One warm, beautiful morning, early in April, Rose was toiling rather wearily up the long flight of stone steps leading to the flat. She had her violin, and she found it heavy. She was wishing she had Tom with her to carry it.
Though Rose had not yet confessed it to herself, she was beginning to be a little homesick. She missed the delicious freshness of Woodcote, its wide rooms and sunny gardens, the thousand and one little comforts she had been too accustomed to to notice; but more, far, far more, she missed the protecting fondness that had surrounded her all her life. It was only a fortnight since she joined Pauline, but it seemed much longer. And June seemed a very long way off.
But she was looking forward to a great treat that afternoon. Paderewski was playing at St. James’s Hall, and she and Pauline were going early to get seats. They would have to wait two hours or so, and might have to stand after all, but to Rose that was part of the afternoon’s enjoyment. She had quite agreed with Pauline that it would be foolish to go to the expense of taking their tickets beforehand. She opened the door with her latch-key—that latch-key still gave her a thrill of proud delight when she used it—and went in.
Pauline called to her from her room.
“Rosie, is that you, dearest? I want to speak to you.”
Rose put down her violin and crossed the tiny entry. Pauline was standing before her looking-glass doing her hair. She wore a soiled pink dressing-jacket elaborately trimmed with lace, and Rose observed with a little shock that there were holes in the heels of her stockings. It was not quite such a shock as it would have been a fortnight ago. Rose had discovered that Pauline was very careless about little matters of this sort. On the bed was spread out her last new dress—a charming combination of brown and gold, to be worn with a brown hat lined with yellow.
“Why, Pauline, you won’t wear that dress this afternoon, will you?” asked Rose, glancing at it. “It will get so crushed.”
“My Rose, shall you be very disappointed? Madame Verney has asked me to go with her. She had two tickets sent her, and Monsieur Verney had to go to Paris this morning. I am going there to lunch. How I wish you were going with me, darling! But I could not refuse when Madame Verney asked me, could I? I might have offended her.”
The tears had rushed into Rose’s eyes, but she drove them back. “I daresay Paderewski will play again before I go,” she said. “And it was kind of Madame Verney to ask you.”
“Oh, as to kindness, she would have found it dull enough to go by herself, and she knows nobody in London yet. But what do you mean about Paderewski playing again, Rosie? You’ll go and hear him this afternoon, won’t you? I never thought of your staying at home.”
“I promised Aunt Lucy I would not go to a concert by myself,” Rose answered hastily. “I couldn’t go, Pauline.”
“But she meant in the evening, Rosie. She couldn’t mind your going this afternoon. Don’t be a silly child. You’ll spoil my pleasure if you stay at home. Of course you must go.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” returned Rose. “I promised Aunt Lucy. Besides”—
“You little country mouse!” laughed Pauline. “I believe you are afraid to go. Who do you think would eat you? Never mind, there is ‘The Golden Legend’ at the Albert Hall on Thursday. We’ll go to that. But I must be quick; I promised to be there early. Rosie, be my good angel, and clean my shoes for me. You’ll find the stuff in that box. I can’t trust Mrs. Richards with my kid shoes. No, not that box, darling, the one below it.”
Rose, who was delicately fastidious about all her own belongings, could never understand how Pauline allowed her room to be so untidy, and as she opened the box and took out the pot of polish she blushed to find herself thinking of Aunt Dinah and her kitchen drawers inUncle Tom’s Cabin. She took the boots away and cleaned them, and brought them back.
“Mrs. Richards isn’t in the kitchen, Pauline. She hasn’t gone, has she?”
“Poor dear little Rosie! Was she afraid she was going to be left all alone?” laughed Pauline. “She has only gone to get me a hansom, dear. I shall spoil my dress if I go by omnibus, and it is too far to walk. Have you five shillings in your purse you can lend me? I am hard up till the end of the term.”
Rose produced the five shillings, which was not by any means the first loan Pauline had asked for. She hated herself for feeling so hurt and angry with her friend, and she was glad to lend her the money she wanted. Life would become quite intolerable in the flat if she was going to lose her belief in Pauline.
“Won’t you think better of it and go to the concert?” Pauline said, when she was ready to start. “It is really silly of you to stay at home, dearest. I wouldn’t have accepted Madame Verney’s invitation if I had thought you would not go. But you see how it is, don’t you? Her cousin is at the French Embassy, and she is sure to get to know a lot of people. She may introduce me to a great many pupils.”
This sounded reasonable, and Pauline’s voice was most kind and caressing, yet somehow the hurt feeling remained in Rose’s heart. She saw that Pauline was delighted to go. She did not really care in the least about her disappointment. “He will be sure to play again,” she answered, “I shall go for a walk in the Park. What time shall you be back, Pauline?”
Pauline hesitated. “Don’t expect me till the evening, darling. Madame Verney spoke about my going back with her to tea. Shall you be very lonely? I never used to trouble about Clare. She went her way, and I went mine. And”—
“You need not trouble about me,” Rose flashed out, her colour rising. “I should be sorry to spoil your afternoon, Pauline.”
