The more Pauline thought of it the more she felt convinced that she had solved the mystery of Miss Merivale’s sudden interest in Rhoda. And she spent a long time in considering what was the best use she could make of her discovery.
Her first idea had been to disclose the truth to Rhoda herself, and thus establish a claim to her gratitude. But something in Rhoda’s manner the night before made her hesitate. And she felt half inclined to believe that her best plan would be to speak to Miss Merivale and assure her that she could be trusted to keep silent.
She was still undecided when she went into the garden next morning to help Rose pick the flowers for the table.
Rhoda was already in the garden. Old Jackson, the gardener, had come to the house to seek her directly after breakfast.
“Jackson expects Rhoda to spend half the day in his company,” Miss Merivale said, with a laugh. “He won’t sow a seed without asking her opinion first. My opinions he has always laughed to scorn.”
“And mine too,” said Rose, with a merry glance at Rhoda. “He has always been a regular despot about the garden. How have you managed to subdue him, Miss Sampson?”
“I expect he has found out that Miss Sampson knows more than he does,” said Pauline smilingly. “I want you to teach me something about flowers while I am here, Miss Sampson. I have schemes for a flower-box outside our windows at the flat. Don’t you think that would be a delightful plan, Rosie?”
Rhoda made some fitting response, but Pauline discerned the coldness in her voice. She said angrily to herself that Rhoda did not deserve to know what she could tell her. And ten minutes later she had fully made up her mind to speak to Miss Merivale. It was another discovery which had led her to a decision. She had wandered on before Rose towards the end of the garden, where an archway through a clipped yew hedge led to the stables and farm buildings. Her steps made no sound on the turf path, and she suddenly came in sight of Tom and Rhoda standing close to the archway. Rhoda had her gardening gloves and apron on, and a trowel in her hand. She had just been sowing seeds in the bed that ran along the yew hedge. Tom had come through the archway to bid her good-bye before starting on his long ride.
“I wish I was going to Bingley woods with you,” he said. “You will have a lovely day.”
“Yes, it will be beautiful,” Rhoda answered, finding it just as difficult as Tom did to speak these ordinary words in an ordinary tone. A blush came over her face, and she dropped her eyes. She could not meet his eager glance. For one moment Tom was silent—a moment that was eloquent to them both. Then, “Rhoda!” he said, almost below his breath.
It was at that moment Pauline turned the corner by the great lilac bushes and caught sight of them. Rhoda came towards her instantly, showing no sign of discomposure except a controlled quivering at the corners of her firm lips; but Pauline was not deceived by her calmness. Her only doubt was as to whether Tom shared Miss Merivale’s knowledge as to Rhoda’s parentage. And after a moment or two’s consideration she decided that he did not. It was impossible to look at Tom and doubt his perfect honesty.
After a short talk, he went through the archway to start on his ride, and Pauline returned to Rose, leaving Rhoda to her gardening.
“Rose, why didn’t you warn me?” she said in a tone of laughing reproach when she joined her. “I am afraid your brother will never forgive me. I have just interrupted atête-à-tête.”
“What do you mean, Pauline?” asked Rose, jarred through and through by her friend’s tone.
“Is it possible you don’t guess, you blind girl? But perhaps you would rather I did not speak of it? I thought I could say anything to you, Rosie.”
“You spoke of Tom,” Rose answered. “Of course I know what you mean, Pauline.”
“Ah, you are jealous, Rosie.”
Rose flashed a glance at her. “I am not jealous. I am not so horrid as that. But don’t make a joke of it, Pauline, please don’t.”
Pauline burst into a loud laugh. “Oh, Rosie, what a solemn little face! But, seriously, do you think the course of true love is likely to run smooth? Surely your aunt will object. We are not all so unworldly and sentimental as you.”
“Aunt Lucy is glad, I am sure of it. And so am I,” said Rose stoutly, “I am beginning to see what Rhoda is.”
“You think Miss Merivale will be glad? Well, you are odd people. I shall begin to think Miss Sampson must have a fairy godmother. It’s a new version of Cinderella, isn’t it?”
This made Rose too angry to answer, and she walked away to the next flower-bed to put an end to the conversation. Pauline did not attempt to follow her. After standing in deep thought for a moment, she returned to the house.
Miss Merivale was sitting in the drawing-room busy with her embroidery. She looked up with a smile as Pauline entered. “I was just wishing you or Rose would come in, Miss Smythe,” she said. “I am not sure whether blue or green would be best for the centre of this flower.”
