On the day of the Joachim concert Tom and Rose went up to London soon
after breakfast. Tom was not going to the concert. After taking Rose to
Cadogan Mansions he meant to hurry back.
He was anxious about his aunt. She had been so unlike herself during the
last few days, he feared she must be ill. And he felt sure he must have
offended her in some way, for she had seemed anxious to avoid him, and he
had hardly spoken to her since she came back from London.
Did she think he was taking too much on himself? He had got into the habit
lately of settling matters of minor importance without consulting her, so
as to save her trouble. Perhaps he had annoyed her by doing so. At
any rate, he would ask her if this was so. Tom’s nature was so simple and
straightforward that this was the natural course for him to take. He
believed half the difficulties of life arose from the want of a little
plain speaking.
Miss Merivale had said little about her journey to town. She left Tom and
Rose under the impression that she had called at the lawyer’s, and it was
not till the next day that she casually mentioned her visit to Mrs.
M’Alister.
“I have asked Miss Sampson to come and see me,” she added, after telling
them that Rhoda was to do some typewriting for her. “I am interested in
her, Rose. Did you know that poor Lydia’s second husband was named
Sampson? It is not at all certain that this girl is of the same family, as
she comes from quite a different part of Australia. But I should like to
see her.”
Miss Merivale had had this speech carefully prepared ever since she came
home, and she uttered it so carelessly that neither Rose nor Tom suspected
how her heart beat as she said it. Their cousin Lydia was a faint, shadowy
figure to them, and the suggestion that Miss Sampson might prove to be
related to her husband aroused no interest in their minds. Tom never
thought of it again till Rose mentioned Miss Sampson as they were
travelling up to Victoria.
“I wish Aunt Lucy hadn’t taken her up like this,” she said impatiently.
“Pauline will be vexed, for she advised Aunt Lucy to have nothing to do
with her.”
“But if she is our cousin,” suggested Tom, with a twinkle in his blue
eyes, “don’t you think we are bound to patronise our relations?”
“How could she be our cousin? Don’t be so foolish, Tom,” Rose answered
sharply.
“A family connection, then,” returned Tom. “But perhaps you had better not
mention the possibility to Miss Smythe. It would shock her too much. All
her relations are in Debrett, aren’t they?”
Rose looked doubtfully at him. “I never know whether you like Pauline or
not, Tom,” she said. “But I am sure you never heard her boast of her
relations.”
“No, I never did, my dear; but I have somehow gathered the fact that they
are very fine people indeed. I always feel I ought to be ashamed that we
did not come over at the Conquest when I am talking to Miss Smythe.”
“Now you are laughing at her,” returned Rose, with some indignation in her
voice. “I believe you are always laughing at her, Tom. And it is just
because she is clever. Men always like stupid girls best, who think
everything they say is wonderful.”
At this Tom laughed outright. “There is one clever little girl I am very
fond of,” he said, “and it is going to be dull at Woodcote without her.
When will you come back, Rosie? Don’t stay very long. I am sure Aunt Lucy
is not well.”
“I must stay till Thursday. Pauline and Clare are going to have a musical
At Home on Thursday. But I will come back on Friday, Tom. I must, I
suppose.” And Rose tried to suppress a sigh.
“Do you really want to stay longer?” said Tom, with a wondering look at
her. “I daresay Laura would spend a day or two with Aunt Lucy. I don’t
think she ought to be alone, Rose.”
“Laura fidgets Aunt Lucy to death,” Rose answered quickly. “You know she
does, Tom. Of course I shall come back on Friday. I promised Aunt Lucy I
would.”
While Tom and Rose were talking thus, Miss Merivale was waiting anxiously
for Rhoda. She had arranged that she should come to Woodcote that morning
while Tom and Rose were away. The station was only half a mile from the
house, and she did not send to meet her; but she sat by the drawing-room
window, looking with painful eagerness down the drive for the first
glimpse of the slim figure she remembered.
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Rhoda came up the quiet country road and
turned in at the iron gates. It was a delightful day, the first real day
of spring. Though no leaves were yet on the trees, ruddy brown buds just
ready for bursting clothed every branch. And the grass along the hedges
was starred with celandines and daisies, while yellow catkins sprinkled
the bushes above them. A blackbird was singing loudly as Rhoda passed the
big chestnut trees by the gate, and a squirrel darted down from a fir and
scurried across the drive to hide himself in the little wood. Rhoda waited
a moment, hoping for another glimpse of the bright-eyed little fellow. She
was a child still in her delight in small animals, and this visit to
Woodcote was a great treat to her. She loved the country as only
country-bred people forced to live in a big town can love it. And this
sweet English countryside, with its breezy uplands and smiling pastures,
seemed more beautiful to her than even her dear Australia.
She drew a breath of delighted admiration when she came out on the lawn
and saw the old house with its beds of tulips before it flaming in the
sun. It was such a house as she had read of but had never seen, a haunt of
ancient peace, time-worn, yet smiling still, its walls mellowed by the
sunshine of many a hundred summers. She would have stood a moment to
notice the delightful lines the gables made against the sky, but a figure
at one of the deep, narrow-paned windows to the right of the porch caught
her attention, and remembering that she had come on sober business, she
walked briskly up to the heavy iron-studded door within the porch and
pulled the twisted bell rope.