Pauline looked at her with grieved eyes. “It will make me most miserable if I leave you angry with me. Don’t you know that I would far, far rather have gone with you? Rosie, you know that, don’t you?”
But Rose had a stubborn love of truth, which prevented her from responding to this appeal as Pauline wished.
“It would have been a pity for you to refuse Madame Verney,” she said. “And I shall have a nice afternoon. I will make some cakes, I think. I want to astonish Aunt Lucy and Wilmot when I go home. I shall make Wilmot let me make Tom’s birthday cake.”
Pauline patted her cheek. “What a child you are still, Rosie! When you have been a month or two in London, you will find yourself growing up. But I must start. How does this dress suit me? Do you think there is just a little too much yellow about it?”
Rose could frankly say that the dress was perfect. She had never seen Pauline look better. But she could not help hoping that she had changed her stockings as she watched her run lightly down the stairs to the hansom.
She felt very downhearted as she closed the door and went back to the sitting-room. The room was sweet with the primroses and white violets they had sent her from Woodcote the day before. Rose felt herself pitying the flowers for being taken from the woods and sent to wither in that stifling air. For it was stifling this afternoon. Even when she threw open the window, no breath of coolness came to fan her burning face. The sky was cloudless, but yellow with smoke, and a dull haze hung over the river.
Rose thought of Woodcote, where the great chestnuts were already in full leaf, and the gorse common beyond the wood was a sheet of gold. An intense longing took hold of her to go home, if only for an hour or two. She looked at her watch and saw that it was not yet one o’clock. There was plenty of time to go to Woodcote and get back before Pauline returned. And how joyfully surprised her aunt would be! She wondered she had not thought of it before.
An hour later she was in the train, speeding countrywards. She sat close to the window, looking eagerly at the green fields and the budding trees. She no longer felt disappointed about the concert. She was glad Madame Verney had invited Pauline to go with her.
Just outside the station for Woodcote the train came to a standstill. Rose from the window had a full view of the white road down the hillside, and as she looked along it she caught sight of an approaching carriage. It was a moment before she recognised the brown horses and the broad figure of old Harris, her aunt’s coachman. But directly afterwards she saw her aunt and Rhoda Sampson, and Tom seated opposite to them.
The road passed close to the high embankment on which the train was standing. If they had looked up, they must have seen her at the window. But they were too intent on their conversation. Rose heard Tom laugh at something Rhoda said, and saw him turn to Miss Merivale as if she too was enjoying the joke.
Rose could not see her aunt’s face, her parasol shaded it; but she was not leaning back against the cushions, as she usually did. She was bending a little forward, with her face turned towards Rhoda. It was quite plain to Rose that it was Miss Sampson who was absorbing the attention both of Tom and her aunt.
She stared after the carriage with angry, mystified eyes. It was her place Rhoda was sitting in! She forgot how the long drives her aunt loved used to bore her. She felt that Rhoda Sampson had no right to be sitting there, and it seemed to her positively cruel of her aunt and Tom to be so happy when she was away.
She was half inclined to go back by the next train when she heard from the stationmaster that they were gone to Guilford and would not be back till late. But on second thoughts she determined to go on to Woodcote. Wilmot would be there, at any rate. She would be able to find out how her aunt was.
She had the warmest of greetings from the old cook and housekeeper, whom she found at the linen press upstairs, carefully examining her store of lavender-scented linen.
“Your aunt will be dreadfully disappointed, Miss Rosie. What a pity you didn’t come a little earlier! You could ha’ gone to Guilford with them. They’ve gone about the new greenhouse Mr. Tom is going to build. But come down to the dining-room, my dearie, and I’ll get you some tea.”
“No, no; finish what you were about,” returned Rose, settling herself in the window-seat. The linen press stood on a wide landing that had a window looking on the garden. It had always been a favourite spot with Rose; in the deep-cushioned window-seat she had spent many a happy afternoon. The linen press was of old oak, almost as old as the house. And opposite it stood a finely-carved dower-chest with the date 1511 carved upon it. The landing-floor, like the stairs, was of polished oak, and the wainscoted walls had one or two old pictures on them.
Rose looked round her, feeling as she had never felt before the beauty of her home. How fresh it was, and roomy! And what a delicious scent of lavender came from the old linen press! “What are you doing, Wilmot? I wish you would let me help you.”
“No, thank you, my dearie. I’ve got what I wanted. It’s this tablecloth Miss Sampson is going to darn for me. She’s the cleverest young lady with her needle I ever came across, and that anxious to be useful.”
“Then you like her?” asked Rose. She could not help a certain stiffness getting into her voice when she mentioned Rhoda, though she was ready to laugh at herself for being jealous of her aunt’s companion.
“Nobody could help liking her, Miss Rosie. It’s just like having a bit o’ sunshine in the house. The mistress would ha’ missed you bad enough if she hadn’t had Miss Sampson to cheer her up. But nobody could feel lonely with her about. And it’s wonderful what she knows about a garden.”
“Do they have gardens in Australia?” asked Rose. It was the sort of remark Pauline might have made. But Rose was feeling very cross.