Pauline gravely examined the embroidery, and gave her opinion. Then she took up the basket of silks. “May I sort these for you, Miss Merivale?”
“Oh, do, my dear. The kittens got hold of the basket just now and made sad work with it.”
Pauline seated herself at a little distance and began quickly and skilfully to arrange the basket, glancing once or twice at her companion. Miss Merivale looked very composed and cheerful. She was intent on her embroidery, and seemed in no hurry to talk.
It was Pauline who began the conversation.
“I have just been talking to Miss Sampson in the garden, Miss Merivale. How very happy she seems here!”
“Yes, I think she is happy, my dear.”
“And if you and Rosie had not come to the flat that afternoon, you might never have heard of her. How strangely things come about, don’t they, dear Miss Merivale?”
“I am very glad we came,” Miss Merivale answered. “What colour shall I use for this leaf, my dear? My eyes are not what they used to be, and I like to take advice.”
Pauline bent forward to look, and patiently discussed the question; but she spoke of Rhoda again directly it was decided. “But something still more strange might have happened, Miss Merivale,” she went on lightly. “Suppose Miss Sampson had been your own niece? She might have been. People who are supposed to be lost in the bush aren’t always lost, and—Oh, Miss Merivale, what have I said?”
Miss Merivale had dropped her work, and was staring at Pauline with wide-open, terrified eyes. She made no effort to answer her. She was incapable of speech.
“What have I said?” repeated Pauline. She got up and came close to Miss Merivale, kneeling down beside her. “You are angry with me. I have hurt you. Is it possible that Rhoda is your niece, and that you do not want her to know it? But you must trust me. Please trust me, Miss Merivale.”
Miss Merivale put her hand up to her eyes. She spoke in a stunned voice. Pauline’s words had suddenly torn away the veil which had hidden the meaning of her own conduct from her.
“Yes, Rhoda is my niece,” she said. “She is my sister Lydia’s little girl. What made you guess it?”
Pauline was slightly taken aback at this speech of Miss Merivale’s. She had not expected her to admit the truth so readily. “Miss Merivale, you must trust me,” she said in a low, eager voice. “I understand exactly why you want it to be a secret. No one shall ever know from me.”
Miss Merivale pushed her chair back, freeing herself from the touch of Pauline’s hands. A shock of repulsion had gone through her.
“It will be no secret after to-day,” she said in the same stunned, heavy voice. “I shall tell Tom this afternoon. I ought to have told him before.”
Tom came home late in the afternoon. He expected to find that his aunt and the girls had all gone to Bingley woods, and he only went to the house to change his riding boots before going to meet them. He passed through the archway in the yew hedge, marking with tender, happy eyes the exact spot where Rhoda had stood that morning while they talked together. His feet lingered a little as he went down the turf path to the house. Everything in the garden spoke to him of Rhoda, and it was in the garden he had seen her first.
He went through the open window of the library and across the hall. As he reached the foot of the stairs he was surprised to hear his aunt’s voice.
She was standing at the drawing-room door, with her hand resting heavily on the jamb. It was with difficulty she had crossed the room to call him on hearing his step. Her limbs were trembling under her.
“I thought you had all gone to Bingley woods,” Tom exclaimed. “Have the others gone?”
“Yes; I would not let them stay at home. I was feeling too tired to go.”
“You caught cold yesterday in the porch,” Tom said in a playful scolding voice. “You do want a lot of looking after, Aunt Lucy. Have you a fire? The wind is keen, though the sun is so bright. Here, let me make a better fire than this.”
He knelt down on the rug, stirring the logs into a cheerful blaze. Miss Merivale sank down on the sofa and watched him in silence. If Tom had looked attentively at her, he would have seen that her face was grey with pain. She had spent some bitter hours since Pauline had spoken to her that morning. Though she had done it for Tom’s sake, she feared that he would find it very hard to forgive her. And looking back over the last few weeks, she found it almost impossible to understand how she could have been happy for a moment while keeping such a secret from him.
The knowledge that Pauline shared the secret had been like a light brought into a dark room. Her shock of repulsion at Pauline’s eagerness to convince her that she would be silent had been followed by the sad reflection that she had no right to blame Pauline for being willing to do what she herself had done for a month past.
“There, that is better,” Tom said, getting up. “Let me draw your sofa close up to the fire. Where is your knitting, Aunt Lucy? I know you can’t have your afternoon nap without it.”
