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 a tÊte-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.