Wilmot did not notice the spitefulness in her voice. “They seem to have lovely gardens out there, my dearie. Miss Sampson was telling me of the different flowering trees they’ve got when she was in the kitchen on Tuesday. I’d promised to show her how to make those drop cakes you’re so fond of, Miss Rosie. But I’ll go and see about your tea. I wish you’d come this morning. The mistress was saying only yesterday that she was longing to see you.”
Rose went up to her room while tea was being made ready for her. It was all in perfect order, as if ready for her to take possession of it at any moment. There was even a vase of fresh primroses on the little table by the window. The room that had been prepared for Rhoda was next to it. The door stood partly open, and Rose could not forbear taking one look. It was only one look. She hurried on, feeling ashamed of her curiosity. But she got an impression of exquisite neatness and freshness, and by some odd working of the law of contrast it was Pauline’s room she thought of as she ran downstairs.
In the dining-room she noticed with jealous eyes how carefully the plants in the flower-stands before the windows had been tended, and with what care and skill the flowers on the table had been arranged. Wilmot hung round her at tea, pressing her to eat all sorts of dainties, and she could have easily learnt a great deal about Rhoda. The old servant seemed anxious to speak of her, anxious to impress Rose with her sweetness and goodness.
But Rose cut her short. She refused to interest herself in the stranger who in a few weeks’ time would pass out of their lives again. And she grew cross at last at Wilmot’s continual praises of her.
She went back by an earlier train than she had intended. She found that her aunt and the others would not return till dark; it was no good to wait for them.
She walked from Victoria to Chelsea along the Embankment, trying to convince herself that it was good to be in London. But her step flagged as she went up the stone stairs, and when she got to the flat and found that Pauline had not returned, a great flood of loneliness rushed over her. She put her flowers down on the table, and, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
It was nearly ten o’clock when Pauline returned. Madame Verney had begged her so hard to stay and keep her company that she had not been able to refuse, she told Rose, with many caresses.
“I have been thinking of you all the time, you poor darling. But what could I do? Félicie—she begged me this evening to call her Félicie—was so bent on my staying. I am going to take you to see her tomorrow. I talked so much about my little English Rose. And what have you been doing with yourself? What a pity you did not go to the concert! It was glorious. We had delightful seats. I never enjoyed a concert so much before.”
“I have been to Woodcote,” Rose broke in. “It was such a lovely afternoon I could not stay indoors.”
Pauline looked dismayed. “To Woodcote?” she said sharply. “What a strange idea, Rose! I thought you were going into the Park. Was not Miss Merivale surprised to see you alone? I fancy she thinks we are like the Siamese Twins—always together.”
“I did not see Aunt Lucy. They had all gone to Guilford. I only saw Wilmot.”
“Wilmot? That’s the cook, isn’t it? I never can remember servants’ names. Well, did she condole with you about the concert, and think me a wretch for deserting you? I am afraid Miss Merivale will think so.”
“I didn’t say anything about the concert,” returned Rose. “She talked about Miss Sampson chiefly. She seems to think her perfect.”
“I daresay,” returned Pauline, with a yawn. “Those sort of people always hang together. She’s more of Wilmot’s class than ours, you know. I wonder what your aunt thinks of her.”
“Oh, Aunt Lucy thinks her perfect too,” returned Rose, no longer able to keep her jealousy out of her voice. “And so does Tom. I don’t believe they miss me one little bit, Pauline.”
“Did Wilmot tell you that?”
“No, but I am sure they don’t. Little things she said made me think so.”
“You silly child!” laughed Pauline. “Did you want your aunt to fret herself to death because you weren’t there to run her errands? You ought to be glad she finds Miss Sampson so useful. She may be willing to let you stay on with me all the summer. Wouldn’t that be delightful? Why, what a gloomy little face! Rose, I believe you are angry because I accepted Félicie’s invitation. But I am not going to leave you alone again. I must remember you are not like Clare. You are vexed with me, now confess it.”
“I see you could not help it,” Rose answered wearily. “And I was glad to go home. I shall go again on Saturday. You must come with me, Pauline.”
“Don’t tell your aunt that I wanted you to go to the concert alone, then,” said Pauline, with a laugh. “She is such a dear old-fashioned thing, she might be shocked at me. And I believe you were shocked, just a little. How Clare would have laughed at you!”
There was an expression of alarm in Pauline’s eyes as she watched Rose. She began to fear that she had really offended her by her behaviour. She had been so sure of her influence that she had not thought it necessary to consider her, but she told herself now that she had been distinctly foolish. And she tried her best to make Rose forget that she had been deserted for a new friend. But she could not chase away the shadow from Rose’s face. It was not her disappointment about the concert which had brought it there. It was the feeling that she was not being missed at home.
Next morning she was practising her scales in the sitting-room, after Pauline had gone to give some lessons, when Tom was ushered in by Mrs. Richards. Rose ran to meet him with a glad cry.
“Oh, Tom, this is nice! Has Aunt Lucy come with you?”
“No; she sent me. She wants you and Miss Smythe to spend Saturday to Monday with us. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming yesterday, Rosie? Aunt Lucy was so disappointed when she found you had come down.”