But Miss Merivale did not laugh at the old joke that she pretended to be knitting when she was really fast asleep. “Tom, sit down,” she said. “I want to speak to you.”
Tom hesitated. She had spoken in so low a tone he had not noticed how her voice trembled. “I thought I would go to meet them, Aunt Lucy. They will be coming back by this time.”
“Sit down,” she repeated more urgently. “I want to speak to you. I must tell you before they come home.”
He was thoroughly startled now. “Has anything happened?” he said. “What is it?” He drew a chair close to her and sat down, his square, honest face full of concern. “What is it, Aunt Lucy?”
She turned away from him. It was more difficult to speak than she had expected, though she had known it would be very difficult. “Tom, it is about Rhoda,” she said in a choked voice.
He straightened himself in his chair. “About Rhoda?” he echoed. She heard the challenge in his grave voice.
“Yes, about Rhoda. I want to tell you why I asked her here. You know that I love her, Tom. You know how happy it has made me to see that you”—
“Dear Aunt Lucy, I was sure you had guessed,” Tom said in an eager voice. “And”—
“Tom, wait,” she said breathlessly. “You don’t understand me yet. Has it never struck you as strange that I should have asked Rhoda to live here, that I should have treated her as a child of my own?”
No, Tom was not able to say that he had thought it strange. Rhoda being Rhoda, it had seemed to him most natural that his aunt should have loved her at first sight, just as he had done. But his voice was anxious as he answered, “Aunt Lucy, I don’t understand in the least what you are driving at. What is it you want to tell me?”
She turned towards him, clasping her hands together. “Tom, Rhoda is Lydia’s little girl. She is my own niece. I have known it ever since the first day she came to see me.”
He stared at her, not comprehending. “How can she be Cousin Lydia’s child?” he asked. “She would have known you were her aunt.”
“She does not. She knows nothing. But, Tom, she is Lydia’s daughter. I know it. I have known it all these weeks.”
“But why”—he began, and then stopped, a dark flush rising in his face. He knew why his aunt had been silent.
“Tom, at first I tried to persuade myself I was mistaken,” she faltered. “And then, when I saw”—
He made a quick gesture that was full of pain. The flush in his face had faded, leaving it very white. “Aunt Lucy, do not speak of that,” he said, turning his face aside.
{Illustration: HE STARED AT HER, NOT COMPREHENDING.}
She drew closer to him, putting her hand on his arm. “Tom, what do you mean?”
“Don’t you see?” he returned, just glancing at her and then looking away again. “You have made it impossible, Aunt Lucy. I could never ask her to marry me now.”
The bitterness in his voice overwhelmed her. “Tom, you don’t suppose she would believe that you—Oh, what have I done? Tom, you will never forgive me!”
At the sound of the quick sob that choked her voice he turned quickly to her. “Aunt Lucy, do not talk like that. What is done can’t be undone. But let me understand. What proofs have you that Rhoda is your niece? You must write to Mr. Thomson and tell him all you know. But he will want proofs.”
He spoke so quietly, she took courage. And she was able to speak fully to him. He listened with grave intentness, asking a question now and then.
“We must write to this Mr. Harding,” he said, when she had finished. “Mrs. M’Alister will be sure to know his address. Shall I go up and see Mr. Thomson for you to-morrow, Aunt Lucy? I think the first step is to tell him.”
“And Rhoda, Tom?”
“Wait till I have seen Thomson. Though there seems no room for doubt. Aunt Lucy, I wish you had told me at first.”
How she wished it she tried to tell him, but her tears prevented her. She sobbed hysterically, while he did his best to soothe her, forgetting his own pain at the sight of hers. When she could speak, her first words were of Rhoda.
“Tom, you won’t let this come between you? Tom dear, I know she loves you.”
His face quivered all over. “I have no right to speak to her yet,” he said. “Perhaps—but I must wait. Can’t you see it must be so? I shall have my own way to make in the world.” He squared his shoulders as he said it, as if eager to begin the struggle.
“Tom, I don’t see it,” his aunt burst out. But he would not let her go on. He could not bear it. He felt that it was utterly impossible for him to ask Rhoda to marry him if she was heiress of Woodcote and he without a penny he could call his own. If they had met knowing their relative positions, it might have been different. But now he could make no claim on her. His aunt’s conduct had raised a barrier between them that could not be broken down till he had won an independent position for himself.
