Miss Merivale's Mistake(txt+pdf+epub+mobi电子书下载)

作者：Clarke, Henry, Mrs.

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Miss Merivale had not been paying much heed to the eager talk that was going on between Rose and Pauline Smythe at the window.

The long drive from Woodcote had made her head ache, and she was drowsily wishing that Miss Smythe would get her the cup of tea she had promised, when the sound of a name made her suddenly sit bolt upright, her kind old face full of anxious curiosity.

“Rhoda Sampson, the creature calls herself,” Pauline was saying in her clear, high-pitched voice. “Her people live in Kentish Town, or somewhere in the dim wilds about there. You would know it by just looking at her.”

“Does she come from Kentish Town every day?” asked Rose.

“Three times a week. On the top of an omnibus, one may be sure. And she imbibes facts from The Civil Service Geography all the way. I found the book in her bag yesterday. I believe she wants to get into the Post Office eventually. It is a worthy ambition.”

“Whom are you talking of, my dears?” asked Miss Merivale from her seat by the fire. Pauline turned round with a little stare. Miss Merivale was so quiet and unassuming a personage that she had got into the habit of ignoring her. “Of Clare’s new amusement, Miss Merivale,” she said, with a laugh. Her laugh, like her voice, was a trifle hard. “It was scientific dressmaking when I was at Woodcote last, you remember, Rose dear. Now it is a society. Clare is secretary.”

“But you spoke of some girl who came here,” persisted Miss Merivale.

Pauline lifted her delicately-pencilled eyebrows. “Oh, that is Clare’s typewriter. She is part of the joke. If you saw Clare and her together over their letters, you would think they were reforming the universe. It hasn’t dawned on poor Sampson yet that Clare will get tired of the whole business in a month. It is lucky she has the Post Office to fall back on. Clare is exactly what she used to be at school, Rose, ‘everything by starts and nothing long.’ It amuses me to watch her.”

“She doesn’t tire of you, Pauline,” said Rose fondly.

Pauline frowned a little. She did not care to be reminded, even by foolish, flattering little Rose, that she was, in sober fact, nothing more nor less than Clare’s paid companion.

“Oh, we get on,” she said coolly. “We each leave the other to go her own way in peace. And it suits Lady Desborough in Rome to say that Clare is living with her old governess. People think of me as a spectacled lady of an uncertain age, and everybody is satisfied. But you would like some tea. I wish Clare was in. She isn’t afraid of that gas stove. I am ashamed to confess that I am. Come out with me while I light it, Rosamunda mia. And you shall make the tea. I never can remember how many spoonfuls to put in. How pretty you look in blue! I wish I was eighteen, with hair the colour of ripe wheat, then I would wear blue too.”

She went off, laughing, with Rose to the tiny kitchen on the other side of the passage. The sitting-room was the largest room in the little Chelsea flat, and that was smaller than any of the rooms at Woodcote; but the diminutive dimensions of the place only added to the fascinations of it in Rose’s eyes.

As she took the cups and saucers down from the toy-like dresser and put them on the lilliputian table between the gas stove and the door, she felt a thrill of ineffable pleasure.

“Oh, Pauline, I wish I lived here with you. It’s so dull at Woodcote. And it seems to get duller every day.”

“Poor little Rose, it must be dull for you. Clare and I often talk of you with pity. Clare pities you the most. A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind, you know. She will have to go back to Desborough Park when her mother returns, I suppose. The flat is only rented for six months. I wish”—She stopped to take off the lid of the tea-kettle and peer earnestly in. “When a kettle boils, little bubbles come to the top, don’t they? I have got a notebook where I write down interesting little details of that sort. They will come useful by and by, if I have to live in a flat by myself. I shouldn’t be able to keep a regular servant.”

“But a regular servant would spoil it all, even if you could afford it,” said Rose, with sparkling eyes. “We couldn’t come out here and get tea like this, if you had a servant, Pauline.”.

“She would have to stand in the passage, wouldn’t she?” said Pauline, looking round the tiny kitchen, with a laugh. “But how would you like to get tea for yourself every day, little Rose? Clare seems to like it, though. Her mother wanted Mrs. Richards to stay with us all day, but Clare begged that she might go at three o’clock. And Clare is maid-of-all-work after that. It seems to come natural to her to know what kitchen things are meant for. Now, if you will make the tea, we will go back to your aunt. This kettle is certainly boiling at last.”

