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diff --git a/78795-0.txt b/78795-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a04807 --- /dev/null +++ b/78795-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7644 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 *** + +Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. + + + +[Illustration: Rhona was dropped into his arms.] + + + + NUMBER THREE + + WINIFRED PLACE. + + + BY + + AGNES GIBERNE + + + + London + JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED + 22 BERNERS STREET, W. + + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. + At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh + + + + CONTENTS. + + [Illustration] + +CHAP. + + I. A STRANGER + + II. MR. POWIS' VISITOR + + III. MOTHER AND CHILD + + IV. ANOTHER LODGER + + V. COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS + + VI. NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE + + VII. THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY + + VIII. A BUNCH OF GRAPES + + IX. WHERE COULD SHE BE + + X. IN THE FOG + + XI. THE THREE AUNTS + + XII. STILL ABSENT + + XIII. THE COLONEL AND RHONA + + XIV. AN EVENTFUL EVENING + + XV. FIRE! + + XVI. ACROSS THE WAY + + XVII. AFTERWARDS + + XVIII. THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD + + XIX. A LINK WANTING + + XX. RESTORED HOPE + + XXI. ABOUT THE AUNTS + + XXII. NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE + + XXIII. WYVERN HOUSE + + XXIV. RHONA'S REAL UNCLE + + XXV. TOGETHER AGAIN + + XXVI. GATHERING UP THE THREADS + + + + NUMBER THREE, WINIFRED PLACE. + + [Illustration] + +CHAPTER I. + +A STRANGER. + +"THERE'S a ring at the door! I shouldn't wonder if it was somebody +after lodgings! Look sharp, will you, Bertha, and don't go to sleep +on the way. I never in all my life saw such a dawdle as that girl," +concluded Mrs. Burrell. + +It was a dismal afternoon in November. No actual rain had fallen since +early morning, but the air reeked with damp, the sky was shut off by +a dense haze overhead, and slush lay thickly on roads and pavements, +while the thermometer stood at only one degree above freezing-point. +Foot-passengers were hurrying to and fro, with a very evident dislike +of the outer atmosphere, a very plain intention to get quickly through +their divers businesses. + +Mrs. Burrell's shop, No. 3 of a row, lay close to one of the greater +thoroughfares, though actually situated in a side street. In Mrs. +Burrell's estimation, the locality was "quiet": for though the rumble +of traffic went on unceasingly, the said traffic did not pass her +door. But some lodgers in Albert Terrace were wont to hold a different +opinion. + +The shop was well stocked with wools and fancywork of all descriptions, +with Shetland shawls, worsted comforters, dainty work-baskets lined and +unlined, supplemented by countless ornamental knick-knacks. + +Part of the street was given up to shops, part to private houses, part +to lodging-houses, pure and simple; not every one caring, like Mrs. +Burrell, to combine the two vocations. + +Mrs. Burrell herself was in appearance an eminently respectable and +superior person, about fifty years of age, tall and upright in figure, +with a sallow complexion and strongly-marked features. The curl in +the end of her long nose, and the droop at each corner of her mouth, +told tales of an uncomfortable temper; and her unsmiling eyes seemed +to be ever on the look-out for something or somebody to blame. She had +never yet learnt the happy and needful art of "shutting her eyes to +things," had never yet realised the profound truth that other people's +faults can no more be cured in a day than our own can be. Expecting +absolute perfection in everybody—except of course in herself,—and +failing to find what she looked for, she lived in a state of chronic +dissatisfaction. + +So Mrs. Burrell's pretty daughter, Hope, and still more, her sad-faced +orphan niece, Bertha Stephens, and most of all her over-driven +maid-of-all-work, Hannah Hoskyns, had altogether rather a "hard life of +it," especially in the London season. Nothing so shadows the individual +lives in a household as the perpetual presence of even one habitual +grumbler, male or female. + +As it was not now the season, Mrs. Burrell's "upstairs apartments" +were empty, and had been empty for more than a fortnight. This was a +somewhat unusual event, however. Mrs. Burrell's "connection" was so +good, that even when London was most deserted, her rooms were often +occupied. + +Business in the shop had been slack that afternoon. Mrs. Burrell found +time, without difficulty, to sit down to tea with her daughter and +niece in the small parlour behind, keeping watch through the glass door +for possible customers. Once a young lady in sable furs appeared, and +Hope was despatched to meet a demand for "one skein of white Andalusian +wool." Then came the ring at the side-door, which "might mean lodgers;" +and Bertha disappeared. + +"I never saw such a dawdle as that girl—never, in all my days," +repeated Mrs. Burrell. "If your father, now, had had an idea of what he +was asking me to undertake when he made me promise to keep her—" + +"Why, mother, if we didn't have Bertha, we should be obliged to get in +somebody else to do her work," said Hope. + +"Then I hope it would be somebody I could depend upon," responded Mrs. +Burrell. "Which is more than I can say for you two girls. I'm sure +the trouble and the worry and the plague I have to keep things going, +nobody knows." + +Hope shrugged her shoulders, yawned, and drank her tea. Mrs. Burrell's +mode of incessant faultfinding told ill upon this only daughter, +inducing carelessness and a growing spirit of hardness, where a few +words of kind encouragement would have made her willing to do her +utmost. But—"nothing ever pleased mother," Hope was wont to say—"so +where was the use of trying?" She had not been brought up by that +mother to work from any higher motive. + +The effect of the same treatment upon Bertha was different. A higher +motive, lacking in Hope, was present in Bertha. She did not toil the +less hard, though certainly she toiled the more hopelessly, so far as +regarded the satisfying of Mrs. Burrell. + +Bertha was not pretty, yet her face would have been very pleasant but +for its singular sadness of expression. The downcast grey eyes were +soft and pathetic, and she had a shrinking manner, as if labouring +under a constant expectation of being blamed. + +As a matter of fact, Bertha Stephens was expeditious in almost +everything that she undertook. But Mrs. Burrell, deceived by her +quietness, never could believe that she was not wasting her time. Some +people count "speed" to be synonymous with "bustle." + +"Well—here you are at last!" was the greeting she received on her +return. "Who was it?" + +"Only a mistake," Bertha answered. "A gentleman came to the wrong door." + +"I thought it was something important, you were gone such a time." + +Bertha sat down silently, making no attempt at self-defence. + +"Have you finished putting up those curtains?" asked Mrs. Burrell, in +a needlessly sharp manner. The question might just as well have been +uttered kindly. + +"Yes, aunt." + +"You have been long enough about it, I hope! And the spots on the +bedroom carpet,—of course you haven't seen to them." + +Bertha looked perplexed. "Which spots?" she asked. + +"As if you did not know. Don't pretend, Bertha. The best bedroom, of +course. I showed them to you yesterday evening." + +"You showed them to me, mother, not to Bertha," said Hope. + +"Bertha knows better," said Mrs. Burrell curtly. + +Bertha evidently did not know better. She remained silent. + +"You will please to see to that as soon as ever you have done your tea. +Anybody may call any day after lodgings, and I must have the place fit +to be looked at. There's some one else come, Hope. Be quick." + +Reluctantly Hope rose, leaving half a cup of tea to grow cold, and made +her way into the shop. This customer kept her longer than the last had +done. + +Hope at length was free to turn once more towards the back-parlour. But +hardly had she so turned, when she was arrested by a slight sound in +her rear. + +A lady had entered, and stood there,—quite a young lady, if one might +judge from appearances, yet dressed in deep mourning, with a black +crape veil falling behind, and a widow's cap within the bonnet. She +was rather above medium height and slenderly made, with small hands +clasping and unclasping each other continually. A red spot showed in +either cheek, the dark eyes were dilated, while the muscles round the +delicate mouth quivered with incessant motion. + +"Can I show you anything, ma'am?" asked Hope. + +"Thank you, no. I am not come to buy," the lady said, in a hurried yet +gentle and gracious manner. "I believe—I believe you have lodgings in +this house to let." + +"Will you wait a moment, please? I'll call my mother," said Hope. + +The lady remained motionless till Mrs. Burrell appeared, when she +mechanically advanced towards the counter. + +"I have been recommended to come to you," she said, in the same nervous +though sweet voice which she had before addressed to Hope. "You have, I +am told, rooms to let." + +"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell answered agreeably. "How many would you +please to want?" + +"It is only for my little girl and myself. Your rooms are vacant now, I +believe—at this present moment. I could come to you without delay?" + +"Yes, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Burrell, for the last words had been +uttered questioningly. + +"I mean literally without delay—this afternoon," continued the lady, +speaking again very hurriedly. "Circumstances have obliged me—There are +reasons why I wish to leave my present rooms at once—immediately. It is +not easy to find exactly what I want at such short notice, especially +as I am a stranger to this part of London." + +Mrs. Burrell was silent, looking with some wonder at the speaker's +agitated lips. + +"Indeed, I might say I am a stranger to London altogether." A faint +smile accompanied the words, but was quickly lost in the painful +quivering of every muscle. "Perhaps you would kindly—" + +"Would you like to come inside and sit down, ma'am?" asked Mrs. +Burrell, as the lady came to a sudden pause, pressing one hand to her +side. "I'm afraid you are not very well." + +"Thank you, no,—no; it is nothing. I must not waste a moment. The truth +is, I have been a little upset to-day, and not being very strong—but it +does not matter. If you would kindly tell me what rooms you have—" + +"Three, commonly. Sometimes I throw in a fourth," said Mrs. Burrell. + +"That would be much more than I need. But you do not let them all +together?" + +"Well, no; I like that best, ma'am, but I don't stand out for it," said +Mrs. Burrell. "In the autumn, I had a gentleman and his wife in the +parlour and best bedroom, and there was a single gentleman in the back +bedroom. It's a tidy room enough, but there is no parlour belonging to +it. I've turned the little lumber-room into a servant's room once in a +way, but it is a trouble, and I don't care to have it to do." + +"I think the one bedroom at the back might suit us," said the lady. +"I cannot offer high terms. It is only for myself and my little girl, +so we could manage nicely with one room. My little girl is only eight +years old, and I shall have to leave her alone for several hours every +day, while I am out—teaching." The speaker's lips trembled anew, as +if this were a state of things to which she was not accustomed. "I am +anxious to be in a house where she will be just a little looked after, +and where I can leave her safely. She never gives trouble or gets into +mischief. Still I do feel uneasy when she is alone, and your clergyman, +Mr. Powis, told me—" + +"Oh, are you a friend of Mr. Powis', ma'am?" Mrs. Burrell had not +entirely liked the aspect of affairs hitherto, but now her face cleared. + +The lady hesitated. "I cannot quite say that, but Mr. Powis mentioned +your name to me, and assured me that we should be comfortable here." + +"I don't think you need be uneasy, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell said, with +complacency. "Though it isn't, of course, for me to say it; I never do +have complaints as to any want of comfort. Mr. Powis often sends his +friends to me; indeed, his recommendations have been helpful. He is +a good man,—a very good man is Mr. Powis. He'll never fail to go out +of his way to do a kindness to anybody, and that's what I like in a +clergyman. It's fine to be a grand preacher, there's no doubt, but I +like a clergyman who'll take a little trouble for the sake of folks." + +Mrs. Burrell was really grateful to Mr. Powis for his frequent +"recommendations" of her lodgings. She endeavoured to show her +gratitude by forming one of his congregation at least once every +Sunday. And if she rarely exerted herself to listen to his sermons, she +rarely missed an opportunity of praising him. + +"I am sure he is a good man," responded the lady,—"though indeed I +cannot claim more than a bare acquaintance with him. But now will you +kindly let me see your rooms? My name is Mordaunt—Mrs. Mordaunt." + + + +CHAPTER II. + +MR. POWIS' VISITOR. + +"YOU'LL have to look sharp, and get—why, where is Bertha?" asked Mrs. +Burrell, entering the little parlour, with an air of perturbation. + +"Gone upstairs," said Hope. + +"That girl is never at hand when I want her. And you have no business +here, Hope. Why are you not in the shop?" + +"What did the lady want?" asked Hope, by way of answer. + +"She is a Mrs. Mordaunt, and she has taken the back room. There isn't a +moment to be lost, for it must be ready in less than two hours." + +"Two hours!" repeated Hope. + +"Yes, I don't know why. She is in some sort of trouble, and obliged to +move in a hurry. She seemed dreadfully upset and flurried, poor thing." + +"Only one lady?" asked Hope. + +"There is a child too. You wouldn't think it, to look at her, but she +has a child eight years old. It seems odd, a lady being content with +one room, but it's easy to see she's poor. She goes out teaching. But +she's a lady, and no mistake, so I suppose she's been reduced. I only +hope I shall get my money regular." + +"Oh, I dare say that will be all right," said Hope. + +"I'm not so sure. There's no telling beforehand. I had my doubts from +the first, and if she hadn't come from Mr. Powis, I wouldn't have +fitted in things so easy for her. But Mr. Powis sending any one makes a +difference." + +Mr. Powis' name might this time have made rather less difference in the +landlady's estimation, could she, by virtue of some unwonted power, +have taken a backward glance into the study of St. Andrew's Rectory, +less than one hour previously. + + +Mr. Powis was a tall and shy-mannered man, apt to be taken with bashful +or silent fits, and never ready in speech. But he was, as Mrs. Burrell +had said, and in a deeper sense than Mrs. Burrell had meant, a good +man,—earnest and hearty in work for God, ready and self-forgetting in +work for man. He was in appearance plain-featured, and at first sight +not attractive. Yet people who went to him in trouble did not think him +plain; and children were the last to count him unattractive. + +He had been busy over his sermon that afternoon, when there came an +interruption. Could he see a lady—a stranger? Mr. Powis hesitated. +Would some other time do equally well? He was very much occupied. The +answer returned was—No; it must be "now." Would Mr. Powis spare just +five minutes? + +The sermon-sheets were pushed aside, and a young fair woman in deep +mourning appeared. She was even more tremulous and agitated then, than +a little later at Mrs. Burrell's. He shook hands kindly and handed +her to a chair, interested at once in her look, and foreseeing also +at once that the five minutes were likely to prove elastic in nature. +Mr. Powis could, however, bear an interruption patiently if there were +a sufficient cause; and he read cause enough in the troubled face +opposite. + +Mrs. Mordaunt was the first to break the brief silence. Twice she tried +in vain, voice failing her. The third attempt was successful. + +"I am a stranger here," she said faintly. "I have no friends in +London—no friends in England. My home has always been abroad,—and now +it is all changed. I am a widow—and an orphan. I have come to beg your +advice." + +Mr. Powis signified his readiness to advise, more by gesture than by +utterance. + +"I must not take up your time—more than I can help," she went on +hurriedly, with occasional pauses as if for breath. "But I have no +friends,—none,—and I do so need one. And I have heard you preach +once,—only once,—and I thought you would help me." + +"Take time about it. Don't distress yourself," said Mr. Powis, pushing +his papers farther to one side. "There is no need for haste. You are +suffering,—ill, I am afraid." + +"No, no, not ill. I have only been so cruelly agitated this morning, +I cannot get over it. And I have no one to turn to—no one to help me. +But you will be a friend—" and she looked up at him imploringly, like a +child. + +"I will do what I can indeed," he said. "Tell me your difficulty." + +"I am encompassed with difficulties. I don't know how to breathe or +how to move. And yet I must move, at once. I want to find lodgings in +your Parish, if possible, to go into this afternoon. And I thought you +would perhaps tell me where to inquire. I want to find a house where my +little girl would be cared for, while I am out all day, teaching. That +will have to be my work—teaching. Can you help me to find pupils?" + +"Wait—one thing at a time," he said slowly. "You want lodgings for +yourself and your child." He spoke the last word wonderingly. "I +suppose she is quite tiny—poor little one." + +"Rhona is close upon nine years old, and in mind is twice that. She +has always been my friend and companion. You think me younger than I +am!"—for he had uttered an exclamation. + +"You look hardly over twenty." + +"I am twenty-seven. I was only seventeen when I married. My husband +was a clergyman, a chaplain in Italy. Before that I lived in the south +of France, with my parents. So England is a strange land to me. I was +an only child, and my parents are gone, and six months ago my husband +was taken. I have only my little Rhona left, and 'very' little to live +upon. So it is needful for me to work." + +Mr. Powis made a sound of commiseration, and then thought silently. +"Your husband's relatives," he said at length. "Are there none? Or will +they do nothing?" + +A rush of colour suffused her pale face. "No, no,—I can ask nothing of +them. I must work for myself." + +"But perhaps if they knew and realised the state of your affairs—" + +"No, no," she said feverishly. "I cannot go to them—again. Oh no, it is +impossible. If you knew all, you would say the same. They have always +disliked me, and we have always been strangers. I must keep out of +their way." + +"You have not seen any of them since your coming to England?" + +"Yes,—I 'have!'" she said with an effort. "I cannot again. That is at +an end. It is quite at an end. I stand alone now, and I must stand +alone. By-and-by my Rhona will work for me, but now I have to work for +her. Will you not help me to find pupils? That is all I ask." + +Mr. Powis again studied the question seriously, in his deliberate +fashion, playing with a paper-knife. + +"I have not told you my name," she said. "It is Mary Mordaunt. I trust +you to take no steps whatever without my consent—I mean as regards +my husband's relatives. If you hear of any Mordaunts at any time, or +come across them, do not reveal where I am. I want only to get a quiet +corner for myself and my child, and just enough work to eke out a +living. You see I do not expect great things!" And she smiled sadly. + +"Do you think you have strength for what you propose?" + +"Oh yes, yes!—I am stronger than you would suppose. Only I cannot +stand agitation. Since Arthur's death, I have been subject to this +tremulousness—a kind of throbbing from head to foot. The least emotion +brings it on, and my feelings have been cruelly tried to-day. But I do +not mind work—any amount! And I know I have a gift for teaching. When I +am peacefully alone with Rhona—away from discords—I shall be perfectly +well." + +Then Mr. Powis thought of Mrs. Burrell, and he told his visitor all +about her. + +"Let me know if you decide to go there," he said. "But about the +question of teaching—" + +"Yes, about that!" she said earnestly. + +"I am rather in a difficulty, knowing so little of you." He was touched +with her almost girlish simplicity in the matter. "People are usually +rather particular in their inquiries." + +"But you shall know more—I will tell you anything you wish. I think +it will be easy to satisfy you. And there is one kind old friend, a +French 'pasteur,' who will confirm all I say, if you care to write to +him. My father was in the Indian army till he retired, and we settled +down abroad. And my education has been a very thorough one. It used to +be thought that I might have to teach one day—before I was engaged, I +mean. I could undertake all the plain branches, and music and singing +and drawing—only not German. French and Italian are almost the same to +me as English." + +"And—excuse me—your religious opinions?" + +"When I heard you preach, it was just what my husband would have said," +she answered, with a luminous gleam in her eyes. "I have always thought +the same as Arthur. You can ask me any questions you like—another day." + +"When was it that you heard me?" he asked, rising as she rose. + +"Three Sundays ago. I have only been in London a few weeks. Some one +spoke of you; and Rhona and I wandered off together. It was a very long +walk, too long for either of us, and I could not attempt it again. But +when I found myself in perplexity and trouble, my first impulse was to +come to you." + +"You cannot recall the text of the sermon, I suppose?" + +Her lips could hardly form the words,— + + "'A Father of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in His +holy habitation.'" + +"Ah, I remember," he said, as two burning tears fell. "Poor thing! But +you will not say again, as you did just now, that you have no friend." + +"I never say such things to Rhona," she answered brokenly. "I would not +for worlds utter a word to disturb my child's faith. Rhona seems to +live in an atmosphere quite above all doubts, and she does not know the +difference between herself and me. I do believe, but I am at a lower +level. I cannot see—cannot realise. Your sermon helped me,—if it would +but last. Nothing lasts, except the darkness and the sorrow. Perhaps, +if I were to hear you every Sunday, I might feel differently. I must +not wait longer now. I have to find the lodgings, and to bring Rhona +away quickly from where we are now. Good-bye, and thank you for all +your kindness." + +"We shall see more of you, Mrs. Mordaunt. You must come and make my +wife's acquaintance, for she is tied to her sofa, and cannot go to +you," were Mr. Powis' parting words. + + + +CHAPTER III. + +MOTHER AND CHILD. + +MRS. BURRELL'S apartments, when empty, were kept always in readiness +for use at short notice. + +Still, a good many minor arrangements had to be made, and the two hours +proved by no means too long a time for all that needed to be done. Mrs. +Burrell had scarcely finished a final light dusting of the room, when a +cab stopped at the side-door, through which lodgers went in and out. + +Mrs. Burrell was speedily there, wearing the agreeable manner which she +rarely failed to put on towards strangers. It was a pity that she did +not oftener wear the same manner in her own little home-circle. + +The cab bore upon its roof a goodly amount of luggage. Mrs. Mordaunt +entered the house first, with a quiet step and graceful bearing. +Every trace of the nervous agitation, visible two hours earlier, had +vanished. Close behind her came a delicate small-limbed child bearing a +bird-cage swathed in brown paper, and having a face of rare beauty. + +Mrs. Burrell involuntarily exclaimed, "My! What a pretty creature!" + +And the wonderfully soft dark eyes were lifted to hers, with an +expression which seemed to signify grave rebuke. + +Mrs. Burrell was for the moment struck dumb. Bertha, standing behind, +was absolutely thrilled by the sight of that little fair face, with its +peach-bloom tinting and its broad serene brow. Her lonely heart went +out with a bound, and clung to the vision of childish loveliness. + +"Mother, shall I go upstairs and see our room, while you have the +boxes brought in?" were Rhona's first words, uttered in a voice which +rivalled Mrs. Mordaunt's for sweetness. + +"Yes, certainly, darling. Some one will show you the way." + +"Bertha can go," said Mrs. Burrell. + +The child gave her a glance, and then went slowly up the first flight, +clasping her burden tightly, and declining assistance. + +"No, I do everything myself for Fay," she said, in her serious voice. +"Is that the room? Mother described the house to me as we came, so I +thought I should know. Please open the door, because my hands are full. +Oh, what a nice cosy room! And such a bright fire!" + +Rhona deposited the cage on a table, and looked round with flushing +cheeks. "So nice!" she repeated. "And a bookcase for our books!" + +Then she walked to the window, and was silent. A small court-yard lay +below, and a high blank wall rose opposite. Rhona sighed twice heavily, +as if with a feeling of oppression, and turned away. + +"But I like the room itself," she said. "It seems cosy. Mother will be +able to rest here. There isn't any noise." + +"It is always quiet at the back of the house," said Bertha. + +"I am glad of that. Mother does feel the noise so much. Please, will +you help me get the brown paper off my cage?" + +Bertha obeyed, looking once or twice at the child's fading colour. + +Rhona began by helping her, but left off suddenly, and sat down on +a chair close to the table, leaning an elbow on it, and resting her +broad forehead on one of her little hands, while the dark eyes watched +Bertha's movements earnestly. + +"Please don't be too quick. Fay is so easily frightened," she said, in +a low voice. + +"I think you are tired, Miss Rhona," Bertha said. + +"Yes,—oh, very," Rhona answered, with another long breath. "This has +been such a dreadful day. I can't bear to see mother worried." + +Then without changing her position, but with a look of interest, she +added,—"Are you the landlady's daughter?" + +Bertha shook her head. "Then you must be the niece. Mother said there +were two. Have you lived here always? Is the landlady kind to you? Have +you any father or mother?" + +Bertha made another negative motion. "Mother died last summer, and +father years ago, and I have nobody else belonging to me," she said +huskily. "I have only been here six months. It isn't home." + +Rhona's eyes were full in a moment, not overflowing, but brimming with +unshed sympathetic tears. "I am so sorry,—oh, so sorry," she said, +putting her hand on Bertha's arm. "My father died too, and that is +why we are in such trouble. We used to live with him in Italy, and it +was so lovely. But God took father away, and then we had to come to +England. He took your mother too, didn't He? I think it must be almost +worse for you than for me, because I have darling mother still." + +Bertha was strangely comforted by the child's pity. All these past +months she had been nursing her grief, struggling on in uncomplaining +sorrow, knowing herself to be unwelcome under her aunt's roof, yet +having no other home. Mrs. Burrell clearly disliked her, and from +Hope she met with little more than indifference. Under a simple sense +of duty, Bertha had striven persistently to do her best, but joy and +loving-kindness seemed to have faded out of her life. Now, suddenly, a +little sunbeam had fallen across her way. + +"So mother and I can both feel for you,—oh, so much," continued Rhona, +a checked sob rising in her throat. And then, with a look of pain, she +put her hand to her brow. "I can't bear to see anybody unhappy; it +makes me 'ache,'" she added pitifully. "Poor Bertha! I dare say it was +just as bad for you to come away from your home to Mrs. Burrell's, as +it was for us to leave dear Italy. I don't mean exactly 'bad.' Mother +and I couldn't complain, because God's will is always right. But we +were very very sorry, and that is not wrong, for the Lord Jesus was +sorry, and He wept. Mother did cry so dreadfully at first, and then I +always liked to think about His tears. Because He could understand it +all so well. Some people don't seem able to understand at all." + +"And you don't like London, Miss Rhona?" asked Bertha. + +"No," said Rhona sadly. "Not yet. Perhaps some day I shall, but +everything is so different. If only we could have gone on living +in Italy, and if mother need not work! Only that isn't God's will; +and mother says we must be willing,—we must not want to choose for +ourselves. When that feeling comes of wanting Italy so much, it must be +temptation. Don't you think so?" + +"I don't know," faltered Bertha. Mrs. Burrell might be wanting her all +this time, and she knew it; yet she stood as if fascinated, drinking in +every word. + +"Oh yes, you do. Everything is a temptation that makes us want to have +things different from God's will," said the child, with a curious flash +of her eyes. "He loves us so much, and He always knows what is best. +How can we know? We just have to be patient now. But by-and-by,—oh, +won't it be different?" + +"By-and-by, when you are grown up, Miss Rhona?" + +"Oh, I did not mean that at all. I didn't mean growing up. I meant the +great wonderful 'by-and-by,' when mother and I shall see my own father +again, and the Lord Jesus will be our King for ever. And we shall be +'with Him' then," added the child, in tones of awe-struck realisation, +while her lips were grave, and her eyes shone. "Don't you know? Don't +you remember— + + "'Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty'? + +"Don't you think very often about that time when you are sad?" + +Bertha was positively pale and trembling with undefined feelings. + +She said, "No, Miss Rhona, I don't." + +Rhona looked earnestly at her before speaking. Then there was a low, +"Poor Bertha! It is much worse for you than for us." + +Bertha involuntarily asked, "Why?" + +"I think I'll tell you another time," said Rhona gently. "I am so tired +now, and Fay wants his seed; and they are bringing up the boxes. But I +am glad we have come here. I do like you so much." + +Mrs. Burrell's voice was audible outside, containing some smothered +indignation. "Bertha! What are you after? Just come and help, will you, +and be quick." + +The child's tired eyes gave a flash of half-comical meaning. "I should +think Mrs. Burrell was cross sometimes," she said softly. "But go, you +nice Bertha—don't stop." + +Fay had to wait longer for his seed. There was a bustle in the room for +some minutes, boxes being carried in and placed here or there. When the +business was accomplished, they found that Rhona had coiled herself up +in the corner of the hard sofa, and was sound asleep. One little hand +supported her cheek, and a look of sorrow rested still upon the brow. + +Mrs. Burrell had gone downstairs. + +And Bertha, lingering to see if anything more were needed, murmured +involuntarily—"She's a beautiful child, ma'am." + +"Poor little pet!" the young mother said sadly. "It is such a baby-face +in sleep, yet she is years beyond her age in mind." + +"She doesn't look strong," said Bertha. + +"No, she feels everything so acutely. They tell me her brain is far too +active. She ought to have fresh country air, and not be allowed to read +or think too much. But—" the pause following was expressive. + +Before either could speak, Rhona stirred, and—"Oh, poor Bertha!" broke +from her. + +Mrs. Mordaunt gave one surprised glance at her companion. + +Bertha volunteered no explanation. + +"I think we will have our tea before I begin to unpack. Just tea and +bread and butter, if you please," said Mrs. Mordaunt. + +Bertha disappeared. + +And Mrs. Mordaunt, with a sudden movement, knelt down beside the couch, +her hands locked together. "O Rhona—my little Rhona, my own little +darling!" she murmured passionately. "Thank God, I have you still." + +For a moment her face was hidden. Then she looked up, to find Rhona's +eyes fixed upon her. + +"Mother, are you crying? Has anything fresh happened?" + +"No, no, darling. I am only a little upset by all we have gone through. +It is over now. See what a nice comfortable corner we have found." + +"You don't think they will find us out and come here, mother?" asked +Rhona anxiously. + +"No, indeed, pet. How could they?" asked Mrs. Mordaunt, smiling, and +smoothing the child's hair tenderly. "But we have had an exciting day, +and I don't wonder that this little head is hot." + +"I had such a pain before I went to sleep, and it isn't gone yet," said +Rhona wearily. "Bertha was telling me about herself. She has no home +and no father or mother, and she doesn't look happy. I do wish nobody +had any troubles!" And the child sighed. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +ANOTHER LODGER. + +"YOU may as well get something to do, Hope, and not sit wasting your +time like that," said Mrs. Burrell with some sharpness. + +It was the evening of Christmas Day; consequently shops were closed, +and business was at a standstill. Mrs. Burrell did not, like many of +her neighbours, go in for Christmas festivities. She counted such +doings a waste of time and of money. Beyond the presence of her +favourite nephew, Neil Burrell, a young Parish schoolmaster, who +usually spent his holidays under her roof, there was little to mark the +date. + +Snow had fallen heavily for some hours, and when evening came, the +weather proved to be such that no one could venture out,—not even Hope, +under her cousin Neil's guardianship. She was vexed at the deprivation, +and sat discontentedly before the fire, while her mother and Bertha +plied their needles, and Neil busied himself with a book. He was a +quiet intelligent young man, more given to reading than to talking, as +a rule. + +The drawing-room apartments were empty still. Mrs. Burrell lived in +daily expectation of fresh lodgers, and hitherto she had been daily +disappointed. + +"It is Christmas Day," Hope answered, without turning her head. "I +don't see any need to sew on Christmas Day." + +"There's no need to waste your time, whatever day it is," rejoined Mrs. +Burrell. + +Hope gaped listlessly. "I wish something would happen. It is so stupid, +spending Christmas just like any other day. Except of course that we +shut up, and that Neil is here. But Neil only sits and reads." + +Neil good-naturedly laid down his book. "How is the poor lady upstairs +getting on, aunt Burrell?" he asked, by way of conversation. + +"What makes you call her 'poor'?" Hope inquired. + +"Well, I don't know. She can't be very rich to live in only one +room,—and she carries trouble in her face." + +"I am sure I should be troubled about that child, if I was her," said +Mrs. Burrell, adjusting a seam. + +Bertha asked,—"Why?" + +"Why? It's easy to see she isn't long for this world," said Mrs. +Burrell. "I never came across such a child. The way she talks, it isn't +natural. It's like an old woman that has had her fill of life,—and +she scarcely nine years old! I don't mean to say she is going to die +directly. But you mark my words,—she will never grow up." + +"People can't tell beforehand," said Neil, noting Bertha's distress. + +"She would be a pretty child, if she wasn't so grave," said Hope. + +"I think her lovely," murmured Bertha. "It is a little angel's face." + +"That's just what I say," Mrs. Burrell remarked conclusively. "She has +the look of one who isn't long for this world. You can believe me or +not as you like. Just you wait and see. I know!" + +The bell at the side-door tingled furiously. + +"Who is that, I wonder?" Hope said. + +"Bertha can answer it," said Mrs. Burrell. "Hannah is busy upstairs. Be +quick, and don't keep people waiting." + +"I heard a cab," said Neil. + +The others ascribed this to imagination. Yet when Bertha opened the +door, letting in a rush of icy air and snow-flakes, there in very truth +was a cab, dimly visible. Bertha shivered, but stood her ground. A +gentleman descended with deliberation, picked his way across the snowy +pavement, and entered. + +"You can wait," he said peremptorily to the cabman, and then to Bertha, +with equal peremptoriness, "Shut the door." + +Bertha obeyed, not without an instant's hesitation. She found herself +confronted by an elderly man, muffled up to the eyes in wraps. The +said eyes surveyed her sharply, from beneath a pair of overgrown grey +eyebrows. + +"Mrs. Burrell's?