Miss Merivale's Mistake Part 3

We never knew much about him, except that he had lived in Adelaide. But he was mother and father both to Rhoda. He was just wrapped up in her. It was a pretty sight to see them together."

There were many questions Miss Merivale would have liked to ask, but she had not the courage to. She was afraid of betraying herself. She no longer felt any doubt about Rhoda's parentage. James Sampson had not perished in the bush, but had hidden himself in that lonely spot up among the hills, where either no news of the will had reached him, or he had deliberately refrained from communicating with England. Perhaps he thought that his girl would be happier with the kind M'Alisters than with her rich English relatives.

But the most probable supposition was that he had never heard of the will.

Mrs. M'Alister had said that they were living fifty miles from a town. How easily it might have happened that the advertis.e.m.e.nts they put in the Melbourne papers had never been seen by him.

As soon as she could she got away, after arranging that Rhoda should bring the programmes to Woodcote one day in the following week, so that she might talk over with her the details of some other work she wanted done.

Miss Merivale marvelled at herself for the calmness with which she settled all this.

But when once she was in the cab her strength left her. After telling the man to drive her to Victoria, she sank back faint and trembling. The alternatives that lay before her seemed equally impossible. If Rhoda was Lydia's child, her own niece, her successor to Woodcote, how could she leave her unacknowledged? How could she be silent about the discovery she had made, even for a day? And as Miss Merivale thought this she stretched her hand to the check-string, determining to drive at once to Lincoln's Inn to see her lawyer.

But her hand dropped at her side. All his life Tom had thought of Woodcote as his inheritance; every stone, every blade of gra.s.s, was dear to him. He would have to leave it, to go out into the world to fight for his living.

How could she let him go? If she was silent, no one would be likely to guess that Rhoda was Lydia's child. She was not mentioned by name in the will. And she should not suffer. Ways and means of providing for her could be found. But she could not have Woodcote. That was Tom's. It would break Tom's heart to give it up.

As Miss Merivale thought of Tom her heart grew hard against Rhoda. She who had never hated anyone felt herself in danger of hating Lydia's little girl. Tears burst from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She did not think of wiping them away. She sat with her hands clasped on her lap, staring miserably in front of her. What she was to do she did not know.

CHAPTER IV. TOM AND RHODA MEET.

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 gra.s.s along the hedges was starred with celandines and daisies, while yellow catkins sprinkled the bushes above them. A blackbird was singing loudly as Rhoda pa.s.sed 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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-suns.h.i.+ne; 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s, 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 apprentices.h.i.+p to that big engineering firm.