sampson, Rosie; let us talk of ourselves. Suppose for a moment that you were going to stay with me through the summer, just let us plan what we would do.”
Rose shook her head.
“It would be too tantalising, Pauline. I shall spend the summer at Woodcote. I know exactly what I shall be doing every hour of the day, and every day of the week, and every week of the month. But don’t let us talk of it. Let us talk of the concert last night. Wasn’t it wonderful? I wish Tom had been there; he would have understood better why Laura’s singing irritates me. Pauline, I must get some good music lessons somehow. Do speak to Aunt Lucy about it on Friday. You are quite right; I am wasting my time as it is.”
When Rhoda got home that morning, she found that Mrs. M’Alister had already begun to pack. Ned was to go to Plymouth almost at once, and Mr. Price was anxious that his sister and the younger boys should return with him on the following Saturday. Little Hugh was to stay at Leyton for the present; Rhoda was to bring him down when she came for her holiday in August.
Mrs. M’Alister did not guess how hard Rhoda found it to be cheerful as she helped with the packing. A great load was lifted off her heart by the ready way in which the girl had acquiesced in the new arrangements. Much as it grieved her to part with Rhoda, she could not help looking forward with delight to going back to the dear old farmhouse in which her childhood had been spent. And Rhoda understood exactly how she felt. There was no bitterness in her heart; but, brave and cheery as she was, she dreaded to think of the lonely days that lay before her.
She did not go down to Woodcote till Thursday afternoon. Miss Merivale had asked her to come early and spend the day, but she had written to explain how it was that she could not spare the time; her aunt wanted her help in packing.
The old house looked more beautiful and peaceful than ever, steeped in the golden afternoon sunlight. Rhoda thought with a thrill of wonder of Rose’s words about her home. How could she have spoken so!
Miss Merivale was in the library, with all the windows open to the garden. Rhoda was tremulously surprised at her greeting. She kissed her, and even when they sat down she did not leave her hand go, but held it tight, looking anxiously at her.
“I want you to tell me more about your aunt,” she said. “I did not quite understand your letter. You are not going to Devonshire?”
“Oh no; I am going on with my work here,” Rhoda said hastily. And after a pause she added, impelled by the yearning kindness in Miss Merivale’s eyes, “Mr. Price wishes me to stay here. It is not as if I was his own niece, you see. And I am nearly twenty; I am quite able to earn my own living.”
Miss Merivale dropped her hand suddenly, and rose and went to the window. The quiver in Rhoda’s voice was more than she could bear. She spoke without turning round. “I see they are carrying the tea into the garden. Let us go out. I thought it would be pleasanter to have it out of doors. And afterwards you shall tell me what you mean to do. I should like”—
But she checked herself. She wanted to say that she would like Rhoda to come to Woodcote; but she saw how strange such a wish would seem, both to Rhoda and to Tom and Rose. She must wait a little. She must content herself with helping her in other ways.
Tom had been obliged to go to Guilford that day on farm business; but somehow he had managed to get back early, and he strolled into the garden just as they sat down to tea, not looking in the least as if he had just ridden twelve miles at headlong speed.
A faint smile crossed Miss Merivale’s pale face as she saw him. It was what she had been hoping for.
She left the talk during tea-time to him and Rhoda, who had plenty to say to each other. They were both enthusiasts about a garden, and found it intensely interesting to compare notes. After tea, Tom was eager to show Rhoda some white violets in the wood close by. He found she had never seen any.
They went off together, and Miss Merivale could hear their eager, happy voices as they searched about the wood looking for the violets, just like two children. She leant back in her chair, closing her eyes. For the moment the ache at her heart was stilled. She was hoping that all might yet come right.
Rhoda went home that evening feeling like a different creature. Mrs. M’Alister had a jealous pang or two as she listened to her account of the happy time she had had.
“Don’t you trust too much to her promises, child,” she said anxiously. “She’s taken a sudden fancy to you, that’s clear enough; but it mightn’t last. She might take a fancy to somebody else next week, and forget all about you. I have heard of people like that.”
“I don’t think Miss Merivale is a bit like that,” returned Rhoda stoutly. “Hasn’t she a sweet, kind face, Aunt Mary? I wish she didn’t look so ill.”