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir." + +"I wish to see the lodgings,—vacant now, I am told." + +"Yes, sir. I'll call Mrs. Burrell," Bertha answered, in accordance with +repeated instructions. + +"Stop. How many rooms?" + +"Drawing-room and best bedroom," said Bertha. + +"Humph! No other?" + +"I think a small servant's room could be fitted up. Mrs. Burrell does +it sometimes." + +"That would do. A box-room, not for a servant. Any other lodgers?" + +"Yes, sir; a lady." + +"No babies?" + +"No, sir, only one little girl." + +"Past the crying age?" + +Bertha could have smiled. "Yes, quite," she said. + +"Doesn't race about or make a racket?" + +"No, sir. I never knew a quieter child." + +"How old?" + +"About nine," said Bertha. + +"Too young. Much too young," said the gentleman, with an odd +expression. "Well, well, the rooms may do, perhaps." + +"I will call Mrs. Burrell, if you please," began Bertha. + +"Stop a moment—stop a moment. No such hurry. Parlour faces south, eh?" + +"Yes, sir, and the bedroom too." + +"Cooking good?" He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. "Be +honest and speak out. It's no earthly use my coming if the cooking +isn't good. I shouldn't stay a week. Good cooking is an essential with +me—absolutely an essential." + +"Mrs. Burrell is a first-rate cook," said Bertha. + +"Come, that promises well. Does it all herself, hey?" + +"No, sir, but she sees to it all, and does a good deal." + +"Come, that's fair. Knows how to roast and stew and bake, and all the +rest of it? Soup and fish; curries—'ragoûts'—everything of that sort, +eh?" + +"I think Mrs. Burrell could undertake whatever you are likely to want," +said Bertha. + +"Good. You look as if you were speaking the truth too." + +Mrs. Burrell suddenly appeared on the scene, inwardly wrathful at not +having been summoned. + +"You can go!" she said in an undertone to Bertha, when some words of +explanation had been uttered, and a private glance of displeasure +was shot sideways. Then with a genial and smiling air, Mrs. Burrell +addressed herself to the task of escorting her visitor upstairs. + +"That isn't a bad-looking girl," he remarked. + +"She's one of the best girls that ever was," said Mrs. Burrell, with an +alacrity which would have amazed Bertha. "Just one of the old-fashioned +sort, thorough in her work, and don't mind how much she has to do, and +always has a pleasant manner." + +"Knows how to wait at table?" + +"Yes, sir. Bertha always waits on the drawing-room lodgers." + +"Ha! So this is the parlour. Well—it might be worse. Tolerable as to +size. You don't call that daub a picture, I hope. Better have bare +walls than daubs. Never mind; I have pictures of my own, so it doesn't +matter. Bedroom over this, I suppose. The girl said it faced south. One +of these windows ought to be a bow. How large is the third room? Big +enough to hold lumber? Yes, yes,—I'll see them both directly. May as +well tell me your terms first." + +Mrs. Burrell obeyed, and found no objections offered. + +"I suppose you could have all made ready for me in a couple of +days. Hotel life does not suit me, and I want to be settled for a +time. No,—on second thoughts I shall not be able to come till next +Thursday—if I decide to have your rooms. By-the-bye, you don't have any +piano-strumming near?" + +"No, sir; not even next-door." + +"Neither side? Rare that, in London. And you are not musical +yourselves, I hope?" + +"No, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell. + +"If I come, I am likely to stay. I don't care for changes." + +At this moment, to Mrs. Burrell's horror, the sound of a soft +"contralto" came floating across the passage, through the shut door of +the back bedroom. + +"Mercy! What's that?" exclaimed the gentleman. + +But when Mrs. Burrell would have spoken, he held up his hand, +authoritatively imposing silence. They stood silent; the gentleman +listening and the landlady chafing. Every word was distinct. + + "'For ever with the Lord!' + Amen; so let it be! + Life from the dead is in that word, + 'Tis immortality. + Here in the body pent, + Absent from Him I roam, + Yet nightly pitch my moving tent + A day's march nearer Home. + + "My Father's House on high, + Home of my soul! how near + At times, to faith's foreseeing eye, + Thy golden gates appear! + Ah! Then my spirit faints + To reach the land I love, + The bright inheritance of Saints, + Jerusalem above." + +Mrs. Burrell fidgeted, but fidgeted in vain. Her possible lodger +stirred not a finger. + +There came at length a slight cough. + +And then a child's voice said,—"Don't sing any more, mother darling." + +The mother replying,—"Perhaps I had better wait a few minutes, Rhona. +This London air seems to make me husky." + +"Montgomery!" muttered the gentleman. + +Mrs. Burrell stared, and after a moment's hesitation, her perplexity +found vent in,—"Beg pardon, sir?" + +"Montgomery! Wrote it, of course," said the gentleman impatiently. +"Your walls appear to be uncommonly thin." + +"I don't think they are, sir. And that is the first time I have heard +the lady's voice, though she has been here more than a month. And she +has not any piano." + +"So much the worse," the gentleman made answer unexpectedly. + +Mrs. Burrell stared afresh and was mute, while conducting him upstairs. +He surveyed the two remaining rooms almost without a remark, went back +to the drawing-room, and stood there absently, drumming on the table +with the fingers of one hand. + +"Very well. Next Thursday," he said, waking up suddenly. + +"You decide to take the rooms, sir?" asked Mrs. Burrell. + +"Of course. Did I not tell you so just now?" + +Mrs. Burrell wisely refrained from answering in the negative. + +He pulled out a piece of paper, wrote something, and handed it to her. + +"My name and present address. I shall send some of my luggage on the +morning of Thursday, and come myself after luncheon. Mind you have +the rooms well aired,—and fires laid, but not lighted till I arrive. +Dinner at eight o'clock. I will send you word what to get for me. +And—by-the-by, you need not say a word to Mrs. Mordaunt about her +singing. That is not strumming, you know." + +"No, sir," assented Mrs. Burrell. + +"Good evening. Ahem! Did you say—?" And he paused again, with a rather +curious expression. "Has she a husband living? Does he happen to be +musical too?" + +"Mrs. Mordaunt is a widow, sir." + +"All right. Good evening." + +Mrs. Burrell looked at the paper in her hand, read aloud,—"Colonel +Smyth," and returned to the back-parlour. + +"What made you stand all that time talking to the gentleman?" she +demanded of Bertha. "Gossiping about Mrs. Mordaunt! As if she was any +concern of his." + +"I didn't!" Bertha answered in surprise. "He was asking about the +rooms, and he would not let me call you sooner." + +"You mean to tell me you were not speaking of Mrs. Mordaunt?" + +"I told him there was a lady in the house, and a little girl, and +I said she was not noisy. That was all," Bertha replied. "He asked +questions, and I had to answer." + +"He didn't ask her name, I'll be bound," said Mrs. Burrell. + +"No, and I did not tell it him," said Bertha. + +Mrs. Burrell turned upon her sharply. "Well, I did think you ware a +truthful girl, anyway." + +Bertha's pale face flushed. "I am speaking the truth, indeed I am," she +said. "I did not know it mattered much either way, but I am sure I did +not say Mrs. Mordaunt's name—quite sure." + +"It doesn't matter, except that I hate gossip," said Mrs. Burrell. "And +I hate to have a thing denied when it's been done. Why, the gentleman +had her name as pat as could be." + +"Bertha wouldn't deny what she knew she had done," said Neil +persuasively. "The gentleman may be an old acquaintance of Mrs. +Mordaunt." + +"I don't think he can be," said Bertha. "He did not even know whether +we had any other lodgers in the house." + +"Well then, either you or aunt must have let slip the name, without +thinking," said the young man. + +"Not I!" retorted Mrs. Burrell. "Gossip isn't in 'my' line. And I don't +mean it to be in Bertha's either. So you mind!" + + + +CHAPTER V. + +COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS. + +THURSDAY came, and a supply of heavy luggage arrived, followed later by +Colonel Smyth himself. + +Divested of outdoor wraps, he showed as an elderly man, disposed to +stoutness, yet of upright and military carriage. He had closely cropped +hair, iron-grey in hue, and there was a certain fierceness about +the outline of his grizzled moustache, calculated to intimidate the +womankind. Moreover, his glance was severe, his manner was curt, his +voice was peremptory, and he appeared to be altogether of a particular +and impatient disposition. + +Mrs. Burrell, Hope and Bertha, not to speak of Hannah Hoskyns, were +hard at work for hours, attending to the Colonel's requirements. +Happily for them, shop-business was slack that afternoon; yet somebody +had to remain always within call. Moreover, preparations for the +Colonel's late dinner took considerable time. + +Even Neil was pressed into the service of the military man. That which +had to be done, whether in the way of moving boxes, hanging pictures, +or aught else, was done at once; for the Colonel would on no account +consent to defer operations till the morrow. + +"Sharp was the word," as Mrs. Burrell privately declared, in much +dudgeon. And if anybody failed at a glance to see and carry out the +Colonel's will, very sharp was the blame. "I'm sure, if I had known +what he was going to be like—! I don't know what in the world we shall +do, if he keeps on much longer. It's enough to drive us all frantic." + +At length, the rooms were arranged; furniture was placed as the +Colonel desired, "daubs" had given place to artistic views, lumber had +found its way to the lumber-room, and countless fidgets had received +attention. Books remained to be unpacked, but Colonel Smyth would trust +no hands save his own about his beloved books. This point reached, he +subsided for a while, and the ordinary work of the house might receive +attention. + +"Talk of trouble," Mrs. Burrell groaned. "That man gives ten times as +much trouble in an hour as Mrs. Mordaunt does in a week." + +"Men always do," Hope averred, out of her limited experience. + + +In truth, the occupants of the back bedroom had given little enough of +trouble that afternoon. The young widow had spent the greater part of +her morning in a long walk, the object of which was a possibility of +regular employment as daily governess in a private family. But the hope +had proved delusive. + +Two hours of teaching every morning, with twenty pounds yearly by way +of remuneration, seemed something worth grasping, in addition to her +most slender income. Mr. Powis was actively interesting himself among +his friends on Mrs. Mordaunt's behalf, and he had succeeded in finding +two music-pupils, each for one hour weekly, at very low terms. It was +something to make a beginning, he said, and Mrs. Mordaunt acquiesced. +But as weeks passed with no further advance, difficulties loomed +increasingly, and patience was sorely taxed. + +Mrs. Mordaunt was not only a highly-cultivated but a +highly-accomplished woman, thoroughly well fitted for the work of +teaching. Yet this availed her little in London, without friends or +recommendations. Mr. Powis spoke for her warmly, but Mr. Powis was only +a recent acquaintance, and he had a character for being sanguine. + +Since their simple early dinner, the mother and child had spent an +undisturbed "tête-à-tête" afternoon. Mrs. Mordaunt was busied with some +fine needlework. And Rhona sat close beside her, threading needles, +and chatting often as if with a wish to wile away the long hours, but +her fair brow looked grave with a reflection of her mother's evident +sadness. This morning's disappointment had fallen upon them heavily. + +Increasing darkness presently made needlework an impossibility. Lights +were due; but though busy feet went to and fro in the house, no one +entered. Mrs. Mordaunt laid carefully aside the delicate white cambric +over which she had been employed, glad to take a few minutes' rest, for +the morning's excursion had left her unnerved and wearied. + +As the passing minutes grew into a full half-hour, she rang the +bell, once and twice in vain. A third effort brought Hope, dusty and +flurried, to ask what was needed. + +"Candles, if you please, and I shall be glad of tea early," Mrs. +Mordaunt said in her gentle way, contrasting not a little with the +Colonel's dictatorial air. + +But whether or no Hope marked the contrast, she was speedily distracted +by fresh demands on the part of the Colonel, and forgot all about Mrs. +Mordaunt's needs, while Bertha was not permitted an instant's freedom. +Mother and daughter had to sit idly in the fire-light, and tea bade +fair to be unusually late instead of unusually early. + +"Mother, I think they ought to attend to us," said Rhona soberly. "I +don't mind your having to rest a little longer, but I do want you to +have a cup of tea." + +"Everybody seems to be busy about the new lodger," said Mrs. Mordaunt. + +"Yes,—he's a Colonel," remarked Rhona. "Colonel Smyth, Bertha says. I +wonder if we shall know him." + +"Not likely," Mrs. Mordaunt said, her lips hardly forming the words. + +"Mother, you are so tired. Couldn't we ring again?" asked the child +anxiously. + +"Better not yet. We must have a little patience, darling." + +"Then put your head down on the sofa-pillow,—so—sweet mother," Rhona +said lovingly, as she twined a slender arm in one of Mrs. Mordaunt's, +and bent over her, with wistful eyes. "Is that nice? Was it a very very +long way this morning?" + +"Yes, rather. But I don't mind the actual distance so much, Rhona. +It is these noisy crowded streets which try me,—and the terribly +unprotected feeling. I cannot shake off the nervousness of that, or of +having to speak to strangers about myself. Sometimes I feel quite ill +with the effort,—yet I ought to be able to do what other people do. +I am afraid you have a poor weak silly mother, darling." She did not +often betray her feelings thus to her child, for she had a dread of +agitating Rhona. But occasionally a passing impulse proved too strong +for her usual principle of action. + +Rhona's pained voice in answer immediately opened her eyes to the +mistake. + +"O mother! Don't say such things. Please don't,—it makes me so unhappy, +You 'know' I understand. Father always took such care of you, and you +never had to do anything alone till—till—" the poor child could hardly +speak, for struggling sobs. "O mother! I do wish I were old enough to +take care of you. Couldn't you let me walk with you another time? I +should like it so much; indeed I should. And I could wait outside the +house for you, I shouldn't mind how long. O mother! Do let me, and then +you won't feel quite so lonely perhaps." + +"My pet, you 'do' make me ashamed of myself," Mrs. Mordaunt said, +sitting up, and taking into her arms the little slight figure, +quivering with distress. "Hush, darling,—don't cry, or you will make +yourself ill, and that always gives me such a heart-ache. I will not +call myself silly again, if it grieves you. But you know, I have to +conquer these feelings of nervousness and weakness, darling Rhona. If I +did not, I should be wrong, and foolish too. I 'have' to stand alone; +and if it is God's will for me, He can give me strength. If dear father +were here, he would wish me to do God's will bravely. So now you are +not going to be unhappy any more. Let me see you smile!" + +The smile came, but it was dim in kind. Tears flowed in one sense +readily with Rhona, if her feelings were stirred or hurt for others. +But in another sense, they did not flow easily. Unlike most children, +she could not weep without positive physical pain and after exhaustion. +For some minutes, neither spoke; and Rhona's head lay silently on her +mother's shoulder. + +"They seem quite to have forgotten us," Mrs. Mordaunt said at length, +speaking cheerfully. "We shall be glad of our tea when it comes, shall +we not?" + +"Yes,—very," Rhona said, sighing. "Mother, isn't it funny how much +harder it seems to be patient about little things than big things? I +wonder why. I think I feel generally pretty patient about our great +troubles,—leaving the dear Italy home and all that. But I 'do' get +vexed when you want your tea so much, and they won't bring it. I get +vexed if things are uncomfortable, and there is no real reason." + +"There is always a reason," said Mrs. Mordaunt. + +"Oh yes,—the people of the house are busy. But that isn't a good +reason. They ought to remember us." + +"But perhaps the good reason lies behind," said Mrs. Mordaunt, softly +laying her hand on Rhona's. "When a great trouble touches us, we know +it comes from God, and we lean on Him, and He comforts us. But when +there are little worries, we think they only come from man, and we +forget that the least things may be part of our discipline, and so we +are easily upset and vexed." + +"Such a little thing as tea being late,—is that a part?" asked Rhona +slowly. "Mother, in our last lodging, when the woman was so careless, +and cooked everything badly, I used to see how patient you were. Was +that why?" + +"That was why I tried to be patient, darling, though indeed I was not +always. But I am sure that not even a pin's prick of worry can reach +one of His children, without His permission. And if so, it follows that +the little pin-prick is from Him, as much as the greatest sorrow,—and +then it must follow that we have to accept all patiently." + +Rhona folded her hands. + +"I didn't see that before," she said quietly. "Then it is not wrong of +them to keep us waiting, if they are just doing God's will." + +"Ah, that is another part of the question," said Mrs. Mordaunt, almost +smiling. "Neglect of duty is wrong in any case. It may be God's will +that you and I should have our patience tried, but certainly it is not +His will that anybody should be careless or forgetful. There is the +same difficulty—if it is a difficulty—in great troubles, Rhona. Sorrow +may come through another person's wrong-doing, and yet may come to us +straight from God, though the wrong-doing could not possibly be as He +wills. For instance,—suppose a thief came and stole everything we have +here. He would not be doing God's will,—and yet the trial of losing our +things would be sent straight to us from God." + +"Oh yes,—I see," Rhona said. "I shan't mind little worries so much, if +I think about them like that. Only I do wish the tea would come. Oh, +here is Bertha at last." + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE. + +LESS than half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared. + +"If you please, ma'am, could Mr. Powis have a word with you?" she asked. + +"Certainly. Show him in. And, Bertha, you can take away the tray." + +Mrs. Mordaunt flushed slightly, as she heard the clergyman's +approaching step. Her hand made a quick movement, as if to thrust out +of sight the delicate needlework upon which she was employed. She +checked the impulse, however, and continued sewing until he entered. +What need to be ashamed? + +"I have apologised before now for receiving you here—continental +fashion," she said, rising. "You know it to be my only reception-room." + +Mr. Powis deprecated any apology on her part. He was at first in one +of his constrained moods, saying that he could not possibly stay, yet +taking a chair, and seeming then at a loss for remarks. Mrs. Mordaunt +saw his eyes travel questioningly round the room, dimly lighted with +one candle, and she drew his attention to the sofa, where Rhona had +curled herself up in her favourite corner, and had fallen asleep. He +said "Ah!" softly, and drew his chair nearer. + +Mrs. Mordaunt broke out suddenly—"London air does not suit her." + +"No," he answered in a tone of consideration. "The child looks frail." + +"She is just that—not ill, but frail. Sometimes I think I shall have to +go away—to take her into the country. But—where?" + +"You have no friends in the country?" + +"None. And none in London either, for the matter of that, except you." + +"My wife wishes to be your friend too, Mrs. Mordaunt. Will you not let +her? She cannot come to you." + +"I ought to have been to call, I know. It is neglectful. Forgive me. I +seem to have no heart for anything." + +Mr. Powis turned towards her with a look of interest. "Still so much +depression," he said kindly, emerging from his fit of bashfulness. + +"It is not mere depression. It is deadness," she said, in a low voice, +with clasped hands, her eyes resting on Rhona's face. "I seem to see +nothing, to feel nothing, to know nothing, except that Arthur is gone. +It is a kind of spiritual paralysis. I have only power of feeling in +connection with Rhona. Everything else is dull and dead." + +"I think not entirely," he said. + +"Yes,—entirely. You would hardly imagine how far it goes. My spiritual +senses are in a state of blank. I cannot describe it. I can talk to +Rhona—read the Bible with her, and speak of Christ. I know it all, and +I find myself speaking as if I felt it all. But there is no feeling. +When her dear little face lights up, there is no real response in my +heart. And yet I cannot let her know how things are with me—I dare not. +She suffers so intensely if she sees me grieved." + +"There is no need," said Mr. Powis. "If Christ the Physician is +acquainted with your state, you are not compelled—believe me, you are +not compelled—to tell your symptoms to everybody around." + +"But it seems almost hypocrisy to talk without feeling." + +"I think not, I think not in your case. Numbness is not death. +Sometimes we may be fully assured of a truth without the present power +to feel. A severe blow may result in want of sensation. I think you +have been stunned." + +"Yes,—paralysed," she said in a low voice. + +"Christ Jesus cured paralytics," said Mr. Powis. + +Mrs. Mordaunt's eyes shone. "Thank you," she murmured. + +"No lack of real feeling there, poor thing," the clergyman thought, but +he did not say so. + +Rhona suddenly opened her eyes, and after one bewildered glance, she +sprang up to greet her kind friend, and was speedily seated on his knee. + +"I must not wait," he said a minute or two later. "Mrs. Powis has two +or three friends to tea, and she expects me back early. But—the fact +is, Mrs. Mordaunt,—I came to see,—to inquire—to find out if anything +had resulted from that lady,—from the hope of teaching, I mean." He was +suddenly embarrassed and hesitating again. "That which you were to ask +about this morning." + +"It has fallen through," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "Rhona and I are sadly +disappointed. Mrs. Hayes had just decided to have a resident governess." + +"Disappointed,—yes, no doubt," Mr. Powis said, a slow smile creeping +over his face. "But sometimes,—yes, sometimes, disappointment turns out +to be in the end the best, the very best for us." + +"I am sure of that," Mrs. Mordaunt could reply. + +"Mother said she shouldn't wonder if something else quite as nice was +waiting for her somewhere," remarked Rhona. + +"It often is so,—often, with those who trust a Father's care," said +Mr. Powis. "Will you, if you please, Mrs. Mordaunt,—will you kindly +read this note? I am very glad you have had the little disappointment +to-day." + +Mrs. Mordaunt read of a lady, with three children, desiring to find a +daily governess, who should teach for four hours every morning, remain +to early dinner, walk with the children for an hour and a half every +afternoon except Saturday, and receive the sum of fifty pounds per +annum. "I should imagine from your description that Mrs. Mordaunt would +exactly suit me," the lady wrote. "I have no one else in view. Would +you kindly arrange for an early interview between her and me? I am +anxious to have the matter settled, that lessons may begin again next +week. I object to long holidays for the children." + +"O mother! Isn't it beautiful?" Rhona exclaimed. "If the lady this +morning had settled to have you, we couldn't have seen about this." + +"No. In that case I should not have mentioned Mrs. Howard," said Mr. +Powis. + + +It seemed to Mrs. Burrell a very odd, not to say uncomfortable +coincidence, that neither of her two lodgers—the young widow and the +elderly Colonel,—rejoiced in relatives or friends. + +Mrs. Mordaunt made no secret of the fact in her own case. She told Mrs. +Burrell frankly that her girlish home had been in France, that her +married life had been spent in Italy; that consequently, she had had no +opportunity of cultivating acquaintances in England. That having been +herself an only child with parents now dead, both of whom were also +only children, she possessed no living relatives of her own; and that +as for her husband's relatives— + +"There were some," she said hesitatingly, with a faint blush,—"but the +terms on which they would wish to hold intercourse were such as she +could not possibly consent to." With a sad smile she added,—"So you +see, Mrs. Burrell, you will not be much troubled with callers while I +am here. My only friend in London is Mr. Powis." + +It was hardly wise to say so much, but being young and lonely, the +temptation to seek a little sympathy was urgent. Mrs. Burrell rather +objected to the state of affairs thus revealed, yet felt flattered by +the confidence reposed in her. + +"Dear me, ma'am, how melancholy!" she said more than once; and to +do her justice, she sincerely pitied Mrs. Mordaunt. "For it's a +forlorn position, there's no denying," she remarked afterwards to her +daughter,—"and that young thing wants a protector. It's my belief she +isn't long for this world; and whatever is to become of the child +when she is taken, nobody knows. Why, there would be nothing but the +workhouse. To be sure, she might be got into some sort of orphanage. +But that kind of thing calls for a deal of interest and expense. I dare +say Mr. Powis would do all he could, and that wouldn't be much; for +everybody knows Mr. Powis hasn't got enough for his own children, let +alone a stranger's." + +Naturally the Colonel was less communicative towards his landlady than +Mrs. Mordaunt. Yet, strange to say, he seemed to be in much the same +condition with respect to relatives and friends. + +Weeks went by, and nobody came to see him. Apparently too, he +corresponded with nobody. Certainly not a letter had been brought to +the house addressed to "Colonel Smyth" since his arrival. + +He seemed content in his solitude. Every morning, after a hearty +breakfast, he sallied forth, and did not return until luncheon-time. +Every afternoon, he shut himself up, and either read or wrote or slept +till about five, when he took another ramble, returning in time for +dinner. Dinner was a serious matter in Mrs. Burrell's estimation; for +though the Colonel usually contrived to make a very good meal, and +sometimes condescended to allow that his landlady did "pretty well" in +the culinary line, yet he rarely failed to indulge in complaints as to +each separate item of food, no small trial to the temper of a good cook. + +He paid his bills regularly, and that spoke in his favour. Still there +was about him a slight flavour of mystery, aggravating to a landlady's +feelings. There was no knowing who were his friends, or what were his +occupations. He read much, and wrote a little, but all his books were +locked up in the two glass bookcases, and all his papers were locked +up in desks and drawers. The Colonel's keys were never visible, and +nothing was ever left accidentally open. Mrs. Burrell would have prided +herself in taking never a peep, if a peep had been in her power, but +she objected to its not being in her power. She did not like "being +distrusted." + +The Colonel, however, caring little for her likes or dislikes, went on +in his own fashion. + +Mrs. Mordaunt was, soon after Christmas, started in her new vocation +of daily governess. She found another acquaintance in the children's +mother, but it was an acquaintance only, not a friend. Mrs. Howard +rarely appeared in the school-room; and when she did appear, although +kind, she was stately. + +The young widow proved to be not only an accomplished but a most +painstaking teacher; and the children soon repaid her trouble with +warm affection. Mrs. Howard was fully satisfied, and that was all. She +gave no thought to the home-life or possible home-cares of the gentle +instructress. + +Mrs. Mordaunt woke vividly to the change in her own position, shrank +into a shell of reserve, and sensitively declined any further +acquaintances offered by Mr. Powis, deferring still her long-talked-of +visit to the clergyman's invalid wife. She pleaded her occupations and +her lack of a sitting-room, and begged that no one might be asked to +call, forgetting that for Rhona's sake, she ought to have been willing +to put aside her own feelings in the matter. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY. + +THE Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had never yet seen one another. +Neither of the two evinced any particular curiosity as to his or her +fellow-lodger. Still it was singular that weeks should pass without an +accidental encounter on the stairs or in the street. + +Once, the doors of their respective apartments opened at the same +instant. But before Mrs. Mordaunt could catch a glimpse of the Colonel, +he had beaten a sharp retreat. + +"What a funny man he must be, mother!" little Rhona said, laughing. "He +seems to be quite afraid of you." + +She had met him herself twice, and Colonel Smyth had looked steadily, +with evident interest, at the child's fair face, but not a word had +been exchanged. + +Rhona's life at this time was a lonely one. From nine o'clock every +morning until about half-past four in the afternoon, she had to employ +herself as best she might in her mother's absence. There was nothing to +be seen from the window, and her books were not many in number. Every +day she had some simple lessons to prepare, set her by Mrs. Mordaunt +the evening before; and when these were done, she read and re-read +Rollin's "Ancient History," Mackintosh's "History of England," and a +few more volumes of a like nature. Now and then Mr. Powis brought her +a story-book for perusal, and had he understood what a boon he was +conferring, he would have done so oftener. + +The little delicate plant soon showed signs of drooping, under lack +of fresh air and sunshine. Not so much to the mother's eyes, for +Mrs. Mordaunt's return was always the signal for flushing cheeks and +eager talk. But Bertha knew, as no one else did, how often the child +sat listlessly, curled up in her sofa corner, too languid to employ +herself, spending hour after hour in wistful dreams of the dear Italian +home or tired longings for her mother. + +Mrs. Mordaunt often took her for a little stroll in the afternoon, when +her own day's work was done, little equal as she might be to this extra +exertion. And sometimes Mrs. Powis' nurse, with half-a-dozen small +children, called to escort her in a longer ramble. But London streets +wearied rather than refreshed Rhona. And the afternoon stroll grew +quietly shorter week by week, suiting the lessened powers of mother and +child. + +For Mrs. Mordaunt had never been strong, and her strength was now +severely taxed. The walk to and fro, between Mrs. Burrell's and Mrs. +Howard's, was far too long when supplemented by a considerable ramble +with her pupils, and often by a little turn with Rhona. Also, she had +the stress of four hours' teaching, and another hour at night with +Rhona, not to speak of the continual weight at her heart whenever she +was absent from her child. Rhona never complained, but Mrs. Mordaunt +realised only too well the long and lonely days which had to be passed +through. Moreover, the having to venture out in all weathers, after +almost a lifetime in sunny southern climes, and yet more the continual +struggle with her own nervous and shrinking timidity—a timidity +natural to her, and fostered by a hitherto guarded and sheltered +existence,—these things told heavily upon her. But she hardly knew how +much her health was suffering. She was only bent upon keeping on. + +Sometimes it occurred to her that the distance between her lodgings +and her work was too great, and that she might be wise to search for +a room nearer to Mrs. Howard's. Yet for Rhona's sake, she dreaded the +thought of a move. During her long daily absences, the remembrance of +Bertha was an unspeakable comfort. Mrs. Burrell was, in a general way, +kindly disposed towards the child, but Bertha would have done anything +for her. Busy as Mrs. Burrell kept her niece, Bertha rarely allowed an +hour to pass, without glancing in, if but for one moment, to see if +the child were happy. Besides, Mrs. Mordaunt was earnestly desirous +to remain in Mr. Powis' parish. She felt that if anything happened to +herself, he would be a friend to Rhona. + + +One foggy evening, the Colonel caught a cold, which after some days of +neglect proved rather severe. He spent a whole morning over a blazing +fire. Then masculine patience failed, and he sallied forth, in despite +of rain. Naturally, the cold was worse next day. And Mrs. Burrell, +being summoned by his express wish, found him doing the sick man in +deplorable wise, rolled up in a big shawl, and coughing incessantly. +Mrs. Burrell, accustomed to take a shady view of matters, thought him +very bad, and told him so; whereat the Colonel's face grew longer, and +his voice grew thicker. + +"There's a very bad sort of throat going about," Mrs. Burrell said, by +way of further encouragement. "Wouldn't you like to see a doctor, sir? +We've got one living close by, quite handy." + +Colonel Smyth growled a protest. "Only one doctor in the world whose +opinion I value a rap." + +"Well, sir, couldn't we get him?" asked Mrs. Burrell. + +"No!" the Colonel said indignantly, forgetting at once his hoarseness +and his reserve. "I wouldn't have him know I am in London,—on any +account." + +Then, seeing by his landlady's face that he had committed himself to +something,—he did not exactly know what,—Colonel Smyth added, with a +return of hoarseness,—"That is to say, I should not mind his knowing. +But it might go farther." + +"To be sure, sir," Mrs. Burrell said, as if she understood, which +certainly she did not. "And you wouldn't like a word sent to any friend +or relation neither,—some one, I mean, sir, that might come and help +you get agreeably through a few days of illness, if it was to turn out +to be anything." + +The fish rose to the bait, but in such wise that Mrs. Burrell rather +repented throwing her line. "Thanks, Mrs. Burrell!" the Colonel said +sharply, in a voice of remarkable clearness. "You seem to take a great +interest in my private affairs. I am much obliged to you for your +solicitude. For the future, however, I recommend you to attend to your +own concerns rather than mine. You may as well understand once for all +that I have no friends and no relatives—" + +"Dear me, sir, how melancholy!" Mrs. Burrell said to him, as she had +once said to Mrs. Mordaunt, gratified curiosity predominating over +annoyance. + +"Will you be so good as to hear me out, instead of cutting me short?" +demanded the Colonel. "I was about to say simply that I have no friends +or relatives, whom it would give me at this moment any special pleasure +to see, except—but it does not matter. If I choose to enjoy a few weeks +or months in quiet, that is my own concern. I do not pretend to have +no relations in the world—plenty of them, no doubt, to come and bicker +over my goods when I am dead. But I have not the least intention of +dying yet, so you really need not trouble yourself." + +"I am sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of giving offence," Mrs. Burrell +said, half-irate, half-apologetic. "But you see, sir, you 'do' look +bad; and I thought—if it was to chance to be one of them throats—" + +The Colonel coughed obediently to the suggestion, but repeated, "I am +not going to die yet, Mrs. Burrell." + +"No, sir, to be sure," assented Mrs. Burrell; "though I suppose, as one +may say, nobody knows beforehand when his time is. And there was Mr. +Green, in the next street, carried off by a throat, only ten days ago." + +"Who is Mrs. Mordaunt's doctor?" asked the Colonel unexpectedly. + +"She don't have one, sir, though to my thinking there's need. If +anybody ever did look like a downright ghost, it's Mrs. Mordaunt when +she comes back of an evening. And then there's the child." + +"Where does Mrs. Mordaunt come back from?" + +"She goes out teaching, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, though convinced +that what she said came as no news to the Colonel. "Every day except +Sunday. And that child left alone from half-past nine—or I'm not sure +it isn't nine—of a morning, till near five. It isn't Mrs. Mordaunt's +fault." + +"Every day from half-past nine till nearly five," repeated the Colonel. + +"That's about it," said Mrs. Burrell, "and Saturdays no better; for if +she's back sooner from Mrs. Howard's, she goes out again to give music +lessons. It's my belief she's just killing herself. And the child sits +there alone, hour after hour, as patient as a lamb,—never a tear nor a +grumble. I get her down into our little parlour once in a way, but Mrs. +Mordaunt seems to have a dread of the child making acquaintances. And +Miss Rhona is always content. It isn't natural. I doubt she's too good +for this world." + +"Stuff and nonsense, my good woman," said the Colonel testily. "There +is no such thing as being too good for this world. Bad people die quite +as often as good ones." + +Mrs. Burrell could not dispute the assertion, though of course she held +fast to her own opinion. To do her justice, she was not yielding to a +mere spirit of gossip, but was moved by an honest desire to interest +the Colonel in Rhona, for the child's benefit. Being somewhat offended, +however, at the term "good woman" as applied to herself, in what she +counted a slighting manner, she showed signs of beating a retreat. + +"Stop a moment. What is the matter with the child?" + +"I don't know as there's anything particular, sir, only she looks pale, +and don't seem to have any spirit. And she talks,—to hear her talk, +it's like a dying person." + +"Humph! Stuffed full of religious notions, I'll warrant," muttered the +Colonel. "Children are regular little parrots." + +"Yes, sir. But it isn't a parrot-like sort of way that Miss Rhona has. +She's a child of wonderful feeling, and understands for all the world +like a grown person." + +The Colonel sat plunged in thought, his brows drawn together. Mrs. +Burrell hesitated two or three seconds, then withdrew, shutting the +door behind her. + +That recalled Colonel Smyth to the present position of affairs, and he +went back to the consideration of his cough. He did not, however, cease +to consider Rhona also. + +No immediate results followed upon the conversation. But in a few +days, when his cough had vanished and he was abroad again, he began to +institute a system of nods and smiles, exchanged between himself and +Rhona, when they chanced to meet, which was not often. + +Rhona learnt to look out for these occasional glimpses of the Colonel, +as a pleasant excitement in her life. + +No words were as yet spoken. And still, it never came to pass that the +Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had an encounter. + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A BUNCH OF GRAPES. + +"MOTHER," Rhona said wistfully one morning; "I wish you had not to go +to Mrs. Howard's." + +Mrs. Mordaunt was vaguely conscious of the same wish. She had been +very weary for many days past, and this day an indescribable weight +of dizziness and confusion oppressed her. Breakfast had been a mere +make-believe. Rhona's eyes watched her mother wistfully. She did not +know what was wrong, but she could plainly see that all was not right. + +"Mother, I do so wish you hadn't to go," she repeated. + +"I must," Mrs. Mordaunt said, stooping to kiss the child. + +"But you are not well. I know you aren't. Wouldn't Mrs. Howard let you +off for just one day? Do you think she would mind? It is so cold and +foggy. Look how thick the air is,—all yellow." + +"Yes; I must not mind that. I am really getting used to the London +atmosphere," said Mrs. Mordaunt, trying to speak cheerfully. + +"We never had fogs in Italy, mother." + +Mrs. Mordaunt put her hands to her brow with a sudden movement. "O +Rhona! Don't talk to me of Italy just now. I can't stand it. Don't make +me look back." + +Rhona stood in silence, watching her mother's preparations. They were +not so expeditious as usual. Twice she stopped, with a bewildered +expression, as if unable to remember what had to be done next; and she +would have forgotten her cloak altogether, if Rhona had not brought it. +Mrs. Mordaunt was not naturally forgetful, and Rhona had a sense of +something unusual. + +A good-bye kiss was as always exchanged, and Mrs. Mordaunt moved away. +At the door she paused, and came back. + +"My darling," she said, bending over Rhona,—"did I speak crossly just +now? I did not mean it, Rhona." + +"O mother! No,—as if you 'could' be cross!" said Rhona eagerly, pulling +Mrs. Mordaunt down upon the sofa, and clinging to her. "You are never +never cross for one moment, darling mother; only you are so tired +to-day." + +"Yes,—I am tired," said Mrs. Mordaunt dreamily. "I think this fog +oppresses me, for I feel as if I hardly knew what I am doing this +morning. It must be a kind of stupid headache, I suppose. Perhaps +having to attend to lessons will rouse me. I could not rest all night, +and that is so wearying." + +She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, closed her eyes, and +remained still. + +Rhona watched her wonderingly. + +"Mother, you look as if you were going to sleep," she said at length. + +Mrs. Mordaunt sprang to her feet, with an incoherent exclamation, and a +white scared look. + +"O Rhona! You startled me so!" she said hurriedly. And then, with an +attempt at a smile, "I—I think I forgot where I was. How stupid of me! +I must have been almost asleep for a minute. My head feels so strange. +But I must start at once, and walk fast." + +"Couldn't we ask Mrs. Burrell to send word that you are not fit to go +to-day?" pleaded Rhona, distressed at her mother's manner. "I am sure +Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind. You do look so very pale." + +"No, no, my pet, it will never do to let Mrs. Howard think me an +invalid. I was only startled for a moment, and the strange feeling +seems going off. Perhaps walking will do me good. If this fog lasts, +the children will not be allowed to go out, and I shall get home early. +That is one good thing about bad