Miss Merivale’s heart ached as she looked at him, but she was far from understanding the full bitterness of the blow she had inflicted on him.
Tom felt as if he had suddenly grown old. He left his aunt presently and went out into the open air. He no longer felt inclined to go and meet the pony carriage, but he went through the wood to the furzy common beyond. From there he could see the high road stretching like a white ribbon across the downs.
No pony carriage was in sight, but a traction engine was lumbering heavily upwards, with a man walking before it carrying a red flag. Tom was glad to see it disappear over the dip of the hill. The lane from Bingley woods entered the high road lower down the hill. There was no danger of Bob’s nerves being shaken by the sight of the fiery-throated monster.
The road lay white and silent in the sunshine now. Tom sat down on a turf hillock, fixing his eyes drearily upon it. He felt intensely miserable.
The expedition to Bingley woods was not a success. Pauline was in one of her worst tempers, and treated Rose so rudely that the poor girl was more ashamed of her chosen friend than angry with her.
To Rhoda, Pauline was all that was sweet and flattering. She had promised Miss Merivale to say nothing to her; but she was eager to ingratiate herself with the girl whom she now knew to be an heiress, and to make her forget how she had treated her while she was Clare’s assistant.
Rhoda was strongly irritated by her advances. Pauline’s snubs had never wounded her very deeply. Rhoda only valued the good opinion of those whom she respected. But Pauline’s eagerness to make friends turned her indifference to something like violent dislike. She found it hardly possible to speak civilly to her.
She went off at last into the depths of the wood, leaving Rose and Pauline together. Her irritation soon passed away when she was alone. The basket she had brought to fill with primroses remained empty in her hands. She wandered on, her eyes drinking in the beauty round her. Only the lower boughs of the trees were in leaf as yet, and the wood was full of golden light. Primroses were everywhere, and in the more open spaces celandines starred the ground with deeper yellow. In a month the glades between the trees would be carpeted by bluebells. But there were no bluebells yet. Spring was still in its infancy. The great oaks that skirted the wood stretched bare wintry boughs over the flowers beneath them.
It was a time of hope, of delicate, exquisite promise; and Rhoda’s lips curved with a happy, dreamy smile, as she listened to the story the woods whispered to her that April day.
The deep voice of the clock in Bingley church tower recalled her to the necessity of going back to her companions. It was four o’clock, the time they had fixed for starting homewards. It was not with any pleasure that she thought of the long drive. She suspected that Pauline and Rose had had a serious quarrel, and that Pauline’s politeness to her arose from a wish to vex Rose.
All the way to the woods Pauline had criticised Rose’s driving, speaking with authority, as if she had driven a pony carriage all her life. Rhoda could have laughed outright if she had not been so angry.
She found the two girls ready to start for the village when she got back to the spot where she had left them.
“Pauline wants to go round by the high road,” Rose said, looking appealingly at Rhoda. “It will make us much later at home. You can see the Abbey another day, Pauline. There isn’t much to see; is there, Miss Sampson?”
“It will not take us half an hour longer. How obstinate you are, Rosie!” exclaimed Pauline irritably. “I will drive, and make Bob understand that he must hurry a little. Why should we walk up that long tiresome lane to save his legs? There is no hill to speak of the other way, you say. I am too tired to walk a step. I am not so strong as you are. Miss Sampson, don’t you agree with me that the high road will be much the better way for us?”
“We promised Miss Merivale that we would be back early,” Rhoda said coldly. “I think it is a pity to go out of our way.”
“But we should be at home just as soon. Rose insists that we must all walk up the lane. I am sure you are too tired to do it, Miss Sampson, if I was not. But Bob is to be considered before either of us, eh, Rose?”
Rose walked down the turf slope towards the village without answering; she was too cross to discuss the question any further.
A new complication arose when they reached the rustic inn where Bob and the carriage had been left. One of Bob’s shoes was found to be loose, and it was necessary to get it fixed before starting for home.
Rose drew Rhoda aside, and spoke eagerly to her. “Miss Sampson, would you drive home with Pauline? I could walk across the downs and be home in half an hour. I don’t like to leave Aunt Lucy so long alone.”
“Will you let me go?” Rhoda answered, as eagerly as Rose had spoken. “I know the way quite well. I would so much rather go, if you don’t mind.”
Rose could quite well understand that Rhoda must find Pauline’s society unpleasant, even though Pauline now appeared bent on being agreeable to her. “Are you sure you know the way?” she said doubtfully. “But it is easy. You will see Woodcote when once you are on the top of the downs.”
