CHAPTER III.

TEN YEARS AFTER

Ten years passed before Rhoda Pembury saw Sir Robert Hadlow or the old Mill-house again, and during those ten years all that she heard of him or of his doings was through an announcement in the newspapers, some six months after her stay there, of his marriage with Sarah, third daughter of the Marquis of Eridge.

After that, although Rhoda did, from time to time, see brief paragraphs in the papers concerning the doings of Lady Sarah Hadlow, and incidental mention in connection with her, of her husband, Sir Robert, she held no communication with them, or with any of the household at the Dourville Mill-house, and she believed, during the whole of that period, that the baronet who had saved her life and who had been kind to her, had passed out of her life for ever.

In the meantime, having developed into a beautiful and accomplished woman from the half-fledged girl she had been then, Rhoda received a good deal of attention and more than one offer of marriage.

But she cared little for admiration, and her heart was never touched. Greatly to the annoyance of her parents, who had a large family, and who were both eager to settle their handsome daughter in marriage and a home of her own, Rhoda made light of all the attentions paid to her, refused her lovers without compunction, and announced, when reproached with her coldness and obstinacy, that she intended to remain single through life, and that, as her parents would never be able to get her off their hands in the way they desired, she would meet their wishes by earning her own living.

This was not at all what they wanted, and her mother prevailed upon Rhoda to give way on this point for a time. But the thought was ever in the girl’s mind, and Mrs. Pembury was not surprised when, ten years after the episode at the Mill-house, Rhoda came to her with a newspaper in her hand, and, pointing to an advertisement in one of the columns, said briefly:

“Mother, I’m going to answer this.”

The announcement to which she pointed ran like this:

“A lady wanted, as nurse-companion to an invalid boy. Apply personally, if possible, at the Old Mill-house, Dourville.”

Mrs. Pembury having put on her glasses, read the advertisement, and laid down the paper with an exclamation of something like dismay.

“Why, it’s Sir Robert Hadlow’s, where the murder was committed! Surely you wouldn’t go back there!”

Rhoda, who was very pale, asked briefly:

“Why not?”

But Mrs. Pembury was too much disturbed to reply. Hastily leaving the room with some excuse, she went straight to her husband, who was in his surgery, and laid the paper before him.

“What do you think of that?” she asked in consternation. “I’d always had an idea it was something that happened while she was there that prevented Rhoda’s marrying, and now I’m sure of it. I believe she fell in love with Sir Robert’s ward, Mr. Rotherfield.”

But Dr. Pembury thought this idea high-flown and far-fetched, and said he could not see any likelihood of such a thing. Rhoda would have betrayed herself before this if she had nourished a passion for so long, and in any case, it did not matter, as it was more than likely that Sir Robert had left the Mill-house by this time, since his wife appeared to be always in London, or, if not, that Mr. Rotherfield had settled down somewhere else with a wife of his own.

Mrs. Pembury was troubled, but she always submitted, even against her better judgment, to her husband’s wishes, and in this case it was not even her judgment, but only a sort of feminine instinct, which told her that Rhoda had strong sentimental reasons for wishing to take this step.

On the following day, therefore, Rhoda, who was now twenty-seven, and better capable of looking after herself than she had been at seventeen, started alone for Dourville, and presented herself, early in the afternoon, at the house she remembered so well.

Emotion made her eyes fill and her limbs tremble as she approached the house, and recognised that it had undergone such changes, since she first knew it, that she could scarcely be sure she had not made a mistake and come to the wrong gate, when she found herself standing before a long, white house, with wings extending far in each direction, and with the modern big, wide windows replacing the little narrow old ones.

Many of the trees that had surrounded the old house so closely had been cut down, with considerable advantage as regards light, but at a great loss of picturesqueness. Gone was the cosy, old-fashioned look, together with the dark red curtains, the heavy square portico, the homely look that she had loved.

It was into a stately, handsome hall that she was shown, a room having been sacrificed to enlarge the entrance; and when she found herself following a footman across a wide expanse of parquetted floor to a new part of the building, and ushered into a lofty, light library, Rhoda was almost ready to believe that she had made a mistake, and that the Sir Robert, who would, so the footman said, see her at once, could not be the man who had saved her life, the memory of whose kindness she had treasured in secret for so long, the man whose image had, almost unknown to herself, so effectually shut out that of every other man from her heart during these ten years.

But there he was, not indeed the Sir Robert she remembered, but perfectly recognisable to her, although the dark hair had become thickly streaked with grey, and the face more deeply lined than that of a man of forty-five ought to be.

She had felt her heart beating very fast as she was led towards the library, but she was totally unprepared for the reception she met.

She was duly announced as “Miss Pembury,” but she perceived at once that the name awoke no memories in Sir Robert.

He had forgotten her.

In part, perhaps, the fact that he was very short-sighted, and that he was not wearing his glasses, was answerable for his lack of recognition, but however that might be, Rhoda felt cut to the heart when he rose, bowed formally, and offered her a chair.