weather. Good-bye, my darling." + +"Good-bye, 'sweet' mother," Rhona said passionately. + +She stood, smiling, while her mother went out, and watched her over the +balusters. But when the front door was opened and shut, a change came +over the child's face. She went back heavily into the room, her little +hands clasped, and large tears filling the dark eyes. Rhona would not +give way willingly, and she took out her lesson books without delay. +But the French translation made slow advance, and more than one bright +drop splashed down into the fresh writing, making a smudge upon the +page. + +A tap at the door caused her to look up. + +"Come in," she said, expecting Bertha. + +Instead of Bertha, a sunburnt hand appeared, bearing a bunch of grapes; +the hand being followed by some grizzly moustaches. + +"Who is it?" Rhona asked, rather alarmed. Then in a changed tone, "Oh, +I am so glad. Please come in." + +"All alone?" asked Colonel Smyth, gratified at the manner of his +reception. + +"Quite," said Rhona. "Mother is always away all the morning, and most +of the afternoon. Won't you sit down, please?" + +Colonel Smyth disregarded the request, and stood looking fixedly at the +child. + +"Lessons a trouble?" he inquired. + +"No," faltered Rhona. + +"Something is, that's plain. Dear me, look here—why, it's a downright +blot. Mother will be angry, I expect?" + +"Mother is never angry—never," said Rhona. Then with a sudden movement +she turned away, and her little hands went over her eyes. + +"Come, come; that will never do!" said the Colonel decisively. + +And before Rhona knew what was coming, she found herself seated on his +knee, with his arm round her, and her head on his shoulder. + +For two or three minutes not a word was spoken. Rhona gave one long +sobbing breath, and then remained motionless,—greatly comforted. + +"Better now?" asked the Colonel presently. "What is it all about?" + +"Mother!" Rhona evidently thought no more explanation was needed. + +"Ah!" the Colonel said, as if he understood. "But I would not cry about +it if I were you. Crying does nobody any good. Do you like grapes?" + +He held up the luscious bunch. Rhona allowed herself to be raised to +a sitting position. "Yes,—thank you," she said wistfully. "We used to +have them in Italy, but we don't now." + +"Well, we will leave them here, and you can dispose of them at your +leisure," said the Colonel, rising. "Come and take a peep at my room +first." + +Rhona followed at once, much interested. He took her round step by +step, pointing out pictures, showing Indian curiosities, opening +drawers full of tropical shells, bits of coral, or impaled insects. +Rhona said little, but her eyes grew large and shining with eagerness, +and the wan look passed from her face. The Colonel's attention seemed +drawn to her irresistibly. + +"Better now, my dear?" he asked a second time, as she stood gazing into +a pink-lined shell from some Eastern strand. + +"Oh yes, thank you," Rhona answered gratefully. + +"Look here," said the Colonel abruptly, laying his and on the top of +her head,—"I've a notion you read and think too much. Little girls of +your age have only to laugh and skip." + +It was not a childlike look that she gave him, with her soft serious +eyes. "But I am mother's only friend now," she said. "So I 'must' +think." + +"What made you come away from Italy?" asked Colonel Smyth. + +"Mother had not enough to live on there," said Rhona. She was usually +as discreet and reserved as any grown person, but the Colonel had +charmed her into confidingness. "We didn't know what else to do; and +mother thought the aunts would help us, perhaps." + +"The aunts," repeated Colonel Smyth. + +"The three aunts in London," said Rhona. "Mother has nobody belonging +to her except me, but they are my father's aunts." She spoke in a +curious staid manner. + +"Three Miss Mordaunts, eh?" + +"Yes," Rhona answered. "But I don't like the aunts. One was just a +little kind, and the others were so cross. They wanted to take me away +from mother, and make me live with them. As if I 'could!'" + +"Of course you couldn't," said the Colonel. + +"Mother has nobody else,—and father told me I must never never leave +her. I think it would kill mother to lose me." + +"Of course it would," assented the Colonel, looking deeply interested, +yet speaking absently. + +"And when mother found out what they really meant, she was so +frightened that she hunted for these lodgings, and we came off as quick +as possible, and didn't tell anybody where we were going." + +"Ran away, in short," said the Colonel, with a chuckle. + +"Oh no, I don't think it was running away, because the aunts had no +right over us," said Rhona seriously. "God gave me to mother, and they +ought not to have wanted to take me from mother. If they would have +had her too, it would have been all right, but they were so unkind to +mother. Only think—if she had to live all alone, or among strangers! +But we knew aunt Barbara and aunt Clara would be angry, and perhaps +aunt Susanna too; and mother was afraid, so we came away quietly." + +"What was their reason for being unkind to your mother, my dear?" + +Rhona reflected. "I am not sure that I ought to say more," she replied. +"Mother thought she knew, and of course she told me her thoughts. But I +almost think mother will say I have talked too much already about our +affairs. And, please, she would not like you to tell anybody else about +us and the aunts, because we don't wish them to know where we are." + +The Colonel was a good deal diverted at the old-fashioned preciseness +of manner. "You are safe with me, my dear," he said. "I have no friends +just now to talk with; and if I had, your information should go no +further. Now I have an engagement, so I must say good-bye. But you ask +your mother's leave this afternoon, and I will take you for a walk +to-morrow." + +"May I? Oh, that would be nice," said Rhona. "Only, won't you come and +see mother, and ask her yourself?" + +"Well, no—I think not—on the whole," said Colonel Smyth. "Some day I +may peep in on you again, if she doesn't forbid it. I dare say you feel +lonely sometimes when your mother is away." + +Rhona was silent, and the Colonel awaited an answer. + +"It is not exactly loneliness," she said in a soft reverent voice, +peculiar to herself. "God is always here, you know." + +Colonel Smyth positively started. + +The words came with a certain assured sweetness, not at all as if the +child were merely repeating what she had been taught to say, but rather +as a simply assertion of that which in her own experience was true. + +"So I cannot be really alone," she added. "But I do long often to have +more of mother. And it is nice to have somebody come in for a little +talk. I think I am fond of talking." + +"You shall talk to me as much as you like," said the Colonel, stooping +down, and letting his grey moustache brush her forehead. "Good-bye,—and +mind you don't think any more about anything for the rest of the day." + +Rhona reckoned that if the fog continued, her mother would get away +from Mrs. Howard's in time to reach home before three. + + +The fog did continue. At noon, it lightened slightly. But by half-past +two, it had grown again yellow and dense. There could be no doubt +whatever that Mrs. Howard would keep her children indoors that +afternoon. + +Yet three o'clock and half-past three came, and Mrs. Mordaunt did not +appear. Four o'clock, and she remained absent. + +The next hour passed wearily to Rhona, who was sadly disappointed. +No doubt, Mrs. Howard had kept her governess to amuse the children +indoors. Rhona thought this rather hard. She did so want her mother to +have a little extra rest for once. + +Five o'clock passed, and still the minutes went relentlessly by, while +Rhona sat waiting. She was no longer able to employ herself with books +or work. + +Bertha presently came in, and said,—"It is quarter to six, Miss Rhona. +Your mamma seems late to-day. Will you wait for her, or have tea now? I +do think you want it." + +"I'll wait, please; it is no matter about me," said Rhona. "Bertha, I +can't think what keeps mother so long. She is always home before this." + +"I suppose she has to pick her way slowly," said Bertha. "We haven't +had such a fog all the winter through. Perhaps the lady has made her +wait because of the weather." + +"Oh no, that isn't like Mrs. Howard at all. And mother would be sure to +come." + +"Perhaps she has missed a right turning somewhere," suggested Bertha. +"That would make her late. But there are always people about, so she +could ask her way. I wouldn't worry, if I was you, Miss Rhona. I must +go now, for there's aunt calling, but I shan't wait long before I bring +you a cup of tea." + +She kept her word, and the cup of tea came, while Mrs. Mordaunt still +remained away. Rhona could eat nothing, but having disposed of the tea, +she sat patiently in the sofa corner, with her little hands clasped, +and her large eyes bent ceaselessly on the door. + +Half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared, carrying a neat +purse-pocket-book of dark morocco, rather large for a lady's use. + +"Miss Rhona," she said, and she looked anxious,—"isn't this your +mamma's?" + +Rhona raised herself upright, and took the purse. "Yes," she said +gravely. "That is mother's. It used to belong to father." + +"She must have dropped it as she was going out this morning. Hannah +found it just now, lying in a corner of the hall, close to the front +door. I think there is money inside, Miss Rhona, but you wouldn't know +how much there ought to be." + +"Yes; I know," said Rhona, in the same serious tone. She counted slowly +the contents of the two pockets, and glanced through a few papers. "It +is all right. But—" + +"I am glad she didn't drop it outside," said Bertha. + +"But mother has been thinking all day that the purse was lost," the +child said sadly. "I am so sorry; for she was tired enough before. And +if the fog was ever so bad, she wouldn't have been able to get into an +omnibus, because she has no money with her—not one penny." + +"She could take a cab, and promise to pay here," suggested Bertha. + +Rhona shook her head. "That would cost too much," she said. "Especially +when mother would be thinking that she had just lost her purse. Poor +darling mother!" + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +WHERE COULD SHE BE? + +"HEY? What? I don't understand," said Colonel Smyth sharply. + +"If you please, sir—" + +"What do you mean by coming in like that without knocking? Insufferable +impertinence!" growled the Colonel, in angry tones. + +For he had been indulging himself in a lengthy evening siesta, and +like the rest of the world, he objected much to be caught napping out +of authorised hours. The Colonel sat bolt upright, and made believe to +have been absorbed in the book which lay open on his knee. + +"If you please, sir, I did knock,—several times," Bertha answered, "but +I could not make you hear." + +"The noise in the street, my good girl, always that wretched rumble +going on. And when one has an interesting book into the bargain,—but +mind you knock another time loud enough to get an answer. Well—what do +you want?" + +"It is half-past nine o'clock, sir, and Mrs. Mordaunt hasn't come +back," said Bertha. "Mrs. Burrell thinks you might perhaps be able to +advise us what to do." + +"Not come back! Mrs. Mordaunt! Where from? What is she about?" + +"Nobody knows, sir. She went to her teaching in the morning as usual, +and that is the last seen of her. Miss Rhona expected her home about +three o'clock. We are afraid she must have lost her way in the fog." + +"Not at all surprising if she has,—a comparative stranger to London! No +doubt she will have taken shelter somewhere." + +"Miss Rhona is so frightened," said Bertha. "We can't persuade her to +go to bed." + +"Frightened! The child! Of course she is, poor little mite. Thoughtless +of the mother, not to manage differently." + +Colonel Smyth considered; then asked,—"Where does she go to her work?" + +Bertha named the square. + +"Humph! Easy enough to miss a turning in the fog between that and +this. I wouldn't answer for coming straight myself. Probably they have +kept her for the night,—most humane thing they could do under the +circumstances." + +"Miss Rhona thinks her mother is sure to have started for home, sir." + +"Miss Rhona knows no more about the matter than anybody else. Children +are always positive," said the Colonel. + +"And there is something else too," Bertha continued, after a slight +break. "Mrs. Mordaunt dropped her pocket-book in the hall, as she went +out this morning, so she has no money with her." + +"People don't commonly carry money in pocket-books, my good girl." + +"This is a particular kind of pocket-book-purse," said Bertha, +preserving her quiet manner. "Miss Rhona knows her mother has not +a penny with her besides. And if anything was to happen to Mrs. +Mordaunt,—such as being knocked down or run over in the fog,—there +would be nothing about her to show who she is, or where she lives." + +"Umph! I don't like that," muttered the Colonel. "Not of course that +one need suppose anything 'has' happened to her. Still, people have no +business to go about in London, without their names and addresses in +their pocket." + +"She thought she had, you see, sir. But I have not put this idea into +Miss Rhona's head. There is no need to frighten her more." + +"Of course not—of course not. I'll come and see the child if you like." + +Bertha opened the doors with alacrity, ushering the Colonel into Mrs. +Mordaunt's room. He expected to find Rhona sobbing and distressed, +with ordinary childish show. Instead of which, he came upon a calm +and tearless little face, white as marble, with the large eyes widely +opened, and only a slight quiver round the lips, telling of strong +feeling below. + +"Well, my dear, so mother hasn't come back yet," said the Colonel, +sitting down beside her. + +"No," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "And I can't go and find her! +If only I were old enough! Bertha says I must not go out; and I am +afraid mother would not let me." + +"Pshaw, my dear; nobody could find anybody such a night as this. You +would be lost yourself, before you reached the end of the street," +said the Colonel, with an uneasy conviction that Rhona would look upon +him as the right person to search for Mrs. Mordaunt. "Much worse than +looking for a needle in a haystack, and you know how hopeless a matter +that is. Mother has no doubt missed her way in the fog, and wisely +taken shelter somewhere." + +"But she has nowhere to go," objected Rhona. + +"Plenty of places in London," said the Colonel. "There are always +shops; and anybody would give one shelter on a day like this. I should +not wonder for my part, if Mrs. What's-her-name has kept your mother +for the night." + +"Oh no, I am sure she would not," the child said decidedly. "And mother +would not stay. She would be quite quite certain to try to get home." + +"You see, one can't possibly do anything except wait," explained the +Colonel, putting down a mental suggestion that one might do something +else. "If your mother is there, she is all right. And if she has taken +shelter in a shop, she is all right too. And if she really has tried +to find her way home, and has wandered out of the road,—why, it comes +to the same thing, for she will 'have' to take shelter somewhere until +the morning. She might in such a case be anywhere, far or near. Hunting +for her would be an absolutely hopeless matter. It is a thousand pities +that she didn't take a cab, and drive straight back, while she was +able,—I doubt if even a cabby could find his way far now. But she is +not used to London yet, and perhaps the idea did not occur to her." + +"Mother might think of that, but she would not do it," Rhona said. + +And the story of the purse followed. + +Colonel Smyth listened, as if he had not heard the same before, and +Bertha stood patiently near the door, without uttering a word. + +"Come, that explains a good deal," he said. "One may almost look upon +that fact as a satisfaction, my dear, seen in one aspect. Having no +purse, she would not, of course, get into an omnibus, and thinking her +purse lost, she would not like to venture on a cab. No doubt she has +tried to walk home as usual, and has missed her way, and some friendly +individual has given her shelter." + +It was all very simple and encouraging, if only Rhona could have been +sure. + +"So now, my dear, you will be a good sensible little maid, and go to +bed and sleep soundly till she comes back in the morning," pursued +Colonel Smyth. + +Rhona shuddered. "Oh, not to bed!" she said. "Oh no,—not to bed. I +never went to bed without mother's kiss. I'll wait here." + +"But you can't sit up all night," remonstrated the Colonel. "I do not +in the least expect your mother to return before daylight. The fog has +been tremendous the last two hours. Wherever she is, there she will +have to stay." + +"I think she wouldn't wish you to stay up, Miss Rhona," said Bertha. + +"Ah,—just so," said the Colonel, catching at the suggestion. "Mother +wouldn't wish it. You have to do exactly what she would like if +she were here, and of course she would tell you to go to bed. Why, +look!—you haven't eaten the grapes yet. Your mother shall have some +more, so don't keep these. I promise to send somebody early to-morrow, +to ask about her at Mrs. Howard's. But most likely, she will appear +before we can send. Don't distress your little heart; mother is old +enough to take care of herself, after all." + +"God will take care of her," said Rhona, in a low voice. + +"Very well, my dear, put it any way you like," answered the Colonel; +and he said good-night in a hurry. + +"Bertha, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Rhona slowly, when he was +gone, and her look was very pitiful. + +"Yes, Miss Rhona; I do think your mamma must have taken shelter +somewhere, just as the Colonel says." + +"I wish I knew," Rhona answered, sighing deeply. "I do wish I really +knew. But I'll go to bed now, because mother would like it. I don't +want any help, Bertha, only please come back presently, just for a +minute." + +"Yes, Miss Rhona. Would you like to have me in the room to-night? I +could sleep on the sofa." + +"No, thank you," replied Rhona. "Mother might come in any time,—only +please come to see me the last thing. And if mother rings at the front +door, you'll be 'sure' to hear?" + +Bertha could see how strongly the child's self-command was strained, +and she dreaded that sleep might prove an impossibility. + +"Yes, indeed, dear," she said, "I will be sure. But I don't expect your +mamma back before to-morrow." + +"You don't know and I don't know," said Rhona. "Only God knows. And He +can take care of my own sweet mother." + +Bertha lingered yet, though aware that she was required elsewhere. +"You'll ask Him, won't you, Miss Rhona," she said. + +"I am asking Him all the time,—every minute," said Rhona. '"It is the +only thing I can do. O Bertha! If I were a big strong man like the +Colonel, I wouldn't sit indoors, and leave mother out in that dreadful +fog, with nobody to help her." + +"You see, Miss Rhona, the Colonel doesn't believe she is out in the fog +now; and he doesn't know where to go." + +"Ah, but I would try," said Rhona plaintively. "And if my father were +here, he would go. There is nobody now to take care of mother." + +"Except—" Bertha said in a low voice. + +"Yes,—except God. I mustn't forget," said Rhona. And then with a sigh, +she rested her head against Bertha, murmuring, "O Bertha! It 'does' +ache so." + +Bertha hardly knew whether the "aching" referred to head or heart; +perhaps it was to both. "Yes, I know," she said sadly. "But you'll get +into bed now, Miss Rhona, and try to go to sleep." + +Rhona answered in the affirmative, though with a sound of hopelessness. +An hour later, when Bertha came softly in, the child was lying quietly +with clasped hands, and wide-open unresting eyes. Further on, when once +more she stole down for last glimpse, she found the same. So the hours +of the night dragged by. + + +Morning dawned, clear and sunshiny, the dense pall of yellow fog having +vanished like a dream. Some mistiness still hovered over the great +city, but this was soon dispelled. + +"There will be nothing to keep mother from coming home early this +morning," said Rhona, as Bertha stood by her side. The child seemed +less affected by her long night-vigil than Bertha had feared. She +looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the eyes themselves were full of peace. + +"You have not had much sleep, dear," Bertha said pityingly. + +"I couldn't," Rhona answered. "I did so long to know where mother was. +The first part of the time seemed almost more than I could bear. I +could only just pray and pray that she might be safe. And then I had +such beautiful thoughts of how the Lord Jesus loves mother,—oh, such +love! It made me so happy." + +"He loves you too, Miss Rhona," Bertha said gravely. + +"Yes,—oh, I am sure of that. But the other thought was what comforted +me. I had a feeling of mother lying in His arms, and being taken care +of until He brings her back to me. I do hope He will bring her very +very quickly. Bertha, I am going to get up now, so as to be ready." + +"Yes, dear," Bertha said, and she turned away, lest Rhona should see +the tears in her eyes. + + +Colonel Smyth's morning meal did not take place till nine o'clock. But +at eight, he came to Mrs. Mordaunt's room, hat in hand. Rhona had been +dressed for an hour, and was taking her breakfast. + +"Oh, are you going to look for mother?" she said eagerly. + +"I'm just thinking of asking at Mrs. Howard's door, my dear, whether +she is still there, and if so when we may expect to see her. You poor +little white-faced mite! Come, cheer up; we shall soon have her back +now, I don't doubt. You don't call that scrap of dry toast 'breakfast,' +I hope! Here, my good girl,—" he turned to Bertha, who had brought in +the small tray—"just get for the child some of that cold chicken which +I had yesterday. She wants feeding up—looks like a wraith already," +muttered the Colonel. "Mind, Rhona, you are to eat a good meal." + +"I don't think I am hungry, but I'll try," Rhona said gently. "How kind +you are." + +"Pshaw! You are the first person that ever thought so. I'm capable of a +feeling of humanity, perhaps. Good-bye. I shall soon be back again." + + +There was much looking out for the Colonel's return, downstairs as well +as upstairs. He entered at length by the shop, instead of through the +usual side-door, having been absent considerably more than an hour, and +asked of Mrs. Burrell, "Not come back yet?" + +"Mrs. Mordaunt? No, sir." + +"I am afraid it is a bad business," said the Colonel. "She left Mrs. +Howard's early yesterday—two o'clock in the afternoon." + +Mrs. Burrell uttered a sound of dismay and commiseration. + +"The fog was hardly at its worst then, certainly not so bad as an hour +later. Mrs. Howard advised her to start immediately after luncheon, on +account of it, and recommended an omnibus. She says she saw little of +Mrs. Mordaunt, but thought her looking extremely ill. And the children +say she seemed confused and unlike herself all the morning. I asked if +she had discovered the loss of her purse while there, and it appears +not; at all events, she did not allude to it. + +"Really I do not know how to tell that poor child. We must do so +gently; merely suggest that she has probably found shelter somewhere, +and may return at any moment. If she has simply wandered out of her +way, and taken shelter for the night, she would return early, of +course. I made a good many inquiries of policemen and in shops, all to +no purpose. Nobody appears to have noticed her. And in London, how can +one expect that any one should—such a day as yesterday?" + +"I hope she hasn't been run down in the fog," Mrs. Burrell said, with a +lugubrious expression. + +"I hope not, but it is by no means unlikely. Mrs. Howard showed +feeling. I told her she ought to have sent the poor thing back before +luncheon, or else have kept her altogether—and she wishes now that she +had done so. No good blaming folks after the event, however. A good +deal seems to hinge upon that unfortunate dropping of the pocket-book. +If it had been in her pocket, the news of an accident would have +reached us before this. As things are, if she were knocked down and +stunned, they would not know where to send word, until she came to her +senses again." + +The Colonel went slowly upstairs, heralding his approach by creaking +boots. + +Mrs. Burrell remained behind, and might perhaps be excused for a wonder +how the rent of Mrs. Mordaunt's room was to be paid, if Mrs. Mordaunt +did not return. + +"There could be nothing for that poor child but the workhouse," she +said. + + + +CHAPTER X. + +IN THE FOG. + +AS stated by Mrs. Howard, the young widow had left her house at two +o'clock in the afternoon. It was very foggy even then, though not so +dense as a little later. + +Mrs. Mordaunt hardly knew how she had dragged through the weary hours +of that long morning. It had been hard to keep her attention in any +degree fixed upon the children's lessons. + +Julia, the eldest girl, remarked more than once, "I am sure you are not +well, Mrs. Mordaunt." + +And she answered, with a faint smile, "Only a bad headache, dear. I +shall be better by-and-by." + +But the headache grew worse, as time went on. + +At luncheon, she could eat nothing. And even Mrs. Howard, usually a +most unobservant person, noticed her extreme paleness. + +"I should advise you to get home early," she said, with unwonted +kindness. "The children cannot, of course, walk out, and if the fog +were to increase, you might have difficulty in finding your way." + +"It is bad enough now," Julia said, as they rose from table. + +"Yes. I really think you would be wise to take an omnibus for once, +Mrs. Mordant, rather than to trust to your own powers," said Mrs. +Howard. + +"It would be the best plan—perhaps," replied Mrs. Mordaunt, with the +same effort after attention, which even the children had observed over +their lessons. She had repeatedly failed to answer questions, until +twice or three times addressed. + +Now she went back mechanically into the school-room. But instead of +putting on bonnet and cloak, she sat down at the table, and rested her +forehead on her hand. + +The children cast wondering glances. + +"I'm sure the fog gets more yellow every minute," Julia said at length. +"Mamma advised you to make haste." + +"Certainly—thank you—I am forgetting," Mrs. Mordaunt exclaimed, and she +started up nervously, as in the morning with Rhona. "How strange! I +fancied I was at home. I thought—" + +She stopped and gazed round, as if in perplexity. + +"Did you? How funny!" said Julia. "Here is your bonnet, Mrs. Mordaunt. +Can't you find your gloves?" + +"My gloves! Oh yes; I knew there was something," said Mrs. Mordaunt +faintly. + +"Annie has them. Look,—here they are. I do think you are dreadfully +tired to-day; aren't you?" + +"Yes. I must try to get rested before to-morrow," said Mrs. Mordaunt, +speaking in a more natural voice. "Good-bye, dear." + +The children kissed her as usual, and then from the window watched her +leaving the front door, and passing away into the fog. + +"Poor Mrs. Mordaunt! She looks as if she could hardly walk," Julia said +pityingly. + +Some little distance had to be traversed before an omnibus could be met +with. Once at the right spot, she might be carried to the very corner +of Mrs. Burrell's street, within a few yards of the house-door. + +As yet, Mrs. Mordaunt had not discovered the loss of her purse. +Generally she would have done so in a very short time. But this day, +she was so oppressed and confused that much might pass unnoticed. + +A crossing lay before her, easy enough to an experienced Londoner, but +presenting serious difficulties to one so timid and so little used to +London streets. Mrs. Mordaunt often waited at this spot fifteen or +twenty minutes, before venturing to trust herself among the throng of +vehicles. Sometimes she found a friendly policeman to escort her over. + +To-day, no policeman came within sight, and the fog made matters worse +than usual. She had a sensation of being suffocated by the thick air; +while the incessant noise brought on such dizziness and confusion of +brain that she scarcely knew what she was about. Twice in desperation +she started, and twice rushed back, barely in time, as a heavily-laden +omnibus loomed suddenly through the mist, almost upon her. + +Trembling from head to foot, with wildly beating heart, she +waited,—still on the wrong side of the road,—noting how every omnibus +seemed full, and wondering whether she should obtain a seat, even if +she could get across. An easy matter usually, at that time of the day, +but people evidently preferred trusting to others' sagacity, rather +than to their own. + +Each moment the fog was thickening. Should she try again to cross, or +should she walk towards home, and seek a less crowded spot farther on? +By so doing, she would lose the possibility of a certain short cut, +which might prove desirable, in case the omnibus plan was a failure. + +A sudden doubt swept through her mind. Had she crossed already, or had +she not? On which side of the road was she really standing? Where lay +her home? + +Mrs. Mordaunt staggered back against the wall, unnoticed and panting +for breath, as she strove to regain her self-command. But the confusion +of memory would not right itself. She found herself in a state of utter +bewilderment. If only the ceaseless rush of sound would stop for one +moment, that she might think. All clearness of recollection was gone. +How weird and unnatural seemed this world of yellow fog, with dim +lights and figures looming past, ever coming and vanishing! Who cared +what became of her? A terrible wave of desolation passed over the poor +young thing; and still she could hear the throbbing of her own heart, +above all outer noises, and still she vainly sought to disentangle the +confusion of brain. + +What was it she had to do? Where should she go? In which direction lay +her home? "Had" she a home? + +It was at this moment that she put her hand into her pocket to feel for +the purse which always lay there. The movement was a purely instinctive +one, connected with her wish to get into an omnibus. The loss of her +purse became, however, at once apparent. + +A deadly coldness crept over her from head to foot. In that purse was +all the money on which she could count, to support herself and Rhona +for a month to come. Doubtless she had been very imprudent to carry so +much in her pocket. But the danger of leaving money in lodgings had +seemed to her inexperience the greater of the two. + +"I must have dropped it somewhere on my way," she muttered. +"Perhaps—perhaps at Mrs. Howard's. I must go back at once." That it +could have been absent from her pocket all day, did not occur as a +possibility. + +Momentarily aroused by the shock, and forgetting her bewilderment about +the crossing, she retraced her steps, earnestly scanning the footpath +as she went. It would have been an almost hopeless search, in such a +fog, even had the purse been really dropped thereabouts. + +After walking the length of a street, she was seized with dread lest +she might have passed it by; and she went slowly a second time over the +same ground. Then she resolved to return straight to Mrs. Howard's. But +confusion and faintness were resuming their sway, and unconsciously, +her next turn was a wrong one. + +With the lost purse prominent in her mind, she pressed forward, +persistently searching right and left, often turning back to hunt anew, +and becoming entangled in a labyrinth of strange streets. + +Gradually, it dawned upon her mind that she ought by this time to have +reached Mrs. Howard's. Before she had time to feel alarmed, she struck +upon a thoroughfare which in the fog seemed to her identical with the +one she had already tried to cross. To recognise surroundings was not +possible, but she had dim glimpses of cabs and omnibuses proceeding +cautiously past. + +"Singular," she murmured, "I thought I was going just the other way. +But this fog is so confusing. Well, I cannot get into an omnibus now, +and I am so tired, I must go straight home. Perhaps I shall find the +purse to-morrow at Mrs. Howard's." + +That suggestion came soothingly, but it did not remain in her mind. No +longer troubled by a doubt as to which side of the road she was on, +she resolved not to attempt crossing till later, and started without +delay in what she believed to be the direction of Mrs. Burrell's house, +little dreaming that each step was carrying her farther away. + +Fog and darkness closed her in, yet still she pressed forward, though +with faltering limbs. There were certain landmarks by which she felt +sure of recognising, even in such fog and darkness, the nearness of +the right street. But somehow, as minutes passed, she forgot to look +for them. The recollection of her lost purse was again uppermost in +her thoughts. A vague feeling that something had to be found before +she might go home, urged on her weary feet. And for once, the poor +young mother had no remembrance of Rhona. She knew nothing of the lapse +of time, nothing of the distance traversed. For a while she was only +conscious of her loss, and of the ceaseless impulse to press forward; +but these were slowly merged into a sense of terrible heart-sinking, of +a dragging weight at every limb, of an irresistible longing for rest. + +Only to be at home! Only to be able to lie down somewhere! That at last +was the one desire. Mrs. Mordaunt had forgotten her purse, forgotten +Rhona, forgotten everything except just the agonising need for repose. +Each step taken, it seemed to her that she could not possibly take +another. Where she was going or wished to go, she had no power to +think. The outer fog seemed to be stifling her very breath; and the fog +within her brain had deadened all consciousness except of exhaustion. + +She walked on still, but moaned faintly from time to time, and +staggered often. Oh for some quiet corner, wherein to be alone and +still! + +"Cab, ma'am?" + +Mrs. Mordaunt had passed beyond the busy neighbourhood of shops, +unknowingly, and was among private houses, where foot-passengers were +few. She had come a long way, longer than would have been possible +under ordinary circumstances, and the feverish excitement which had +borne her on was all but at an end. + +A "four-wheeler" had stopped, and the man bent over inquiringly from +his box. "Cab, ma'am?" + +"Yes," she said, and he descended. + +The cab would be a place to rest in, and further than this, her +thoughts could not go. Lost purse and lack of means to pay were +forgotten. She stumbled feebly, stepping in, and the man gave a helping +hand. + +"Awful day, mum," he said, with a look at the white face. "Where to, +please?" + +"Where to?" repeated Mrs. Mordaunt. "To—" + +There was a pause, and the man waited. All power of thought had passed +from her. + +"To—to—Number Three—" and again a pause. "Number Three, Winifred +Place," she said, speaking mechanically, yet in a clear and natural +voice. + +But that was not Mrs. Burrell's address. Only the number was right. + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE THREE AUNTS. + +WHILE Rhona watched and waited through that foggy afternoon, and while +Mrs. Mordaunt was wandering about, no one knew whither, three ladies +sat over their tea at No. 3, Winifred Place, close to Burton Square. + +These were "the aunts" of whom Rhona had spoken confidentially to +the Colonel. For over thirty years, they had lived in this prettily +furnished West-End abode. It had been purchased in more prosperous +days, when the Miss Mordaunts had a father living, and plenty of money +at command. Much less money lay now within their reach; yet they +preferred exercising any amount of economy in small things, to the +giving up of their London home. + +Whatever form this necessary economy took, it did not appear to touch +the comfort of their outward condition. There was about them a general +air of cosiness and satisfaction, as they sat round a little basket +table, dallying with tea and cake, after the fashion of dames who have +plenty of leisure at command. + +Miss Mordaunt, a well-dressed woman, fifty-five in age, occupied the +principal arm-chair, holding herself with the pose of one who knew or +believed that her personality was of some consequence in the world. She +wore an elaborate cap and rich ruffles, and her slender arched nose +suffered from the incongruity of a low and narrow forehead. Barbara +Mordaunt, the eldest of nine sisters, only three of whom were still +living, had always been reckoned good-looking, though her good looks +were not enhanced by the expression of self-complacency. + +Miss Susanna Mordaunt, known in familiar circles as "poor Susie," or +"poor dear Sue," lacked only three of Barbara's years, but lacked +altogether her imposing presence. "Poor Susie" was, and ever had been, +small, plain, and afflicted with painful shyness. She rarely ventured +to hold an opinion of her own, contrary to Miss Mordaunt's; or if she +held one, she rarely ventured to let it appear. Susie Mordaunt had been +the snubbed member of the family; nevertheless, she bore an expression +of content, unmixed in her case with self-satisfaction. + +Between Susanna and the youngest sister, Clara, lay a gap of nearly +twenty years, bridged over by the six remaining sisters, none of whom +now survived. Two of the six had been married, one to an Irishman, one +to a Scotchman, and they had left two widowed husbands—Mr. Malony in +Ireland with ten children, and Mr. Macpherson in Scotland with nine +children; the large family being in each case accompanied by scanty +means. + +Clara Mordaunt, though on the wrong side of thirty, looked young still, +being tall, slender, and almost pretty, with a repetition of Barbara's +marked yet delicate features, and with a better forehead. + +In addition to the nine Mordaunt daughters, there had been two sons, +one a little older than Barbara, still living, one a little younger +than Barbara, many years dead. + +Henry, the eldest, the greater part of whose life had been passed in +India, was a somewhat singular man. As a boy, he had been unpopular in +his own home; and later on, a severe disappointment had affected his +character unfavourably. He had never married; he wrote home seldom; and +for eighteen or nineteen years, his face had not been seen in England. +Sometimes, in one of his brief and rare epistles, he spoke of retiring. +But again, if pressed to do so, he would ask, what was the use? All his +interests were in connection with India and the army; and in England, +he would have nothing to do. + +William Mordaunt, the second brother, gentle and yielding in nature, +had been the idol of his nine sisters. And when he died, the general +devotion was transferred to his only son, Arthur Mordaunt,—that same +Arthur whose widow and child were now residing at Mrs. Burrell's. + +But Arthur Mordaunt was of a different stamp from his father. The +devotion of his numerous aunts implied also their management of him, +and he had no notion of being so managed. When they wished him to +become a lawyer, he wished to become a clergyman; and his will carried +the day. When they desired him to settle down in England, he desired +to go abroad; and his determination proved the strongest. When they +would fain have had him marry a "sweet girl" of their own selection, he +preferred to choose for himself; and choose for himself he did, despite +all advice and opposition. + +There came slowly between him and them a widening gap of separation, +the result of all these pullings in opposite