“I know the way quite well,” Rhoda said, with a bright face. It was delightful to her to escape the drive home with Pauline.
She started at once, and was soon on the top of the downs, enjoying the breezy expanse of beautiful rolling country round her. Half an hour’s rapid walking brought her to the furzy common close to Woodcote woods. She had come down to it from the downs; and Tom, seated on his hillock, with his eyes turned to the road, did not become aware of her presence till she was quite close to him. He had been hidden by the gorse bushes from Rhoda till the moment before he started up. And she would have shyly hurried on without speaking to him if the sound of her step had not made him look round.
She hurriedly explained how she came to be there alone. “I don’t think they will be back for an hour or more,” she said, looking at the white ribbon of road Tom had been watching for so long. “The high road is much longer than the lane, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom briefly. He had forgotten all about the traction engine. In fact, he had hardly understood what Rhoda was saying. His heart was heavy within him.
They turned and walked down the sunny bit of slope, where the bees were busy among the golden gorse blossoms. Tom was not silent. He could not trust himself to be silent. He began to speak of the meeting he had just been attending at Croydon. He gave Rhoda a vivid account of it, which lasted till they got close to the house; then, with a hasty excuse of having forgotten to tell Jackson something, he left her.
Rhoda walked on to the house with a calm, even step. Wilmot, who met her in the hall, and told her that Miss Merivale was lying down and did not wish to be disturbed, noticed nothing unusual about her. She stood and talked some minutes with the old servant before going upstairs to her room. And she gave her a sunny smile as she left her. Even when she was alone, and had shut the door between her and the world, she did not fling herself down by the bed and burst into tears, as unhappy heroines so often do. She changed her dress, and carefully mended a rent the briers had made in the one she took off. Then she gotHamblin Smith’s Arithmeticand her notebook, and began the hour’s work she set herself every day. A tear or two did come—she could not keep them back; but she worked steadily on. She would not even allow herself to think how she could have offended Tom, or what the explanation of his changed manner could be. She picked out the hardest examples in Complex Fractions she could find, and concentrated her mind on them.
She was still working when Wilmot came to her door.
“Miss Rose and Miss Smythe have not come home, miss. Shall I send in tea? It is past six o’clock.”
Rhoda opened the door. “I will go and ask Miss Merivale, Wilmot.”
Wilmot looked doubtful. Her mistress had given strict orders that she was not to be disturbed.
“I will not go in,” Rhoda said, as she saw her doubtful glance. “I will just knock softly. If she is awake, she might be glad of a cup of tea.”
Rhoda’s first knock was not answered; but when she tapped softly again, she heard Miss Merivale’s voice telling her to come in. Miss Merivale was lying on the bed, with her face turned to the wall. She reached out her hand for Rhoda’s, and clasped it tenderly, but did not turn round.
“My head is very bad, darling. Tell Rose I won’t have any tea. I want to keep quite quiet.”
Rhoda did not tell her that Rose and Pauline had not returned. She was afraid she might be alarmed. The deadly pallor of her face quite frightened her. She spoke to Tom when she went downstairs.
“Miss Merivale looks very ill,” she said, “and she won’t let me do anything for her.”
Tom was sitting at the table before the hall window, busy making flies for his trout fishing. He was so intent on his work that he did not look up.
“She gets bad headaches. I should not be anxious. She always likes to be left alone.”
Rhoda did not answer this. She went into the dining-room, where tea was laid ready, and sat down in the broad window-seat with some needlework.
If Tom had come in then, she would have been very cold to him. Her pride was up in arms. But he did not come near her; and for a miserable half hour Rhoda sat there alone, feeling as if all life’s music had suddenly stopped, and winter had taken the place of spring.
Wilmot came in at last to urge her to have some tea. “Miss Rosie may be stopping to tea at the Rectory. It isn’t any good for you and Mr. Tom to wait any longer.”
Rhoda looked at the clock in some alarm. She had not been conscious of the lapse of time. “I don’t think Miss Rosie meant to stop anywhere, Wilmot. But they ought to be home. I hope nothing has happened.”
At that moment Tom entered the room. “It is getting very late,” he said to Rhoda. “How long did Jones mean to take to put that shoe right? Not very long, surely.”
“Miss Merivale thought they would be at home by six o’clock,” Rhoda answered.