“Don’t rest your hopes on her too much,” repeated Mrs. M’Alister, shaking her head gloomily. “James will be in again to-night, and you will hear what he says. He has heard of a firm that wants a lady-clerk. We think you’d better try for it, Rhoda. I’d like to see you settled before we go away. I’ve been wishing and wishing this afternoon that you could go with us.”
“You mustn’t say that to Mr. Price, Aunt Mary,” Rhoda said quickly. “You know how it vexes him. And he is very kind. You heard him tell me that I was to ask him for any money I wanted. But I don’t think I shall want any. Miss Merivale said again this afternoon that she would be able to get me as much work as I could do. She is going to write to me on Monday. I am quite sure she meant it. And I don’t want to try for work in an office if I can help it. I should feel in prison.”
Miss Merivale had spoken very vaguely of the work she was going to give Rhoda. She had, in truth, made up her mind that Rhoda must come to Woodcote. She was only waiting till Rose came home to arrange it. However much she surprised Rose and Tom, however difficult it would be to explain why she wanted Rhoda, Rhoda must come to her. She could not leave Lydia’s girl alone in London. And Tom’s surprise, at least, would have no element of annoyance in it. It was quite plain already that Rhoda’s company was delightful to him.
It had been arranged that Tom should go and fetch his sister on Friday, but by the first post on Friday morning Miss Merivale got a letter from Rose, saying that Pauline would return with her that afternoon, and that there was no need for Tom to come to London. It was at Pauline’s instigation Rose had written the letter. Those few charmed days in the little flat had made Rose more passionately desirous than ever to get away from Woodcote, and Pauline had suggested that she should go home with Rose and beg her aunt to allow her to pay a longer visit a little later in the year.
“May is the best month of the year in London, Rose. You shall spend May with me. The flat will have to be given up then, if I cannot get anyone to share it with me. Lady Desborough only took it till the end of April. But we will have a lovely May together. I am sure your aunt will not refuse to let you come.”
“I couldn’t possibly stay away for a month,” Rose said firmly, but with the air of a martyr. “Aunt Lucy looked heartbroken when I asked for a week this time. She has got to depend on me for everything.”
“Just so. But if you were away she would do things for herself, and it would be a thousand times better for her. She won’t have missed you this time as much as you fear, Rosie. And won’t you think of me a little bit? Just think how lonely I shall be!”
“Oh, I know. And Iwantto come again,” Rose said piteously. “I might get away for a week in May. If you spoke to Aunt Lucy”—
“Trust it to me entirely, dear. I know exactly what to say. And I feel sure your aunt will let you be free when she understands how much you want it. For a week or so, I mean,” she added hastily, as she saw Rose’s anxious look. “I mustn’t ask for more, I suppose.”
“It wouldn’t be a bit of good to ask,” sighed Rose. “If Aunt Lucy said I might stay longer, she would look so miserable about it I should not like to take her at her word. But I might be spared for a week, I should think. That will be something to look forward to.”
They reached Woodcote early in the afternoon, and Pauline was soon furnished with an opportunity to plead Rose’s cause with Miss Merivale. Tom had bought a new pony which he wanted Rose to see, and they went away to the stables, leaving their aunt and Pauline alone. Pauline had laughingly refused to accompany them.
“I am going to tell Miss Merivale what Mrs. Metcalfe said about your music, Rose,” she said. “It would make you vain if you were to hear it.”
“Who is Mrs. Metcalfe?” asked Tom, when they got outside. “Is she a great authority, Rose?”
“She is Lady Desborough’s sister,” returned Rose, with dignity. “Pauline and I went to tea there yesterday. She lives in Grosvenor Square.”
“Ah, I understand now why Miss Smythe spoke of her with bated breath,” returned Tom in the light, bantering tone which so often irritated Rose. “I might have known she lived in Grosvenor Square.”
Rose refused to take notice of his raillery. “It was Mrs. Metcalfe who got Miss Sampson for Clare. She heard of her through some agency. What has made Aunt Lucy take such an interest in her, Tom? She was down here again yesterday, wasn’t she?”
“Yes. Have you seen her, Rosie?”
“For a moment or two. She looked nice, I thought. But I can’t imagine what Aunt Lucy can find for her to do.”