directions. "The aunts," +headed and represented by Barbara, could not get over his disdain of +their "sweet Lucy," could not believe that his Mary was a desirable +wife for him. + +Gradually the correspondence between him and them languished and +ceased. His whole heart was wrapped up in his Mary, and they almost +ignored her existence. No actual quarrel took place, but there was a +falling apart. + +When Arthur Mordaunt was suddenly taken, more than two years had +elapsed since the last letters exchanged between him and the Miss +Mordaunts. Even the news of his death failed for a considerable time +to reach them. This fact was less strange than it might seem; for Miss +Mordaunt had an aversion to daily papers, and the small "weekly," in +which alone she indulged, gave scant information. Mary Mordaunt ought +doubtless to have written, but she did not. + +The unexpected arrival of Arthur's young widow and child in London +was a severe shock to the three aunts, who once had so dearly loved +their nephew. Sorely as he had afterwards disappointed them, they +had not ceased to love him. But none of the three—except perhaps +"poor Susie,"—felt the slightest disposition to welcome Mrs. Mordaunt +with cordiality. Things could not now be helped, it was true; yet +undoubtedly she had been the main cause of Arthur's indifference +to "that dear Lucy Miles" in the past, and of his subsequent long +expatriation. Mary Mordaunt's beauty and grace did not incline the +heart of Barbara any more favourably towards her, but rather the +reverse. There were associations in connection with her very charms, +which turned their sweetness into acidity. + +The child, however, was Arthur's child, and William's grandchild; +consequently, the affections of all three aunts went warmly out towards +Rhona. Not that the warmth appeared in manner. Miss Mordaunt prided +herself on a calm and passionless demeanour; and Miss Mordaunt had ever +been Clara's model, while Susie's natural disposition had been, with +much perseverance, snubbed into something of the same outward shape. +But though little was said, much was felt. + +Rhona Mordaunt might have no doubt whatever in her little heart that +the conduct of "the aunts" was purely and simply unkind. Rhona, +however, knew nothing of their real motives. She could not penetrate +the workings of Barbara Mordaunt's mind, or see how much of a real wish +to do right existed there, side by side with much self-deception as to +what was right. + +Those who knew the Miss Mordaunts well were often struck by a certain +peculiarity in their modes of action. It was observable that they +never seemed able to take any view of a subject except from their own +particular standpoint. It was observable also that they never deemed +it necessary to explain to others their reasons for action. Susanna +Mordaunt might have been an exception, but she was in chains to her +sisters' opinion on all points. Where Barbara went, there Clara went, +and there Susanna was dragged meekly in their rear. + +They were "a very united trio," friends said, not disapprovingly, but +sometimes with a smile. + +It was of course right that they should be "united;" yet strong +affection is by no means inconsistent with freedom of thought. Barbara +and Clara Mordaunt, so far as was in their power, checked all freedom +of thought in Susanna. + +It had appeared to Barbara a thing desirable that their home should +become the home of little Rhona Mordaunt. Several arguments helped to +this conclusion. She wished it for her own sake; she wished it for the +sake of her dead brother and nephew; she wished it for the child's +sake; she wished it above all for Clara's sake. The elder sister was +often troubled by Clara's listlessness and want of regular occupation. +It seemed to her that a bright intelligent child in the house, to be +petted and cared for, might supply the lacking occupation, and might +arouse Clara from her growing habits of indolence and inertia. + +Clara, without fathoming all her elder sister's motives, fell in +cordially with the idea; and Susanna not only fully agreed, but would +have liked to give a home to Rhona's mother as well. + +In this desire, Susanna outstripped the others. Barbara had not the +slightest intention of offering an asylum to the friendless Mary +Mordaunt. + +"For a few days, it would be all very well," she said, "but for a +permanency, never!" She counted such a step impossible, seen from a +pecuniary point of view; and she counted it undesirable, seen from +every other point of view. + +With the young mother in the house, Rhona could in no sense become +their child, and the required occupation for Clara would still be +wanting. There would be inevitable clashings of authority, and the +peace of their home might be lastingly broken up. + +Moreover, Mary Mordaunt had no particular claim upon them. She must, +of course, expect to work for her own living. And to support herself +alone would be a far easier matter than to support herself and Rhona. +So reasoned Barbara, coveting the possession of the lovely and +thoughtful child. It really did appear to her, seen purely from her own +standpoint, the kindest and most natural step, under the circumstances, +that she should offer a permanent home to her nephew's child, thus +setting the young mother free, not merely to toil under the drudgery of +a daily teacher's life, but to accept a situation of resident finishing +governess, such as she was well qualified to undertake. + +"Why, she might make at least a hundred guineas a year," Barbara said. + +This being Miss Mordaunt's view of the question, she made her proposal +in straightforward terms, under the pleasant conviction that she was +doing a generous deed. It scarcely even occurred to her, when she +thought with secret pleasure of the child's presence in the house, how +keen must be the opposite feeling of Rhona's mother at the bare idea of +losing that presence. She only saw the matter from her own side. + +Mrs. Mordaunt's startled and unqualified refusal came to the sisters +with something of a shock, and roused feelings nearly allied to anger. +Mrs. Mordaunt, though never ungentle, was greatly agitated; and Miss +Mordaunt was betrayed into some strong expressions of displeasure. + +"You are acting very foolishly, Mary, in refusing what is so plainly +for the child's benefit," she said, as she took her departure at the +close of a long and emotional interview. + +Mary Mordaunt was palpitating and quivering like an aspen leaf; +while Miss Mordaunt had a flushed appearance, and reined up her head +frequently, with an air of injured dignity. + +"I think you ought at least to be grateful for what is so kindly +intended, and not be betrayed into such a show of temper. However, I +shall not yet look upon the matter as settled. You are speaking hastily +now, and it is better that you should have time to weigh it quietly. +After a few hours' consideration, you will probably see things as I +do myself. To-morrow morning, I will come again, at this time, for a +little more conversation on the same subject. I shall not see you again +to-day." + +Barbara had little doubt that, by means of continued pressure, she +should in time be able to bend Mary Mordaunt to her will. She left her +sister-in-law alone for the remainder of the day, restraining Susanna +and Clara also from going to the lodgings. Nothing was farther from +the thoughts of any one of them, than that the young widow should +take sudden flight before nightfall, leaving no clue by which her +whereabouts and that of the child might be traced. But so it was. + +When Barbara Mordaunt made her call next morning, as appointed, soon +after half-past ten, she found the small sitting-room and bedroom +empty. Mrs. Mordaunt had "paid up her week," the landlady said, and +had settled all her little bills. But she had offered no word of +explanation as to the unexpected move. For Barbara there was not a note +or even a message. + +"One would suppose the silly young thing was running away from a set of +vipers," Miss Mordaunt said indignantly to her sisters, an hour later, +for once excited and upset. "I never heard of such a thing in my life! +To treat her best friends in such a way! But it just shows her to be +unworthy of our kindness. Did she suppose we were going to steal the +child without her consent? Foolish woman! She ought to know better what +is for Rhona's interest." + + +So strong indeed was Miss Mordaunt's displeasure at poor Mary's unwise +flight, that her sisters seldom ventured to allude to the subject. As +weeks passed by, the very names of "Mary Mordaunt" and "little Rhona" +were unheard among them. + +But on this foggy afternoon, the absent ones were much in the mind of +Susanna; she could not have told why. + +And as they sat long over their tea, she broke out—"I do wonder what +has become of poor Arthur's wife and child,"—the next moment growing +alarmed at her own temerity. + +"I suppose they are where they have chosen to go," said Miss Mordaunt, +with a composure which might have been taken for hardness. "We have +no responsibility in the matter. Mary is not a girl, to be under our +control." + +"Only she is so young,—hardly more than a girl in age. It does seem to +be our duty to find her again, if possible." + +"I do not see any question of duty in the matter," rejoined Miss +Mordaunt. "If Mary chooses to write, she is at liberty to do so. +Otherwise, we are not bound to trouble ourselves." + +Certain words darted into Susie's mind,—"Am I my brother's keeper?" But +it was an understood family axiom that "Barbara always knew best." And +Susie put the words aside, yet found herself continuing, with a meek +persistency— + +"Sometimes I can't help wondering—if we were just to advertise—" + +"Advertise!" Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows took a journey more than half-way +up her low forehead. "My dear Susie! What will you propose next? This +is capital tea, Clara, though I do not like the Assam flavour." + +"But they might be in want," said Susie. + +"They might, of course,—and that might bring Mary to her senses. I +doubt if anything else is likely to do so. When people are thoroughly +wilful, they commonly have to pay for it. However, Mary has something +to depend upon, and no doubt she has friends in London. When she +requires our aid, she will come and ask it." + +"You would not send her away, sister?" Susie spoke beseechingly. + +Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows repeated their former movement. "I should be +sorry to make any promises beforehand. Mary has treated us so far with +scant civility. If she were willing to apologise—" + +"O Barbara! It was only the thought of losing her child. She is so +sweet—so gentle—" + +"Yes, as long as she can have everything her own way. I am not hard +upon her, Susie, but you must not expect unreasonable things. What has +put this into your head to-day?" + +Susanna looked ashamed, and murmured something about "the fog." + +"Sue would have taken in Mary as well as Rhona," remarked Clara +carelessly. "Fancy! Having her always about—never a moment to +ourselves." + +"Susie knows better," said Miss Mordaunt. "She is as well aware as I am +that we could not possibly afford the additional expense. Rhona alone +would have involved considerable need for increased economy." + +"Oh yes, of course," Susie said hurriedly. "Only if it 'had' been +possible—" + +"Which it was not," Clara said decisively. "Why, we can't now afford +more than three shillings a pound for our tea, and when dear papa was +alive, we always gave six shillings." + +"Which it was not," added Miss Mordaunt, almost simultaneously with +Clara. "Why, Susie, I explained the whole matter to you one day lately, +and made it perfectly clear." + +Explaining is not always making clear, and so Susie might have +answered. Anything connected with figures or prices fell always to a +jumble in her brain. She only ventured, however, to remark, "Of course +you know much best,—only I cannot help being sorry for poor Mary. She +has such a sweet face; and Rhona too." + +"Sweet faces are often deceptive—as we know," said Miss Mordaunt. "Mary +has evidently been made too much of, and is in fact thoroughly spoilt. +The child is very pretty, I grant, though I could wish she were more +like Arthur,—less of a Willis. If we had her to ourselves, we could +train her into our ways, but I should be sorry indeed to undertake +her, with the mother at hand to counteract all our efforts. However, I +really see no use in all this talk. If Mary chooses to let us know her +address, she can do so any day. Till then, we have nothing to do but to +let her alone. Can you tell me, Clara, how long it is since our last +letter from Henry? It seems to me that he is keeping us this time even +longer than usual." + +Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Henry is a sort of outside-the-world +being to me," she said. "I sometimes wonder if he really is my brother." + +"You don't mean that, and I do not like to hear you say it," responded +Miss Mordaunt. "Remember Keble— + + "'No distance breaks the tie of blood, + Brothers are brothers evermore.'" + +"Oh yes, of course," said Clara, to whom the couplet had been so often +quoted as to have lost its force. "I don't suppose distance does affect +the tie,—but coldness and silence do." + +"It is Henry's way. He was always so different from our dear William." + +The three faces had a saddened look of recollection for a moment. + +"Well,—but about Henry's letters," said Clara. "We have heard +absolutely nothing since last March; and then only a scrap of paper, +scrawled over. And before that, we had a letter,—nine months earlier. +And before that, a gap of two years." + +"But Henry promised not to treat us so badly again," said Barbara, who +always felt herself bound to make excuses for the oldest member of the +family. "And in his last, he seemed to hold out hope of coming home +before long. I feel sometimes that we really ought to meet." + +"He ought to retire and live with us," said Clara decisively. "It is +not as if there were any money-difficulty. Most unmarried brothers as +well off as Henry is, would be delighted to share what they have with +their sisters. But he never seems to dream of such a thing." + +"We must not blame him. He may have reasons—difficulties—unknown to +us," said Barbara. + +Clara started suddenly up, and went to the window. "A cab stopping +here! How black and thick it is! I can see nothing. But I am sure I +heard wheels. Yes, and there is the bell." + +A long parley appeared to take place at the front door. "What can Janet +be about?" Miss Mordaunt asked once or twice. "We shall have the house +full of fog." + +Clara had left the window and returned to her seat near the fire. "A +mistake probably," she said. "Anybody might go wrong, such an evening." + +The maid-servant at length appeared, wearing a bewildered look. + +"If you please, ma'am, there's a cab come, and the man says he has +brought the lady home." + +"Brought the lady home!" echoed three voices, in varied pitches of +astonishment. + +"Yes, ma'am. I told him we didn't expect any lady, but he wouldn't go. +He says she told him '3, Winifred Place' as plain as could be. And he +wants his fare." + +"The lady had better give it him," said Clara. "What nonsense!" + +"The man must be drunk," said Miss Mordaunt. + +"I don't think he is, ma'am. He speaks quite quiet and sensible." + +"Then it is a mistake. You had better ask the lady's name." + +"If you please, ma'am, he did go and speak to the lady, and he couldn't +get no answer. And he said he didn't mean to go away without I or +somebody would look at her. He didn't know if it was a swoon or death, +he said." + +"Poor thing! Some stranger taken ill," said Miss Mordaunt. "The wisest +thing he can do is to carry her to the nearest hospital. You did not go +outside in the fog, I hope, Janet." + +"I went to the cab-door, ma'am, and he held the lantern," said Janet, +shivering at the recollection, yet gratified with her own cautious +manner of breaking the news. "And please, ma'am,—it is Mrs. Mordaunt." + +Barbara, Susanna, and Clara were on their feet simultaneously. + +"Mrs. Mordaunt! Why did you not tell me at once?" + +"Please, ma'am, I thought you would be startled. It frightened me like, +to see her." + +Janet was a confidential servant, of long standing, and she pretty well +understood the condition of family affairs. + +"Mrs. Mordaunt!" repeated Barbara. "And the child?" + +"She's alone, ma'am. Miss Rhona nor nobody isn't with her. And she do +look bad." + +Miss Mordaunt for once forgot to be dignified. She hurried into the +passage, fluttered and agitated, and stood at the open door, regardless +of the rush of fog, inquiring where the cabman had found his "fare." +He gave particulars briefly, as to time and place, volunteering the +information that the lady had appeared to him, when first he addressed +her, to be ill. Since telling him where to go, she had not spoken, and +seemed to be unconscious. + +"Sister, I hope it isn't anything infectious," whispered Susie, in a +timid voice, edging up behind. "Don't you think—perhaps—the hospital—?" + +"Certainly not," said Barbara. "That would not be returning good for +evil. She has come to us in distress, and for to-night at least, she +shall stay. You need not go near her, if you are afraid. Cabman,—" +Barbara raised her voice,—"can you bring the lady in?" + +The task proved not an easy one, but he accomplished it. + +Barbara went before into the study, and signed him towards the sofa. + +Mary Mordaunt lay there, as he placed her—silent, lifeless, deathly +pale. + +Clara had grown almost as colourless. + +"What does it mean? Where can the child be?" + +"I cannot tell. Clara, do not come in if it alarms you." Barbara spoke +gently this time, not as she had spoken to Susie, for then there had +been a grain of contempt. "I think Mary must have fainted. It may be +nothing worse than a faint. When she comes to herself, she will tell us +about Rhona. But we must have the doctor to see her, and he will say +what is the matter. You had better pay the cabman, and ask him to leave +a message at Dr. Wynne's. I am sure Dr. Wynne will come at once, if +possible." + +"In this fog?" + +"Doctors never think about weather," Barbara answered quite sincerely. +"I should not like any needless delay." + +Every remedy that she could suggest was tried, and tried in vain. + +More than an hour passed, and then the doctor arrived,—an elderly man, +of strong bodily and mental build, with silver-grey hair, and quiet +eyes. He had been a friend of the Mordaunt family for over forty years. + +Under his superintendence, stronger means were employed for the +restoration of the poor wanderer. And by-and-by, the watchers were +rewarded by seeing the soft dark eyes unclose. + +"She does not know us," Barbara said, in disappointment. + +"Speak to her," said Dr. Wynne. + +"Mary!" Barbara's voice was rarely to be heard in so tender an +utterance. "Mary dear,—don't you know me? Mary, where is your little +Rhona?" + +But the question passed unheeded, and there came no sign of recognition. + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +STILL ABSENT. + +"ALWAYS wasting your time up in that room! I tell you what it is, +Bertha,—I won't have you go on so any longer, and that's a fact. I +don't mean to have everything in the house go to wrack and ruin for +want of proper care, just because you haven't eyes nor ears for anybody +except that child. It is all very well to pay proper attention, and +I'm as sorry for her as the rest of you, but I just 'won't' have you +running in every half-hour to dawdle and gossip. You've got your work +to do, and I expect to have it done,—if not, you'd best look out for +a home elsewhere, and the sooner the better. Look at the dirt left in +this corner. I never knew anybody so careless before. There's no manner +of dependence to be put upon you." + +Mrs. Burrell was, as she would herself have described it, "out +of sorts" that morning; and she found some relief in venting her +uncomfortable sensations thus. The present condition of things affected +her peace of mind; and since no one could be lawfully blamed for their +said condition, she took refuge in blaming Bertha with undue severity +for certain unwonted, touches of neglect. + +There could be no doubt that Bertha was a little infatuated about the +fair child upstairs. She was ready—metaphorically—to kiss the ground +on which Rhona trod, and for Rhona's sake, she could even slur over +certain duties. The blame, though disproportioned to the offence, was +not altogether undeserved. + +"So you mind!" continued Mrs. Burrell. "Mind!—You don't go to Mrs. +Mordaunt's room again in a hurry, without I send you." + +"Good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. Anything gone wrong?" + +Mrs. Burrell's wrathful look changed suddenly, as she found herself +face to face with the Colonel. + +Bertha passed on silently, and the landlady said in aggrieved +explanation,—"Only that girl, sir. But young things will be young, and +one can't look to have them different." + +"Scolding won't make them old before their time," said the Colonel, and +he too left Mrs. Burrell to her own reflections. + + +A whole week had gone by, and still Mrs. Mordaunt remained absent. +Not a word from her or about her reached any one. Colonel Smyth had +inquired and advertised in vain. Possibly the advertisements might +have been successful; for though the Miss Mordaunts read few papers, +they had relatives and friends not so self-denying. But Colonel Smyth +perhaps did not feel himself at liberty to reveal Mrs. Mordaunt's abode +to her husband's relatives, if the doing so could be avoided; and he +couched the advertisements in vague language. + +Though Mrs. Mordaunt had not returned, the child was still at Mrs. +Burrell's, living in the back bedroom. Thus far, she had not needed to +appeal to anybody's generosity. Mrs. Burrell supplied all her wants, +conjecturing that the contents of the purse would be amply sufficient +to meet this week's expenses, and possibly the expenses of a week or +two beyond. But afterwards? + +That was the question which fretted the landlady's mind. Suppose Mrs. +Mordaunt did not return, what was to be done with the child? It was +not of course to be supposed that she—Mrs. Burrell—could keep on Rhona +Mordaunt indefinitely, without remuneration. The idea was absurd. No +one could expect it of her. But she did greatly wish that other people +would allude to the necessity for some early change, instead of leaving +the suggestion to spring from herself. + +A whole week! What could have become of the poor young widow? Everybody +was asking this question, though nobody seemed to trouble his brains as +to its effects, possible or probable, upon Mrs. Burrell's pocket. + +In the Colonel's mind, little doubt existed that Mrs. Mordaunt had +been run down in some crowded thoroughfare, and killed on the spot, +thus finding in the great metropolis a nameless grave. Almost the only +alternative, according to his view of the case, was that she might have +wandered away in the bewildering fog to the brink of a certain canal, +not so very far distant, and there, with one sudden splash and one +brief struggle, have ended her sad short life. Mr. Powis held much the +same opinion. But nobody had ventured to suggest such ideas to Rhona. +She was daily and hourly watching still, with unshaken hope, for her +mother's return. + +"I should think it can't be very much longer," she had said that +morning to Bertha, while taking her simple breakfast. The child looked +sadly pale and thin, and her dark eyes wore a touchingly wistful +expression. "It can't be very much longer, Bertha. Colonel Smyth +thinks she must have been knocked down and stunned in the fog." Rhona +was always recurring to this idea, as if to reassure herself. "Just +stunned, and that might not mean she was so very very much hurt. He +says she might be carried to a hospital, or taken into somebody's +house,—and if she were stunned, she couldn't tell them her name or +where she lived." + +"Colonel Smyth has asked at some of the hospitals, has he not, dear?" +asked Bertha. + +"Yes, and he can't hear anything. But you see, they would not know her +name, so she might be somewhere without their finding her. O Bertha! If +only she had not dropped her purse." + +"God will take care of her," said Bertha in a low voice. + +"Yes,—I try not to forget that. Of course He knows all—everything. +Mother says we must trust Him. Bertha, don't you think it must be just +as Colonel Smyth says? He understands better than we do." + +"I dare say he does, dear." Bertha found it hard to meet the child's +gaze. + +"So it can't be a very great deal longer, before she comes," continued +Rhona. "When people are stunned, it doesn't generally last longer +than a week, does it? I asked Colonel Smyth, and he said there was no +knowing." + +"I shouldn't think it did—often," faltered Bertha. + +"And every single day is nearer her coming back," said Rhona. "I +don't think I ever had such a week,—oh, so long. The minutes seem to +creep—creep. And I am always thinking I hear mother's step,—and yet she +never comes. If only I just knew where she is, I could bear it better. +I 'could,'" repeated the child, with an indescribably pitiful look. + +"I am sure you do bear it all wonderfully, dear," said Bertha. "But you +must eat some breakfast now." + +"I could eat, if mother came back. It doesn't seem as if I could +now," the child said wearily; and then heavy tears fell, not with a +burst of weeping, but in slow large drops, like the beginning of a +thunder-shower. + +Bertha could not but stay to comfort the lonely child; and that was how +she came in for a scolding from Mrs. Burrell. + +All this time, the Colonel continued to pay frequent visits to Rhona, +showing great interest in her well-being. He entered her room at least +three times a day, and he sent her many little delicacies from his own +table, but he did not ask her to take meals with him. Thus far—with +the caution, perhaps, of an old bachelor—he seemed desirous to avoid +committing himself, and anxious to eschew responsibilities. But the +question of Rhona's future haunted the Colonel at least as much as it +haunted Mrs. Burrell. Something would have to be done soon, and he knew +it. + + +Three more days of waiting exhausted Mrs. Burrell's patience. She found +her way into the back bedroom, soon after breakfast, and stood uneasily +within the door, one hand fidgeting the antimacassar over a chair-back. + +Rhona was seated at the table, writing a French translation. There +was a singular fortitude about this frail child. She seemed bent upon +keeping on exactly in the same lines of conduct and occupation which +her mother, if present, would have had her pursue. The opening door +caused a tremulous start as if from an electric shock, followed by a +look of bitter disappointment. It was so a dozen times a day. + +Mrs. Burrell meant to be very kind. She began by asking how Rhona was, +hardly prepared for the reply,— + +"I shall be quite well when mother comes back." + +"But, Miss Rhona—" said Mrs. Burrell + +"I can't till then. Of course I can't. It makes me 'ache' so, to have +her away all this time," the child said sadly. "But she is sure to come +soon. Don't you think so?" + +Mrs. Burrell was at a loss. She could say neither "yes" nor "no," with +those eyes upon her,—eyes which seemed to have gained in size and +brightness, the last few days, and in a kind of intense watchfulness. + +"Miss Rhona, I don't want to trouble you," the landlady remarked, after +a pause. "But your poor mamma always settled with me every week for the +week's expenses. And it is two days after the usual time,—two days and +more." + +"Oh yes, yes,—I oughtn't to have forgotten," said Rhona hurriedly, her +face working. The long strain of suspense was telling greatly upon the +child. "I have enough, in mother's purse,—quite enough for this week, +and next week, and more. Mother would want me to pay, I am sure." She +drew the large purse with some difficulty out of her pocket. + +"It don't matter just this moment," said Mrs. Burrell, feeling +uncomfortable. "I'll bring the bill to-morrow. You see I'm only a widow +myself, and obliged to work for my livelihood. If I could afford to +keep you without pay, I'm sure I should be glad enough. But that is +just what I can't do." + +"Oh no, and there is no need," said Rhona. "Mother will be back in a +day or two. She is sure to come very soon now." + +"But if she didn't, Miss Rhona?" + +"If she didn't!" + +The dark eyes turned an appalled look upon the landlady. + +"Well, Miss Rhona, you needn't be vexed," said Mrs. Burrell, +misunderstanding the expression. "Of course nobody can tell what has +become of your poor mamma,—if we could, there 'd be no need to wonder. +And if she don't come back soon, I don't see what you're to do." + +"I can't do anything. I can only just wait," Rhona answered, her face +taking its most unchildlike expression. "I must wait till God brings +mother back to me." + +"Yes, of course, Miss Rhona." Mrs. Burrell spoke rather pettishly. +"Yes, of course,—that's all very proper and nice, I don't doubt,—but +people can't live upon waiting, nor upon hopes. I suppose you haven't +got enough in your poor mamma's purse to keep you for very long. I've +been thinking whether there aren't any friends or uncles or aunts of +yours, who would take you in and give you a home, so that I should have +my room free to let to somebody else, if it was to happen that your +mamma 'didn't' come back;—for a good long while." + +The appalled look returned as a flash; and in deference to it, Mrs. +Burrell added the last five words after a break, originally intended +to be a full stop. But the break was too long, the first intention too +distinct. Rhona read her real meaning. + +A pause followed. Mrs. Burrell was uneasy at the effect of her own +words. Rhona sat still, with her little hands loosely folded, uttering +not a sound, but staring fixedly at the landlady, while a grey hue +overspread her face. + +"I don't mean anything particular, so you needn't be frightened," Mrs. +Burrell was constrained to add. "You see you're only a child, Miss +Rhona, and you don't understand. But people must look forward and +arrange things, or, dear me, how ever could the world get along?" + +Rhona neither stirred nor spoke, and her fascinated gaze remained +unchanged. + +Mrs. Burrell winced under it. She thought Rhona was trying haughtily to +stare her out of countenance. + +"I don't see that you've any call to look at me like that,—I don't +really, Miss Rhona. It isn't like a young lady. I'm sure I have been a +good friend to you, and anybody would say so. I'd do more if I could, +but the fact is I'm not well off, and I don't mind saying it. I have +got myself and my own girl to consider, not to speak of a niece put +upon me as it was. And it's no use to say I'm not enough burdened +already, for I am. + +"I didn't mean to put it into your head about your poor mamma never +coming back,—though to be sure everybody is saying it, and the Colonel +most of all—but I don't see how you are to go on week after week and +nothing settled. I thought maybe the Colonel might do something, but +he don't seem disposed. And if there's relations they ought to be +told,—that's 'my' opinion. Your poor mamma said one day that there was +some she didn't want to have to do with. But if there's no other home +for you, and they are willing to take you in, I don't really see as +you've got much choice. That's all I have to say, and it's my duty to +say it. But I didn't mean to startle you, of course, Miss Rhona. Do +wake up, and look natural, and stop staring,—it's enough to give one +the creeps, I declare, to see you." + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE COLONEL AND RHONA. + +COLONEL SMYTH tapped thrice during the delivery of Mrs. Burrell's +speech, and receiving no answer, he peeped in and entered. + +"Nobody spoke, so I thought nobody was here," he said. "How is the +little maid this morning? Why, Rhona! Hallo!" + +"I'm sure I didn't mean any harm," began the now alarmed landlady. + +The Colonel cut Mrs. Burrell short. He strode past, caught up the +stony-faced child, carried her to the window, and flung it open. + +"Water!" he said in a loud peremptory voice. + +And Mrs. Burrell brought a tumbler, "all of a tremble" herself, as she +afterwards declared. + +Colonel Smyth forced a few drops through the clenched teeth, and dashed +some lavishly into the rigid features. + +"What is the meaning of this?" he asked fiercely. + +"I'm sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of making Miss Rhona ill," Mrs. +Burrell said, in a voice half-aggrieved, half-apologetic. "I'm sure I +didn't say anything much. It wasn't to be expected I could go on day +after day, and not a word said,—keeping a child without pay that has +nobody belonging to her." + +"Pay!" said the Colonel, with flashing eyes. "Bring your bill to me +to-morrow morning. You hear?" + +"Yes, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, pallid between contending emotions, +as indignation fought with prudence. + +"And if you say one word more to this child about the matter—I leave +that day week. You understand?" + +"Yes, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell, trembling with anger, yet by no +means forgetful that the Colonel was a lodger worth retaining. "I'm +sure I hadn't the least wish to say what I oughtn't to Miss Rhona. I +only just said her poor mamma had always settled with me every week, +and so she did,—and I only just asked her what she meant to do if Mrs. +Mordaunt wasn't to come back soon—as I've heard you say you didn't +think she was like to do, poor thing." + +"Hold your tongue!" commanded the Colonel. "The child is coming to." + +A gasping cry told of returning life; and then there was a burst of +agonised sobs and hysteric laughter. + +Colonel Smyth would not have believed this ordinarily quiet and gentle +child to be capable of so wild an outbreak. The pent-up billows of +the last ten days had their way at last. Once and again, the paroxysm +seemed dying away, only to return with renewed violence. Rhona was +evidently conscious, for she shrank and shuddered at Mrs. Burrell's +touch, and clung to the Colonel as if for protection. + +Some measure of embarrassment might under the circumstances have been +natural to an elderly bachelor, whose acquaintance with childish +tears had been hitherto of the slightest. But the embarrassment, if +felt, did not appear. Those little clinging fingers sent a curious +thrill of pleasure through the Colonel's hardy frame. He would not +have her out of his arms. And when the landlady suggested and brought +eau-de-Cologne, he applied it himself, clumsily yet tenderly. Then as +the rending sobs of distress changed into moans of sharp bodily pain, +always more or less the accompaniment of tears with Rhona, he paced the +room, bearing the slight creature in his arms, now and then touching +her forehead with his moustached lips, till the moans too died away, +and Rhona was asleep. + +"Best thing for her, poor mite!" the Colonel muttered. + +He allowed the much-exercised landlady to depart, and carried Rhona +into his own sitting-room. There, laid on a comfortable sofa, with a +shawl spread over her, she spent many hours in unconsciousness. The +Colonel had his own luncheon, without disturbing the sleeper; and his +usual walks were foregone that he might keep watch beside the couch. +He had a book in hand, but he read little. Ever and anon his glances +wandered to the small delicate face, with its broad saddened brow, and +long lashes lying on white cheeks. + +From time to time, Rhona stirred uneasily, and more than once she +clasped her hands with a muttered—"Mother!" But still she did not wake. + +The Colonel put down his book, and gazed steadily at Rhona. A curious +far-away look came into his own eyes, as he did so,—a look of sorrowful +recollection. The Colonel's rugged features were strangely softened by +it. + +"Wonderful likeness!" he murmured. "Why didn't I let myself see Mary +Mordaunt sooner? Folly, to put off. As if I ever meant her to go on so +any length of time! Poor thing!—And she might have been spared this. +I shall never forgive myself. A young lonely thing like that, with a +double claim on me. Why should it be worse to see Margaret's child than +Margaret's grandchild? And I was thirsting for it all the while. If the +look in her eyes had been like this child's, I couldn't have resisted +it. Well, well, well,—no use to worry myself now. There's only this +poor little one to see after." + +The Colonel actually gave vent to a heavy sigh. He went slowly to a +drawer, unlocked it, and drew out a small morocco case, containing +a miniature likeness. Then for two minutes he stood at the foot of +the couch, comparing in a succession of glances the girl-face in the +picture and the child-face on the pillow. + +"I believe it will almost serve for a likeness of Rhona herself a few +years hence," he said, as he locked up the little case. + +"Rhona." + +He bent low, and spoke the word gently. Colonel Smyth was not commonly +counted gentle, but all the dormant tenderness in his nature was drawn +out towards this child. + +She started instantly into full consciousness, almost instantly into +full recollection. One "Mother!" burst from her lips at the moment of +awaking, and then, with a low, "Oh, I forgot!" she hid her face. + +"Come, my dear, you are to take this," said the Colonel. "I thought you +would like sandwiches better than anything else,—not so much trouble +to get through. Don't feel hungry, do you? But you are going to eat to +please me." + +Rhona silently submitted, so far as making the attempt was concerned, +though success was small. He had soon to take away the plate. She gave +him one soft grateful look, and then lay again with closed eyes, and +a look of patient suffering. The Colonel was very much at a loss how +to deal with the child. He drew a chair to her side at length, and sat +down. + +"Rhona, can you bear a few words?" he asked. "I am afraid Mrs. Burrell +has been bothering you, and I want to set matters right. Try not to +cry, my dear—" as two heavy drops fell. + +"I wouldn't if I could help," said Rhona gently. + +"Mrs. Burrell said something about bills, didn't she? I have told her +she is to bring the bills to me, and not to say another word to you." + +Rhona looked at him anxiously, and tried to raise herself. + +"Don't move, my dear,—what do you want?" asked the Colonel, as she fell +back. + +"I can't sit up," said Rhona. "I wanted to get out mother's purse." + +"If you like to put the purse in my charge, I will keep it for you +safely, and not spend a penny in it till—" the Colonel paused. "Till +your mother comes home," he had been about to say. But he did not +believe Mrs. Mordaunt ever would come home. Was it true or false +kindness to buoy up the child with hopes which would probably never be +realised? + +He knew how she was looking at him, waiting for more; but the sentence +remained unfinished. + +"I should like to give it to you, please," Rhona said at length, in a +tone of indescribable sorrow, which went to the Colonel's heart. Not +for years had his sympathies been so stirred. + +"Remember, Rhona," he said, as he helped her to get out the +purse—"nobody really knows. Your mother may come back yet. We must not +make up our minds too hastily." + +"But you don't think—you don't 'think'—" the child said in a low voice +of agony, tears running down her cheeks. + +Colonel Smyth hesitated again. He could not say "Yes." He would not say +"No." Something else was in his mind to be said; only he had not meant +to commit himself so soon. But Rhona's face was too much for him, and +prudent considerations went to the winds. What he did was to lift her +again on his knee, folding her round with his strong arms, and letting +her head lie on his shoulder, while he asked in a tone husky with +strong feeling,— + +"Will you be my own little girl, just till mother comes back? Perhaps +she will yet,—nobody knows. Shall I take care of you till then?" + +Rhona clung to him silently, weeping still, yet with a lessened sense +of forlornness. + +"You don't want to go to those aunts of yours, do you?