“I am sorry that my wife is away, as she would have been better capable than I of arranging these matters with you, Miss Pembury,” he said. “Ladies can get to the point over such things more quickly than a mere man can hope to do. But I’ll tell you all I can, and you will perhaps be able to judge whether you would care to come to take charge of my boy. But perhaps you would like to see him first? He is an invalid, as I suppose you know.”

“I should like to see him,” said Rhoda, in a low and gentle voice.

But the voice recalled no memories, and Sir Robert, ringing the bell, told the servant to have Master Caryl’s carriage brought along the terrace.

Rhoda was still so much under the influence of the strong emotions called up by this meeting that she was glad there was no need for her to say much.

On learning that she lived in London, and that she had come all the way from the great city that morning, Sir Robert seemed surprised, and ringing the bell again, told the footman to have some luncheon prepared for Miss Pembury.

Rhoda protested, and thanked the baronet, who seemed already to take it for granted that she would stay. The fact being that her refined manner, sweet voice and sympathetic appearance had at once predisposed the rather absent-minded gentleman in the visitor’s favour.

A few minutes later there was a slight sound of footsteps upon the terrace, and Rhoda, looking out, saw, with tears in her eyes, a boy lying on a long, spinal chair, looking in at her through the window with big, soft, dark eyes that, while they recalled in colour and brilliancy those of his mother, had something of the far-away expression of his father in them too.

She hastened across the floor, and bending over the boy kissed him on the forehead.

He flushed a little, put out his hand and laid it upon hers.

“Are you coming to stay with me?” he asked simply.

“It is for you to say, dear,” said Rhoda.

He moved his head slowly and looked at her with great intentness.

“I should like it very much,” he said. “What am I to call you?”

Rhoda threw a hasty glance at Sir Robert, who was standing by them, so intent in watching his son’s face that he took but little heed of the visitor. So she thought she might venture to give her name without fear of discovery. Since he had begun by non-recognition, it was better to go on without undeceiving him, she thought.

“Call me Rhoda,” she said softly.

He smiled at her. Though he was scarcely more than eight years old, his condition had made him older in many ways than his age, and his manner was almost that of a grown person as he said:

“Rhoda. Yes, I like that.”

“You will stay with him then?” asked Sir Robert, evidently pleased at the fancy the child had taken to the lady.

Rhoda hesitated. There were details to be settled, of which the man took no cognizance. Perceiving her hesitation, he smiled, and waving his hand, said:

“You will want to know a great many things, about hours and holidays and--and other things. We can leave all those until Lady Sarah comes back next week, can’t we? My housekeeper will assign you rooms, any you care for, and you can do just as you please, as long as you make my boy happy. He is left too much alone. His mother doesn’t like Dourville; it doesn’t agree with her very well. I hope it will please you, however.”

“Thank you. I shall like it, I know,” said Rhoda.

“Come and talk to me,” said Caryl, “and let me show you my monkey, and my rabbits. I’ve got three, and some budgerigars. I hope you like birds. And I’ve got a dog. Would you like to see him? I want you to see him do his tricks.”

Off they went together, the lady and the child, and Sir Robert, standing blinking in the sunshine, seemed to have, Rhoda thought, a vague impression of having seen or heard something which the lady’s presence recalled.

But to her regret, it was evident that the recollection was fraught with pain.

She and the boy made the tour of the garden together, for he had dismissed the servant, asking Rhoda if she would draw him along.

By the time they had been an hour together, moving slowly along the shady walks, and visiting the boy’s numerous pets in rabbit-hutch and aviary, they were already firm friends; and when they returned to the terrace, Rhoda had the satisfaction of seeing Sir Robert standing at the library window, with a faint smile upon his face. He was pleased by the pleasure of his boy.

“It’s good of you to humour him by walking about so long when you must be tired, Miss Pembury,” he said. “I have sent for Mrs. Hawkes, the housekeeper, and directed her to have some tea for you, and to show you your rooms.”

“Thank you very much,” said Rhoda.

She had a transient fancy that Sir Robert recalled something in her name or in her person, for he looked at her suddenly with a slight frown and with vague curiosity. He did not, however, ask her any questions, and a few minutes later Rhoda was going upstairs, escorted by the footman, towards the rooms where the housekeeper was busy preparing for her reception.

The man threw open a door and announced:

“Miss Pembury, Mrs. Hawkes,” and Rhoda entered.

The man went away, and Rhoda heard an exclamation from the grey-haired woman in spectacles who was drawing a cover over a little table in the pretty sitting-room.

“Why, it’s Miss Rhoda!” cried the grey-haired woman.

The visitor exclaimed in her turn.

“Bessie!” cried she.

Neither woman could restrain her tears.

“I’m housekeeper here now,” said Bessie, wiping her eyes. “But, oh, Miss Pembury, to think Sir Robert shouldn’t know you! And to think of your turning up here, after all this time, and us wanting you so bad ten years ago!”

“What do you mean?” asked Rhoda, trembling.

“Let me get your rooms ready, and get rid of the maid, who is in the next room and who will be in here in a minute, and then I’ll tell you everything,” said Mrs. Hawkes.

And within five minutes, the two rooms having been got ready, and the maid dismissed in search of tea and sandwiches for Miss Pembury, the two old friends sat down in the window-seat together, and the housekeeper began her story.