“I didn’t think of it till the middle of the day. You had gone to Guilford, they told me. Wasn’t that too far for Aunt Lucy?”
“Why should it be?” asked Tom in a surprised tone. “She has often driven as far as that. She seemed to enjoy it. She is certainly stronger, Rosie. But you will see on Saturday. You look rather pale. Come out with me. If you’ll ask me to lunch, I can stay.”
Rose hesitated. “I don’t think you would like Mrs. Richards’ cooking, Tom. I would rather you wouldn’t stay.”
“You inhospitable sister! Well, I’ll ask you to lunch with me. Run and put your hat on and let us go out. It is a glorious morning.”
He watched her rather impatiently as she got the case and began to put her violin away. He was anxious to get her out into the open air. It distressed him to see how pale she was. And he had an uneasy feeling that he had been neglecting his little sister lately. For days he had hardly thought of her.
“You aren’t practising too hard, I hope, Rosie?” he said kindly. “You mustn’t overdo it, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t practise too much,” Rose returned. She did not tell him that she found it impossible to practise except when Pauline was out. Pauline’s neuralgia came on directly she began to play. “And how does Miss Sampson suit, Tom? I hope she looks after Aunt Lucy properly?”
Tom flushed up. “You will see for yourself on Saturday, Rosie. Aunt Lucy is very fond of her.”
“Yes, Wilmot told me that.”
Tom gave his sister a hasty glance, was on the point of saying something, but checked himself. And there was a moment’s silence before he spoke. “I wish you had not settled to stay here till June, Rosie. We want you at home.”
It was in a choked voice Rose answered him. “I don’t believe you do want me. Aunt Lucy has got Miss Sampson. She doesn’t want me.”
Tom again paused a moment before he spoke. Each time Rose mentioned Rhoda in that slighting tone it roused his anger against her. But he told himself that Rose did not know Rhoda yet, and he must wait till they had seen something of each other before he could expect Rose’s sympathy. He spoke very calmly and reasonably after the pause.
“Did you wish Aunt Lucy to be miserable while you were away, Rose? It was your own wish to go. Surely you ought to be glad that she has found someone to fill your place.”
He felt he had said the wrong thing before Rose turned on him, her eyes flashing. “How could Miss Sampson, a stranger, fill my place? Tom, you are horrid!”
“Not at all,” he said stoutly, bent on defending the position he had taken up. “I don’t want to hurt you, Rosie; but look at the thing reasonably. Remember that you told me you were bored to death at home, that you would give anything to live in London all the year round. I didn’t believe you. But suppose you had really wanted it? You couldn’t have expected to keep your place at home and yet have the freedom of a life like this. If a girl gives up her home duties, she must take the consequences.”
“I have only been away a fortnight,” said Rose, with a trembling lip, “and I shall feel nothing but a visitor when I go back on Saturday. You—you only ask me because I went home yesterday and found you gone. I don’t believe you want me a bit.” And, to Tom’s distress and amazement, Rose, poor little homesick Rose, burst into tears.
“I wish you would go back with me this minute and you’d find out whether we wanted you,” he exclaimed, drawing her hands down from her face. “You silly child, what would Aunt Lucy say if she heard you talking such nonsense? Rosie, just listen to me a moment. I am going to tell you something I haven’t even told Aunt Lucy yet, though I believe she guesses. Don’t cry any more. Just listen to me.”
The quiver in Tom’s voice made Rose look wonderingly at him. It was very unlike him to show any emotion. His cool, matter-of-fact way of looking at things had often irritated her. But she saw now that he was deeply moved. And the reason of his agitation suddenly flashed upon her.
“Oh, Tom!” she faltered out.
“Rosie, you’ll try to like her?” he said eagerly. “I’m not sure—I’m sure of nothing, except that I shall never be happy again unless—Rosie, you will be nice to her? You don’t know her. There is nobody like her. You won’t be able to help liking her, I’m sure of that.”
Rose was still looking at him with wide-open, wondering eyes.
“But, Tom, is she—is she a lady?” she faltered.
He frowned. “She hasn’t sixteen quarterings on her shield, if you mean that. But you won’t ask the question again when you have seen her, Rose.”
Rose did not remind him that she had seen her. She was trying to recall her as she sat at the side table busy over her typewriting. Her jealousy of Rhoda had somehow vanished in the light of Tom’s wonderful confession. She was eager to see the girl again who might one day be her sister.
“Do you really think Aunt Lucy knows, Tom?” she asked in a doubtful voice. Tom’s future wife had been often a subject for conversation between Miss Merivale and Rose. And of the two, Miss Merivale had been the more ambitious in her wishes. She had seemed to think that hardly anyone could be good enough for Tom.
“I’m sure she knows,” returned Tom, with conviction. “But don’t say anything to her, Rosie. I shouldn’t have told you unless”—
“I’m glad you told me, Tom,” said Rose, drawing a deep breath. “And I’m sure I shall like her. I’m sure she must be nice.”
Tom beamed at her. “But you did see her for a moment, Rosie. She came here while you were staying with Miss Smythe last month.”