—The Miss +Mordaunts that you told me about." + +"Oh no, no, no," sobbed Rhona, with sufficient childish energy. "Oh no, +no,—they were so unkind to my sweet mother." + +"Then you shall not. We will keep out of way for the present. And you +will be my little girl now,—just till mother comes back. Do you think +you can manage to call me 'uncle,' instead of 'Colonel Smith?'" + +"I don't mind," Rhona whispered. "I mean, I'll try,—if you like." + +"I should like it much best." + +"I'll try," repeated the child. "Only you are not my uncle." + +"Never mind that. Perhaps some day you will wake up and find that I am. +Queerer things do happen." + +"I don't see how I could, because I haven't got any uncles," said Rhona +soberly. "Father had no brothers, or mother—mother—either." + +"Never mind, my poor little one," the Colonel said soothingly. "You +will not object to having a new uncle now, at all events. And mind,—you +have to tell me everything you want, just as if you really belonged to +me. You understand?" + + +"So Miss Rhona is to take her meals with the Colonel," said Mrs. +Burrell, having received orders to that effect, later in the day. +"Going to see after her till Mrs. Mordaunt comes back, he says! Well, +of course it's no business of mine, so long as my bills are paid. But +Mrs. Mordaunt won't come back, and he'll be tired of her before a month +is over. 'I' know what gentlemen are. 'I' should have said she ought +to have gone to her own relations, and not be put upon a stranger. Of +course it isn't my business. And the Colonel will manage things his own +way. The way he spoke to me this morning, I shan't soon forget." Mrs. +Burrell was sore still, and disposed to view the Colonel's actions with +jaundiced eyes. + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +AN EVENTFUL EVENING. + +THE Colonel found himself in for a month of nursing, or of something +nearly approaching thereto. It was a novel position for him. He +had always abhorred invalids and eschewed sick-rooms, with the +self-indulgence of a man whose own comfort is his prime consideration. + +And here he was suddenly, not far from his sixtieth year, after a +long and undisturbed bachelor-life, with a frail little creature on +his hands, broken-hearted at losing her mother, positively ill from +mental stress, entirely dependent on the Colonel's generosity, and +unconsciously able to turn him to right and to left with one glance of +her sweet sad eyes. + +The Colonel succumbed to the new condition of things, once and for all; +and Mrs. Burrell had no choice but to follow suit. She was privately +wrathful at times, declaring to her daughter and niece that "everything +in the house had to give way to that child, whether or no!" meaning, +doubtless, "whether or no she herself approved." + +But she attempted no open resistance; not even when Colonel Smyth +desired that Bertha should sleep in the back bedroom with Rhona, and be +considered her special attendant. He offered additional remuneration +for the same; and Mrs. Burrell liked the remuneration though not the +arrangement. Bertha undertook her share of the matter with silent +rapture, and a warm affection sprang up between her and the child. + +"You nice Bertha!" Rhona would call her often, in grateful tones. + +Of course the Colonel was direfully ignorant as to children's needs and +sick people's ways. Hothouse grapes in profusion were all very well, +but he was impressed with the necessity for lollypops and bulls-eyes +for infant delectation. And his anxiety to "feed up" Rhona upon the +rich soups, stews and curries, in which he himself delighted, was only +equalled by his astonishment at finding them rejected. + +"Mother wouldn't let me," in the child's languid voice, always put an +end to persuasions. + +But he gave way reluctantly, and found her tastes enigmatical. + +Rhona had no appetite and no spirit. She lay day after day upon the +sofa, sometimes in her own bedroom, more often in the Colonel's +sitting-room, always greeting him with a smile, but unable to employ +herself. She had evidently accepted the thought that her mother would +not return; and with this acceptance, all interest in life seemed to +have died away. + +After the first storm of sorrow, there were no more outbreaks; only she +would often lie with closed eyes, slow tears stealing from beneath her +lashes, while the broad brow was dented with pain. French exercises +were no longer attempted; and even story-books, though gratefully +received, were not read. + +Mrs. Burrell recommended calling in a doctor, but the Colonel was +averse to this. + +"There was nothing the matter with the child, only fretting," he said. +"She would get over it in time." + +He did not realise that persistent fretting might at last end in +positive illness; and he had an odd feeling that to summon a doctor +would imply a need for anxiety. Colonel Smyth did not wish to be made +anxious about Rhona, for she was twining herself round his heart. It +was curious to see how he shortened his daily walks, and absented +himself from his usual outdoor resorts that he might spend hours beside +the child. + +Mr. Powis came in now and then to visit her, though not greatly +encouraged by the Colonel. But as yet, Rhona could say little to either +of them. She seemed to want only to lie still. + +It came to the Colonel's hearing one day, as a result of his inquiries, +that just about the date of Mrs. Mordaunt's disappearance, the body of +a woman had been found in a certain canal,—a young woman, dark-haired, +slender, dressed in mourning, apparently most respectable, perhaps +even a lady, but having about her no name or address. The place was at +a considerable distance where the body was discovered, but higher up +in its course that same canal passed within a mile and a half of Mrs. +Howard's house. The poor young woman had received Parish burial; and +beyond these facts the Colonel could find out little. He had, however, +small doubt from that hour that his conjecture as to drowning in the +fog was correct, and thenceforth, he began to count little Rhona indeed +his own. + +It was not his intention that Rhona should ever hear this sad tale. But +his resolution to keep silence was shaken. + +"Rhona, I wish I knew what would do you good," he said one afternoon. + +He had taken her on his knee, and she was lying in his arms, sadly +silent as usual. The stir of her eyelashes showed that she was not +sleeping. Colonel Smyth had a strange sense of pleasure in the feeling +of the little head resting on his shoulder. He began to wonder how he +had managed to live alone so many years. + +"I wish I knew what would do you good," he repeated. "I don't like to +see my little girl always so white and tired." + +"I shan't be tired—some day—perhaps," murmured the child. + +"But I want to know of something that will make you less tired now," he +said. + +"There isn't anything—except—" Rhona said. + +He felt the sigh which finished her broken utterance. + +"My little pet, I should like to see you happier," said the Colonel. + +"I don't think I am exactly unhappy," said Rhona, with a singular +sedateness. "I think I am happy." + +Colonel Smyth lifted her up, and looked earnestly into the pale face, +with its large wistful eyes. + +"No, no, no," he said. "That is not happiness. I want to see you merry +and gay like other children—able to jump, and laugh, and play. But +it is too soon yet, isn't it? Now, now, don't cry—" as two or three +glittering drops fell. "Crying always brings on the pain in this poor +little head, and that makes you feel so dull." + +"I can't help it when I think of mother," whispered Rhona, with an +evident struggle to speak. "It is so—'so' dreadful not to know. If only +I just knew! If only I just knew!" And she wrung her hands together. + +"Just knew?" repeated the Colonel. + +"Where she is!" Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "If only I could +know!" + +"It is worse being uncertain than not knowing,—even if you had to be +sure of the very worst?" the Colonel said questioningly. + +"Yes,—oh yes," sobbed the poor child. "I can't bear not to know. I do +so want to go to her—and take care of her—if she is ill." + +"You poor little mite, you want taking care of yourself," said the +Colonel. + +And then he debated the matter silently, plunging at length into a +sentence, without much idea of how it was to end— + +"Rhona, your mother was a good woman, very good,—and she was lonely and +had a great many troubles, I suspect. Suppose it was as we fear, that +some accident had happened in that fog, and so she never could come +back. I don't say it is so, but suppose it were? Mother would be safe +in heaven then, wouldn't she? Don't you think she would be very happy +there, much happier than she was here?" + +The Colonel felt uncomfortable at his own words; for certainly the very +last happiness he desired for himself was the happiness of heaven. +But he guessed rightly that no other line of argument would avail to +comfort Rhona. + +"She wouldn't be glad to leave me," the poor little lips faltered. + +"But she would be happy there, Rhona—I suppose—with your father, you +know. People are always happy in heaven," said the Colonel, vaguely +trying to administer the right sort of spiritual consolation. + +"Oh yes,—yes," Rhona answered. "If only I knew!" + +"It would make you feel easier in mind to picture your mother as in +heaven, instead of perhaps suffering among strangers," suggested the +Colonel. "Then I can tell you more than you know yet. Can you bear to +hear the worst, my little girl? There was somebody found drowned in a +canal, soon after that foggy day, and she was dressed in black and had +no name upon her. I think it must have been your mother, Rhona. I think +she must have lost her way in the fog, and have wandered to the canal +and fallen in. They say that drowning is a very painless death,—much +more painless than being run over, for instance. And now she will never +have any more troubles, you know." + +The child heard in absolute silence. He could not detect even a quiver +of her eyelids. The Colonel waited silently the space of two minutes, +and then grew alarmed. Had she fainted? + +"Rhona, my dear! Rhona!" he said. "You are not asleep, my dear?" + +"Oh no. I am so glad you have told me," Rhona answered in a low +unchildlike voice, full of sorrow, and joy. "I am so glad I know,—so +glad I know." + +"And you will not fret so much, my little girl," said the Colonel. "You +are going to belong to me now, and I am going to take care of you for +mother's sake. You will try to love me, Rhona." + +"Oh yes, I do love you," Rhona answered in same strange voice, and she +sat upright on his knee, deathly pale. "I am so glad." + +"Not glad of what I have told you! Impossible, my dear," expostulated +the Colonel, not liking the unnatural light in her eyes. + +"Oh no!" + +He did not know what to make of the child. "Put your head down here, +and try to go to sleep," he said coaxingly. + +She went back to her former position in obedient fashion, but presently +he heard her murmur,—"God's will—" + +"Yes,—" said Colonel Smyth uneasily. + +"Mother said I must love His will,—every bit of it. I couldn't till +now." + +"People are not expected to like trouble, Rhona." + +"No, not trouble," Rhona replied in sweet grave tones. "But God's will." + +"I suppose that sometimes comes to the same thing," said the Colonel. + +Rhona did not attempt to disentangle the matter for him; perhaps +she did not even see his difficulty. Her next remark startled him +considerably. + +"I wish it was time for me to go too!" + +"To go to bed?" + +She fairly smiled. "Oh no. I meant, to go to heaven." + +"My dear, you must not talk like that. It is positively wrong," said +the Colonel. "I never heard of such a thing! A little girl of your age +wanting to be dead! It is quite wicked." + +"Is it? Mother didn't tell me so," soberly answered Rhona, less +affected by the Colonel's energetic protest than he had intended her to +be. + +A happy thought struck the Colonel. "I am sure your friend, Mr. Powis, +would say the same. You talk of liking God's will, and then you want +to die in a hurry before your right time. Why, the two things are +incompatible. Of course it is not the Divine Will that everybody should +die directly trouble comes. People must show submission and bear up +courageously, or the world would come to a standstill. You ought to +wish to live, and to do your duty in your station, and to be—ahem—a +useful member of society," concluded the Colonel, looking down with a +rather odd feeling upon the pure and peaceful little face. + +"Yes," answered Rhona meekly. "I suppose I didn't think of all that. +I only wanted so much to be with mother. But I should like to be a +'useful member' very much,—only I don't exactly know what it means." + +The Colonel's lips twitched under his moustache. + +Rhona had her most thoughtful look. + +"Oh, I know—" she said after a pause. "There's a chapter in the Bible, +with ever so much about members, and one member feeling with the rest. +Mother talked about that sometimes. She said all the members might be +useful in their own ways." + +The Colonel grunted a monosyllabic answer. + +"But I don't see how I can be useful to you," said Rhona gently. + +"You shall mend my gloves for me, some day,—when you are well. I have +never had anybody to do that for me since—" + +"Since you were at home and your own sisters did it?" suggested Rhona. + +"No, not my sisters. I meant somebody else," said the Colonel, in a +constrained voice. + +"Was it a great friend? Somebody that you loved very much?" asked +Rhona, deeply interested. + +The Colonel's sunburnt face changed a little. "Yes," he said. "But that +is a long while ago." + +"And was she very fond of you?" asked Rhona. + +"I thought so—at one time," muttered the Colonel. + +"And did she always go on mending your gloves as long as she lived?" +pursued the child. + +"Oh dear, no,—not nearly so long. She grew tired of me," said the +Colonel, with a thin disguise of outside indifference, penetrated at +once by Rhona. + +She gave him one sorrowful look, and then clasped his arm. + +"I don't like her at all. She ought not to have got tired. You are so +good and so kind. But I shall always, always like to mend your gloves, +uncle. And I shall always love you." + +"You are my own dear little girl!" whispered the Colonel. + + +He sat up late that evening, alone in the drawing-room, with a book +on his knees which he could not read. Memories of olden days were +stirred,—memories of one, once dear to him, nay always dear, though +the love which still lived in his heart was mingled with bitterness. +Colonel Smyth was one of those rare specimens of mankind, with whom to +be once deceived is to be always deceived, once disappointed always +disappointed. Not that his had been an unhappy life. He had found +other interests, had made other friends. But no second woman could +fill the place once held in his heart by a certain Margaret Willis; +no later love could usurp the place of his first love. His brother +officers had found him brave and true; not a religious man, even in +profession, but morally irreproachable; and among them he had been +as a rule popular. Towards women, however, his ordinary manners had +been marked by a brusquerie which in the opinion of some amounted even +to bearishness,—until little Rhona won her way into his affections, +putting aside all barriers. + +"Would she be like the rest of them?" he sometimes inquired mentally, +jumbling "the rest of them" dismally together in the grey light of his +own early disappointment. Would she ever become fickle and uncertain, +ever learn to rejoice in her womanly power to wound? He put this +question to himself now, sitting alone in the lamplight, and his own +answer was an emphatic negative. A vision rose in his mind of a fair +and brilliant face, side by side with Rhona's placid brow and sweet +eyes. + +"No, no, no,—wonderfully alike, but not the same. And Rhona has had a +different training. Too much religious talk of course; but something +genuine below." + +From memories of Margaret Willis, he passed by an easy transition to +yet earlier recollections. He felt himself once again a little boy at +his mother's knee,—a peculiar and wilful child understood by no one +except that mother, so early taken away. His life after her death had +been a continuous knocking of his own hard corners against those of +other people, more especially in the home-circle. + +He could hardly have told at first what had called up these pictures, +till he seemed suddenly to hear his mother's soft voice asking,—"Does +my Harry love Jesus?" That was the association; Rhona's reverent +utterance of the holy Name. + +Everybody else in the house had gone to bed; and still the Colonel sat +on, plunged in deep reverie. The reverie unexpectedly became slumber. + +Had Colonel Smyth not been thus stirred and roused, so as to break +through his usual habits, they might have all been burnt to death +in their beds that night. It was one of those merciful mysterious +Providences, which we may note but cannot explain, except by ascribing +them to Divine watchfulness and Fatherly care. + +The Colonel slept long and soundly, leaning back in his comfortable +easy-chair. But by-and-by a dream began to trouble him. + +He thought himself sailing on the high seas, going out to India, young +again in years, with hopes for the future bright and strong within him. +He was not alone, for two women stood, one on either side of him; on +the right his mother, as he dimly remembered her, soft and tender and +shadowy; on the left a young girl, brilliantly fair and beautiful, so +like little Rhona in feature that she might be Rhona grown up, only +'not' Rhona. + +"She is mine now,—my own," Colonel Smyth murmured. "Mine always. No one +can ever take her from me." + +He would have clasped her hand, but the fingers round which his own +closed were cold as ice, and seemed to shrink out of his grasp. Then as +he looked at her, she slowly faded and changed, till Margaret was gone, +and little Rhona stood there in her stead, looking up with wistful +eyes, and saying, "I shall always love you, uncle." + +Even in his sleep, Colonel Smyth sighed bitterly, though he laid a kind +hand on the child's head. + +Then suddenly, he saw red flames springing from the deck, in front and +on either side, and the air was thick with smoke. None but himself +seemed to see the peril they were in. Captain and crew went quietly +about their occupations, while those red flames curled upwards, and a +strange sense of nightmare withheld the Colonel from uttering a sound. +Rhona stood by him still, but his mother's form was changing. + +"Must I lose all again?" he vainly strove to say. + +And she answered the unspoken question in soft far-off tones, +"Yes,—all,—until my Harry learns to know and to serve JESUS." + +She seemed to pass away like a mist-wreath into the flames, with a +smile upon her lips. + +Then at length, the cry of "Fire! Fire!" burst from the Colonel, but +nobody paid attention. + +He called aloud in vain, while the flames drew nearer, and he was +rooted to the spot. He struggled fiercely in his sleep, under the +sense of helplessness. And as he strove, Rhona turned to him with an +ineffable smile, and the Name upon her lips which she so loved to +utter. Then she too passed upwards, and the Colonel was left alone, +feeling himself cut off from her for ever. + +"Rhona! Rhona! Come back!" he cried, and there the dream ended. + +Colonel Smyth awoke, absolutely trembling, and covered with cold +perspiration. "Pshaw!" he exclaimed. "How utterly absurd! I never +dreamt such nonsense in my life." + +He pulled out his watch mechanically. "Half-past one! Unearthly hours! +No wonder I took to dreaming. Something at dinner must have disagreed +with me. Well,—I must go to bed at once." + +Ha! What was this strange odour, and the thick mistiness filling +the air, both of which the Colonel had at the first moment been too +bewildered to perceive? + +"Smoke! That's not right!" He started immediately into full wakefulness. + +Three strides took him to the door, but when he flung it open, eddying +wreaths came rolling in. The Colonel recoiled, aghast. A strong smell +of burning pervaded the atmosphere, and distant crackling with a +continuous low roar struck upon his ear. + +The house was on fire,—and not a soul among the sleepers aware of the +fact. Standing there,—as for one half-second he did stand,—he could +distinctly hear the landlady's nasal utterances upstairs. + +"Fire! Fire! Fire!" Shouts from the street now reached him. Had the +outer world only just become aware of the terrible fact? + +"Fire! Fire! Wake up! The house is on fire!" rang through the passages +in the Colonel's stentorian tones. + +An answering shriek from above showed that he was heard. Disregarding +all else, he rushed into Rhona's room. + +A fierce glow from beneath cast sufficient light through the striped +blind to guide his steps. But the heat was intense, and the smoke +stifling. The fire seemed to have originated on this side of the house. + +A sharp shake aroused Bertha, and she sprang up, stupefied yet +conscious. Five minutes later, she would have been past easy awakening. + +"Quick, not a minute to spare," the Colonel said, as he passed on, and +caught up the sleeping child, wrapping a large woollen shawl around her. + +"Throw on anything—dressing-gown and blanket. Ha!" as the contact of +her bare feet with the floor caused an exclamation. "Yes, your shoes. +Quick, my good girl." + +Rhona lay heavily in his arms, uttering not a sound. The Colonel paused +an instant to snatch up a long towel, plunge it in water, and twist it +round the lower part of his face, letting one end drop protectingly +over Rhona's mouth and nose. He dipped a second, and flung it to Bertha. + +"Do as I do," he said briefly. "Now come." + +Opening the door, he went straight to the stairs, followed closely by +Bertha. What had become of the two upstairs, he could not pause to +think. His whole energies were bent on saving little Rhona first from +the terrible death with which she was threatened. + +Thick waves of smoke met them, stinging and choking. But for the +protecting towels, they could not have advanced a dozen steps. + +Descent by the staircase was impossible. That soon became evident. The +roar of flames and the rush of burning smoke increased each instant. + +Colonel Smyth grasped Bertha's arm, feeling her stagger. "Back! Back!" +he said. "Upstairs at once! To my bedroom! This way is hopeless." + +How they managed the ascent, he never afterwards knew. Supporting the +child on one arm, upholding and urging Bertha with the other, he seemed +possessed of almost superhuman strength. Leaving the drawing-room floor +behind, they pressed upwards, guided by the glare of light from below, +and by screams from above. + +Mrs. Burrell and Hope had quitted their own bedroom at the back of +the house, for a glance downstairs, being at once beaten back by the +sights and sounds encountered. They had rushed into the Colonel's front +bedroom, to find no Colonel there. Hope was leaning out of one window +in her nightdress, shrieking continuously; and Mrs. Burrell, in a red +shawl, stood by her, wearing a look of utter despair. + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +FIRE! + +SHUTTING the door behind him, Colonel Smyth went swiftly to the +second window, bearing still the unconscious child, and dragging the +half-stupefied Bertha. He flung it open, and a cry of horror broke +from the gathering crowd below, at the sight of three more threatened +victims. + +"No way out, I suppose, along the leads, either front or back?" Colonel +Smyth inquired of Bertha. + +As yet, Mrs. Burrell and Hope, in their absorption of terror, had not +become aware of the Colonel's entrance. + +Bertha's "No, sir," was bewildered. + +He saw that she hardly knew what she said. + +"Take the child for a moment!" And he laid Rhona in the girl's arms. + +Then he was gone from the room, but only for a few seconds. Almost +before Bertha had time to conjecture his purpose, he returned. And as +he reached the window, Rhona opened her eyes, revived by a breath of +fresher air. + +"No hope there," he said gloomily. "I had thoughts of a descent at the +back, making use of the cistern,—but the flames are all over it. Why is +there no fire-escape?" + +The Colonel was a brave man, but the threatening peril was very +terrible, rendered still more terrible by his utter helplessness; and +his cheeks blanched as he gazed. + +To meet death on the battle-field would have been far easier. + +"What are they about?" he groaned inaudibly. "The fire has made fearful +way." + +"Can't we get out?" Rhona asked, her clear voice sounding distinctly +through the roar of the fire and the shouts of the crowd. + +She seemed to have wakened quietly to a full sense of the position, +and her large eyes were dilated with fear. She had slid partly out of +Bertha's arms, which indeed were hardly able to bear her up, and stood +leaning against her kind attendant, swathed still in the blanket from +head to foot. + +"I hope so,—very soon," the Colonel answered gravely. "I expect a +fire-escape every moment. You have no ropes here, my good girl?" he +asked of Bertha in a lower tone. + +She shook her head mutely. + +"The sheets—" said the Colonel. + +Mrs. Burrell and Hope, becoming suddenly aware of their presence, +rushed to the same window. Mrs. Burrell passionately implored aid, +and Hope fairly flung herself at Colonel Smyth's feet, with sobs and +incoherent shrieks. + +"Hush! Be quiet," he said sternly. "Don't you see that we are all in +the same condition? Here! You had better help me fasten the sheets +together. Not you, Bertha,—don't leave Miss Rhona." + +Hope was limp and helpless, but Mrs. Burrell, though refusing to move +far from the window, gave some assistance. The Colonel worked as a man +works for his life; and, in an incredibly short space of time, the +improvised rope of sheets and blankets was ready for use. He brought it +to the window, and there paused. The descent thus would be a passage +through smoke and flame. + +"Will any one make the trial?" asked the Colonel, looking round. + +Hope hid her face. + +Bertha said steadily, "I will take Miss Rhona down, if you wish, sir." + +He looked at her and at the child, and shuddered. + +"It would be a bare chance," he muttered. "Hardly a hope. Hanging so +close to the windows, the sheets would certainly take fire. Wait a few +more seconds," he said aloud. "The escape, if it comes soon, will be +better." + +Hope flung herself wildly on the knotted bedding. "Oh let me down, +let me down," she cried piercingly; "I can't stay here. Oh let me +down—quick—" + +Colonel Smyth made no fresh protest. He was indeed unable to decide +whether the peril of going or of delaying were the greatest. With +compressed lips, he attached the end blanket to her waist, folding her +up in it as much as possible, and helped her to mount the sill. But a +glance over proved too much for her fortitude, and with a scream she +fell back into the room. + +"Don't you mean to go, Hope?" asked her mother in a voice of sullen +misery. + +"Oh, I don't know," gasped Hope. "Oh, I don't know. It looks so +frightful. Oh, what shall I do?" + +"The floor burns my feet," murmured Rhona patiently, and Colonel Smyth +caught her up in his arms. + +"What can they be about? Why don't they come?" he groaned, as she clung +to him. + +"I don't think we shall be burnt. God will take care of us," said Rhona. + +"Pray to Him, my dear,—you know how. Pray for all of us," whispered the +Colonel. + +"I am praying all the time. God will take care of us," Rhona said +again. But after a moment she added softly, "Only He might want to take +me to mother that way. Would it hurt very much?" + +Colonel Smyth could not answer, and again Hope sprang up wildly. "Oh, +it burns, it burns," she screamed. "Oh, let me go down. I can't stay +here." + +"You must choose for yourself," Colonel Smyth answered gravely. "I +don't know that this is long enough, and—" + +"Oh, but it is worse waiting here. It is frightful," shrieked Hope. +"Let me down,—quick—quick." + +Bertha again received Rhona, supporting her with difficulty. And in +another instant, Hope was hanging over the depth. Her shrill cries +of terror rang piercingly through the night-air, and the crowd below +seemed to watch with suspended breath. Colonel Smyth paid out the +improvised rope rapidly yet cautiously. But that which he had dreaded +came to pass. It proved too short; and as she hung some little way from +the ground, for two short seconds of agony, a leaping tongue of fire +set light to the sheets by which she was suspended. + +Those above could not distinguish what went on so close underneath, but +Hope's screams ceased, and the weight which depended on the Colonel's +hands was suddenly lightened. Whether the change meant life or death to +Hope, they could not tell. A flame was running up the twisted sheeting, +which Colonel Smyth held, and he flung it down as useless. + +"No hope now—that way," he muttered. + +Then a loud cry rose from the people, resolving itself into joyful +words. "Ha! The escape at last!" echoed Colonel Smyth, with relief +unutterable. + +At last, and not too soon. Was it even in time! A dull crash told of +the first floor falling in, and flames rushed wildly out from the lower +windows, fanned by the strong breeze. + +Another minute found the ladders in position, and a brave man rapidly +mounted through whirling smoke. + +Their rescuer appeared suddenly close to the window, a helmeted figure, +framed in coils of smoke, steadying himself in his perilous position. +What had to be done needed to be done quickly. For a man to remain +outside there any length of time was an impossibility. Colonel Smyth +would fain have sent the child down first, but Mrs. Burrell pushed +resolutely to the front, and no time could be wasted in parleying. As +she flung herself over the windowsill, the man grasped her. And almost +before she knew what would happen next, she was performing a swift +descent down the canvas trough, to be safely caught by expectant hands +below. + +Another rush of flame, this time from the drawing-room windows, +compelled the fireman to beat a retreat. He held out his arms, and +Rhona was dropped into them. + +"Come at once, sir," he said, seeing only the figure of the Colonel in +that fire-illuminated window. For Bertha had sunk to the floor. + +Those in the street saw the fireman reappear, descending through the +smoke, saw him pause and falter while still some way from the ground, +saw the child slipping from his grasp. A wail of horror broke from +many, but another fireman rushed underneath and caught the little +figure in his arms, thereby changing the wail into a frantic cheer. +The poor fellow reached the bottom in safety, though nearly fainting, +and Rhona's last rescuer, handing her over to a gentleman not far-off, +immediately went up to the ladder in his stead. + +Rhona's new friend, a strongly-built young man, perhaps about eight +and twenty in age, carried her quickly away from the vicinity of the +burning house. As the fresher air again recalled her scattered senses, +she was startled to find herself in the grasp of strange arms. The face +which met her opening eyes was reassuring, yet her first impulse was a +distressful struggle, and an imploring, "Wait! Oh, please wait! Don't +take me anywhere till he is safe." + +"You shall wait near, my dear. I am only taking you to a house across +the road," the gentleman said kindly. "Is he your father?" + +"No, it is my uncle,—it is Colonel Smyth. Oh, why doesn't he come +down?" Rhona asked in an agony. "Please, please, I can't go till he is +safe." + +"I am afraid of your taking cold," the gentleman said. Yet for an +instant he had to pause that he might wrap more closely round her the +blanket, disarranged by her struggle. + +It was a wild scene, viewed from where he stood. The house threatened +to become soon a mass of fire; and thus far, the steady play of the +engines seemed to take no effect. At the windows of houses round about, +opposite and on either side, faces of ghastly pallor and fear were +visible in the red glare, which glowed upon glass panes, and lent a +false hue to the dark sky. + +Again the booming crash, and the burst of flame told of a floor falling +in. Then a gust of wind swept the heavy smoke aside, and Colonel Smyth +could be seen, still at the window, apparently striving to lift a heavy +weight. + +"Oh, it is Bertha! O uncle!" cried poor Rhona. + +One fireman, striving to ascend, had already been beaten back half-way, +but another now essayed the same successfully. A few more seconds of +terrible suspense, and he was on his way downward, bearing a female +figure. The Colonel following, seemed in some way to slip or fail, +when getting out of the window, and was all but precipitated upon +the pavement below. He caught the ladder with one hand, and somehow +regained his footing, showing an activity hardly to be expected at +his age. The remainder of the descent was accomplished by him without +accident. A sudden change in the wind appeared to have taken place; and +though flames leaped out fitfully, charring the canvas bagging, yet the +chief rush of smoke and heated air was now in another direction. + +But of all this, including the Colonel's most narrow escape, Rhona saw +nothing. One glance only was permitted. Then despite sobbing protests, +she was borne hurriedly to a house over the way, near the farthest end +of the street. + +"Yes, yes, my dear child, you shall know all as soon as possible," the +gentleman said soothingly, as answer to her pleadings. "I cannot keep +you out here in the night-air. I will come and tell you directly your +uncle is safely down." + +"They won't let him stay there,—poor uncle! They won't let him be burnt +to death," said Rhona's quivering lips. + +"No, no, don't be afraid. Think how many people there are to help, and +they will do their utmost. See, I am going to take you in here to a +friend of mine, a kind old lady." + +"But I don't know her, and I haven't any frock," said Rhona. + +"Never mind the frock. You and Mrs. Montague will not be strangers +long, I am sure." + +It was a private house at which he stopped, just beyond the region +of shops. The front door was on the latch, and the inhabitants were +evidently astir. Rhona's friend entered with the air of one much at +home. He carried her swiftly upstairs, clearing two steps at a time +with long easy strides, tapped at a door, and on receiving no answer +walked in. A candle stood alight on the dressing-table, and the bed +bore signs of having been slept in that night, but nobody was present. +Rhona was laid on a couch, still rolled up in her sheltering blanket, +and an eider-down quilt, caught up from the bed, was spread quickly +over her. The gentleman paused then and bent down, looking into her +eyes. + +"Will you be afraid, my dear, to lie alone for a minute?" + +"No," said Rhona, returning the gaze. "I don't think I am +afraid—exactly." + +"I am going to see after Colonel Smyth. You would rather I should do +that than stay with you,—but Mrs. Montague will come directly. Somebody +might be a little hurt at the fire, and I am a doctor." + +"Oh please, please, go—" Rhona implored, shivering violently, though +not from cold. "Oh please, don't wait." + +Presently a lady entered, little and old and gentle, dressed in a +quaint flowered wrapper, while a soft cream-coloured shawl was folded +round her shoulders and passed, mantilla-wise, over her head. The face +within these creamy folds was singularly small, aged yet delicate, worn +yet still attractive. Rhona saw so much, almost without seeing, as a +little wrinkled hand patted her fingers in soothing fashion, rubbing +away their chill. + +"Now the other hand, if we can get at it. They have rolled you up into +an Egyptian mummy. Ah, here comes the hot stuff, to put a little colour +into those white cheeks. It is well I bade my maids light a fire and +have boiling water ready, thinking either might be needed. Drink it up, +little one and after that you shall rest in my nice bed." + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +ACROSS THE WAY. + +COLONEL SMYTH came down the ladders quickly, though stepping with +caution, even with difficulty. On reaching the ground, his first words +were, "Where is my little girl?" + +"She's all right, sir,—taken to a house near. You'd best stand back," +one of the men said. "Is there nobody else in the house?" + +Colonel Smyth half answered in the negative, and checked himself. "I do +not know. There is a servant girl,—sleeping downstairs, I believe. What +of her?" + +"Pulled out of her bed just in time, sir,—found first of all, when the +alarm was given. Nobody else, you are sure?" + +"Quite sure. Thank God!" the Colonel said involuntarily. "Then all are +saved. No, I am forgetting,—how about the girl I let down from the +window?" + +"Fell to the ground and broke her leg," the informant answered. "A +doctor has seen to her, and sent her straight off to hospital. He is +the same that carried the little girl away too." + +"No hope of rescuing any of my belongings, I suppose," the Colonel +said, looking up regretfully at his flame-wreathed drawing-room +windows. "Well—let them go. Life is worth more than books and pictures. +Where is the child?" + +A hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said, "You had better come +farther back. There is danger here?" + +Colonel Smyth obeyed the touch mechanically, and the other continued, +"I have taken your little girl to a friend of mine in this street. Will +you come there too?" + +"Thanks," the Colonel replied. "Yes, the sooner the better. I don't +seem to be of any use here." + +It was well they had not far to go. Mrs. Montague's house-door was +no longer on the latch, but Mr. Wynne had provided himself with a +latch-key, and they entered without ringing. Colonel Smyth staggered, +and dropped into a chair. + +"Never mind me. It is nothing," he said hastily, as if ashamed. "Where +is Rhona? Not hurt, is she?" + +"No, not at all. But you are," Mr. Wynne said. + +"Rather scorched, I believe. I'll go to Rhona. The child must be +frightened. By-the-by, what of my landlady?" + +"Uninjured, but a good deal excited at the loss of her property." + +"With some reason, perhaps. And the daughter—broken leg, they say." + +"That, and other injuries. Gone to hospital at once; and the mother has +been taken in two doors from this." + +"And—yes—Bertha—what of her? I lost sight of the girl after we came +down." + +"She has been received in the same house as Mrs. Burrell. After seeing +to your hurts, I must take a look at her,—but I am told that she does +not seem much the worse for her adventure." + +"Capital girl, plucky to a degree. I shall not lose sight of her, if I +can help it. Has anybody any notion how the fire originated?" + +"There is some idea. The servant girl was found asleep on her bed, +fully dressed. The mischief evidently began in the neighbourhood of +the kitchen; and she confesses to a vague recollection of leaving her +candle on the lid of a box which contained shavings, meaning to go back +and fetch it. She says she was so tired that she dropped down across +her bed for two minutes' rest, before