When Rata permitted Lady Nesfield to see her, she realised by instinct that she was acquainted with her story, although not a word was uttered. And Lumley—he knew also. He called to see her daily, and sent her flowers and notes, but she still remained mute and invisible.
At last she reappeared and granted him an audience in the drawing-room. But here was a Rata he had never seen before, dressed in trailing black, and looking worn, hollow-eyed, and aged.
He felt as if this girl were a stranger.
“No, no; don’t kiss me, Lumley,” she protested. “Sit down in that chair, and let me talk to you. In the first place, I wish to show you a letter. In my—in—Mrs. Loftus’s despatch-box I found this addressed to me, and inscribed, ‘To be opened after my death.’ It will tell you everything you ought to know.”
He glanced at the letter in his hand. It began:
“Dearest Rata,
“When your eyes read these words I shall be no more, and I am now about to tell you what I never imparted to you in life. You are not my own child, but my adopted daughter. Your parentage will startle you, my dear; you were born in a Maori ‘Pa’ near Wellington. I saw you there, a lovely, fair baby of two years old, fell in love with you, and, after a little time persuaded your grandfather, Ramparaha, chief of a great tribe, to give you to me, to bring up absolutely as my own. You were an orphan, and he had other grandchildren. Your father was an Englishman of good birth—needless to tell you his name. Your mother was the most beautiful girl of her race in the whole of the North Island. They were married by a priest, and by the rites of her tribe. Not long afterwards he was drowned in the lake Tavatara; your mother died in giving you birth, and that is your history. We never regretted the step we took—you were always our joy and comfort. We moved away from the neighbourhood of Wellington, and brought you up as an English girl; you have not one Maori trait in your character. I feel that my life hangs by a thread, and I intend to take you to Europe, where I hope you may make friends, and possibly marry. Once you have won the love of a good man, who will be your protector and guardian, I am ready to depart in peace. He will have to be told the truth some day, when you are his wife, and, if he loves you, it can make no difference.
“My will, enclosed with this letter, was drawn up in New Zealand, and is perfectly legal, and formal. In it I speak of you as Rata, my adopted daughter, and leave you all I possess. Make good use of this wealth, dear child, and be happy.”
When Lumley Grantham came to the end of this letter he looked up, and met the eyes of his fiancée, and for some seconds they surveyed one another in silence. She was the first to speak.
“It makes a difference—a terrible difference, Lumley, does it not?”