Rose carefully measured the tea into the pretty Japanese teapot. Pauline leant against the dresser and watched her with her hands clasped at the back of her head. Pauline was not pretty,—her features were badly cut and her skin was sallow,—but she made a pretty picture standing there. Her dress of ruddy brown was made in a graceful, artistic fashion, and was just the right colour to set off her dark eyes and dark, wavy hair. Rose thought her friend beautiful. She had adored her from the first day they met, when Pauline was junior English governess at Miss Jephson’s Collegiate School for Young Ladies at Brighton, and Rose was a frightened, lonely, homesick child of fourteen, tasting her first experience of boarding-school.

Pauline had had many adorers among the younger girls, and a holiday rarely passed without her receiving some delightful invitations. It was spitefully noticed by the senior English governess that she was very rarely invited twice to the same house; but after Rose came to the school, it became a matter of course that Pauline should spend her holidays at Woodcote. She had no home of her own, as she often sadly told the girls. She very seldom said more than that, but it was understood in the school that the seal ring she wore at her watch-chain belonged to her father, one of the Norfolk Smythes; and the beautiful woman with powdered hair, whose miniature hung in her bedroom, was her great-grandmother, the Marquise de Villeroy, who perished on the scaffold during the Reign of Terror.

It was considered a high privilege by Pauline’s band of worshippers to be allowed to hold this miniature in their hands; but on Rose a still higher privilege had been once conferred. She had worn the miniature tied round her neck by a blue ribbon when she acted a part in the French play Miss Jephson’s pupils produced every Christmas. That was in Rose’s last year at school. She left at the end of the next term, as her aunt was in failing health and wanted her at home.

Soon Pauline left too, and after a brief experience as a private governess, commenced to give visiting lessons in London. She lived at first with a cousin of Miss Jephson’s, a clergyman’s widow; but the arrangement did not somehow prove a satisfactory one, and it was a relief to them both when Clare Desborough, whose old admiration for Pauline had revived on meeting her in London, had begged her to share the little flat her mother had consented to rent for her, while the family spent the winter in Italy.

Pauline found the freedom of a flat delightful, and looked forward with a sinking heart to the day of Lady Desborough’s return. Her only hope was that Rose might be induced to entreat her aunt to let her live in London, so that she might study music at the Royal Academy. Pauline was sure that Miss Merivale would consent, if only Rose’s pleading was urgent enough. Rose had had her own way all her life.

{Illustration: PAULINE LEANT AGAINST THE DRESSER AND WATCHED HER.}

“There, it is quite ready now,” Rose said, as she finished cutting the bread and butter. “If you will move a little, Pauline, I will carry the tray in.”

“I ought to do that,” said Pauline lazily. “What will your aunt think, Rosie? I am not treating you like a visitor, am I?”

“I wish I wasn’t a visitor,” said Rose, with a faint little sigh. “I envy Clare more than I ever envied anybody. She must be having a lovely time.” “It will soon be over, poor dear. I wish”—Pauline stopped again, and began a fresh sentence. “You and I would get on better than Clare and I do, Rose. We like the same things. She does not care a bit for music, but I can’t live without it. What delightful times we could have together, Rose! But I don’t suppose your aunt would hear of it. She is more old-fashioned in her ideas than Lady Desborough.”

Rose had clasped her hands together. “Oh, Pauline, it would be too delightful! Would you really like to have me? Aunt Lucy might let me come, though I’m afraid she could not get on without me. And there’s Tom!”

Pauline’s dark eyes grew quizzical “I didn’t know you were afraid of Tom, Rose. Doesn’t he think everything you do is right? Was there ever a little girl so spoiled by a big brother?”

“But he thinks I ought always to be at home to wait on him. You said the other day that he was selfish, Pauline.”

“All brothers are, my dear,” returned Pauline oracularly, “and it is sisters who make them so. Come, strike a blow for your liberty, Rose. You are not really wanted at home, and you are wasting your days in that dull little country place. Wouldn’t you like to live here with me?”

Rose’s face was answer enough. She drew a deep breath before she spoke. “If only Aunt Lucy wouldn’t miss me too much, Pauline! But she’s not strong. I don’t think she could do without me.”

“She would be better if she came up to London oftener and had a fuller life,” returned Pauline, with decision. “Her ill health has always been mainly imaginary, Rose. When people have nothing else to do, they sink into invalidism. But you are making me lose my character as a hostess altogether. Let us take in the tea. Your aunt will wonder what we have been doing.”

But Miss Merivale had not noticed that the tea was a long time in making its appearance. She was still absorbed in anxious thought when the girls came in, and after a little while she managed to lead the conversation back to Clare and her typewriter.