finishing what had to be done. +The remainder may be imagined. It is a marvel that she was not burnt in +her bed, before help came." + +"Heinous carelessness!" muttered the Colonel. "But the poor thing +was worked off her legs and out of her proper senses, I do believe. +Well—Mrs. Burrell has to pay a heavy penalty. I hope her property is +insured." + +"I cannot say. I have not spoken to her yet. I am going to send word +upstairs that you are safe; and then I must see to your hurts." + +"Send word? I'm going myself," Colonel Smyth answered, starting up. "I +want to satisfy my own eyes with a sight of the child." + +Mr. Wynne looked doubtful, but made no protest. They were speedily +within the bedroom, where Rhona lay, anxiously watching. + +At the first glimpse of Colonel Smyth, she sprang up in bed with a cry +of joy, sharpened into almost a scream. + +Colonel Smyth was startled at the energy with which the child flung +herself upon him. Mrs. Montague had arrayed her in a dressing-gown of +deep pink flannel, but Rhona's cheeks outdid the hue of her pretty +wrapper. + +"Gently, my dear!" Mr. Wynne said, noting the Colonel's sudden wince. + +He loosened her clutch with a firm hand, and laid her back on the +pillow. "You must keep still, or we shall have to leave you." + +Rhona had no sign of stillness about her. She remained obediently, as +placed, but with eyes that shone like stars, and with breath that came +in hysterical catches. + +"Oh, I'm so glad, so very very glad," she said. "It is almost 'too' +good. I didn't really think you could have got down. O uncle—uncle—" + +"Hush, hush, my little girl; you will be ill if you excite yourself +so," said Colonel Smyth, stooping to kiss her. "That is not like my +gentle good Rhona." + +"I don't feel gentle to-night, not a bit—and not good either," said +Rhona, speaking rapidly, and flashing her large eyes to and fro. "I +felt good up in that room, when we thought we should all be burnt, but +not now. I suppose it is because I am so very very glad you and Bertha +are safe—poor nice Bertha. And Mrs. Burrell too,—only I don't like +her so much—not nearly so much. Uncle, you don't know how dreadfully +frightened I was about you. And the kind doctor went to see if he could +do anything." + +"I found him on the ground, quite safe," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Quite safe from the flames!" said Rhona, with a shudder. "I keep +seeing those flames all the while. Dear, dear uncle! Only think if you +hadn't come down in time! Oh, are you quite sure the flames won't catch +this house, and burn us all up?" + +"No fear of that," said Colonel Smyth, with an involuntary contraction +of his brow, as she clasped his left hand. + +"But I am so afraid—suppose they should!" said Rhona, shivering. "And +we mightn't all keep awake, and mightn't know in time." + +Mr. Wynne was noting the two faces carefully. He bent a little over the +child, and said,—"There was a wise man once, little Rhona, who could +say,— + + "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in THEE!'" + +"That was King David," said Rhona hurriedly, with a brilliant smile. +"It's in the Psalms, and mother did love that text so. She used to say +it often." + +"Then you must try to say it now." + +He had not meant lip-utterance, but Rhona took the advice literally. It +touched them to see the slender hands clasped, while a look of earnest +gravity came over the broad brow. + + "'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.'" + +The words were not spoken to Mr. Wynne, or for Mr. Wynne's hearing. +Rhona's eyes had a far-away look for a moment, before coming back to +his face. + +"Must I say it again?" she asked with curious simplicity. + +"No, my dear," said Mr. Wynne. "You must 'think' it now; and keep +yourself from talking. Colonel Smyth is coming into the next room with +me for a little while." + +Colonel Smyth obeyed the hint. He went straight to the window of the +front room, looked out and remarked, "The glare seems lessening." Then +he turned and said, "Will you help me off with my coat—carefully, +please." + +"Your hands are a good deal scorched," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Yes, rather, but the shoulder is worst. I gave it a wrench +somehow—getting out of the window—slipped and nearly fell, I believe, +and saved myself by one hand. It was touch and go! Whew!" Colonel Smyth +winced and paled at the light touch of Mr. Wynne's fingers. "Yes, just +there. I did not know how bad it was till Rhona threw herself upon me. +But no use minding. The coat has to come off somehow." + +"Not that way," Mr. Wynne said, with a restraining gesture. "Wait a +moment." + +He was gone quickly, and reappeared with a large pair of scissors. The +coat-sleeve was speedily ripped up from wrist to shoulder, Colonel +Smyth submitting with only one remark,— + +"Do you know I don't possess another coat in the world?" + +"There are tailors in London," said Mr. Wynne. + +And after a brief examination, he uttered one word—"Dislocated." + +"Well, I am an old soldier, and can stand a good pull," said the +Colonel. "By-the-by, are you a surgeon?" + +"Yes." + +"Seems a lucky event that you happened to be on the spot. You live +near, I suppose?" + +"No; I was called up late to a patient in this neighbourhood, and +happened to be passing the end of the street on my way home, just when +the alarm was first given." + +"That poor girl, Bertha, will need you presently, I suspect, +Doctor,—by-the-by, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. May as +well put my shoulder straight first, if you don't object." + +"I am not wanted there. Dr. Marsden, living in the next street, has +made his appearance, and will see to her at once. My name is Arbuthnot +Wynne,—Mr., not Dr. as yet." + +Colonel Smyth's movement of surprise was marked. + +"You seem to recognise it," Mr. Wynne said. + +"I remember a certain Dr. Wynne many years ago,—a man nearly of my own +standing." + +"My father probably. He is in full practice still, and we live +together." + +"Your patients being his, and vice versa, I suppose. Well, the sooner +this little business is attended to the better. I can stand a wrench +fairly well. You don't advise chloroform, do you?" + +"I don't think it is necessary," said Mr. Wynne. "Will you lie down +here, if you please?" + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +AFTERWARDS. + +"THAT'S over!" said the Colonel, with an air of relief, when the +bandaging was complete. The setting of the dislocated shoulder he +had borne in a manner worthy of his profession; and though rather +yellow-white still about the lips with pain, he was disposed to +self-congratulation. "I see you inherit your father's fingers." + +"A good inheritance," responded Mr. Wynne. "You will have to take +things quietly for a few days." + +"Well, yes, so I suppose,—as far as possible. You used to live in +Burton Square, if I remember rightly?" + +"We live there still. I do not recall your face, Colonel Smyth,—or your +name." + +"I dare say not. 'Smyth' is no very distinctive cognomen," said the +Colonel, with an odd dry laugh. "And you were a mere boy in those +days, a nice little lad with curly hair. Thanks, that is much more +comfortable. I must get a ready-made coat in the morning, somehow, +to go about in. By-the-by, I should wish you to consider me 'your' +patient,—exclusively." + +"And not my father's? What! Did he and you fall out in past days?" + +"No, no—not at all, quite the reverse. I had a marked admiration for +his skill,—always used to declare he was the only medical man living +whose opinion I valued a rap. But I have found a second; and the hands +that begin a job may as well finish it." + +Mr. Wynne was aware from Colonel Smyth's face that some other reason +lay beneath. "Very well," he said. "You shall be my patient strictly. I +must see you again to-morrow." + +"I can't give you any address for to-morrow. Rhona and I are houseless +wanderers. I must take her to some hotel for two or three days, and +decide on future plans." + +"We shall see in the morning. I am not sure that it will do to remove +Rhona so soon. The child is a good deal shaken." + +"No wonder, poor mite. She kept up splendidly at the time, but that +tells upon one afterward." + +"She is a winning little maid," the doctor said. + +"You would think so, if you knew her! The most extraordinary child +I ever saw,—like a grown person in her feelings and ways. There's +something about her, positively, which almost seems to belong to +another world." + +Mr. Wynne's eyes said plainly, "Perhaps it does." + +After a pause, he remarked, "I have seen a face very like hers." + +"Where? When?" asked Colonel Smyth. + +"I cannot tell you. I don't possess my father's memory in respect of +faces. When I have seen the same before, it comes back to me, but not +always with the name attached." + +"You don't think you may have come across Rhona herself before? It is +not a common type of face." + +"Too far back for that. I have merely a vague impression of such a face +years ago, in my young days." + +"Your young days!" repeated the Colonel. "Why, you are hardly out of +boyhood yet." + +"Twenty-seven to-morrow,—to-day, I mean. I forgot that 'to-morrow' had +come," Mr. Wynne said quaintly. + +"I wish you many happy returns," responded the Colonel, with +promptitude. "Now I must take another look at my little girl, and then +see what they are doing at Number Three." + +"I am afraid nothing can be done there, beyond preventing the spread of +the fire. As for Rhona, I must forbid you her room to-night. She does +not know you are hurt, and we must avoid any increase of excitement. +It is a frail little being, and I am afraid she may suffer more than +any one from this night's work. For yourself, I prescribe quiet. Mrs. +Montague's spare room is ready for you, and,—No, of course you can't +sleep,—" with a smile. "But you must have bodily rest." + +"What will your friend think of this midnight invasion!" asked the +Colonel. + +"She will thank me for acting as I have done. Now, Colonel, I will show +you to your room; and for ten minutes, you may count me your valet." + +Colonel Smyth "pshawed" and apologised, laughed, and disclaimed the +need of help, but finally had to submit. + +Mr. Wynne then went out to make inquiry as to the fire, and brought +back such tidings as he had expected to bring. The condition of Number +Three was hopeless,—the house being completely gutted, and promising +to become a mere shell. The efforts of the firemen were chiefly +directed towards the protection of neighbouring houses. A few pieces of +furniture and two or three pictures had been rescued, but the contents +of the house generally were lost. + +"Well, Rhona is safe," Colonel Smyth made answer. "I am not ruined, +happily, though I should have liked to save my books." + +A few minutes later, Mr. Wynne was by the side of Rhona. She lay +tossing to and fro with wide-open eyes, watchfully guarded by the +little old lady in flowered wrapper and creamy shawl. + +"I don't feel the very least inclined to sleep," Rhona said, looking up +at Mr. Wynne. "I can't forget those dreadful flames, creep—creeping up +after us. Mayn't I get up and go to uncle? Oh, but I haven't any frock." + +"No; so you must be content to stay in bed," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Must I stay in bed all to-morrow, and next day? It takes such a time +to get a frock made." + +"Perhaps we may find a frock somewhere ready-made, that will fit you. +But you have to lie quiet now." + +"I wish uncle would come. Why doesn't he?" asked Rhona. + +"You forget that it is the middle of the night. I have sent him to bed; +and now I am going to send Mrs. Montague to lie down, while I stay +here." + +Mrs. Montague rose at once. + +"But I have got her bed," said Rhona. + +"There are other beds and sofas in the house, my dear," Mrs. Montague +said. "You will call me when you want me, Mr. Wynne." + +Then she kissed Rhona and went away. + +"You are sure uncle isn't ill?" said Rhona suspiciously. "Quite +perfectly sure." + +"No, not ill," said Mr. Wynne. "But he has hurt his shoulder, and I +want him to have a few hours' rest." + +"Oh, I 'do' want to see him again," exclaimed Rhona tearfully. "Mayn't +I get up and sit by him? I'll be so good. Please do let me." + +"No, Rhona." + +"It isn't as if I were tired," pursued the child with unwonted +wilfulness. "I'm not tired a bit, only everything seems so funny. Oh!" +And she gave a violent start. "Oh! I never thought till this moment! +Fay,—poor little Fay; oh, how could I be so cruel, so wicked?" + +"I don't understand," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Fay,—my own dear little bird,—I never never thought of him," Rhona +said passionately, tears streaming down her cheeks. "So cruel, so +horrid of me. Oh, do, do please send somebody quick to save him! Please +do." + +Mr. Wynne did not move. "Somebody else may have remembered the bird," +he said. + +"Oh no, I'm sure they wouldn't. He was in my room, and nobody else went +there. And I never thought of him, nor Bertha either. And father gave +him to me. What shall I do?" Rhona sobbed, even wildly. "Oh, please, +can't something be done? Can't they get him out?" + +"If he has not been taken out already, nothing can be done now. The +floor of your room has fallen in. It is just possible that the bird may +be among the few things saved, but I do not expect it," Mr. Wynne said +thoughtfully. "The little creature would very early be stifled by the +smoke." + +"And my own father gave him to me," moaned Rhona. + +Mr. Wynne allowed her to sob freely for two or three minutes. Then his +hand came on hers, and his voice said gravely— + +"Rhona, I think you are wrong." + +She looked up suddenly, as if in surprise. + +"Yes, wrong," he repeated. "I do not think you ought to grieve so much +for the bird, instead of being thankful for the many lives spared. +Think how terrible it would have been if the fire-escape had arrived +too late; or if Colonel Smyth had not been able to get down in time. +The loss of your pet is a small matter in comparison." + +"Oh yes, yes,—only I did love him so," Rhona answered sadly. "I think I +should not mind so very very much, if only I had not forgotten him." + +"You could not help forgetting him. When Colonel Smyth carried you out +of your room, you were unconscious, or nearly so." + +"Was I?" asked Rhona, in surprise. "I don't remember. It all seemed so +dreadful. Then it wasn't really cruel of me to forget Fay." + +"No, not at all. And your maid too was so stupefied by the smoke and +heat that though she was just able to walk, she had not power to think. +Besides, the little creature was probably dead, even then. It does not +take much to kill a bird." + +Rhona sighed heavily. "And all mother's things are gone," she said. +"But I'll try to be good and not grumble. I 'am' glad nobody was burnt. +And I suppose Mrs. Burrell is worse off, because she has lost her house +and everything. Poor Bertha too, Bertha has nobody belonging to her, +and Mrs. Burrell always seems vexed because she has to keep Bertha. Do +tell me how Bertha is." + +"Quite herself, I am told, and really very little hurt. You will see +her no doubt in the morning." + +"It was like being 'brands plucked out of the fire,'" murmured Rhona. +"I couldn't help thinking of those words when we were up at the window. +Somehow I didn't feel so frightened then as I do now. I do want mother +to-night." + +"But you have a kind uncle," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Yes, very very kind, only of course, he isn't my mother," Rhona +answered sorrowfully. Then with a sudden change of mood, she burst out +laughing. "And he isn't my real uncle either. How funny that seems! +He only makes me call him 'uncle,' and I love him dearly. There was +somebody else once who loved him, and she used to mend his gloves. But +that person got tired of him. 'I' shall never grow tired of my dear +dear uncle. I shall always love him—always—all my life long,—and I'll +always always mend his gloves." + +"Rhona, you have talked enough," said Mr. Wynne, rising and going to +the dressing-table, whence he brought a small tumbler. "You are to +drink this, and then you are to say nothing more for half-an-hour." + +"But I don't want medicine. What is it?" asked the child. + +"Never mind. You must take it." + +Rhona obeyed. "But I can't go to sleep," she said. + +"Then keep awake; only do not talk." + +"Must I be left alone?" + +"Not if you are a good child, and do as you are told. If you go to +sleep, you shall find me here when you wake." + +"And may I get up then? Oh, but I haven't a frock." + +"I think we shall be able to manage. My little cousin is about your +size, and she has plenty of frocks." + +"Does your little cousin live with you?" asked Rhona eagerly. + +Mr. Wynne answered "Yes," and held up a silencing finger. + +Rhona smiled, then shut her eyes, and settled into an attitude of +repose, exercising an amount of control over her nervous excitement +which he had hardly expected. + +He sat motionless, watching the sweet face, with its tense brow and +quivering lashes. "Where have I seen that look before?" he questioned +with himself. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD. + +"SUE." + +Susanna Mordaunt started out of an absent fit, and said hurriedly, +"Yes, Clara. Yes. Did you speak before? I didn't hear. I was only +thinking about—. But is anything the matter?" + +"A good deal, I should have thought. What are you mooning over now?" + +"Oh, I was only—only—just thinking," said Susanna, in a tone of +apology. "One can't help thinking a little sometimes, you know." + +"One wouldn't wish to help it, I should suppose. What an absurd way you +have of putting things?" the younger sister said tartly. + +"I was only just wondering about that poor little Rhona," said Sue, +accustomed to such snubbings. + +"Wondering does no good," responded Clara. + +She was unwinding wool at the drawing-room bay-window, full in the +spring sunshine, and an occasional whisk or tug told of considerable +pettishness. The winder whirled round by fits and starts, answering +accurately to her mode of management. + +"It seems to me that Barbara is perfectly demented," she broke out at +length. + +"Why?" + +"I don't profess to know why. I only state the fact. How on earth +are we to meet all these extra expenses when our income is barely +enough for our three selves? Here has Mary been in this condition for +weeks—and how long she may go on so—" + +"Not in the same condition all the time," broke in Susanna. + +"Quite as bad, at all events. And she has been in this particular state +for weeks—three or four certainly—so I only said what was true. Who +can tell when she will get over it? She may never recover at all, but +just drag on a miserable existence for years, with no more sense than a +baby. Such things do happen. And we have to bear all the expense of the +night nurse, and of medicines, and of extra help in the house, and very +likely of Dr. Wynne's visits too. We can hardly expect him to give all +this attention to a mere stranger for nothing, as he does to us. + +"But Barbara is infatuated. If I venture a word about expenses, she +only says, 'It will be all right.' + +"'I' should say it would be all wrong. She cares for nothing in life +just now, except Mary. I believe she will fall ill herself soon with +over-nursing. And what is the use of it all? Mary is not our own niece. +She has absolutely no real claim upon us." + +Sue had words in her mind about "the claim of helplessness," but she +lacked courage to bring them forth. Fearing to be laughed at for the +expression, she kept silence, and then was distressed at her own +cowardice. + +"For my part I am sick of it all," Clara continued pettishly. "I +don't see why we are to be worried and put out of our way, just for +the sake of Mary. Barbara is never free now—hardly ever in time for +meals—and in a perfectly 'distraite' condition when she does vouchsafe +us half-an-hour of her company. She seems to have no interest to spare +for anything or anybody outside Mary's room. And I know what it will +all mean by-and-by. Nothing but scraping and saving and paring, and not +being able to afford this, that, and the other, for a year to come. +Besides, when Mary does get better—if she ever does—what is to become +of her? I hope to goodness she is not to be a permanent member of our +family." + +"I don't see why not," said Sue faintly. + +"If you don't, I do. Of course it sounds a charming arrangement, but I +for one should detest it. I can't endure those soft pretty women, who +are always looking out for admiration. And suppose the child turns up, +are we to take both of them in? We may as well decide at once to live +on bread and water. It is not long since Barbara would have said the +same, but her ideas seem all upside down. Not that I expect that Rhona +ever will turn up. I believe the child is dead, and that is what has +driven Mary out of her mind." + +"Oh, don't say that, Clara; it gives such a wrong impression!" +protested Sue. + +"What, saying that Mary is out of her mind? I don't know how else to +describe it. From the day she came to the house, she hasn't recognised +a single person, and has scarcely spoken a rational sentence." + +"But the first part of the time it was delirium." + +"Very much like madness, I should say, and this is very much like +idiocy. I don't quite know which is the worst. Three weeks and more of +delirium—" + +"Not more," put in Sue softly. + +"Yes, more!" Clara reiterated, as if her assertion settled the matter. +"And since then, as much sense as a baby two months old." + +"But, Clara, that is only weakness. Dr. Wynne hopes it will soon pass +off. He said yesterday that after such an illness, we must expect her +to live for a time a mere vegetable existence." + +"I don't believe Dr. Wynne knows anything about it, nor anybody else +either," retorted Clara. "No one can tell what brought the illness on. +And sometimes people's brains are so much affected by illness, that +they never have their full senses again—never. A nice pickle we shall +be in, if it turns out so with Mary. I don't see for my part what +business we have had to take such a burden on ourselves." + +Barbara was standing within the door, as the last words were uttered. +She came with her dignified air to the table, and asked, "What would +you have wished, Clara? Surely not to turn the poor thing out upon the +world." + +"I don't know what I wish, except to have things as they used to be," +Clara answered, with tears in her eyes. "It is all miserable now. +Nothing goes right; and Sue is my only companion from morning till +night." + +Sue took the implied slight calmly, saying, "I wish I were a better +nurse that Barbara might be more often free to sit with you." + +"I do not wish it," said Barbara. "Clara must not try to draw me from +my duty." + +"Is it our duty?" Clara questioned. "What is Mary to us?" + +"She is Arthur's wife—William's daughter—" + +"By marriage—" + +"Yes; by marriage, of course. And she has thrown herself upon us in her +helplessness. Could we have refused to take her in?" + +Sue's face said, "No." + +Clara slightly shrugged her shoulders, and snapped her worsted with a +harder tug than usual. An impatient exclamation broke from her. + +And as she joined the severed ends, Dr. Wynne was announced. He +entered, hat in hand, an elderly man with silvered hair and placid +eyes, yet not altogether unlike his son in manner and general contour. + +"Good-morning," he said to one, and "How do you do?" to another. After +a few remarks, there was the usual question, "What about the invalid +to-day?" + +"I think there is a change for the better," said Barbara. "She still +notices nothing that goes on round her. But twice this morning, she has +answered a question put to herself." + +"Do you think she ever will or can get back her full senses, Dr. +Wynne?" asked Clara bluntly. + +"I have no reason for supposing otherwise," said Dr. Wynne in a laconic +manner. Clara was not a favourite of his. + +"But how long will she be like this?" + +"I have not seen her to-day. Miss Mordaunt's report sounds hopeful." + +Then, before going upstairs, he mentioned casually the fact that his +son, Arbuthnot, had been up all night at a fire. + +The ladies asked interested questions. + +"Arbuthnot was called suddenly, after midnight, to a patient at a +considerable distance," Dr. Wynne said, "and he came in for this fire +on his way home. No lives have been sacrificed, happily, but it seems +to have been a narrow escape with some of the inmates. The fire-escape +had been called elsewhere, and barely arrived in time. One girl, +lowered by sheets from a top window, broke her leg; and a gentleman +dislocated his shoulder—a Colonel, I think my son said. The Colonel's +little girl was saved too—a pretty child, according to Arbuthnot. He +sat up with her the rest of the night, fearing the effects of the +shock." + +"So kind of him—just like Mr. Wynne," murmured Sue. + +"Well, yes; Arbuthnot is never reluctant to take trouble," said Dr. +Wynne. "Besides, he is fond of children, and he is a boy still in his +love of adventure." + +"And I suppose there was work for him to do,—broken bones," suggested +Miss Mordaunt, little dreaming of the close connection which existed +between herself and the "pretty child" of Dr. Wynne's story. + +"He had his share. I saw him go off this morning with a bundle of +clothes for the child, pretty nearly everything having being lost. +However, I have really heard very few particulars. Now, Miss Mordaunt, +if you will kindly let me go upstairs—" + + +They stood soon beside the bed. Rhona would hardly have recognised +her mother in the wan wasted being, with half-closed dim eyes, and +transparent powerless fingers. As a rule, during these days of deadly +weakness, Mary Mordaunt paid no manner of attention to those around, +and the task of arousing her sufficiently to receive food or medicine +was a constantly recurring difficulty. Dr. Wynne had truly described +her state as a mere "vegetable existence." She breathed and lived and +took nourishment, but all thought and memory seemed to have fled. + +This day there was a change. When Dr. Wynne drew up the blind, letting +a ray of light fall upon the bed, and then bent to examine her face, +the heavy eyes were lifted to his with an intelligent look, and a faint +smile parted the white lips. + +"Come, that is better. How do you do?" Dr. Wynne said gently, taking +one of her hands. + +"How do you do?" Mary repeated mechanically. + +"Not so weak to-day, are you?" asked Dr. Wynne. + +Mary watched him, with a puzzled languid look. + +"Who is he?" she whispered at length. + +"Dr. Wynne," Barbara answered. "Our kind Dr. Wynne, dear, who has been +to see you every day, for such a long time. You will know him again +now, I think. And you know me, don't you, Mary?" + +The gaze was transferred to Barbara for two seconds. + +"Yes," Mary said indifferently. + +Dr. Wynne's hand made a silencing gesture, when Barbara would have +pressed the matter. + +Mary sighed, shut her eyes, and gave no more sign of attention through +the rest of his short visit. + +Outside the room Barbara said, "I think one word would rouse her +now,—the child's name." + +Dr. Wynne shook his head. "Too great a risk at present," he said. + +"But surely anything would be better than this state?" + +"We can hardly say that. There might be more harm than good in such an +arousing. Remember, if the death of the child has been the direct cause +of this illness, any agitation connected with the subject might cause a +relapse. And a relapse now would almost certainly be fatal. No, we must +be patient a little longer. There is undoubtedly an improvement to-day." + +Barbara accompanied him to the front door. As he went down the steps, +the postman came up, and Barbara received a letter from his hands. She +hardly glanced at it, being more intent on first telling her sisters +exactly what Dr. Wynne had said. + +"But when Mary is well, where is she to go?" asked Clara. + +"Time enough to think about that," Barbara answered. "Our way will be +made clear." + +"It isn't generally made clear as one wishes," said Clara pettishly. +"Who is that letter for?" + +"For me. I do not know the handwriting," Miss Mordaunt said in an +absent tone; and then her face changed suddenly. "How strange! My last +letter to Henry returned from India! Not from the Post Office. Somebody +has enclosed it in an envelope, and written,—look—'Not here—gone some +months ago.' Extraordinary." + +"Odd!" echoed Clara. + +Barbara's face showed agitation. "Where can Henry be? He has never +failed before to give us notice of any permanent change of address. I +thought he was a fixture in that appointment." + +"Nobody is a fixture now in India," said Clara. "Well,—he is a queer +sort of brother. I suppose he will deign some day to tell us his +whereabouts. Meantime, we must remain in blissful ignorance." + +"Clara, you don't understand," said Barbara, in distress. "It is not +merely a question of his telling or not telling. Suppose something has +happened to him. Suppose he has been taken ill, and died suddenly—" + +"I wouldn't fancy that. Of course we should have heard," said Clara, +while Sue looked sorrowful. + +"I am not so sure. Who would tell us? Henry's friends are not our +friends." + +"Well, I think we ought to take in a daily paper," said Clara promptly. +"But as for Henry, I really don't believe there is anything wrong. I +really don't, Barbara," and she spoke affectionately, wishing to cheer +her sister. + +Clara cared little herself for this almost unknown elder brother. But +Barbara had been his companion in childish days, and loved him still, +despite long years of separation and coldness. + +"I wouldn't fancy troubles, if I were you. Henry always was an erratic +being. I dare say he has gone rushing off to Kamschatka or the Cape, +and has forgotten to leave directions for the forwarding of his +letters. We shall hear from him by-and-by; and he will count us very +silly to have supposed that anything was wrong. Couldn't you come out +for a walk with me this morning, instead of spending all your time in +Mary's room?" + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +A LINK WANTING. + +"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off +as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell +declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn, +her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping +mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use +telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and +what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for +the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands, +and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and +everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your +telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it." + +Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed +aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably +she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought +him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still +domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first +received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of +greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her +safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of +"Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt. + +"And I always 'shall' say it was a shame of the Colonel to let down +Hope, poor lamb, knowing as he did she couldn't get safe to the bottom. +I shall always say it was a shame," reiterated Mrs. Barrel. "Why, +he wouldn't let Miss Rhona go so; and if it wasn't right for one, +it wasn't right for the other. If I hadn't been near crazy with the +fright, I should have stopped her. And now she'll die in hospital, and +I shall never see her again." + +"Oh, I don't think she'll die, aunt," the young man said cheerfully. +"People don't die of broken legs. You'll soon go and see her, and find +her better, I don't doubt. There is sure to be regular days for friends +being admitted." + +"And how am I to stay in London, so as to go to her?" demanded Mrs. +Burrell. "I that have got no home now, and nothing belonging to me. It +isn't as if my poor husband was alive. There's nobody for me to turn +to. Why, the very gown on my back isn't my own. 'I' to come to wearing +charity! I wonder whatever my poor dear husband would have said." + +"But it won't be all a dead loss to you, aunt. You've insured well, I +believe." + +"And if I have, what then?" Mrs. Burrell wanted to know. "I suppose the +money won't come in to-morrow. And how am I to get clothed and fed, +till it does. I can't take another shop and start it afresh, all in a +minute. And I'm sure I feel so upset and shaky, I'm fit for nothing, +and shan't be for weeks. And there's Mr. Powis been in here this +morning, telling me I ought to be thankful and resigned. It's easy for +folks to talk. If 'his' house was burnt down, I expect he wouldn't be +so particularly thankful." + +"I don't suppose he meant to say you ought to be thankful for that, +aunt, only thankful that things are not worse," said Neil. "But there's +something I want to say—" + +He had tried before and failed. + +"Worse! How could things be worse?" Mrs. Burrell demanded. "Unless Hope +had been killed outright; and we don't know yet that she isn't." + +"Aunt, I just wanted to say—" began Neil again. + +"And the fuss that is made about Bertha," pursued Mrs. Burrell irately. +"One would think she was the chief person in all London. Dr. Marsden +going in to see her, and Mr. Wynne asking how she did, and Colonel +Smyth talking of her bravery. The girl's head will be just turned. I +don't see for my part what she did so very extraordinary, more than +other people. She always was quiet. But there! I'm used to ingratitude, +and I've pretty well given up expecting to be put in my proper place. +Bertha must look out for herself now. 