A Pair of Schoolgirls by Angela Brazil (summer beach reads TXT) 📕

worse, and before I even realized the extent of the danger, he too was taken from me. In a single year I had lost father, sister, and husband, and at twenty-three I found myself a young widow, with an only child.

"At this juncture my brother-in-law, David Clarke, returned to England, bringing his motherless baby in charge of an ayah. He did not intend to stay, only to settle a few necessary business matters and to make some arrangement for his little girl, who was delicate, and could not be reared in India. He had no near relations of his own who were willing to be troubled with the child, so he asked me if I would undertake to bring her up with mine, and I accepted the charge. I was drawn to little Rosamond for her mother's sake, though I could never forgive her for being a fortnight older than her cousin. So everything was settled. I took a house in Scotland for the summer, which I thought would be healthy for the children, and I sent Alison on there in advance with her own nurse. The ayah who had brought Rosamond from India was to return in the same ship as my brother-in-law, who was starting immediately for Madras. He wanted to see his baby till the very last, so I accompanied him to London, taking with me Mrs. Burke, a respectable woman who had once been a maid at my father's house, and was now married, to act as temporary nurse after the ayah's departure.

"When the last good-byes were said, and my brother-in-law and the ayah had started, I found I wished to do some shopping in London before I went north. It is awkward and inconvenient to keep a baby at a hotel, so I determined to send Mrs. Burke with my little niece to Scotland, where my own responsible nurse was already settled in charge of Alison. I took them to the station and saw them safely off in the express. In a few days I intended to follow them. That very night, as I sat at dinner in the hotel, I heard the newsboys shouting 'Special edition', and learnt of a terrible northern railway smash. I set off by the first available train for the scene of the disaster. It was impossible to get beyond Burkden, for the line was disorganized, but I hired a carriage and went on to Greenfield. The first point to be ascertained was whether my niece was among the victims. I wasted some time enquiring at the railway offices, and it was not till late in the afternoon that I saw a newspaper poster with the heading: 'Baby's Wonderful Escape from the Accident'. It was only after further investigations and delays that I learnt the child was being taken care of by its rescuer at the Red Lion Hotel. Do you remember how I came into the inn parlour that evening? The scene is stamped vividly upon my memory. You sat by the fireside with the baby on your knee; the light falling from the hanging lamp above made a picture of you both. It had taken a fancy to you, though it was always shy with me, and its soft little cheek was pressed against your face. I looked at it, and I think if it had given one sign of recognition, or held out its arms to me, I should have claimed it. But it took no notice at all, and my heart hardened against it. A terrible temptation assailed me. If I disowned the baby, nobody would ever know its identity. It would be so easy to tell its father that it had perished in the fire; there could be no positive evidence about any of the victims of the disaster. If it were out of the way, then my baby would inherit the fortune which I had always considered was my due. I was not left well off, and money meant so much to me. I had not been brought up to study economy, and I hated to be poor. I am a good judge of character, and I knew from your face that you would not abandon the child you had saved. I thought Fate had interfered forcibly, and had given it into your keeping instead of mine. At the moment it seemed to me a direct interposition of Providence, and a sign that my father's inheritance was not intended to be lost to me after all. Before me stood a great choice—the good of my sister's little one, or my own—and I chose my own. The sequel proved easy—only too easy. I said the baby I had seen at the inn was not my niece, and nobody doubted my word. My brother-in-law and the ayah were already on their way to India, Mrs. Burke was dead, and no one else was likely to raise the question of identity. The portrait circulated in the newspapers was such a poor snapshot that neither my nurse nor any of Mr. Clarke's relations recognized it. They had not known the child intimately; they had only seen her once or twice in her ayah's arms. Before I left the Red Lion at Greenfield I ascertained your name—I scarcely knew why; it seemed an instinct at the moment. I wished to forget it, but it remained all the same—one of those things which it is impossible to wine from one's remembrance.