“Yes; she sat at that table, and wrote the letters,” Rose said, nodding towards the little side table in the corner. “She had a brown dress on, I remember. Tom, am I expected to say that I thought her very pretty? I hardly looked at her.”
“Well, you will see her on Saturday,” Tom said.
Rose noticed that his voice sounded quite different when he spoke of Rhoda. And there came a look into his face she had never seen there before. It was impossible for her to cherish any jealous feelings in face of the great fact that Tom was in love. It thrilled her to think of it.
That evening, when Tom was gone, and she and Pauline were sitting together in their little sitting-room, she let her book lie unheeded on her lap, while she looked forward dreamily into the future. She took it for granted that Tom and Rhoda would marry. It seemed quite out of the question that Tom could be refused. How strange it would be to have a sister! She had so often wished for a sister. She hoped Rhoda would soon learn to love her. She thought of her quite naturally as Rhoda now, and was tremulously eager to see her again. She was sure that the girl Tom loved must be worthy of his love. And the fact that he had made her his confidante had taken all bitterness out of her heart. She was proud that he had trusted her.
“Rosie, whatever is your little head full of?” asked Pauline suddenly. She had been watching her for some moments, unable to interpret the shining, far-off look in her blue eyes.
Rose pave a start and looked hastily round. “I was thinking of Tom,” she said, feeling her colour rise.
“Tom ought to be flattered,” laughed Pauline. “I believe you had forgotten my existence. How you started when I spoke! Where were you? At Woodcote?”
“I fancy so,” said Rose, getting up and stretching her hands above her head. “Shall we have supper now, Pauline? I wonder why that lamp smells so. Ours never do at home. I must ask Wilmot how to clean it. I am sure Mrs. Richards can’t do it properly.”
“I don’t suppose she does, my dear. I believe Sampson tried to teach her. She’s a domestic genius, isn’t she? I am beginning to feel grateful to Sampson. If your aunt had not heard of her you wouldn’t have come to me.”
“Pauline, I wish you would not speak of her like that,” said Rose, with a note of irritation in her voice. “Why do you?”
“Why shouldn’t I? It isn’t as if she was a lady. One of her uncles is a butcher; she told Clare so.”
“I don’t see why she should be ashamed of it,” returned Rose, answering Pauline’s tone rather than her words. “It’s what people are in themselves that matters, not what trade their relations belong to. But Miss Sampson has no relations of her very own. The M’Alisters adopted her. And Aunt Lucy thinks that her uncle might have been Cousin Lydia’s husband. It is that which made Aunt Lucy so interested in her at first. For, you know, if Cousin Lydia’s little girl had lived, she would have had Woodcote, and not Tom. And she and her father would have come to England when Uncle James died.”
Pauline was watching Rose’s face curiously. She did not feel any interest in Cousin Lydia and her husband, but she could not understand Rose’s change of attitude towards Rhoda Sampson. One explanation occurred to her—a delightful one. Had Rose made up her mind to spend the summer in London with her? Was this the reason she felt glad that her aunt had someone she liked to take her place?
“Well, as I said before, Rosie, I am grateful to Miss Rhoda Sampson,” she said laughingly. “If she was not at Woodcote, you would not be here. And I shall get more and more grateful to her as the weeks go on. I may get to love her in time, if she enables us to spend the summer together. You are quite happy about your aunt now, aren’t you, my Rose?”
Rose looked aghast at the prospect of spending the whole summer in the flat. She hardly knew how she was to endure it till June.
“I must go home in June, Pauline,” she said hastily. “I couldn’t stay longer than that.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Pauline gaily. “You won’t talk so lightly about going back when you have had a few more weeks of freedom, Rose. And if your aunt is so well provided for, there will be no need for you to go back. You won’t be wanted.”
“Oh yes, I shall be,” Rose answered, with a swelling heart. Tom had made her feel sure of that. “Pauline, please don’t think about my staying here after June. I can’t stay. I want to go home.”
“You haven’t forgiven me for that wretched concert!” Pauline exclaimed.
“I haven’t thought of it again. It isn’t that, Pauline. How could it be? But I want to go home.”
“You will be miserable, just as you were before. Remember how you talked to me. You were bored to death.”
Rose flushed scarlet. “I wasn’t. Or if I was, I don’t mean to be so silly again.”
Pauline looked at her with an angry glance. “You are a homesick baby, Rose, that is the long and short of it. I gave you credit for being grown-up. It was a mistake you coming here at all. Clare didn’t get homesick.”
“Clare had her work,” answered Rose, knitting her pretty brows and looking miserably at Pauline’s angry face. “I am doing nothing I couldn’t do as well at home. I could come up once a week for lessons. Pauline, don’t be angry. You didn’t really think I should stay on after June, did you?”
“I gave you credit for meaning what you said,” returned Pauline harshly. “And what you said was true. You were not happy at home. If you go back, you will get bored and unhappy again.”
Rose shook her head. She had had a sharp lesson. She knew what the freedom was worth that Pauline had offered her. She longed to take up again the little daily cares that had filled her life at home. And she longed to get away from Pauline. She was beginning to feel that she had never really known her till now.