'I' can't give her a home any +longer, for I've none to give." + +"Good evening, Mrs. Burrell. What were you saying about Bertha?" asked +Colonel Smyth, at that moment ushered in by Mrs. Burrell's hospitable +hostess. + +"Good evening, sir," Mrs. Burrell said grimly. "I was only just telling +my nephew, Bertha would have to look out for herself for a bit. Seeing +I haven't any longer a home of my own, it isn't to be expected I can +provide a home for her. I'm sorry I have to say it, but—" + +"Not at all, not at all! No need to be sorry," said the Colonel. +"I have had thoughts of proposing to Bertha to become Miss Rhona's +personal attendant, and I am very well satisfied to learn that she is +free. We must have somebody, and the child is accustomed to Bertha's +ways. That will provide for your niece, and will be a satisfactory +arrangement in every way,—supposing she is willing. We shall probably +leave London in a day or two for the west of England, and Bertha can +accompany us." + +Mrs. Burrell's face expressed the reverse of gratification. + +"So that matter is easily settled," pursued the Colonel. "I was afraid +you might not wish to part with her. Now I can broach the subject +without delay. Bertha is with Miss Rhona at this moment, I believe." + +"I don't know as I should altogether say Bertha was fit to be a lady's +maid," remarked Mrs. Burrell. + +"A lady's maid!" Colonel Smyth laughed. "I dare say not! My little girl +hardly requires a full-blown lady's maid yet. Bertha is thoughtful and +dependable, and the child likes her. I'm not at all afraid that she +won't do. How are you going to dispose of yourself, Mrs. Burrell?" + +"That's just what I wanted to say," broke in Neil. "I have been trying +again and again, but I couldn't get her to listen. Aunt, it 'll make +Nannie and me as proud and pleased as can be, if you'll come and stay +in my cottage for a few weeks, till you've had time to look about you, +and see what to do next. I don't pretend it's anything much of a place, +but I know it is clean, and Nannie will do her very best to make you +comfortable,—that I'm sure of. When Hope is better, she can come and +share your room, if you haven't settled plans by then. I had a mind to +propose Bertha coming too, but it seems she's provided for." + +Neil looked regretful, and Mrs. Burrell suddenly resolved to further +the Colonel's proposal. She did not wish Bertha to become an inmate of +Neil's little house. + +"I don't mean to say, sir, that there is anything against Bertha," +she remarked, turning to the Colonel, and forgetting that she had not +thanked Neil for his generous offer. "Bertha isn't fit, to be sure, +for a fine lady's maid, but, as you say, it's not that you want, sir. +Bertha is willing enough, and never fails to do her best; and she +thinks there's nobody in the world like Miss Rhona. She'll be glad +enough, I don't doubt; and if she wasn't, I'd soon make her." + +"Thanks, but you may as well leave the matter to me," responded the +Colonel curtly. + +And Neil asked, "Will you come, aunt?" + +Mrs. Burrell's gratitude, if tardy in expression, was sincere. + +Colonel Smyth left soon, signing to Neil to follow him. Outside the +door, he thrust a slip of folded paper into the young man's hand, +saying, "Don't think this a liberty, but you will be at some expense +with Mrs. Burrell. Use it any way you like for her,—no need to say +anything. I gave her a five-pound note this morning, to cover what +might be due for my rooms or Miss Rhona's." + +Colonel Smyth strode away, and Neil found himself in the possession of +a ten-pound Bank of England note. + + +"I like that Mr. Wynne so much. He is nice," said Rhona, an hour later. + +She was on a little couch near the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes +which did not fit her well, and the small slight figure seemed slighter +than ever. The nervous excitement of the previous day had given place +to weakness and lassitude, but she still suffered from fits of sudden +terror if left alone. + +"Yes, he is very nice," said Colonel Smyth, who had just come into the +drawing-room, looking well and vigorous, despite bandaged shoulder and +arm in sling. + +On his entrance, Mrs. Montague went away, and the Colonel took a seat +close to the child. + +"Yes, Mr. Wynne is very nice," repeated Colonel Smyth thoughtfully. +"But I am seriously meditating how you and I shall get away from him." + +"Get away from Mr. Wynne," said Rhona in astonishment. + +"Yes,—elude him, in fact," said the Colonel, watching her expression. +"I am thinking of taking you first to Bath, and then—somewhere else." + +"I know what 'elude' means," said Rhona soberly. "But Mr. Wynne won't +come after us." + +"Well, perhaps not," said the Colonel. + +Then both were silent. Some other idea, foreign to the subject in hand, +seemed to have possession of Rhona's mind. A wave of colour rushed +suddenly over her face. + +"Uncle, may I ask something?" + +"Anything in the world, my little dear." + +"I thought I heard you tell Mrs. Montague that I must have a new +frock," said the child in a low voice. + +"More than one," said the Colonel lightly. "As many frocks as you like, +Rhona. We'll get one here to start with, and then you shall choose +in Bath anything that takes your fancy,—pink and blue and green and +all sorts. Somebody is coming from a shop to-morrow morning to take +orders. Mrs. Montague would not have you bothered about it to-day. +But of course we have to get a whole new wardrobe for you—hats and +bonnets, and boots and shoes, and—and—pelisses and capes,—and in fact +everything." + +"I don't think I want a great many new frocks," said Rhona gently. "And +I haven't left off black, you know, for father!" The Colonel had lost +sight of this fact, and was rather staggered. "Please," continued the +child, with a manifest effort, "please, uncle, may there be a little +bit of crape on my frock? Because—because—" + +"There, there, my pet, don't cry," the Colonel said, stooping with his +newly-found tenderness to kiss away two heavy tears. "I am a stupid old +fellow, and I forgot you were in mourning still. But you shall have +anything in the world that you wish, only don't cry." + +"I should like to have some crape on my frock," said Rhona sadly. +"People all do, and I haven't yet. And I think—I think—now—I'm +afraid—mother can't be coming back—" + +Colonel Smyth thought the same. He was unable to contradict her. + +"I know I oughtn't to be too sorry," sobbed the child, breaking into +irrepressible weeping. "And I do try, I do try to be good. But oh, I do +want so to see her again—just once—only once." + +Colonel Smyth always felt himself at a loss when this trouble came up +prominently. He was aware of the kind of comfort which she needed; and +he was aware also of his own inability to give it, further than in a +very vague and superficial manner. Kind words and touches were all that +he usually attempted on these occasions. + +"You won't feel it so acutely by-and-by, my poor little one," he said +presently, finding her grief not easy to soothe. But this caused such +heartbroken sobbing that he speedily regretted the utterance. "Why, +Rhona, Rhona!" he said almost reproachfully. "What has come over my +little darling to-day? Don't you love your old uncle still?" + +"Oh yes, yes," Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "But I do so want +mother,—I do so want mother. I don't know how to get on without her. If +I only could see her again, just for one minute,—only one minute." + +"Rhona, do you know you are making me very unhappy?" said the Colonel, +stooping over her. "If I knew how to take better care of my little pet, +things would be different." + +"No, no; it isn't that," cried Rhona almost passionately. "I love you +dearly, and I always shall, and you are so, so good to me. But you +aren't mother. Nobody can be mother. I wouldn't be naughty if I could +help it, but oh, I do want mother to-night." + +Then, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion, trying to smother the +sobs, he heard her moan brokenly,—"Mother—mother—do come—O mother! I do +want somebody—somebody—to teach me—" + +Colonel Smyth listened, and could make out no more. "What is it you +want, Rhona?" he asked. + +She had evidently spoken her thought unconsciously, and was startled at +the question. + +"Somebody to teach you what, my dear?" he went on. + +Rhona gave him one hasty look with full eyes, and hid her face anew. +"I didn't mean to say it," she sobbed. "Nobody ever speaks to me +now—about—about Jesus—and mother always did. I do want mother to-night." + +A pause followed, somewhat perplexed on the part of the Colonel. Tears +seemed to be lessening; and for once, it was almost a relief to him to +note the signs of pain, which would render her unfit for conversation. +Sobs gradually came to an end, and Rhona lay back patiently, with +closed eyes and drawn brows, one of her little hands clutching the back +of the sofa. + +But as the Colonel remained silent, she looked up at him with a +frightened expression, and said—"Don't be angry, please." + +"My dear, I am not angry," said Colonel Smyth. + +"I didn't mean to say that. Oh, don't be angry,—please, please don't." + +"I am not angry, Rhona, not the very least, I assure you," said Colonel +Smyth, stooping down to kiss her. "It is much best that you should say +what is in your mind. There is nothing to be angry about. But I don't +exactly understand why you wish to be spoken to about things that you +are already well acquainted with," the Colonel said in a measured +manner, as if he were counting out his words. "You are always a good +little girl." + +"Oh no, not lately. I've been getting all wrong, and mother would help +me—" + +"Well, well, I can only say I have not seen it," said the Colonel. "You +shall tell me another day what you have done that is so wrong." + +"It isn't doing. I don't feel rightly," said the child in a low voice: +and again she repeated, "Mother would know." + +"I am afraid I can't promise to talk to you like your mother, Rhona. +You see I was differently brought up, and—in fact, it is not my way. +But if there is anything I can do, that you would like, such as—such as +reading to you, for instance—" + +"Mother always read the Bible to me every evening," said Rhona +wistfully. "And sometimes a hymn." + +It cost the gallant Colonel much more of a struggle than might be +supposed, to answer,— + +"I'll do that, if you think it will make you happier." + +Rhona accepted the offer unhesitatingly; and evidently without a +question in her mind as to his willingness. + +"Before I go to bed?" she asked. + +"Yes, if you like, my dear," said the Colonel, with internal reluctance. + +"Mother always talked to me and explained," said Rhona. + +A bright idea struck the Colonel. "I couldn't possibly do that, my +little girl, but you shall tell me what your mother used to say, and +that will keep her teaching in your mind." Then to avoid further +awkward suggestions, he said hurriedly,—"Come now, don't you want to +know why you and I are going to run away from Mr. Wynne?" + +"Is going to Bath running away?" asked the child languidly. + +"Well, yes, in a sense,—if our object is to avoid him." + +"But I don't see why you want to avoid him, uncle." + +"That is what I have to explain. There are two doctors, named +Wynne,—this young Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, and his father, Dr. Henry Wynne. +They live together in a house which happens to be very near to those +three aunts of your father's, who were such a trouble to you some +months ago. Well—it happens that once upon a time, I knew Dr. Henry +Wynne very well, and if I saw him, he would recognise me directly. Then +of course, he would mention having seen me to my—ahem, to those good +aunts of yours, the Miss Mordaunts. And that might bring them here, +and then they would see you. Indeed, it is an event—their seeing you, +I mean—which might come about any day, apart from an encounter between +Dr. Wynne and myself. If our friend, the doctor, happened to meet the +Miss Mordaunts, and happened to mention you by name—" + +Rhona's eyes were strained and intent, as she drank in every word. And +before he came to a pause, she was trembling like an aspen leaf. "Oh, +take me away,—please take me away!" she entreated. + +"There's nothing to be frightened about, my little girl. I'll undertake +to protect you against all the aunts that ever existed. But perhaps you +don't care to see them just yet." + +"No, no, please,—they wouldn't let me stay with you." Rhona looked +positively blue with terror. + +"Don't be afraid," repeated the Colonel. "You are my little girl now, +not theirs. But I don't think you would be any the better for having +them in and out, at present. So you and I will go straight to Bath, +the day after to-morrow—if you can have a new frock so soon. And when +we are at Bath, we will settle what to do next. What do you say to +the country—real thorough country, with any amount of fields and wild +flowers? Yes, I see by your face that will do. And I have just settled +with Bertha that she shall come with us, as your maid, to take care of +you. You like Bertha, I know—and when I have to be out, I shall be able +to leave you with her safely." + +Rhona's eyes sparkled. "O uncle, how lovely! I did dread losing that +nice dear Bertha. And now Mrs. Burrell won't be able to scold her any +more. And I do love the country." + +"So I imagined. Now it is all settled, and you must go to sleep," said +the Colonel, with his caressing air. "Shut your eyes, little one." + +"I can't think why you are so kind," Rhona whispered, as she obeyed. + + +A connecting chain hung at this moment between Rhona and her mother, +almost complete. One middle link alone was wanting. + +Dr. Wynne, daily attending Mary Mordaunt, knew the outline of her +story, knew about the child whose position was a problem in the +Mordaunt household, and knew the child's name to be "Rhona." + +Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, on the other hand, had accidentally come across +Colonel Smyth and Rhona, and had seen much of them during three or +four days. He knew Rhona's Christian name, but not her surname, for +the Colonel had evaded an inquiry on this point, and delicacy withheld +Mr. Wynne from pressing the matter further. He also knew Rhona to +be the Colonel's adopted child, and believed her to be at least no +near relation. He was a little perplexed as to the real connection, +certain words having dropped from the Colonel rather at variance with +an assertion of Rhona's. The doctor had, moreover, heard that Rhona's +mother was supposed to have been drowned. He gathered altogether that +some slight mystery existed, in connection with the Colonel, with +Rhona, or with both. + +The one link wanting to complete the chain which might have brought +mother and daughter together again, was that Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne +mention little Rhona by name to his father, that Dr. Wynne's attention +should be arrested by the said name, and that through a few natural +inquiries, the whereabouts of Mary Mordaunt's child should be revealed +to the aunts. + +But this link was not yet supplied. It happened that those few days +were exceedingly busy ones to both the older and the younger medical +man. They scarcely met even at meals, and exchanged few words except +on business. Moreover Colonel Smyth's evident reserve as to his own +affairs and evident wish not to be seen or recognised by Dr. Wynne, +rendered Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne doubly cautious in speaking about him. + +Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne was much less intimate than his father with the +Miss Mordaunts. He had been acquainted with them all his life, but the +acquaintance had never ripened into friendship. General particulars as +to the appearance, disappearance, and reappearance of Mary Mordaunt +had reached him. If, however, he knew vaguely that there was a child +in the question, he did not know the child's name, and "Rhona" was a +word which called up no associations in his mind. He had not seen Mary +Mordaunt, during her brief former stay, near the Miss Mordaunts; and +her story as a whole had made no particular impression on him. Dr. +Wynne, not Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, was the family physician at Number +Three, Winifred Place. + +That the link should have remained long unsupplied was, under existing +circumstances, hardly possible. Only three days after the fire, +however, Colonel Smyth announced his intention of proceeding within +twenty-four hours to the west of England. "Bath first,—then either +sea-side or country," he said. Sufficient wearing apparel for the +journey would arrive, according to promise, that same evening, and "the +sooner they could be off, the better." + +Mr. Wynne, though rather astonished, had no objections to offer. +Colonel Smyth's shoulder was doing as well as could be wished, and +medical advice if required could be readily obtained in Bath. Rhona +was still shaken and poorly, but change of air and of scene might be +the best possible remedies for her overstrained nerves. So the matter +was speedily settled. Mr. Wynne had again a curious consciousness that +the Colonel wished to avoid further intercourse with himself and his +father; yet he would have found it difficult to give a reason for the +feeling. + +Mrs. Montague had insisted on the Colonel and the child remaining in +her house during these three days, though perhaps the nearness of No. +3, Albert Terrace, was hardly desirable for Rhona. Mrs. Burrell had +already gone to pay a long visit to Neil and his sister. Hope, still in +hospital, seemed to be doing well. + +Bertha was now installed as Rhona's attendant upon liberal wages, five +pounds of which were paid her in advance by the Colonel for immediate +necessities. The fire, causing this change of condition, had opened out +a new vista of happiness to poor Bertha. + +Hannah Hoskyns, believed to have been the unfortunate cause of the +fire, had been sent home without a character, bitterly abused by her +former mistress. + + +About ten days after the disappearance of Colonel Smyth, with Rhona +and Bertha, from the neighbourhood of London, the elder Dr. Wynne was +suddenly laid aside by a sharp attack of bronchitis. He had been an +unusually healthy and vigorous man hitherto, but for once he was forced +to succumb, and his busy son had to fill the place of two as best he +might. + +Therefore, it came to pass that at the hour when Dr. Wynne usually +dropped in to see Mary Mordaunt, not Dr. Wynne but Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne +appeared. + +He was slightly apologetic, being well aware that the ladies of "No. 3, +Winifred Place" objected to his comparative youth. + +"Yourself, please,—not your son!" Miss Mordaunt had been known to say +majestically to the elder doctor, when on one occasion, being severely +pressed with work, he had ventured to send Arbuthnot in his stead. But +this day there was no choice, Dr. Wynne being a prisoner to his room, +voiceless and almost breathless. + +"Really I am very sorry about Dr. Wynne, very sorry indeed," Miss +Mordaunt said. "He seemed the day before yesterday to be rather unwell; +and yesterday, as he did not come, I feared his cold might be worse. +One never expects Dr. Wynne to give in, but of course he must not run +risks. Do you think he might be able to come to-morrow? One day more +would not perhaps signify, and as he has watched the case all through—" + +Arbuthnot Wynne knew his father to be in for at least a week's +imprisonment, and suggested that it might be hardly wise to leave the +invalid so long. + +"No, certainly not,—though she seems better,—I could not undertake the +responsibility. I am only afraid she may not like a stranger about her. +But please come upstairs. I know your time is valuable just now. I hope +Mary will not be startled." + +She preceded him upstairs, and opened the bedroom door. + +When they entered, it was Mr. Wynne who started, not Mary Mordaunt. + +That face! He knew it immediately, recognising at a glance its +marvellous likeness to the fair little face he had seen less than a +fortnight earlier. Frail and wan, transparent and nerveless, as this +young creature was, he could not mistake the resemblance. The same +broad brow, only not quite so full and intellectual, the same delicate +outline of feature: only sharpened by illness; the same large dark +eyes, only heavy and dim. + +Beyond one slight start, he did not betray himself. But when he took +her hand, and asked how she was, she lifted her eyes to his, with a +look of indescribable bewilderment and sadness, muttering confusedly, +"Rhona! My little Rhona! My child Rhona!" And again he found difficulty +in controlling his surprise. + +Mary Mordaunt was slowly waking up from her impassive and enfeebled +condition. And during the last few days, the name of Rhona had been on +her lips. As yet, however, nothing fell from her which might afford any +clue to the truth about the missing child. And Dr. Wynne, at his last +visit, had still forbidden any direct attempt to find out particulars +from the invalid. + +So Barbara was not a little dismayed to hear Mr. Wynne ask quietly, "Is +Rhona your child, Mrs. Mordaunt?" + +"Mr. Wynne, will you kindly come here for a moment," she said hastily, +moving towards the bow-window, with a somewhat imperative sign to him +to follow her. Miss Mordaunt had known Arbuthnot Wynne as a schoolboy, +and she never lost sight of this fact. + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +RESTORED HOPE. + +"YOUR father does not seem to have explained—" Barbara breathed in an +undertone, as she stood facing Arbuthnot Wynne in the bow-window. "I +thought he would have done so. If I had not been taken by surprise at +your coming, I would have told you more myself." + +"My father is hardly in a condition to speak much this morning," said +Mr. Wynne. + +"But you are surely acquainted with general particulars? No fear!"—as +he glanced towards the bed. "I am speaking low, but it would be just +the same if I spoke loudly. Mary hears nothing and heeds nothing, +except what is immediately addressed to her. She has been in this state +for weeks, ever since the delirium left her. It is an extraordinary +state, almost as if she had been stunned, and could not rally. I cannot +get your father to say what he thinks, except that matters will improve +as she grows stronger. But he will not allow us to put any questions to +my niece." + +"No questions!" said her listener. + +"I mean, on that point, about the child! You know of course that +there was a child, her only one. When she left this neighbourhood +before Christmas, in a fit of vexation at a plan of my proposing—poor +Mary!—she took the little girl with her. We heard no more of either +of them, till she came back, alone, and so ill as to be unable to +speak rationally. For weeks, she never mentioned the child except in +delirium, and then quite incoherently. It is only the last few days +that she has begun to speak of her with any appearance of sense. The +day before yesterday, Dr. Wynne told us to do nothing until he should +come again; and yesterday, as you know, he was unable to pay his visit. +I am very much perplexed. It seems as if we ought to make use of this +opportunity to discover more about the child,—and yet—if it would do +harm to my niece—" + +"I think you had better let me see how she is," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Yes, certainly. But it is not as if you had been with her all +through," said Barbara dubiously. + +Mr. Wynne's "Yes" was rather mechanical than assenting. "And the +child's name is Rhona?" he said in a dreamy manner. + +Unexpectedly, there came a muttered echo from the bed,—"Rhona! My +little Rhona!" as if in response. + +"We have to avoid saying that name in her hearing," said Barbara +softly. "It is the one thing she notices now, and the one thing which +excites her." + +"The child is—how old?" asked Mr. Wynne. + +"About nine years old." + +"Like the mother?" + +"Some say so. I do not think so much of the likeness myself, though +certainly the eyes and general outline are much the same. I never saw a +sweeter child. Poor little thing! It is sad if she has been thrown upon +strangers all this time. But our fear is that she has died, and that +her death has caused this illness. I must not take up your time, only +I am sure you will be cautious. Dr. Wynne is so very much afraid of a +relapse." + +Arbuthnot Wynne went back to the bedside thoughtfully. He could feel +no doubt in his own mind as to the identity of the two Rhonas. At this +moment, he was so completely occupied with the endeavour to unravel the +perplexities of Colonel Smyth's conduct, that it actually did not occur +to him to tell Miss Mordaunt there and then his belief that the child +was found; neither did her last words reach his understanding. + +Could Colonel Smyth have known that Rhona's mother lay ill at No. 3, +Winifred Place? Did he wish deliberately to keep mother and child +apart? Was his conduct governed by a dread of losing the child, a +determination to keep her to himself at all hazards? These thoughts +flashed like lightning through the young doctor's brain, as he passed +from window to bed. Barbara saw only a slow step and absent manner. She +wished, with a touch of impatience, that Arbuthnot Wynne were more like +his father. + +The usual questions were asked, Mary paying no heed to the questioner. +But as he stood somewhat long, watch in hand, examining her pulse, +she moved restlessly, and lifted her eyes again, with a pleading +mutter—"Rhona! My little Rhona." + +Arbuthnot Wynne restored the watch to his pocket, and said +composedly—"Rhona is well, Mrs. Mordaunt, I believe." + +Barbara was horrified, and vainly strove to catch the doctor's eye. +He was looking steadily at Mary Mordaunt, and she returned the gaze +pitifully, wistfully, as if struggling to see through a fog. + +"My little Rhona?" she repeated. + +"Yes, your own little Rhona," responded Mr. Wynne. "She is coming to +you by-and-by." + +Mary's eyes brightened slowly into such intelligence, as had not been +seen in them once since her arrival at Winifred Place. "Rhona is +coming! My own little Rhona! O aunt Barbara! Do you hear?" + +Barbara stood rigidly irresponsive and cold. + +"By-and-by," repeated Mr. Wynne, in the same quiet yet cheerful voice, +and he gently patted Mary's hand. "You must get a little stronger, and +then you will be fit to see her." + +"Dear little Rhona! My own little darling!" murmured Mary, with some +agitation. + +"Yes, dear little Rhona. She is a sweet little girl," said Mr. Wynne +soothingly. "So like you in face." + +Mary absolutely smiled. "So like—everybody said." + +"No one could help seeing the likeness," Mr. Wynne answered. + +"Will she come to me soon—soon?" asked Mary. + +"Very soon, I hope. Rhona has gone into the country, with kind friends, +for change of air. You will like to see your dear little girl come +back, looking rosy and well. Children love the country," said Mr. +Wynne, speaking rather monotonously, and appearing unconscious of +Barbara's distressed endeavours to beckon him away. + +"Rhona loves the country," echoed Mary. Then a perplexed expression +came over her face, and she murmured—"Friends! Friends!" + +Mr. Wynne dared not risk a mention of Colonel Smyth, unknowing what +associations she might have with the name. "Very kind friends," he +said. "Everybody loves little Rhona." + +Mary's troubled look continued. She was evidently more awake to past +and present than she had yet been, but some sad dread or bewilderment +hung about her still. The wistful dark eyes seemed searching for more +information. + +"I thought—I thought—" she muttered confusedly. "I can't +remember—but—I—I thought—" + +Mr. Wynne's hand was on her wrist again. "Never mind. It will all come +back by-and-by," he said. "Try to lie quiet now, and think of little +Rhona playing among the daisies." + +"The daisies!" And there was another smile. Then with a start and +moan—"But Rhona—Rhona—they said she was dead. I heard them say my +little Rhona was dead." + +"You heard wrongly. Rhona is not dead." + +Mary looked at him in a half-wild manner, singularly contrasting with +her late torpidity. "But they said she was dead, and I could not bear +it,—I could not wake up to life again. If Rhona is dead, I want to die +too." + +"No," Mr. Wynne said gravely, "you would not wish that. You would wish +to live and to serve God. But your little Rhona is not dead." + +"Where is she?" Mary asked. + +"She has gone into the country with friends. She is not at Mrs. +Burrell's any longer," said Mr. Wynne. + +"Mrs. Burrell!" Mary evidently recognised the name, though her memory +was confused. "Oh yes,—Mrs. Burrell." + +"Rhona is not there any longer," said Mr. Wynne, his last remnants of +doubt as to the truth of his conjecture entirely dissipated. "She has +been taken into the country for change of air that she may become rosy +and strong. You will be content to wait a little while, until she can +come back to you." + +"Oh yes,—I can wait now. My little darling!" murmured Mary, and she +smiled peacefully. "My own little Rhona." + +She lay whispering—"Rhona! Sweet Rhona!" for some seconds, till her +eyes seemed to close of themselves, and she sank into such a calm and +natural sleep as she had not enjoyed since the beginning of her illness. + +Mr. Wynne stood silently watching her, till that stage was reached; and +then he turned to leave. + +Barbara, listening to all this, was utterly aghast. She really credited +Arbuthnot Wynne with inventing a pretty little fiction for the purpose +of temporarily cheering the invalid, and all her righteous indignation +was aflame. + +Leading him downstairs into the drawing-room, she shut the door, turned +herself about, and broke into the ejaculation—"How you 'could!'" + +Mr. Wynne faced her with the slightest possible smile, and made no +answer. + +"How you could!" repeated Barbara. + +"I beg your pardon. Could what?" + +"Could raise false hopes,—could lead her to believe that we know what +we do not know. But I must undeceive her at all risks. I can never lend +myself to such a plan. Your father would never—" + +"My father is perhaps not acquainted with certain facts—" + +"I assure you he is. I have informed him of every particular. Do you +know that you may have done irreparable harm?" said Barbara, much +excited and alarmed. "Your father has been so anxious that her thoughts +should not be turned in the direction of the child, at least until we +can be assured that she is still living. And now you have led her to +expect to see Rhona again almost immediately. It will be impossible to +quiet her down." + +"By-and-by, I said." + +"But you promised it. You undertook to say that Rhona would come. And +we do not even know whether the child is alive. I suppose you were +playing upon words when you said she was not dead,—but however true in +one sense of those who are in heaven, that certainly is not the sense +which you have conveyed to Mary. Poor dear Mary! I cannot imagine what +I shall say when she questions me, as she is sure to do, now you have +thoroughly aroused her. Excuse me, Mr. Wynne, but you are young, and I +do think that if you had simply followed out your father's plans with +my niece, it would have been wiser—would have been more seemly. I have +no more to say, except that I at least cannot pretend what I do not +know to be true." + +"Neither could I!" said Mr. Wynne, apparently content that Barbara's +remarks should enjoy full swing before he made his own explanation. + +"But—pardon me—I think you have done so." + +"You are supposing too hastily that I have no reason for my line of +action," said Mr. Wynne gravely. "What will you say, when I tell you +that I not only suppose, but have the fullest conviction, that little +Rhona is at this moment alive and well,—that only a few days ago I +actually held her in my arms?" + +Miss Mordaunt looked at him in bewilderment. Was he trying to take her +in also? + +"Well?" he said, unable to help smiling. + +"But why—why not speak sooner—if you have really known this?" + +"I did not know it." + +"Did not know, and yet you profess to have seen Rhona, to have held +her in your arms. You are pleased to speak in enigmas," said Barbara +impatiently. + +"You shall have plain English. Did my father happen to mention to you, +rather more than a fortnight ago, a bad fire which took place one +night, at which I was present? Several people were saved, including a +little girl." + +A light flashed into Barbara's mind. "Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "Of +course I remember. And that child—" + +"Was named Rhona. I carried her from the spot myself, when she +was brought down the fire-escape. A pretty little dark-eyed girl, +about eight or nine years old seemingly,—the adopted child of a +Colonel Smyth, living in the same house. They were lodgers at a Mrs. +Burrell's,—and you may have observed just now that the name 'Burrell' +was familiar to Mrs. Mordaunt." + +"I could not think what you meant," Barbara said. + +"You had not the clue; and it was hardly possible to explain all this +in Mrs. Mordaunt's presence." + +"And the child's name was Rhona—Rhona Mordaunt?" + +"The name of the child was Rhona. I can say nothing as to the surname. +'Mordaunt' would of course have arrested my intention at once, but I +had no associations with 'Rhona.' Till within the last half-hour, I had +no idea that your little missing niece was named Rhona. It may seem +strange to you, Miss Mordaunt, but so it is. As to the surname, Colonel +Smyth twice evaded inquiries—so distinctly that I could not ask again. +The relationship between him and the child puzzled me a good deal." + +"But he could not have adopted her long. Did he profess to be a near +relative?" + +Mr. Wynne shook his head. "The matter seemed to be in a state of +entanglement. Rhona called him 'uncle,' but told me once plainly that +he was not her uncle. On the other hand, Colonel Smyth once spoke to +me in a manner which certainly implied that she was his great-niece. +Colonel Smyth had dislocated his shoulder, and Rhona was suffering from +the night-alarm. I attended them both for three or four days. Then the +Colonel started off with his little charge to Bath, saying that he +meant to take her afterwards into the country for thorough change. So +my assertions upstairs were strictly true." + +"I beg your pardon for having doubted you. But, Mr. Wynne, suppose +after all it were not our little Rhona? Suppose she proved after all to +be another child of the same name?" + +"I hardly think such an outcome of the affair possible. My old friend, +Mrs. Montague, who sheltered them after the fire, told me a few more +particulars, which I noticed little at the time, though now they seem +important. The little Rhona's mother, a pretty young widow, was at the +lodgings with the child until after Christmas,—how long after I cannot +say. Mrs. Montague often saw her going to and from her daily work as +governess. One very foggy day, she disappeared, and she was believed to +have been drowned in a neighbouring canal. They say a body was found, +sufficiently resembling her. But the matter seems to have been clothed +in mystery. Since then, Mrs. Montague has frequently seen the Colonel +and the child walk out together. I believe she took it for granted that +he was her grandfather. People may live almost next-door to one another +in London, yet know strangely little of each other's circumstances." + +"Extraordinary!" Miss Mordaunt said repeatedly during this narration. +Her remark at the end was, "Yes, true, but women have generally more +curiosity than men. Would not your friend at least know whether the +mother's name was Mordaunt?" + +"She might, probably. I did not hear her mention it." + +"And you made no attempt to find out, from her or from other people? +The landlady, for instance." + +"I am not a woman," said Arbuthnot Wynne, with a half-smile. "I +hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Burrell; and the child was +always spoken of as 'Rhona' or as 'Miss Rhona.' No, I made no effort +to discover anything further. It was not my business, and I avoided +asking questions, since the Colonel evidently did not wish me to be +enlightened. You must remember that I did not dream of the child's +connection with you. Nor did I, till the last, expect to lose sight of +them so soon." + +"Well, we must write immediately to this Colonel Smyth. I must write," +said Barbara. + +"Of course I could make inquiries now of Mrs. Montague and of others in +the neighbourhood," said Arbuthnot Wynne thoughtfully. "Mrs. Burrell +has left London, but her address would probably be known to some of +her acquaintances. Yes, we must communicate with Colonel Smyth, if +possible. But there lies the difficulty. He gave me the name of the +hotel in Bath to which he was going ten days ago." + +"Would he not be there still?" + +"Hardly. He spoke of remaining in or near Bath three or four days." + +"And that was ten days ago! But letters would be forwarded after him. +If we could find the child, it would put fresh life into Mary. What a +mercy that you came in to-day! We might not have found out about Rhona +for months." + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +ABOUT THE AUNTS. + +"WHAT are you looking so grave about, my little girl?" asked Colonel +Smyth. + +About a fortnight had passed since the journey from London to Bath. It +seemed a natural thing now, to Colonel Smyth, having a child and her +maid as part of his "impedimenta." + +They had spent five or six days in Bath, shopping vigorously. The +Colonel had taken Rhona to the best shops in and about Milsom Street, +allowing her such a choice of pretty things as she had never enjoyed +in her life before. He was anxious to interest her, to draw off her +attention from sad recollections. And it was not in child-nature not +to be charmed. Rhona took the matter with a certain outward placidity +natural to her, but enjoyment if subdued was genuine. + +Dress interested her least. She was bent upon having a due amount +of crape upon her new black frocks, and enforced the same with sad +earnestness. That once settled, the possession of clothes seemed to +come to her as a thing of course; only she showed herself solicitous +that the Colonel should not spend too much, amusing him greatly thereby. + +"Not that, please; it is very nice, but it is too expensive," she +would say in her gentle way, when goods were spread upon the draper's +counter, or when hats and bonnets were pulled forth by the milliner. + +"Not a penny too much, my dear!" the Colonel would answer, and the +"expensive" article was at once chosen. + +Rhona thanked him always, though with a doubtful look. + +But when he led her into a large fancy warehouse, and desired +her to select what she would in the way of desk and work-box and +travelling-bag, her eyes did shine,—not only then, but during hours +after, while unweariedly examining the intricate fittings of her new +morocco, rosewood, and leather possessions. Finding the plan so far +successful, Colonel Smyth followed it up perseveringly. + +Next day he had her at a jeweller's, for the choice of a little silver +brooch, locket and chain. The morning after, their destination was a +bookseller's, where he presented her with a Turkey-morocco bound Bible, +and a Church Service to match. That day's work transcended all, in +Rhona's opinion. Her childish delight in her new treasures was a pretty +sight, and it did the Colonel's heart good. + +Yet even at her brightest, a shadow would often sweep over the +sweet face, and if the Colonel asked,—"What now, Rhona?" the answer +invariably was, "Mother would be so pleased! If only mother could see +them all!" + +They had remained two nights in their first Bath hotel, moving then to +a second, with no expressed reason on the part of Colonel Smyth. He +resolved next to give Rhona a week or two of sea breezes, before trying +the effects of country air, and took her straight to Ilfracombe. + +A new vista of delight opened there before the child's wondering +eyes. She had never yet tasted the charms of English sea-shore life. +Hours were spent in scrambling over the rocks and up the hills, with +the Colonel. Happily for her, he loved walking, and as her powers of +exertion increased, she could never have too much of it. At first, +every effort wearied her, but before the close of one week, a marked +change had taken place, shown by increase of colour and appetite. +Colonel Smyth had never seen her look so well. His devotion to the +child grew daily, till at length he was scarcely happy to have her out +of his sight; and his love was abundantly returned. + +More than a week of fine weather was succeeded by high winds and +drenching rain, rendering it impossible for Rhona to go out. Two days +of imprisonment passed cheerily enough, filled up with arrangements of +shells and seaweeds collected during hours of sunshine. + +On the third afternoon, Colonel Smyth left her busied over +glove-mending,—Bertha as usual sitting with her during his absence. +He was gone longer than he intended. On his return, the gloves were +forsaken, and Rhona sat alone in the window, looking out with sorrowful +intentness at the sea. The voice with which she greeted him told of +some hidden distress. + +He was soon beside her, taking her small hand in his, and asking—"What +are you so grave about, my little girl?" + +"Oh, I'm only—thinking," said Rhona, with one of her deep sighs. "I +have been talking to Bertha." + +"What about, Rhona?" + +There was no answer, and Rhona's face went down on his knee. + +After a minute, the Colonel repeated his question. + +"I've been talking—at least, Bertha has—about—oh, only about herself," +said Rhona. "She went away before you came in, for fear you should +see she had cried. She didn't cry much, but only a little. It made me +unhappy, because I don't know how to help her. Mother could, but I +can't. I do wish mother was here." + +"Bertha was wrong to trouble you," said the Colonel. + +"O no, no,—" and Rhona looked imploring. "Oh, please don't stop her. +She has nobody else in the world to speak to: and I like it. I do like +it, uncle. Please don't stop her." + +"Well; I will not," said Colonel Smyth, passing an arm round the child. +The other arm was still in an invalid condition. "I wish I could cure +you of suffering so much for other people. It is not necessary, my +little girl." + +"Isn't it? Mother always said it was right to feel. She said that was +what the Bible meant by weeping with those who weep," said Rhona. + +"Yes, no doubt, but there are different modes of feeling. I don't like +to see my darling unhappy. Perhaps I could help Bertha. Is it money she +wants?" + +"No, it isn't that at all," said Rhona, with a half-smile. "It isn't +that sort of thing. She wants—I don't know what. She isn't happy, and +she can't believe she will ever go to heaven. And I don't know how to +help her." + +"I should think you could help her about as well as anybody," said the +Colonel. + +"O no; because I am only a little girl. I want somebody to help me." + +"Rhona, you are not going to cry?" + +"I'll try not," whispered the child. + +"I don't understand what you mean by wanting help. You said something +of the kind once before. I have read a chapter of the Bible to you +almost every evening since then,—certainly we have not missed twice. +But that does not seem to be sufficient. What more do you want?" + +"I don't know," Rhona answered faintly. + +And he asked— + +"Is that quite true?" + +"No,—I didn't mean to say it,—I didn't mean to tell a story," said +Rhona hurriedly. "I only meant—" + +"You do not know how to express yourself? Is that the difficulty? Try! +It might do you good." + +Rhona hid her face more completely, and was silent. + +"Is Bertha's state of mind the only trouble? I think if I were you, +I should advise her to consult somebody,—some clergyman, like your +friend, Mr. Powis." + +Silence still. The Colonel tried to obtain a glimpse of Rhona's face. + +"My dear, if you break your heart to this extent for other people's +worries, how will you ever get through life? Come, Rhona,—Rhona, my +pet!" + +"Oh, it isn't only that," Rhona broke out at length. "It isn't only +Bertha. It's about me too." + +"What about you, darling?" + +"I'm not right,—I can't keep right. Mother used to talk to me about the +Lord Jesus, so often. She used to tell me,—used to help me. It seemed +so different. I can't feel now as I did then. And I know I'm wrong—I +know I'm wrong—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know what to +do." + +Tears were still restrained, but the fight for composure was doing her +more harm than tears would have done. + +Colonel Smyth drew up her face, and kissed the drawn brow tenderly, +though in another moment, it was again hidden, pressed into his right +shoulder. + +"What is it that you feel to be wrong, my little girl?" + +"I can't feel—can't feel—rightly—about—the aunts." + +Colonel Smyth was very much taken by surprise. + +It took him some seconds to get over his astonishment, and to ask— + +"What do you mean?" + +"I can't feel rightly,—I can't forgive them. I can't feel as I ought. I +can't forget." + +"Can't forget what?" He thought he knew, but his wish was to draw her +out. + +"What they did—to—to mother? If they hadn't—if they hadn't—mother might +never—never—" + +That sentence could not be finished. The child was shaken by a passion +of weeping, but her physical strength was greater than some