“Aunt Lucy is sure that she must be related to Cousin Lydia’s husband. It is natural that she should take a great interest in her. She is coming down again next week to stay for a day or two. Aunt Lucy told me this morning that she meant to ask her. I am sure you will like her, Rosie.”
Tom spoke without looking at his sister, and hurried forward to open the gate of the stable yard for her without waiting to get an answer. But Rose had no answer ready. The tone in which Tom had spoken took her breath away. He seemed to think it was a matter of importance whether she liked Miss Sampson or not.
When they got back to the house, Tom went off to his own den, and when Rose entered the drawing-room she found Pauline alone.
The latter ran towards her and caught her by both hands. Her eyes were sparkling joyfully. “My Rose, I have delightful news for you. Now, confess that I am the cleverest person in the world! I have made your aunt as anxious as you are about your music. She wants you to spend two months with me in London. Two whole long, lovely months! Think of it, Rosamunda mia! And you can come next week. It is far, far more than I ever hoped for. And, who knows, you might get an extension of leave after that. We may spend the whole summer together in the flat. Well, why don’t you say something? Aren’t you pleased?”
“But, Pauline, I can’t go. Aunt Lucy couldn’t do without me. I”—
“My dear, she wants you to go,” returned Pauline impatiently. “Go up and speak to her, and you will find it is so. Miss Sampson is to come here as her companion. She isn’t the person I should choose for a companion, butchacun à son goût.”
“Did you suggest that she should come here?” asked Rose. “Oh, Pauline, don’t look at me like that! It is so sudden. And Aunt Lucy can’t bear strangers. I don’t think it is a good plan at all.”
Pauline dropped her hands with one look, and turned away. Her lips were quivering; her face had the stricken look of one who has received a cruel blow. She did not speak, but Rose was full of remorse instantly.
“Oh, Pauline, you know I want to come to you. It would be too lovely. But it is so sudden. I can’t believe Aunt Lucy would like to have Miss Sampson with her.”
“You had better speak to your aunt,” returned Pauline in an icy voice. “I wash my hands of the matter altogether. I did my best for you; but I see I was mistaken in thinking that you really cared about our being together. It does not matter I can give up the flat and go back to Mrs. Jephson’s.”
“Pauline, don’t speak like that,” begged Rose, with tears in her eyes. “You know how I love being with you. If I could be certain Aunt Lucy would not fret for me, I should be only too delighted to get away. I never feel more than half-alive here. But Miss Sampson could not do for her what I do.”
“Don’t you think you may exaggerate your usefulness to your aunt, dear?” Pauline returned, with a sneer. But with an effort she controlled her temper, and spoke the next words in a different tone. “Miss Merivale seems really anxious for you to have a change, Rose. I think she understands that you are bored and unhappy here.”
“Oh, Pauline, you did not say that to her?” cried Rose, the blood rushing, up into her face.
“Of course not, darling. It was your music I spoke most of. But she does want you to come to me. Go up and speak to her; you will see that she really wants it. You won’t make difficulties, Rose? Can’t you see it is best for both of you to be apart for a time? Your aunt will learn to do without you. When you come back you will be able to lead a much freer life. And think of the happy time we shall have!”
But Rose’s face did not light up as Pauline had expected, and it was with a very sober step that she went up to her aunt’s room. She had made up her mind to tell her aunt that she did not want to go and stay with Pauline—that she had never really thought of leaving her. She expected to be clasped and fondly kissed for being so ready to give up her visit; but she found, to her hurt surprise, that Pauline had been right, and that her aunt was bent on her going away for a time.
“It is a chance that may not happen again, Rosie,” she said, tenderly stroking her bright hair. “I have wanted you to have some really good music lessons for a long time, and Pauline and Mrs. Metcalfe will be able to see that you get the best. And you have been looking pale lately. You want a change; I know it has been dull for you. And I should like to have Rhoda here for a time. I have just been talking to Tom about it. He thinks it an excellent plan. You would like to go next week, wouldn’t you, darling? Pauline is very anxious to have you. Before she goes away we must settle how long you are to stay. Two months, I thought of. I can’t spare you longer than that, Rosie.”
But, affectionate as these words were, and loving the kiss that accompanied them, Rose went downstairs again with a sore heart. She was like those who pluck Dead Sea apples, and find the fruit that looked so fair when out of reach turning to ashes in their hands.