“Mr. Powell suggested that we should have the programmes for the concert typewritten, Rose. He said it would be cheaper. Could you give me the address of Miss Sampson, Miss Smythe?”

“I shouldn’t advise you to employ her, Miss Merivale,” returned Pauline in a voice that had a sharp edge to it. For some reason or other, Clare’s assistant was evidently not a favourite of hers. “I don’t believe she knows her business properly. Lady Desborough’s sister picked her up for Clare.”

“I might try her. Could you give me her address, my dear?”

Pauline opened her eyes. It was utterly unlike Miss Merivale to be so persistent. “I am afraid I can’t, Miss Merivale. I know nothing whatever about her, except that she has just come from Australia with some relations who kept a small shop out there. It was foolish of Mrs. Metcalfe to send us such a person. There are so many ladies who would be glad to do the work.”

Miss Merivale had caught her breath sharply as Pauline mentioned Australia, but neither of the girls noticed her agitation. Rose had wandered to the window, and was looking with delight at the vast expanse of chimney-tops, and the little glimpse of the river, grey under the cold March sky. And Pauline was slowly stirring her tea, with her eyes cast down. She was thinking whether it would be wise to drop a hint about Rose’s unhappiness at Woodcote. She had just made up her mind to say a guarded word or two, when she found, to her sharp annoyance, that Miss Merivale’s mind was still running on Rhoda Sampson.

“She comes here three times a week, I think you said, my dear?” asked Miss Merivale in her gentle voice. “Does she come in the mornings? She has her meals here, perhaps?”

Pauline laughed. “We haven’t invited her yet. I told Clare she must draw the line somewhere. There is a Lockhart’s Coffee House round the corner, and she goes there. What makes you interested in her, Miss Merivale? If you want some typewriting done, I can easily get a proper person for you. Mrs. Metcalfe got Sampson because she is so cheap. She comes to Clare, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays, for some ridiculous sum. If she knew her work, she would have wanted more. In fact, she told Clare that she knew very little. Rose, what are you looking at? Do you find the company of chimney-tops exhilarating? I wish our flat was in the front of the building. Then we could have a good view of the river.”

“You have a delightful glimpse of it here,” Rose said, without turning her head.

Pauline smiled and looked at Miss Merivale. “Rose is in the mood to find even London smuts fascinating,” she said. “Could you spare her to us for a night or two next week, Miss Merivale? Joachim is playing at St. James’s Hall, and I want Rose to hear him.”

Miss Merivale started from a deep reverie. “Tom talked of bringing her up for Joachim’s concert,” she said. “But if Rose would like to stay a day or two—But have you room for a visitor?”

Rose had come from the window, her eyes sparkling at Pauline’s suggestion that she should stay with her and Clare. She now broke merrily in. “Clare’s two cousins stayed with them for a night last week, Aunt Lucy. You don’t know how elastic a flat is. Does she, Pauline? Oh, do let me!”

If Rose had been pleading to be let out of prison she could not have spoken more earnestly. Another time Miss Merivale might have been hurt, but just then she was hardly able to attend to what Rose was saying.

“We must ask Tom about the concert,” she said. “You can write to Miss Smythe to-morrow. Would any day next week be convenient, my dear?”

“Any day,” said Pauline smilingly. “But the sooner the better. Be sure and bring your violin, Rose. I want Mrs. Metcalfe to hear you play. She is a brilliant performer herself. We must have a musical afternoon while you are here. Don’t you think you could spare her for a week, Miss Merivale? We shall have so much to do.”

“We will see, my dear,” said Miss Merivale, getting up. “A week sounds a long time. But we will see. We must go now, Rosie. The carriage will be waiting. You and Miss Desborough must come and see us, my dear. I am sure even a day in the country would be good for you. Don’t you pine for the country now the spring is coming?”CHAPTER II.WOODCOTE.

The drive home to Woodcote was a very silent one. Miss Merivale and Rose were both absorbed in their own thoughts, and neither of them even dimly divined the thoughts of the other.

It had never entered Miss Merivale’s head that Rose, her pet and darling, her little nurse and helper, could be longing to live with Pauline in London; and how could Rose have guessed that her aunt’s thoughts were fixed on Rhoda Sampson, the girl Pauline had spoken of in such contemptuous terms? She supposed her aunt was asleep, she sat so still in the corner of the carriage with her eyes closed, and she took good care not to disturb her. She was glad to be free to dwell on the delightful visions Pauline had called up for her.

Miss Merivale roused herself as the carriage turned in at the gates of the drive. The March twilight had gathered thickly, and lights were shining from the windows of the low, irregular house. They could see them twinkling through the trees.