Pauline waited a moment for her to speak, and then turned sharply away. “Well, I shall not press you to stay with me. Madame Verney would be glad if I could live with her. I said it was impossible yesterday, as I was bound to you. Now I shall feel quite free to make my own arrangements. But you have disappointed me, Rose. I must tell you so quite frankly.”
And Rose felt quite crushed for the moment by the judicial air with which Pauline pronounced this judgment on her.
Pauline and Rose went down to Woodcote on Friday evening.
Pauline had apparently recovered her spirits, and was in her brightest mood. She had been very sweet and caressing to Rose ever since their talk on the evening of Tom’s visit to the flat. Rose inwardly chafed at this show of affection; she had ceased to believe in Pauline’s sincerity.
Miss Merivale was waiting at the station for them with the pony carriage. The groom had driven her down, but Rose begged to be allowed to drive back. It was the first time she had driven the new pony, which was a pretty, gentle, timid creature, obedient to the lightest touch on the reins.
“We must take Miss Smythe to Bingley woods to-morrow, Rose dear,” Miss Merivale said, as they drove slowly up the long hill from the station. “The primroses are very plentiful this year. Tom says the ground is carpeted with them.”
Rose did not answer. The pony had started aside at the sight of a railway train that had just come out of the tunnel, and she was engaged in soothing it.
“Rose, you had better let me drive,” Pauline suggested. “I drove a great deal when I was staying with the Warehams. You are not firm enough.”
“It is only trains and traction engines Bob is frightened of,” Miss Merivale said. “And coaxing is best, I am sure. There, we shall have no more trouble with him now. He is a dear little fellow.”
Pauline said nothing, but she had some difficulty in keeping herself from shrugging her shoulders. She thought both Miss Merivale and Rose deplorably weak and silly. A smart stroke with the whip was what the pony wanted. But she had come down determined to be on her best behaviour, and she made some smiling remark on the beauty of the country.
“Rose has been pining for fresh air like a lark in a cage,” she said. “Are you content now, Rosie?”
“Tom said she looked pale,” Miss Merivale said, giving Rose an anxious, loving glance. “I wish you would come down again next week, dear. I can’t let a fortnight pass again without seeing you; it is much too long.”
“Time goes faster in London,” said Pauline, without allowing Rose to answer. “It seems only yesterday that Rose came to me. How quiet it is here! Don’t you miss the roar of London, Rosie? I do. Not the clatter of cabs and carts, but that deep, low roar we hear when we open the window. It is like the voice of the great city. There is no music like it.”
“I would rather hear the birds,” Miss Merivale said gently; but she gave Rosie another anxious look. She was wondering if the time had gone as quickly with her as with Pauline.
Rose did not speak. She was waiting till they got home to pour her heart out to her aunt. She could not speak before Pauline.
“I am afraid I haven’t many rustic tastes,” Pauline said in a cool, superior voice. “But it is certainly lovely here. What a delightful change it must be for that little Miss Sampson! I hear you find her very useful, Miss Merivale. Clare will be pleased to hear it.”
For the first time in her life Pauline saw Miss Merivale look angry. Her mild blue eyes actually flashed as she answered in a voice that trembled a little, “I don’t think you can have heard that Rhoda is related to us, Miss Smythe. She is staying with me as my visitor. Rose, my dear, I want you to be very good to her.”
Pauline stole a look at Rose, expecting to see a cloud of jealousy on her pretty face; but she saw instead a tender, happy smile lurking in the corners of her lips. She was distinctly mystified.
“Yes, I remember now that Rose spoke of some distant family connection,” she said carelessly to Miss Merivale. “How very good of you to acknowledge it, dear Miss Merivale! Some people wouldn’t, I know. They think poor relations should be kept out of sight as much as possible. But Miss Sampson is hardly to be called a relation, is she? I forget the exact link between you, though Rose told me.”
“She is related to poor Cousin Lydia’s second husband,” Rose said, as Miss Merivale did not answer. “He and his little girl were lost in the bush, weren’t they, Aunt Lucy?”
“Yes, dear,” said Miss Merivale in a low voice. Her face had become very white.
“If she had lived, we might never have come to Woodcote,” Rose went on, her glance resting lovingly on the old house, which had just come into sight. “How strange it seems to think of that! How old was she, Aunt Lucy? It is only lately I have thought of her at all.”
“She was about two years old, dear,” Miss Merivale answered in the same low voice. Pauline, who was watching her in some wonder, could see that she was profoundly agitated.
“Then she would have been about twenty now,” Rose went on, not noticing her aunt’s disinclination to talk of her niece. “How old is Miss Sampson, Aunt Lucy? I wonder if they ever saw each other.”
“She is nearly twenty; I remember Clare telling me so,” said Pauline, answering for Miss Merivale. “But she looks much older. It is the kind of life she has lived, I suppose.”
Rose was intent on turning the curve of the drive in a masterly manner, and did not answer this. And Pauline, after another glance at Miss Merivale’s face, was silent about Rhoda. It was plain to her that, for some reason or another, the subject was intensely painful to Miss Merivale.