“And it is seven now,” Tom said, glancing at the clock. “It will be dark in half an hour. They were coming by the high road all the way, didn’t you say?”
“Yes; Miss Smythe did not want to go up the lane. But the high road is not very much longer, is it, Mr. Merivale?”
“About two miles longer. But it is a better road. They ought to be home by this time.”
Rhoda was standing by the window, and he came to her side and looked out. He carefully avoided glancing at her, yet he knew that her face was very proud and cold.
“I think I will go down the road to meet them,” he said. His voice shook a little. It was very hard—it was almost harder than he could bear—to let her go on misunderstanding him. Yet how could he explain?
“I wish they would come home,” Rhoda answered. “Do go and meet them, Mr. Merivale. Miss Smythe wanted to drive, and I do not trust her driving.”
“Bob doesn’t want much driving,” Tom answered. But as he spoke he suddenly remembered the traction engine crawling up the hill. For the first time he felt really alarmed. “I will go down the road,” he said, moving quickly from the window. “Though I daresay I shall meet them almost at once.”
Wilmot followed him into the hall. “Mr. Tom, where can they be?”
“Somewhere on the road between Bingley and our gates,” he said lightly. “Don’t alarm Miss Sampson or my aunt, Wilmot. But send Ann round to the stables to tell Jack to get my horse ready. If I do not see any sign of them on the road, I will ride towards Bingley.”
He went off; and Rhoda, after watching him down the drive, crept upstairs to listen at Miss Merivale’s door. But as she crossed the landing the door opened, and Miss Merivale stepped out, a black lace shawl framing the whiteness of her face.
“Rhoda, where has Tom gone?” she asked. “How still the house is! Haven’t Rose and Miss Smythe come back?”
“Not yet,” answered Rhoda lightly. “Bob’s shoe got loose, you know. They were delayed at the village.”
“But it is nearly dark. Something must have happened. Let us go down to the gate, Rhoda. I am frightened.”
Rhoda could not persuade her to let her go alone, and they went together down the drive. Tom had just ridden off; they could hear the sound of his horse’s feet on the hilly road. But when that died away, a long period of silence ensued. They went out of the gates and down the hill towards the station, Miss Merivale clinging to Rhoda.
It was after what seemed hours to them both that they heard a horse trotting rapidly towards them. Miss Merivale leant against the low stone wall that divided the road on one side from the common.
“Rhoda, that is Tom. I could tell Black Beauty’s trot anywhere. Go on to meet him, dear. I cannot go any farther.”
Rhoda went quickly on. It was Tom; he sprang off his horse on catching sight of her.
“Miss Smythe has been badly hurt,” he said. “She is at the Rectory. Rose is with her.”
“Your sister is not hurt?”
“A bruise or two. They met that traction engine; Miss Smythe was driving, and tried to make Bob pass it. The result was that Bob bolted down the hill.”
They were walking quickly up the hill as he spoke. Rhoda told him that Miss Merivale was waiting for them, and a couple of moments brought them to her side. She refused to accept at first Tom’s emphatic assurances that Rose had escaped with only a bruise or two, and begged him to take her to the Rectory. Tom would not hear of her going. “Rose did not want to leave Miss Smythe, or I would have brought her home, Aunt Lucy. She is perfectly well. Rose is a plucky little girl She wasn’t half as frightened as you are.”
It was not till they got back to the house and he had made Miss Merivale drink the cup of tea Wilmot brought her, that he allowed her to know how serious Pauline’s injuries were.
“They fear concussion of the brain,” he said. “I have promised Hartley to telegraph for her friends. Can you give me their address?”
Miss Merivale hesitated. “I am afraid she has no near relatives, poor girl. I never heard her speak of any.”
“But she is continually calling for ‘Granny,’ Mrs. Hartley says. Her grandmother ought to be here, if she has one. How could we find out?”
Rhoda, who had been sitting silent till then, now looked up and spoke. “Her grandparents live at Leyton, Miss Merivale. They have a shop next door to Aunt Mary’s brother. Mr. Smith is a grocer.”
Miss Merivale stared at her. “My dear, are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” Rhoda answered. “I saw her photograph when I took little Hugh to his uncle’s, and they talked a great deal about her. Polly, they call her. She writes to them constantly. They brought her up, and I expect she is really very fond of them.”
“But—Rhoda, are you quite sure? Why has she never spoken of them? Do you think she was ashamed of the shop? It must have been that.”
“She had no reason to be ashamed,” Rhoda answered quietly. “They are dear, good people.”
