How It All Came Round Part 24

Quickly this big, rough man, who had nearly knocked down Jasper Harman the night before, hurried through the park. The exultation had died out of his face; his heart had ceased to beat wildly. Little Daisy's pretty figure was still before his eyes; but, weatherbeaten and lifebeaten man that he was, he found himself looking at it through a mist of tears.

"'Tis a bit of a shock," he said to himself. "I'll take it quietly, of course. Sandy Wilson learned long ago to take everything quietly; but it's a rare bit of a shock. I never guessed as my little Daisy would die. Five and twenty years since we met, and all that time I've never once clasped the hand of a blood-relation--never had one belonging to me. I thought I was coming back to Daisy, and Daisy has died. She was very young to die--quite five years younger than me. A pretty, pretty la.s.s; the little 'un is her image. How odd I should have knocked up against Daisy's grandchild, and should find her out by the likeness.

Well, well, I'll call at 10, Tremins Road. I'll call, of course; not that I care much now, as my little sister Daisy Wilson is dead."

He pressed his hand before his eyes; they felt weak and dim. The rough man had got a considerable shock; he did not care to look at London sights again to-day; he returned to the Commercial Hotel in the Strand, where for the present he was staying.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CUT OFF WITH A s.h.i.+LLING.

Never was a little maid-of-all-work more excited than Anne on the night on which her mistress was expected home from Torquay. A secret--quite a great secret--had been burning a hole in her heart ever since Monday, and to-night she expected this secret to result in something grand. Anne felt that the days of poverty for the family were over; the days for sc.r.a.ping and toiling were at an end. The uncle from Australia would give her missis everything that money could buy; he must be a very rich man indeed, for had he not given her a sovereign? Whoever before had even dreamed of giving little hard-worked Anne a sovereign? It meant unheard-of wealth to this childish soul of sixteen; it filled her with delight, and, carefully put away in a little gingham bag, it lay golden and warm now against her heart.

But Anne's honest little heart had another and less selfish cause for rejoicing. It was she who was bringing this uncle and niece to meet again; but for her prompt interference Daisy and her great-uncle would never have discovered their relations.h.i.+p; but for her the uncle, so blessed with riches, would not have known where to seek for his niece.

In a big place like London was it likely, was it at all likely, that they would meet? No, no, he would look for his poor dead sister for a little while, and then go back to Australia, and perhaps give his money to some one else. Anne felt that the family owed her a great deal; but she had full confidence in them, and felt sure that in their rise in life they would not forget her. Missis could keep plenty of servants now; she would have a cook and a housemaid, and probably some one to help in the nursery. This was what a family whom Anne thought immensely wealthy, did in a house just round the corner. In that case she, Anne, would be promoted to the proud position of head nurse--head nurse with wages--well, say wages as high as 13 a year. Even to think of being raised to so dazzling a height made Anne's head a trifle giddy. On the strength of it, and all the riches in prospect, she became quite reckless in preparing missis's tea. She put out the best table-linen, and all the silver the house possessed, and she filled a great dish with water-cresses, and had hot b.u.t.tered scones and a seed-cake and eggs--rather fresh for London--and finally half a pound of sliced ham.

She was standing contemplating her well-laden board when the cab drove up, and out stepped her master and mistress and little Harold--Harold looking white and thin even yet, but still with an altogether improved expression on his little face. Anne was so excited, knowing all that was to come, that she caught Harold up in her arms and kissed him, which proceeding he bore with more patience than appreciation. Then ensued bustle and confusion and pleasant excitement. Charlotte Home felt so well and rested from her change, her husband was so delighted to have her back, and little Harold was so manifestly better, that Anne flew about nearly wild with delight. "They'll be a deal, deal 'appier by-and-by, and 'tis hall 'long of HAnne," she kept whispering to herself.

And now, tea being over, and Harold tucked up comfortably once more in his own little cot in the nursery, the small maid began to be devoured with impatience for the expected ring. It came at last; Anne with her own hands unfastened the door, showed the rich uncle into the dining-room, and danced upstairs to find her mistress. Charlotte Home was unpacking a trunk in her own room.

"What do you say, Anne? A gentleman is downstairs, and wants to see me?

But I am so dreadfully busy. What does he want? Do you think he has come about the drawing-rooms? They will be vacant next week."

"I don't think 'tis about the drawing-rooms, 'em," answered Anne as demurely as she could speak. "I 'avent put no card hup yet. Please, 'em, he looks a most benevolent gen'leman, and he axed fur you, yer hown self, 'em, most partic'lar bad."

"I wish he had not come this evening, everything is in such confusion.

Anne, are you sure your master is out?"

"Yes, 'em, sure and certain; and ef you please, 'em, it wor fur you as the strange gen'leman axed."

"Well, I suppose I must go down. He may have heard of the drawing-rooms through Mr. Hinton, and it would not do to lose a good lodger."

Charlotte went to the looking-gla.s.s to smooth her hair. She felt travel-stained and dusty; she was only a worn, pale-looking woman at the best of times. She ran downstairs, and Anne's heart beat as she heard the dining-room door shut behind her.

Mr. Wilson--Sandy Wilson as he preferred to be called--had got himself up with due care for his interview with his niece. He had a perfectly new and s.h.i.+ning broadcloth suit on, a diamond pin was in his necktie, and a very ma.s.sive gold chain could be seen dangling from his vest pocket. His full face, always florid, was now flushed with extra color from agitation. Yes, Daisy might be dead, but the next best thing was to see Daisy's child. When the door opened he came forward eagerly, with outstretched hands. A pale, slight, cold-looking woman had come in. He drew back in dismay. She showed but too plainly by one swift glance that she thought him a stranger, and a vulgar one. He owned to himself that he looked at her with a kind of shock. This Daisy Wilson's Daughter?