Rhoda came shyly across the hall as they entered. She had on a new brown dress that Miss Merivale had given her. It was brown cashmere, made very simply, but it was a prettier dress than Pauline had ever seen her wearing, and she stared undisguisedly at her as they shook hands.
“I hardly knew you, Miss Sampson,” she said. “How very well you are looking! But you must be having quite a holiday.”
The condescending tone did not appear to irritate Rhoda. She answered pleasantly; there was even a twinkle deep down in her dark eyes as she met Pauline’s glance.
It was Rose who felt irritated. Now that she saw Rhoda’s face in the full light, with no hat to shade it, she recognised what a frank, sweet face it was. She did not wonder that Tom loved her, or that her aunt smiled upon his wooing. And Pauline’s assumption of superiority vexed her intensely.
Miss Merivale asked Rhoda to show Pauline the room that had been prepared for her, and they went upstairs together. Rose cast an anxious glance after them.
“I had better go too, Aunt Lucy.”
“No, wait a moment, darling. I want to have a good look at you. Tom gave me a bad account. And you are looking pale. You are not working too hard?”
“Not a bit of it,” laughed Rose. “And I am quite well. But I shall be glad when June comes, Aunt Lucy. I am beginning to count the days. But don’t tell Pauline that.”
A delighted look flashed into Miss Merivale’s face. “My darling, it is so sweet to hear you say that. I was afraid you would find it dull here when you came back. I have missed you more than I could tell you.”
“Really?” asked Rose half wistfully, half teasingly. “You’ve had Miss Sampson, you know, Aunt Lucy.”
“I want you both,” Miss Merivale said in an eager voice. “Rose, you will try to love her, won’t you? She is so lonely. Mrs. M’Alister and her children have gone to Devonshire, and Rhoda was left behind. She has nobody but us. You won’t treat her like a stranger, will you, dearest?”
Rose felt chilled and hurt by her aunt’s strange eagerness. It was all very well for Tom to speak so, but her aunt was different. Why should she plead for Rhoda like that?
“You’ll see how sweet I mean to be to her, Aunt Lucy,” she said gaily; and Miss Merivale did not notice that the gaiety was forced. “I’ll go up now and send her down to you. I wonder why Pauline is keeping her.”
She hastened away, and Miss Merivale sat down in the porch and put her hand on the head of Bruno, Tom’s black Newfoundland, who had come to her side with an inquiring glance in his beautiful eyes.
“Your master will be home soon, Bruno,” she said. The dog wagged his tail, but still kept looking at her. She went on speaking to him. “And everything is coming right, Bruno,” she said. “I am glad I was silent. It’s all coming right. We shall all be happy together.”
She looked round as she spoke, and saw Rhoda coming down the broad shallow stairs into the wainscoted hall. A tender smile brightened her face as she watched her. She had lost the feeling that she was doing her an injustice by not acknowledging her as her niece. As Tom’s wife she would be as a daughter to her. She would have everything that was hers by right.
Rhoda stepped rather slowly down, her head bent, a line of anxiety showing between her clearly pencilled dark brows. She knew something about Pauline that she was beginning to feel Miss Merivale should know. Yet she had no wish to disclose the secret she had accidentally learnt. At first it had amused her, it amused her still. In the brief, decidedly unpleasanttete-a-tetewhich Rose had just put an end to, she had found it easy to bear Pauline’s half-veiled taunts. Ever since her visit to Leyton she had understood the bitter animosity which Miss Smythe had shown her from the first. It was not altogether a personal dislike. Rhoda was sure that she would have treated in the same manner any girl who was poor and yet was not ashamed of her poverty or of her friends.
“Rhoda.”
Miss Merivale’s gentle call made her hurry her footsteps. Her face had a wonderfully sweet look on it as she approached Miss Merivale. Miss Merivale’s kindness had completely won the girl’s heart. She was so happy at Woodcote that sometimes she felt as if it must be a dream from which she would awake to find herself in the lonely bedroom in Acacia Road with the boys’ cots empty, and a long London day of searching for work to look forward to.
“Sit down here beside me, dear,” Miss Merivale said, taking her hand and drawing her down on the seat. “Just look at Bruno. He has been asking me when Tom is coming back. I tell him he will be back in a few moments.”
Rhoda had turned her head quickly away to look at the dog, but Miss Merivale saw how her colour rose, making even the little ear pink. And she smiled to herself.
“I hope Tom will be able to go with us to-morrow,” she went on, without giving Rhoda time to speak. “I want to take Miss Smythe to Bingley woods. It is too early for a picnic, but we could drive over there directly after lunch. Ah, there is Tom.”
Bruno had heard the click of the wicket gate leading to the stables before Miss Merivale spoke. So had Rhoda. She started up. “I promised Wilmot I would light the lamps, Miss Merivale, as Ann is out. We shall want them for tea.”
Miss Merivale let her go, smiling softly again to herself. “Rose and Miss Smythe have come, Tom,” she called to him, as he crossed the lawn, swinging his stick, and walking with a free, happy step.