"Years went by, years of prosperity, for in trust for Alison I was a rich woman. I tried to banish all thoughts of Rosamond, and to justify my action to myself, yet in my inmost heart I knew I had sinned. For some time I lived in the Midlands, but Leamstead did not suit my little girl's health, so I removed to Latchworth. When Alison started to go to the College and I first saw Dorothy in the train, I was immediately struck with her appearance. I could not think of whom she reminded me; her eyes haunted me continually. One day I came home and found that she had been at our house in my absence, and that Alison was full of her resemblance to the portrait of my sister Madeleine which hung in the drawing room. Then I knew, even without the extra links that made the connection only too plain—the story of her adoption, which Alison had heard at school; the very name of Dorothy Greenfield, and your name, which I had not succeeded in forgetting. Alarmed at the recognition, I forbade Alison to invite her again, and in every way in my power discouraged the acquaintance between the two girls. I thought of removing from Latchworth, but I had taken my house on a lease and spent much on improving it. Everything appeared to conspire against me: first Alison's extreme affection for Dorothy, then our meeting at the Hydro., where my brother-in-law, unaware of her identity, was so charmed with his daughter. Then came Alison's visit to your cottage on the afternoon when I fetched her in the pony trap. I at once recognized your servant as the one I had seen in the inn parlour at Greenfield, and I could tell by her face that she remembered me. It seemed as if Fate, whom I thought I had conquered so successfully, was dogging my footsteps. I felt my position was most unsafe, and only yesterday afternoon I definitely decided to sacrifice the improvements I had made at Lindenlea and to remove to the south of England, where there would be no further chance of Dorothy crossing our path.

"As if in direct consequence of my determination followed this terrible accident. It seemed to me like Heaven's vengeance on my sin. Was my innocent child to suffer as the scapegoat for my wrongdoing? I vowed to God that if in His mercy He would spare her life, I would make a full confession and reparation, no matter what it cost me. There, I have told you the whole. Do you despise me utterly? Can you possibly ever forgive me that I deliberately thrust the child upon you, and let you bear so heavy a burden all this time? Her own father will be only too thankful to take her now."

Miss Sherbourne's face was turned towards the golden streak of dawn. For a few moments she was silent.

"We have both so much to be thankful for this morning, that it makes it easier to forgive," she said at last. "Yes, the wrong must be righted, and father and daughter restored to each other; but I am glad I was able to keep my little Dorothy for my own those fourteen happy years."

CHAPTER XVI

The William Scott Prize

Dorothy, who was little the worse for her dangerous experience, went home on the morning following the accident, but it was several days before Alison was able to be removed from the inn. She was not a strong girl, and the fright and immersion combined had produced a state of complete exhaustion. The quiet and rest which the doctor prescribed had, however, their due effect, and by the end of a week she began to seem her old self again. The surprise of the two girls when later they learnt the news of their relationship can be imagined. Mrs. Clarke wrote to her brother-in-law, making a full avowal of everything; and though at first he found it hard to grant her the forgiveness she implored, his delight at finding his daughter alive outweighed his anger at the long and cruel course of deception that had been practised upon him. For the sake of Alison, to whom he was much attached, he allowed himself to be reconciled to his sister-in-law, and agreed to forget the past and let bygones be bygones. Both he and Miss Sherbourne decided emphatically that Mrs. Clarke's share in the story must be kept a strict secret among themselves; it was most undesirable that either Dorothy or Alison should know of the dishonourable part she had played. To both the girls and the outside public it was enough to announce, without detailed explanations, that the mystery of Dorothy's parentage had been solved. Martha, the only other person who had guessed at the facts of the situation, could be safely trusted to preserve silence.

"I shall not at present claim for my daughter the fortune which is legally hers," said Mr. Clarke. "I do not need it, for I have been very successful financially in India, and am now in comfortable circumstances and able to retire from business. I could not see my brother's child in poverty, so the trust money must still be devoted to Alison's benefit. When Rosamond is twenty-one, and of age to decide such matters for herself, I hope that she will agree to divide the legacy equally with her cousin, and thus set right what was originally a most unjust will."

To Dorothy the discovery was both a delight and a pain. It removed the stigma that she considered had formerly attached to her, and placed her in the position of other girls as regarded name and family; but it had certain drawbacks which must be faced. Though she welcomed her newly-found father, she clung passionately to the one friend who had hitherto made the sum of her life.

"Aunt Barbara has brought me up and done everything for me. I can't leave her. I've promised to work for her and take care of her when I am old enough," she said earnestly.

"I know, child. I know what we owe her. You and I will look after Aunt Barbara together," replied Mr. Clarke.

Dorothy's news made a great sensation at the College. The romantic story appealed to the girls, and congratulations poured in upon her. Even Hope Lawson