This pale, dark, thin woman the child of that little, bright, curly-locked, golden-headed sister, whose face was as the sun, whose gay, rounded figure he had seen flitting before his eyes during all the weary years of his exile? It could scarcely be possible. Perhaps it was not possible?

"I have come to see Mrs. Home," he began.

"And I am Mrs. Home," answered the distinct, quiet voice.

No, there was no hope; his Daisy's daughter was not in the least like her. Well, she was at least her child. He must take what comfort he could out of the relations.h.i.+p without the likeness.

"You are Daisy's Wilson's child?" he said, and now again his hands were outstretched, and the smiles had returned to his face.

But Mrs. Home, completely in the dark, rather startled than otherwise, made no gesture of welcome. Her hands were not held out, her lips remained unsmiling.

"My mother's name was Wilson," she admitted. "Yes, it was Daisy Wilson.

I did not recognize it at first, as of course she was never called it to me."

"Ay, ay, likely enough; but she was never anything else to me, just always little bright Daisy Wilson. I thought I'd find her before me, something as she used to be, a bit stoutened, perhaps, but not greatly altered. I have pictured her for the last six and twenty years just as I saw her last the bonniest bit of a thing the sun ever shone on."

"You knew my mother then?" said Charlotte.

"Knew her, la.s.s, knew her! good heavens, what next? Did Daisy never speak to you about me? I don't believe it. Before I left it was 'Sandy, Sandy,' from morning to night. It was not in her to forget. Tell me, la.s.s, did you never hear of your mother's big brother, Sandy Wilson who went to Australia?"

Charlotte's eyes began to dilate.

"My mother often spoke of this brother," she said slowly. "My mother would have liked to have met you, had you known him. She never fretted for any one so much, except when my father died. My mother's brother is dead for many, many years. They are together now."

"In spirit, la.s.s, in spirit, I doubt not, but not otherwise. Why, is it possible you don't know me? Aren't you prepared? Did not your little la.s.s tell you? I am your mother's brother, I am alive, as you see; I am Sandy Wilson."

"You!" Charlotte looked at him half incredulous, half pained; but then a sudden joy came over her, she forgot the vulgarity in the love for her dead mother which still shone out of those honest blue eyes. She glanced up again; those eyes were her mother's eyes; instantly they acted as open sesame to her heart. She held out her own hands now and her eyes filled with tears. "Forgive me, Uncle Sandy; if you are indeed he. I did not know you, I could not know you; I have believed you dead for many, many years. But you have a look of my mother. She would welcome you to-night, so I must in her name."

"Will you kiss me in her name, my la.s.sie? Ah! that's good; 'tis long since I kissed one of my own. Yes, I've come back. I never did die, you see, though I knew that the report had reached England. I let it be, I did not trouble to contradict it."

"But it was wrong of you, Uncle Sandy. You said you loved my mother, and that report of your death gave her terrible pain."

"I am sorry for it, la.s.s; I never guessed about the pain, though I might have thought of it, sweet soul; but I knew she was married to a very rich man. I was poor, so poor as to know what hunger meant, I thought she could do without me. I went up into the bush and stayed there until I had made my fortune. After a time I got accustomed to knowing that every one in England would think me dead. I used to laugh in my sleeve at the surprise I meant to give Daisy when I walked in rich some day.

Well, well, what an old fool I made of myself! I never once thought of _her_ dying. She is dead, and I am left; there's no one to welcome me back, after all."

"She has been dead for over six years now; but come to the fire, uncle.

I welcome you in my mother's name, and my children will love you. Now you must sit there and I will ring for Anne to bring in some tea."

After this the uncle and niece talked together for some time. Anne brought in the tea, and looked at them with eyes rendered round and large from excitement. They both nodded to her, for both felt pleased.

Uncle Sandy had discovered that his niece had a voice like her mother, if not a face. It was delicious to him to sit so close to his own flesh and blood, and Charlotte, who had heard of Uncle Sandy during all her early days, who had seen her mother's eyes filling with tears when she mentioned him, felt now that for her mother's sake she could not make enough of this newly recovered relation. His rough, honest, kindly nature was finding its way too, very straight, to her heart. There was nothing innately common or vulgar about Uncle Sandy. Charlotte was a keen observer of character, and she detected the ring of the true metal within.

"To think I should have mistaken my uncle for some one going to see after the drawing-rooms!" she said after a pause.

"Ay, la.s.s, you looked fairly dazed when I came up with my hand stretched out, hoping for a kiss," he said; "but no wonder: I never reckoned that that little maid-servant of yours would have told you nothing--nothing whatever. But what is that about drawing-rooms? You don't mean to tell me that you, Daisy Wilson's child, let lodgings?"

The color flew into Charlotte's pale, proud face.

"We do not need all the room in this house, so I generally have some one in the drawing-room," she answered--"the drawing-room and the bedroom beyond."

"Are your rooms free now, Charlotte?"

"No; but in a week they will be."

"Suppose you let the old uncle have them? I will pay any rent you like to ask. The fact is, I have lost my whole heart to that little Daisy of yours. I want to be near the child. I won't spoil her more than I can help."

"Then I _was_ called down to my drawing-room lodger," answered Charlotte with a faint sweet smile.

"Yes, and I don't expect he will want to leave in a hurry. The fact is I have been so utterly friendless and homeless for such a number of years, that it is _nearly_ as good as finding Daisy to be with her child. But, my dear la.s.s, you will forgive a frank old man asking you a frank question. It's all moons.h.i.+ne about the house being too big for you.

These houses are not so very monstrous, to judge by the looks of them.

You have three children, so you tell me; if you let two rooms you must be a bit crippled, put as good a face on it as you will."