By Miss Merivale’s orders she was shown into the library, a delightful
room looking out on the garden at the back of the house. She had ample
time to notice what a dear old garden it was, for Miss Merivale kept her
waiting quite a quarter of an hour.
More than once Miss Merivale went across the narrow hall and put her hand
on the door, and then went back to the drawing-room, finding her courage
fail her. And when at last she entered, she was so deadly pale, Rhoda lost
all her nervousness in pity for her; she felt sure that she must be ill.
“Yes, that will do very nicely,” Miss Merivale said, after giving the
typewritten programmes a cursory glance and pushing them from her. Her
eyes went back to Rhoda’s face. She saw now that the fleeting glimpse she
had got of her on the staircase had somewhat deceived her. Rhoda was not
as pretty as she had thought. Her mouth was a little too wide, and her
nose had too blunt a tip for beauty. But it was a charming face,
nevertheless, full of heart-sunshine; and the dark brown, darkly-fringed
eyes would have redeemed a plainer face.
Miss Merivale remembered with a sharp pang how Lydia had written of her
dark-eyed girl. She spoke of her sister, after a moment or two.
“It has struck me that your father might have been related to her second
husband,” she said. She had determined after leaving Acacia Road to
mention this as possible both to Rhoda and to Tom and Rose.
Many people knew that Lydia had been Mrs. Sampson when she died, though
Miss Merivale believed that she herself was the only person who was aware
that her child had been named Rhoda.
But she soon found that Rhoda knew very little of her father. She had
lived so long with the M’Alisters that she had come to identify herself
with them, and had never desired to learn more of her own people. She
could scarcely remember her father, and could not remember his Christian
name. “J. Sampson is written in my little Bible,” she said. “It is the
only book I have which belonged to him. Our house was burnt down when I
was about two years old, and all his books and papers were burnt with it.
Uncle Tom and Mr. Harding used to call him Jack, I have heard Aunt Mary
say.”
“Who was Mr. Harding?” asked Miss Merivale quickly.
“He was father’s partner for a little while. I don’t remember him at all.
He is a rich man now, and lives in Adelaide.”
“Your father came from Adelaide, Mrs. M’Alister told me. My sister lived
in Melbourne. Then you can tell me nothing else?”
Rhoda hesitated a moment. Miss Merivale’s voice had been cold and
constrained, but there was a beseeching eagerness in her glance. She
unclasped a little locket from her watch-chain and passed it across the
table. “That and my little Bible is all I have. It must have been my
mother’s, I think.”
Miss Merivale caught up the little locket with trembling fingers. She rose
and went to the window, and stood with her back to Rhoda, apparently
examining it.
But her eyes were too full of tears for her to see it plainly. She knew
the little locket well. She herself had given it to Lydia one birthday. It
was her own hair under the glass, with the ring of tiny pearls round it.
All doubt vanished from her mind. She was certain now that Rhoda was her
niece.
She came back to the side of the table where Rhoda was sitting, and put
her hand on her shoulder as she gave her back the locket.
“Thank you for letting me see it, my dear,” she said in a voice that
trembled a good deal in spite of the intense effort she was making to hide
her agitation. “And now can you make yourself happy in the garden for a
little while? I want you to stay to luncheon with me. I will talk to you
afterwards of the work I want you to do for me. And you must tell me more
about yourself. Try and think of me as a friend, my dear.”
She hurried away, not trusting herself to say more just then, and Rhoda
gladly went into the garden. Her heart was very light as she wandered up
and down the turf paths. Miss Merivale’s sudden interest in her and the
great kindness with which she spoke when she gave her back the locket did
not surprise her as it might have surprised a girl more versed in the
world’s ways. But she was eagerly grateful. She felt it would be easy to
tell Miss Merivale of the hard struggle she and Aunt Mary had had to keep
the younger boys at school and pay the premium for Ned’s apprenticeship to
that big engineering firm.
She was sure Miss Merivale would not suppose she wanted money help. She
had talked of giving her work, and it was work that Rhoda was pining for.
Her strong young hands and willing brain were eager to be employed to the
utmost.
It had been a hard blow to hear that she was to lose her post with Miss
Desborough. But perhaps Miss Merivale would be able to help her to get
something better. If she could earn a pound a week, there would be no need
for Aunt Mary to tire her eyes out over that weary needlework. A pound a
week would be riches added to the weekly wages Ned brought home and the
interest from the money they had laid by for a rainy day. There would be
no need for Aunt Mary to work for those hard shop-people any more. And
Rhoda’s eyes sparkled as she thought of packing up the last parcel of fine
needle-work and taking it back with the message that no more was wanted.
She had been in the garden about ten minutes when Tom, after vainly
looking for his aunt in the house, came through the glass door of the
library to seek for her out of doors. It startled him for a moment to see
a strange young lady in the garden, but before she turned and saw him he
had remembered who she must be, and he went forward quickly, taking off
his hat, to introduce himself.
No touch of awkwardness marred their first words to each other. Tom’s
frank face and pleasant greeting won Rhoda’s confidence at once, and in a
few moments they were chatting like old acquaintances. Tom soon found that
she loved a garden as much as he did, though this was the first large
English garden she had seen. He was eagerly questioning her about
Australian flowers when Miss Merivale entered the library and caught sight
of them through the window.
The colour flowed into her pale face as she watched them talking to each
other. For the first time she saw how Woodcote might be Tom’s and yet be
Rhoda’s too.