“Poor girl, poor girl!” was all Miss Merivale could say; but Tom, who had brought a telegraph form from the library, asked Rhoda to give him the address.
“I will send this off at once,” he said, getting up. “She evidently wants to have her grandmother with her now. She calls continually for her.”
When the twelve o’clock train stopped at the station next morning two passengers got out—a little old lady dressed with Quaker-like neatness, and a tall, grizzled, sunburnt man with a breezy, open-air look about him.
Tom and the Rector were both waiting on the platform, and hurried up to them. There was good news.
“Your granddaughter is better, Mrs. Smith,” the Rector said in his kind voice. “But she may not know you. You must not be alarmed at that. The doctor is much more hopeful this morning, and she calls continually for you. We trust it may soothe her to have you near her.”
The tears were streaming fast over Mrs. Smith’s wrinkled face. “Polly would never have no one but me to nurse her,” she said. “She was always like that from a baby. I came off the first minute I could. Mr. Smith wasn’t able to leave the shop, but Mr. Harding came with me. I’ve never travelled alone in my life, and I’d have lost my way sure enough without him. Mr. Harding’s from Australia, sir,” she added, looking at Tom, whom she had identified as Mr. Merivale. “And he’d be glad to see Miss Sampson if she’s still with Miss Merivale supposing ‘twas convenient.”
“I am going back to Woodcote now,” Tom said, looking at Mr. Harding. He had started violently at the first mention of his name by Mrs. Smith, but he spoke coolly enough. “Will you walk back with me? My aunt will be very glad to see you. Miss Sampson is now at the Rectory, but I am going to fetch her and my sister after lunch.”
The Rector’s trap was waiting outside, and Mrs. Smith was soon comfortably settled in it. She was too simple and homely to be shy, and it was plain both to the Rector and Tom that her distress at Pauline’s accident was largely mingled with delight at the prospect of having her to nurse. She spoke with eagerness to the Rector as they drove off of the time when she could take Polly back with her to Leyton.
“She’s a good sort,” Mr. Harding said, as he and Tom turned to walk up the hill. “I hope her Polly will soon be better. She is a governess, isn’t she? Price told me she didn’t spend much time with the old folks.”
Tom did not feel called upon to answer this. He was determined to find out at once how much Mr. Harding knew about Rhoda’s father and mother. “My aunt and I were talking about you yesterday, Mr. Harding, but we had no idea that you were in England.”
Mr. Harding turned his keen black eyes upon him. “No, I only landed last week.”
“My aunt has some reason to believe that Miss Sampson is related to her,” Tom hurried on. “You knew her father well, I believe?”
Mr. Harding’s answer was emphatic. “I should say I did, sir. Poor old Jack and I were boys together. Why, he married a cousin of mine, as good as a sister. And we should have been partners now if he hadn’t died. Some people never understood Jack, and after Jenny died he got queerer than ever; but he and I never had a cloud between us.”
Tom had stopped still in the road. The ground seemed to be swaying under his feet, and something caught him in the throat so that he could scarcely speak. “Was your cousin Rhoda’s mother?” he asked.
“Yes; she was their only child. I knew she was safe and happy with the M’Alisters, or I would have looked after her more. I’ve no chick nor child of my own, and I mean Rhoda to have a big slice of what I’ve got to leave.”
Tom did not catch the last words clearly. “My aunt’s sister married a Mr. James Sampson,” he hurried to say. “Was he related to Miss Sampson’s father?”
“Ah, that was Jim. He got lost in the bush, poor fellow. He had his girl with him. Yes, he was Jack’s brother. They lived close together in Melbourne. I fancy Rhoda was named after Jim’s little girl. They were about the same age; but Jenny died when Rhoda was a year old, and Jack left Melbourne for Adelaide.”
When Tom and Mr. Harding reached the house, he went hastily in search of his aunt. He found her in her own room, her eyes dim with weeping. She started up at the sight of his face.
“Oh, Tom, what have you come to tell me?”
In a few rapid words he made her understand. “You see how your mistake arose, Aunt Lucy. They both had the same name, Rhoda and Cousin Lydia’s little girl. And Cousin Lydia must have given that locket to Rhoda’s mother or to Rhoda’s father for her when they left Melbourne. But come down and speak to Mr. Harding. There is no need for him to know the mistake you fell into. Let us forget it, Aunt Lucy.”