“I’m glad of that. Where is Rosie? I’m afraid I shall not be able to see much of her to-morrow, Aunt Lucy. I must go to Croydon, after all. But I’ll get back early. How do you think Rose is looking?”
“She is pale, Tom; but she says she is very well. I don’t think she likes it as much as she expected She is anxious to come home in June.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, I gathered that on Tuesday. I am glad you let her go, Aunt Lucy. But there is no need for her to stay till June if she does not like it, is there? Why should she go back at all?”
“I don’t think it would be quite fair to Miss Smythe for her to leave her now, dear,” said Miss Merivale gently. “I am sure Rose would rather go back.”
Their talk was interrupted by Rose herself, who came flying across the hall at the sight of Tom, followed more slowly by Pauline. “Oh, Tom, have you come back? I drove Bob from the station. Did Aunt Lucy tell you?”
“She hasn’t had time. I have only just come in. How do you do, Miss Smythe? I hope Rose has been a good little girl since Tuesday?”
“Have you, Rose?” said Pauline, with a lazy smile.
Rose did not hear the question. She had caught sight of Rhoda entering the hall through the swing doors that led to Wilmot’s pantry, and she stepped back to speak to her. They stood talking together by the wide stone hearth, filled now with green fir boughs. Pauline noticed how Tom’s eyes kept wandering to them as he made disjointed remarks to her and his aunt, and he presently moved across the hall to join them.
Miss Merivale got up from her seat in the porch. “It is getting chilly, my dear,” she said to Pauline. “Shall we go into the dining-room? Tea will be ready in a few moments.”
But Pauline lingered in the hall. Though the twilight had begun to gather, enough light streamed through the great west window to make the portraits on the wainscoted walls clearly visible. Pauline went from one to the other, asking Miss Merivale a question now and then, but really far more intent on studying the group at the fireplace than the pictures she appeared to be interested in.
Over the fireplace hung the portrait of Miss Merivale’s mother, a sweet, gentle-eyed woman, very much like Miss Merivale, except that her eyes were a soft brown instead of a soft blue.
Pauline remarked on the likeness at once. “Except for the dark eyes, it might be your portrait, Miss Merivale.”
Rose had been glancing from the portrait to Rhoda. “Aunt Lucy, your mother’s eyes are exactly the same colour as Miss Sampson’s.”
Pauline, who was standing by Miss Merivale, felt her start violently. “I had not noticed, dear,” she said, without looking at Rhoda.
“Oh, but they are,” Rose went on. “Only Miss Sampson’s are shaped a little differently. And she was named Rhoda, wasn’t she, Aunt Lucy? Tom, don’t you see the likeness?”
“I can’t say I do, Rosie,” said Tom, who considered in his heart of hearts that Rhoda’s long-lashed, sparkling dark eyes were far more beautiful than the mild brown ones in the portrait. As he spoke he moved quickly towards his aunt. “Aunt Lucy, it is too cold for you here. Come in by the dining-room fire. Why, you are trembling with the cold. The evening is very chilly for April.”
Pauline stood still for a moment gazing intently up at the picture, and then followed the others into the dining-room. Before Tom had spoken to his aunt she had seen how white and strange her face was—as white as if she was about to faint. And a sudden idea had flashed upon Pauline, making her heart beat fast.
That night, when Rhoda was brushing her hair, she heard a soft tap at the door. To her surprise, it was Pauline who entered.
“I have come to borrow some matches,” she said. “I find my box is empty. How pretty your room is! So is mine. It is a charming house altogether. May I sit down and talk to you a little? I want you and Miss Merivale to spend a long day with us next week. Do you think you could persuade her to come?”
The change in Pauline’s manner was so extraordinary that Rhoda found it difficult to speak. But Pauline did not appear to notice her constrained answer. She sat down in the low chair by the window and took up the photograph frame that stood there by Rhoda’s little writing case and a saucer filled with white violets and moss.
“May I look at this? It is your aunt and cousins, isn’t it? What a dear little fellow that is on your aunt’s lap! Is that the little boy who was ill? You took him into the country, didn’t you?”
An irrepressible glimmer of fun came into Rhoda’s dark eyes. “Yes, into Essex,” she said demurely.
“They have all gone into the country now, haven’t they? How fortunate it was that Miss Merivale heard me mention you, Miss Sampson! She noticed the name at once. It is quite certain, isn’t it, that you are related to her through her sister’s marriage?”
“Miss Merivale insists on thinking so,” said Rhoda quietly. “But I cannot be sure of it.”
“Don’t you remember your own people at all? I can feel for you, if that is so. My father and mother died while I was a baby. Can you remember your mother? I wish I could.”
“No, I cannot remember her.”
“And your father?”
“Just a little.”
Rhoda’s cold, brief replies checked Pauline. She did not find it so easy to pump Rhoda as she had expected. She put the photograph down, and got up with a yawn. “I am keeping you up,” she said. “May I have the matches? Thank you. Good-night.” She gave Rhoda one of her most charming smiles as she spoke; but Rhoda’s good-night was studiously cold. She had no desire to accept the olive branch Pauline was holding out to her.