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.