At this, Miss Merivale’s tears began to flow afresh. “Oh, Tom, I have told Rhoda.”
“You told her? Why did you? I thought we had decided to wait till I had seen Thomson.”
“Tom, I could not help it. She was so miserable, poor child. She tried to hide it, but she could not hide it from me. She thought she had offended you. I do not know what she thought. How could you treat her so differently? Do you think you will get her to forgive you?”
A glimmer of a smile showed itself in Miss Merivale’s eyes as she spoke. But Tom could not smile yet.
“Well, you told her,” he said. “Did she believe you?”
“I don’t know. But she declared that nothing would induce her to claim her rights if she had any. She said there were no proofs, and if she had them she would not produce them. She spoke very strongly, Tom.”
Tom made no answer for a moment. “She has gone to the Rectory?” he said then.
“Yes, she was anxious to go. But she is going to walk home across the downs. I think she was anxious to avoid you, Tom. No wonder! How could you make her so unhappy?”
Tom did not point out that he had been far more unhappy, and that it was all Miss Merivale’s fault. He looked at his aunt, giving her now back smile for smile. “Aunt Lucy, will you go and fetch Rose?” he said.
Rose was delighted to see her aunt in the carriage when she ran out to meet it.
“Rhoda did not think you would be able to come, Aunt Lucy. Were you very much frightened when you heard about it? Poor Rhoda looks quite ill But Pauline is really better. She has slept since her grandmother came. She knew her directly, and has held her hand tight ever since. Poor old lady, she is so fond of her.”
“I wish we could move her to Woodcote,” Miss Merivale said. “I must speak to the doctor about it. I will go and see Mrs. Prance for a moment, Rosie darling. And then we will go home. Oh, my darling, I am so thankful!”
She held Rose close to her, and kissed her once or twice before she let her go. Till that moment she had hardly been able to realise her happiness in having Rose safe.
Rose began to talk again of Pauline as they were driving home. “How strange she could be so silent about her grandmother and yet be so fond of her, Aunt Lucy! Or do you think that she is only fond of her when she wants her? She was calling for her over and over again all last night.”
“I expect she is really fond of her, dear. As fond as she can be of anybody. I don’t wish to speak harshly of her, Rose, and we will do all we can for her. But you must not live with her again. Not because her grandmother is Mrs. Smith,” added Miss Merivale quickly, afraid that Rose might misunderstand her. “It isn’t that. Rhoda’s people are in the same rank of life as the Smiths, yet Rhoda is a true gentlewoman.”
“Aunt Lucy, I could not live with Pauline again,” Rose said earnestly. “Besides, I want to live at home. I believe I shall loathe the thought of a flat as long as I live. Pauline has effectually cured me of my desire to live in one.”
“She and Mrs. Smith must come to stay with us as soon as she can be moved,” Miss Merivale said. “Perhaps this illness will make her see things differently, Rosie. Let us hope so.”
“Rhoda knew all the time,” Rose said, after a moment’s pause. “Poor Pauline, how angry she would have been if she had guessed it! If I had been Rhoda, I should have told her.”
“We should not have known where to telegraph if it had not been for Rhoda. Her uncle—Mr. M’Alister’s brother, I mean—has a shop next door to Mr. Price. It was he who told Mr. Harding that Rhoda was with us. I fancy he was rather distressed to find that she was not with Mrs. M’Alister. But I think I have convinced him that we have taken good care of her.”
Tom and Mr. Harding were outside the porch together when the carriage drew up. While Mr. Harding talked to Rose, Tom drew his aunt aside.
“Aunt Lucy, will you go up to Rhoda?” he whispered.
She gave him one shining look, and went quickly in.
Rhoda had heard the carriage enter, and was standing in the middle of the room when Miss Merivale softly knocked and entered. There was a tremulous, eager, anxious look in the girl’s face. Happy as she was, she could not be quite happy till she was sure Miss Merivale was content.
But it was only a tiny shadow of doubt that clouded the brightness, and when Miss Merivale clasped her close, and kissed her as fondly and tenderly as she had kissed Rose a little while before, it nearly all fled away.
“My dear, I am delighted,” Miss Merivale said, with happy tears in her voice. “Tom has always been like a son to me, and now you will be my daughter.”
“And you are not sorry you asked me here?” Rhoda whispered. She felt she must ask the question once.
“Ask Tom if he thinks I am sorry,” returned Miss Merivale, kissing her again. And this was answer enough. Rhoda doubted no more.