“I wonder if Tom is back from Guilford yet, Rosie. He will scold us for being late. Oh, how sweet and fresh the air is here! Don’t you pity those girls cooped up in that stuffy little flat? You must not promise to stay a week with them, Rosie. You would find two days quite long enough.”

Rose was saved from attempting to answer this by the carriage stopping before the wide porch. A short, fair-haired young man, with a pleasant face and merry blue eyes, was waiting to open the door.

“Auntie, you have no business to be out as late as this and an east wind blowing,” he said, in a playful scolding tone. “Rose, you should not have allowed it. But come in. There is a jolly fire in the dining-room, and tea is quite ready. Next time you go to London, I mean to go with you.”

The dining-room looked a picture of comfort, with the curtains drawn, and the table laid for tea. Miss Merivale never had late dinner except when she gave a dinner party. She liked the simple, old-fashioned ways she had been accustomed to in her youth. But the table was laid with dainty care; the swinging lamps shone upon shining silver that had been in the family for two hundred years, on an old Worcester tea-set that had been bought by Miss Merivale’s grandmother, on bowls of early spring flowers gathered by Rose that morning from the beautiful old garden at the back of the house. Everything in the room spoke of long years of quiet prosperity. As Miss Merivale took her accustomed seat at the tea-table and looked about her, and then at Tom sitting opposite her, all unwitting of the terrible blow that might be about to fall on him, she could scarcely keep back the sob that rose to her lips.

Tom met her glance without seeing the trouble in it, and he smiled cheerfully back at her.

“Well, how did the shopping get on?” he asked, “Did you remember the seeds, Rose?”

Rose gave him a guilty look. “Oh, Tom, I quite forgot. Did you want them?”

He looked vexed for a moment, but only for a moment. “It does not matter. I can write. I promised Jackson he should have them this week. Cousin Ann has a wonderful show of anemones this year, Aunt Lucy. The square bed in the back garden is brilliant with them. We must try them here again next year. I don’t intend to be satisfied till we have beaten Cousin Ann.”

“She says the soil here doesn’t suit anemones; they are fanciful flowers,” returned Miss Merivale. “Then you went to Broadhurst, Tom?”

“Yes, I just managed it. Old Mrs. Harding was there. She is failing very fast, poor old soul. Part of the time she thought I was Cousin James, Aunt Lucy. She wanted to know when I heard last from my sister Lydia.”

Miss Merivale put her cup down with a little clatter. Her hand had begun to tremble. “You are very much like James, Tom,” she said, glancing at the portrait that hung on the wainscoted wall just above him, “and you get more like him every day.”

It was the portrait of her only brother she was looking at. Tom and Rose were her cousin’s children, though they called her aunt. She had adopted them when Rose was a baby and Tom a sturdy lad of five. Woodcote had been their home ever since. Tom had grown up knowing that the estate was to be his at Miss Merivale’s death. James Merivale had died young, ten years before his father; and Lydia, Miss Merivale’s only sister, had married against her father’s wishes, and had been disowned by him. After vainly trying to gain his forgiveness, she and her husband emigrated to Australia, and for some years nothing was heard of them. Then Lydia wrote to her father, telling him that she was a widow, and begging him to send her money that she might come home. The stern old man burnt the letter without answering it and without showing it to his daughter Lucy, and the next news came in a letter written by Lydia to her sister.

She had married again, her husband’s partner, James Sampson, and had a little daughter, whom she had named Rhoda, after her mother. The letter asked for money, and Miss Merivale sent what she could, though she had little to send, for her father demanded a strict account of all she spent.

She gave him the letter to read, and he returned it to her without a word; but his heart must have relented towards his disobedient daughter at the last, for by a codicil to his will it was provided that at Miss Merivale’s death Woodcote was to pass to Lydia, or, in the event of her not surviving her sister, to her daughter Rhoda.

But poor Lydia never knew that her father had forgiven her. She died three days before him; and when her sister’s letter reached Australia, James Sampson had broken up his home in Melbourne and started with his little daughter for a distant settlement. He never reached the settlement, and all Miss Merivale’s efforts to trace him proved fruitless. She at last accepted the belief of the lawyers that he had lost his way, and, like so many other hapless wanderers, had perished in the bush.

When Tom had become dear as a son to her, fears would sometimes rise that his claim to Woodcote might one day be disputed; but as the quiet years went on these fears ceased to present themselves, and when Pauline mentioned Rhoda Sampson the name had gone through her like a knife. She tried—she had been trying ever since—to tell herself that it was impossible it could be James Sampson’

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