weeks +before, and she had it sooner under command than of old. "Oh, don't +ask, please don't ask," she gasped, when able to speak. "I didn't mean +to cry, but I couldn't help it. Don't make me speak of them, please. It +does make me so miserable. I can't forget,—and I can't—can't forgive +them. And if I don't—" + +"My dear, you have had ample reason for feeling vexed with the Miss +Mordaunts." + +"No, no,—not to feel as I do now. It isn't right. It is very very +wrong. You don't know—you can't see into my thoughts. And if mother +were here, she would help me—she would talk about Jesus!" + +"Would that help you?" + +"O yes!" + +He let her cry still for some minutes, soothing her by degrees. When +she had grown calmer, he said— + +"I am going to ask you to do something for me now." + +"What?" asked the child. + +Colonel Smyth's bronzed cheek took a deeper tint than usual. + +"Nobody has ever spoken to me about Him for more than fifty years. I +want you to begin doing so." + +She looked up in startled wonderment. + +"Nobody for fifty years!" + +"No, not since my mother died. I have heard sermons, of course, but +nobody has spoken to me of Him. Will you try, my little girl,—try to +talk, just as you would to your mother? I think it might help you,—and +perhaps—perhaps it might help me too." + +Rhona could give no direct answer to the request. She only clasped his +arm, and half-sobbed—"Oh, you dear dear uncle!" + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE. + +"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off," +said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very +difficult to evade." + +"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne. + +"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the +child is lost to us again?" + +"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word +'lost' in speaking of Rhona." + +"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt. + +"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of +time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far, +in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you." + +"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel +for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could +any man delay answering such an appeal?" + +"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously. + +"Unless—Yes—" + +"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was +an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue +which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain, +is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the +child." + +"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!" + +Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel +Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—" + +"It could not be. The thing is out of the question." + +"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel +of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a +perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my +father was and is a mystery to me." + +Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know +what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture +to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?" + +"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day." + +Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs. +Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others +about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's +surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally +believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after +the disappearance of her mother. + +Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and +a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha +Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post. +The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs. +Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word +of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could +not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this +clue failed. + +Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement +in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was +at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall +have her in an arm-chair soon," he said. + +Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a +vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he +said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth." + +"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room. + +"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was +in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?" + +"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!" + +"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace." + +Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number +Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number +Three—Winifred—Winifred—" + +"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was +your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—" + +Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as +recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three, +Winifred—" + +"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell +too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—" + +"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona, +Rhona, my little Rhona!" + +"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again. + +The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she +said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—" + +"You knew him very well, I suppose?" + +"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never +saw him." + +Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination. + +"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she +laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little +Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?" + +"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth. + +Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day, +sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd +man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in +connection with him. + +"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the +day, when relating to his father what had passed. + +Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having +proved a sharp one. + +"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily. + +"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the +extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little +Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen +somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place." + +Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you +to remember her." + +"Whom?" + +"Mrs. Pratt." + +"I have not the least recollection of the name." + +"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times +one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you +may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she +happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her +health." + +"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?" + +"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother." + +Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive. + +"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt +household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest +son, Henry Mordaunt." + +"She must have been a pretty creature." + +"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most +disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and +then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur +Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly +displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young +lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their +displeasure, but no doubt it was so." + +"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?" + +"Margaret Willis." + +Arbuthnot mused a little. + +"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is +he living still?" + +"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has +not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned +from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt +and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always +believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on +the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was +a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a +souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last +came to England." + +"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he +should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed +Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last +fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never +interested me particularly." + +"And they do now?" + +"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +WYVERN HOUSE. + +ONE hot June day, two flys might have been seen proceeding through +lanes and high roads, in a pretty midland district. Fields and meadows, +trees and hedges, formed the chief features of the landscape, with +finishing touches of cows and sheep. Occasional ponds made a variety, +and occasional hills broke the level line of the horizon. + +The second fly was closed and heavily loaded with luggage. One young +woman, respectably dressed, sat inside. The foremost vehicle, which was +open, held two individuals—a grey-haired gentleman of soldierly aspect, +and a fair child in deep mourning. The large soft eyes of the little +girl were roving eagerly to and fro, while the gentleman seemed well +content to watch her face. + +"How pretty!" she said repeatedly. "O uncle, how pretty! Mother used +to talk so about the fields. I do love them. And shall we live in the +country always—quite always?" + +"I don't know about living there always," Colonel Smyth answered. "If +we like the old house, we may find it pleasant for part of the summer. +London is best for winter." + +"I don't like London ever the best," Rhona said decisively. "I think +country is much much the nicest. Oh, look—look, uncle, at those sweet +little lambs. I wish I could play with them. And those big birds." + +"They are rooks. That is a rookery," said Colonel Smyth. + +"Is it? I thought they were crows. Mother said once that she liked +rooks so. But the dear little lambs are the prettiest. See, there are +more of them! O uncle!" + +Words seemed to fail Rhona. She laid her hand on his knee, and drew a +deep breath of satisfaction. + +"We must be getting near the house now," said Colonel Smyth, delighted +with her delight. "I wonder how you will like it, my little girl." + +"I am sure I shall like it, if there is a garden," said Rhona. "I can +see some chimneys, uncle, and ever so many trees all round. Do you +think that is the house, perhaps?" + +"May be so, my dear. I am as much a stranger to the place as you are +yourself." + +"It does seem so very funny that you should never have seen your own +house." + +"Not so funny, when you remember that it has not long been mine. The +old lady who left it me in her will was living here less than two years +ago." + +"And was her name Mrs. Smyth?" asked Rhona, in a meditative manner. + +"Her name was Mrs. Smyth." + +"And was she your grandmother?" + +The Colonel laughed heartily. "No, not my grandmother." + +"Or your aunt?" + +"No," said the Colonel. + +"She couldn't have been your mother, because of course you wouldn't +have left her to stay all that great while in India." + +"Perhaps not," the Colonel said, more gravely. "No, she was no relative +of mine at all, but she left me her house for the sake of her only son, +who was a great friend of mine in India." + +"I should have thought she would have left it to him!" + +"So she would have done, no doubt; but Captain Smyth died some years +ago, and she had nobody else belonging to her." + +"I think it is very funny that you have the same name as Mrs. Smyth, +and yet you aren't any relation," Rhona said deliberately, as if +weighing the matter. + +"People change their names sometimes," said Colonel Smyth, watching the +effect of the words. "Mrs. Smyth made a stipulation in her will that +her heir should take her name." + +The full sense of his utterance seemed to dawn upon Rhona slowly. She +was looking about still, but after nearly a minute of silent enjoyment, +her eyes went to his face in perplexity. + +"But, uncle,—have you got 'two' names?" + +"Yes," Colonel Smyth answered. "The old and the new. Some day I will +tell you what the old name is, but not to-day,—not yet. See, Rhona, +this really is the house; we are turning in at the gate." + +"Oh, what a beauty of a house!" Rhona exclaimed, delicately ceasing at +once to ask questions. "Oh, isn't it sweet! Such lovely creepers all +over it. And the roses!—Oh, the roses." + +Colonel Smyth lifted rather than helped her out at the front door, +and led her through a quaint lattice porch into a still more quaint +sitting-room, furnished in the style of a century earlier. But things, +if old, were well preserved. + +Rhona gazed round her wonderingly, and took refuge in the deep +window, where roses clustered outside. She stood there in a trance of +happiness, which yet was clouded by one shadow. What would not this +have been to her mother? A sigh broke from Rhona, and for a moment her +eyes were dim with tears. + +Colonel Smyth and Bertha were busy with the luggage, but presently a +step made her turn, and she found a middle-aged person behind, dressed +in black, with cap and spectacles, most respectable in appearance. + +"Pretty little dear!" the new-comer murmured. "And a orphan too." + +Rhona said, "How do you do?" politely, and put out her little hand. + +It was immediately taken possession of. + +"Pretty dear! And such sweet manners too!" + +"Yes, yes, the Colonel says to me, 'She's a lady, Mrs. Burrows,' and +so for sure she is. I'm Mrs. Burrows, my dear, and been Mrs. Smyth's +housekeeper for over thirty years, and the Colonel's now to continue. +And before that in her service nigh upon fifteen years. Yes, it's +forty-five years I've lived in this house, and never had but one +mistress. A good mistress she was too,—ah, dear me!—but that's over +and gone. My new mistress don't seem like to be a hard one!" And she +laughed. + +"Are you going to have a new mistress now?" asked Rhona gently. + +"That's about it, Missy. The Colonel says to me, says he, 'I'm +bringing you a new mistress, Mrs. Burrows, and you'll find her in the +drawing-room.' + +"Dear me, it did put my heart all of a flutter, and me looking for a +bachelor household. And I never to be at the door in time to welcome +you,—all the fault of that Tom, calling me into the yard just when the +carriages was coming round the corner. But I'll be even with him yet. +So I came off here, all of a flutter as I say, to see my new mistress." + +"Uncle didn't mean me," said Rhona, distressed. "I am not anybody's +mistress. I am only a little girl." + +"And the Colonel's adopted daughter, ain't you, Missy?" + +"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. I am his little girl, and he is my +uncle," said Rhona. + +Mrs. Burrows nodded. "That's just it, my dear, just it exactly. You'll +please forgive me for calling of you 'my dear,'—I'm that taken aback by +finding you no bigger, after what Colonel Mord—goodness me, what am I +after saying next? And I've got that London maid to see to, so you'll +excuse me being all of a flurry, my dear. It's the first time we ever +had a maid in the house out of that wicked London, and I'm all of a +tremble to think of the ways we'll learn from her." + +"Oh, I don't think you need be afraid, because Bertha is so very good," +said Rhona earnestly. + +"Well, I hope it may be so, my dear, but London's a place knowledgeable +for wickedness, and we ain't used to such ways here. But I've got to +see after her, howsomever. I shouldn't wonder if you'd like a cup of +tea, Miss." + +"I should—so much," Rhona said gratefully. + +And Mrs. Burrows bustled out as the Colonel came in. + +"Well, my pet, have you been making acquaintance with the old +housekeeper?" he asked, kissing her. "A worthy soul, and of course I +must keep her on, though really she has so long been head-woman here, +and her husband head-man, that I only wonder they admit me at all." + +"I like Mrs. Burrows," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "Uncle, she +called you 'Colonel Maud' just now, and I don't think she meant to do +it. I couldn't help hearing it—it came out so quick." + +"You shall call me Colonel Maud too, if you like," said the Colonel, +with a comical expression. + +"I don't want to, uncle. I only thought I ought to tell," Rhona said, +flushing. + +"You are a little soul of honour," said the Colonel, kissing her. +"Never mind what Mrs. Burrows says. How do you like the new home?" + +"Oh, very very much," Rhona answered. + + +As weeks passed, this first impression was strengthened. The house +proved to be not only pretty, but comfortable. Colonel Smyth was not, +generally speaking, a lover of rural scenes. "Real country meant real +dulness," he had been often heard to assert. But for Rhona's sake, his +inclinations seemed to undergo a change; and the time spent at Wyvern +House was to him a time of no little enjoyment. Shady lanes and green +fields, flowers and ferns, rambling and gardening, became matters of +new interest, in connection with the delight they afforded to Rhona. +She seemed at length to shake off the long oppression caused by her +mother's disappearance, and to become a happy child again, brighter in +spirits and healthier in face than ever yet since her father's death. + +Colonel Smyth was perfectly happy in her happiness. He never wearied +of attending to his darling's wants, walking with her, gardening with +her, reading with her, doing his utmost, indeed, to spoil her, had +Rhona been an easily spoilable child. Many would in her place have +suffered from his unlimited devotion and indulgence, but her intense +conscientiousness and strong sense of duty were great safeguards. + +The evening Bible-reading was now an established custom, and it was to +Colonel Smyth an increasing pleasure. Memories of early days were often +stirred, not to be again laid to rest. The plain reading of a chapter +was gradually growing into a systematic half-hour's study, with much +looking out of references. Rhona could never talk to him so freely as +to her mother and Bertha; yet her simple faith and vivid realisation +of unseen things were sufficiently apparent, to shake the Colonel out +of his long-settled religious torpidity, and to set him thinking. The +thinking led in time to prayer, and prayer led in time to a new life. +With him, as with many, the spiritual dawn broke slowly, but already a +change could be seen. + +Since coming to Wyvern House, no further conversation had taken place +about "the aunts," or about Rhona's feeling respecting them. From +certain slight indications, the Colonel was convinced that she had not +forgotten the subject. It seemed, however, to have fallen so far into +the background amid her new interests, that he hoped it might in time +die out of existence. + + +It was the Colonel's pleasure to escort Rhona on Sundays to a Church at +some little distance, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because +he desired at present to avoid meeting acquaintances in the village. +One Sunday, however, many weeks after their arrival at Wyvern House, +the fair weather, which had so far served them well, gave place to +drizzling rain. He yielded reluctantly to Rhona's entreaties, and +consented to take her for once to the Parish Church. His dislike arose +in some measure from fear of a chill for Rhona, but still more from an +objection to being the centre of interest to the village congregation. +The ordeal had, however, to be borne one day; and the Colonel at length +resolved to face it like a man. + +During the Prayers, he was uncomfortably conscious of many gazing eyes. +But when the clergyman had mounted the pulpit, his thoughts all went +from himself to Rhona. For the text given out was— + + "If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father +forgive your trespasses." + +Colonel Smyth soon regretted greatly that he had not kept Rhona at +home that day. She listened to the sermon quietly, but with a look of +earnest thought which gradually grew into an expression of intense +sorrow, and tears were soon running down her cheeks. Once or twice, the +little hand was lifted to wipe them away; otherwise, she remained very +still. The Colonel could do nothing then, and as they went home, no +word was spoken. + +When the house was reached, she ran away to her own room. At dinner, +she was evidently struggling to be calm, and to respond to his cheerful +conversation, but she could eat little, and tears soon broke out anew. + +The Colonel would not leave her. He made the child lie on a sofa, +petted her, and finally read her to sleep. + +She woke up better, but still troubled and sad. + +Tea passed quietly, and then Colonel Smyth lifted her on his knee, +folding his arms round her. + +"I wish I had not taken you out this morning, my little girl," he said. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +RHONA'S REAL UNCLE. + +"I'M glad I went," Rhona answered in a low voice. "Please, may I go +this evening too?" + +"No, my pet. I couldn't think of such a thing,—such weather!" + +"But the clergyman didn't finish all he had to say this morning,—and it +was so—so interesting—" + +Rhona's voice faltered. + +Colonel Smyth would have described the morning's sermon as being the +very essence of dulness. He did not yet understand how even the dullest +sermon may bear its message from above, to one heart among many wearied +listeners. After a puzzled pause, he said only—"You liked it!" + +"O yes,—so much—so very much," Rhona answered, unconscious of the note +of admiration. + +"But you mustn't talk about it, if talking makes you cry," said the +Colonel, noting suspicious signs. + +Rhona was so long silent that he supposed her to be falling asleep +again, when a remark came in a wide-awake tone: + +"I do wonder if aunt Barbara thinks I am angry with her still." + +The Colonel's first impulse was to laugh, but Rhona's voice sounded +intensely serious, and he feared to hurt her feelings by any sign of +lightness. So he only stroked her head, and said with due gravity, "I +should not think she would suspect you of it, my dear." + +"Of course she doesn't know about—about—mother," said the child, with +an effort. "And most likely she only thinks mother is keeping me away +still, for fear she should want to have me to live with her. If she did +know about mother, she would want me now, I dare say." + +"And you would naturally go there, if you were not my little girl." + +"I like being your little girl, after mother's," said Rhona softly. "I +shouldn't like to go away to aunt Barbara. I don't think I could bear +it. I do love you so." + +"You don't think she and I are at all alike?" asked the Colonel. + +"Not a bit. O no, not the very least! I love you so," repeated Rhona. +"And I didn't love aunt Barbara, at least, not properly. I do wonder +why she wasn't kinder to mother. But mother thought she knew." + +"What did she suppose was the reason?" + +"I don't think I remember—exactly," said the child. "Mother said there +were more reasons than one. But she knew they hadn't been pleased with +her mother once for something,—mother didn't say what it was. That was +my grandmother, you know. Mother said aunt Barbara and all of them had +once been vexed with her. But I don't see that that was any reason. +Mother couldn't help what my grandmother had done, and people oughtn't +to keep on being vexed such a time." + +"Quite true, my little girl," assented the Colonel. + +Then after a short silence Rhona broke out unexpectedly— + +"I did like that sermon this morning." + +"Did you? I don't think I did. It made me sleepy." + +Rhona's wondering gaze was too much for him, and he could not help +laughing. + +"Don't think me very naughty, Rhona. It was all quite true, no doubt, +but—" + +"I liked it," said Rhona again, in a serious tone. "It showed me how +wrong I had been. And mother said we ought to be very glad of anything +that showed us what we really are." + +"'Wad some fay the giftie gie us!'" muttered the Colonel rather +perversely. Then he kissed Rhona's brow. "Well, my darling, it can't be +anything very bad that you really are." + +"Oh, but it is. You don't know," said Rhona sadly. "I wasn't sure till +to-day." + +"Sure of what?" + +"About the aunts. I haven't ever really really in my very heart +forgiven them. I haven't liked to think about aunt Barbara. I did mean +to forgive, but it wasn't true forgiveness. I didn't want ever to see +her and aunt Clara again; and I couldn't pray for them." + +"All that seems to me perfectly natural, under the circumstances," +said Colonel Smyth. "In fact, it is only right that you should feel a +certain measure of just indignation." + +"O no, because it isn't that, it is wicked indignation," said Rhona, +her chest heaving. "I ought to be able not to be angry when I think of +aunt Barbara's face. Didn't you hear this morning, how he said—said—it +would—would grieve the Lord Jesus—" + +One sob could not be suppressed. "I don't mean to cry,—I'll try not," +Rhona said, with long breaths. "But oh, I do want to do right,—I do +want to do right. And I know I have grieved Him. It hasn't been real +forgiveness." + +"How are you going to make it real?" asked the Colonel curiously. + +"I think I shall write to aunt Barbara, and tell her I am sorry for the +naughty feelings." + +The Colonel was startled. "But aunt Barbara does not know you have had +those naughty feelings. Would it not vex her to hear of them?" + +"I don't know. I don't want to vex her," said Rhona. "But mother said +we ought to confess to people, if we had done them any wrong." + +"Well, yes,—if one has done wrong. I am not so sure about wrong +thoughts." + +Rhona seemed perplexed. "I don't know exactly how else to manage," she +said. "I do want not to have the bad feelings again. And I thought, +perhaps,—perhaps—if I wrote to aunt Barbara—" + +"I see no harm in your writing to her," said the Colonel, after some +cogitation. "On the whole it is a good plan. No need to say much about +your own feelings, my dear,—at least that is my opinion. Just a kind +little letter, saying that you think she would wish to hear from you, +and that she ought to know about your dear mother,—stay, I have a +better plan to propose. Suppose we run up to London for a week, and +call on the aunts. You can say what you like then,—much quicker work +than writing. And we can see your friend, Mr. Wynne." + +"I should like that," said Rhona. "And you will come with me to aunt +Barbara." + +"Yes, certainly. I shall not let you go out of my sight. Why, she might +eat you up! Don't write beforehand. We'll go straight in, and take them +by surprise." + +"Uncle—" Rhona said tremulously—"uncle,—do you think?—Don't you +think?—Won't they want to take me from you?" + +"They shall not do it, my pet, whatever they may wish." + +"But they are my real aunts, and you are not my real uncle. And +perhaps—" + +Colonel Smyth had it on the tip of his tongue to say,—"But I am your +real uncle, Rhona." He could have uttered the words with truth. Yet he +hesitated. + +He had gone on step by step for so long that his reserved nature now +shrank with strong dislike from the necessary explanations. Like many +another moral coward, he was disposed to put off the unpleasant moment +as long as possible. That the fact itself would give joy to Rhona, he +could not doubt. But he was a little afraid that to her transparent +nature, the prolonged concealment might appear blameworthy. + +"Rhona, will you trust me?" he asked, kissing her. "I promise +faithfully that you shall not leave me against your will." + +"I know you'll try your very best," the child said sorrowfully. "But +you haven't seen aunt Barbara. She is my father's very own aunt, you +know, and she is sure to say she must have me." + +Reluctance of every kind gave way before those troubled eyes. "My pet, +you are worrying yourself needlessly," Colonel Smyth said. "Shall I +tell you a secret, Rhona? I meant you to know it soon. Aunt Barbara is +your own aunt, it is true, but—but—ahem—but the fact is, my darling, I +am just as much your own uncle. And since your dear mother's death, no +one has a better right over you than I have. It is true. I am your aunt +Barbara's own brother, Henry." + +Rhona looked bewildered and white. "And not Colonel Smyth!" she said. + +"Yes, I am Colonel Smyth,—more strictly, Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. It +is not long since I took the name of Smyth, in addition to my own, +consequent upon this property being left to me. Do you understand, +darling? I am your own uncle, Henry Mordaunt-Smyth. So aunt Barbara +cannot possibly steal you from me." + +He heard a low murmur of, "I am so glad!" and read a certain peaceful +satisfaction in the way she laid her head upon his shoulder. He let her +remain quiet, and she was the first to break silence. + +"Doesn't aunt Barbara know you are here, uncle?" + +"Why, no—" said Colonel Smyth. "Not exactly. I am afraid I have +treated the aunts rather badly. But the truth is I am not much of a +letter-writer. It is a great many months since they heard from me." + +"And they don't know that I am your little girl?" + +"Not a word of it. They don't even know, so far as I am aware, that I +have taken the name of Smyth, or that I am in England." + +"I should think they must want a letter very much." + +The Colonel's conscience smote him. "Perhaps they do," he said. "It has +been hardly fair, after all. We'll go and see them." + +Another pause, and Rhona spoke again. "If only you had found out +sooner," she said sadly, "mother needn't—mother wouldn't—perhaps—" + +Cowardice prompted the Colonel to make no answer, but he resisted the +temptation. "I did know, my little girl," he said regretfully. "You +cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself, for not speaking +sooner. I can't explain to you all my reasons,—you would not understand +them." + +"But you don't mean—you don't mean—" said Rhona, lifting her face. +"Uncle dear, when we were at Mrs. Burrell's, and when you wouldn't ever +meet mother on the stairs, you didn't know then!!" + +"Yes, I did know then," said the Colonel courageously, glad at last to +speak out. "I knew you were related to me even then—from the very first +day I went to the house. That was partly what decided me to take the +rooms. But I had a fancy not to be known for a time by old friends and +connections—so I just dropped the name Mordaunt, and called myself only +Colonel Smyth. It was foolish, no doubt. And I had a fancy to find out +all I could about you and your mother, before taking any steps—before +helping her, I mean. I had loved your father when he was a boy, but I +wanted to know what she was—whether she was like somebody else whom I +had once known. I cannot explain all! Only I meant no unkindness to +either of you. I should like you to be able to believe that. + +"I really did intend to do something very soon for your mother, and +not to let her go on teaching always,—but—well, I could not make up my +mind exactly what to do, and there were old associations which made me +inclined to put off the first meeting—and—The fact is, your old uncle +acted very foolishly, my darling, and he is very sorry for it. Can you +ever forgive me, Rhona?" + +"O uncle! I do love you so! I know you didn't mean it," Rhona broke out +passionately. "But oh I—if only you had spoken sooner,—if only you had +spoken just a little sooner!" + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +TOGETHER AGAIN. + +"HOW strangely one may be mistaken in other people! I never knew you +till now, aunt Barbara. So very very good you have been to me! I can +never repay you." + +"It is easy to be good to people, if one loves them," Barbara answered. + +"I don't know about being easy,—and I do not know why you should love +me. I have been nothing but a trouble." + +"I have not felt you a trouble." + +"No, because you are so good—so self-forgetting. You must let me +thank you this once, dear aunt. I sometimes feel as if the weight of +obligation were more than I could bear." + +Mary Mordaunt looked wan and shadowy still. She was exceedingly fragile +after her illness, and would remain so, the doctor said, for a long +while. Callers were still almost entirely forbidden, for the slightest +excitement brought on confusion and forgetfulness; and she had not yet +been downstairs. + +Many weeks had now gone by since Mary first learnt that her little +Rhona was still living. Before that, through some inadvertent remark +uttered within her hearing, she had fully believed the child to be +dead. Gradually, and not sooner than was found needful, it had been +broken to her that Rhona's present whereabouts was unknown. Mary bore +the shock better than was expected, though it threw back her recovery +for at least a fortnight. She seemed to have learnt in this illness a +new calm, to have gained a new power of waiting. Possibly some part +of the calm was due to her uncertain memory, and her want of power to +realise things. + +Advertising had not yet been tried. Arbuthnot Wynne's conjecture, as +to the motives which swayed poor Colonel Smyth, had been so strongly +adopted by the three aunts, that they were quite convinced of its +uselessness. To advertise would simply be, they said, to drive the +Colonel deeper into retirement. Mr. Wynne recommended the attempt being +made, but the ladies deferred following his advice. Private inquiries +were instituted in divers directions, thus far with no results. Barbara +would have given much to find the child, and so to still the wistful +longing in Mary's eyes. But "that wicked man," as Clara commonly +designated the unfortunate Colonel, had taken his measures effectually, +and Rhona's retreat remained undiscovered. + +"You must not think of it as an obligation at all," Barbara kindly +answered. "Do not distress yourself, Mary, about gratitude. I am quite +content to have shown you that at least my intentions from the first +were not cruel." + +"Cruel! O no. If only I had not been so foolish and impulsive!" + +"It is easy to look back afterwards, and see that we did not, either of +us, act too wisely. But that is over now." + +"I hope somehow—some day—to be able to repay," whispered Mary. "When I +am strong, and can work again." + +"That will not be yet. You have to submit to be taken care of at +present. And if it is God's will for you, I am sure you will not +murmur." + +She found this simple suggestion always efficacious. + +Mary smiled faintly. "No," she said. "Oh, how my Rhona loves His will." + +"And you too, Mary?" + +"Yes, I think so." A strained look came into her eyes, as she +repeated—"Yes, I think so. Before my illness, there was such a +blackness of darkness everywhere? It comes back in memory sometimes, +and makes me shudder. I hope never to go through the same again. But +things seem different now—the darkness is gone. I don't think I wish to +have what God does not choose for me. Perhaps it is partly because I +have no strength—no power to feel anything keenly." + + +Two days later, Mary was permitted to make her first excursion +downstairs. Barbara presided at afternoon tea, Mary lying upon a sofa, +white, frail, and placidly smiling. Sue hung about the couch in a state +of dumb devotion; and even Clara, who had thus far held out in some +measure against the invalid, at length succumbed, showing a kindness +equal to Barbara's. + +Tea was almost finished, when Mary said wistfully—"I suppose nobody has +heard anything more of Mrs. Burrell lately?" + +"Why, yes," Barbara answered. "I did not care to trouble you by +bringing up the subject, as there was nothing good to report. But Mr. +Wynne told me that she had at last set up a new shop near her old +quarters,—the next street, is it not, Sue? Mrs. Burrell has heard +nothing of her niece, and cannot tell what has become of her." + +"It seems strange," Mary said. + +"More than strange. A most ungrateful girl," observed Barbara. "It is +her simple duty to write, after all that Mrs. Burrell has done for her." + +"I shouldn't wonder if her silence is all the fault of that wicked +Colonel," said Clara. "I told Mrs. Burrell that he was probably the one +who ought to be blamed. She said she shouldn't wonder, for she always +had had her doubts about him." + +"But Bertha Stephens is not a child, to be entirely under his control," +said Barbara. "However, we shall know more some day soon." And she +spoke cheerfully for Mary's sake. "If other means fail, I really think +we had better in a few days try advertising. Does Mrs. Burrell seem +doing well in her new shop, Clara?" + +"Things looked prosperous, but she spoke dolefully. I should take her +for an arrant grumbler," said Clara. "A very unpleasant old woman, in +my opinion. The daughter is a pretty girl. She is going to be married +soon to the young schoolmaster who took in Mrs. Burrell after the +fire,—her nephew, isn't he? It seems a happy arrangement. I suppose the +engagement is a satisfaction to Mrs. Burrell, but she looked uncommonly +grim over even that." + +"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman wants to speak to you." + +The door had been opened noisily, and these words came with abruptness. +The parlour-maid being out that afternoon, her place was temporarily +filled by the housemaid, a new importation from the country. + +"Really that girl is too much for civilised nerves," muttered Clara. +"Shut the door, Maria." + +"A gentleman!" repeated Barbara. "What is his name?" + +"He didn't give no name, ma'am." Maria stood with her fingers on the +door-handle, unheeding Clara's order. + +"Then ask him." + +"I did ask him, and he said it was of no consequence, ma'am, and could +he come in?" + +"You had better say I am engaged, and he can call again. Or +stay,—perhaps it will save trouble in the end if I see him now. Show +the gentleman into the dining-room." + +Maria retreated awkwardly with that intent, and nearly backed into the +arms of somebody close behind. + +"Hallo, look out!" a gruff voice said; and then,—"I suppose we can come +in. Stand back." + +"Please, sir, if you please, sir,—this way, sir," protested Maria. + +But her efforts being vain, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and +looked on, open-mouthed. + +Those within the drawing-room saw a grey-haired and upright gentleman +enter, leading by the hand a child in deep mourning. + +Barbara's first impulse was to rise and say severely,—"There is some +mistake. I desired that you might be shown—" + +"How do you do, Barbara?" said the new-comer, flushing slightly under +his bronzed skin. + +"Henry!" + +Barbara was not easily overcome, but she actually turned pale, and sat +down, motes dancing before her eyes, and bees buzzing in her ears. +The child was unnoticed by her in that moment's agitation. She had no +thought except for this brother, so long absent, so suddenly restored. + +"Sue,—Clara,—it is Henry,—our Henry!" she muttered. + +Hers was not however the only recognition. + +"Barbara!—It is Rhona!" Clara exclaimed in amazement. + +At the same moment, the child's glance fell upon the sofa near the +fire, partly sheltered from observation by a large screen. + +Mary already knew all, and was receiving her joy calmly. A bright flush +rose in either cheek, and she clasped her hands, neither starting nor +exclaiming, but lying quietly, with riveted gaze. For two or three +seconds, Rhona had been unconscious of her presence. + +"MOTHER!" + +Mary's colourless face had flushed, but Rhona's bloom gave place to +deadly pallor. For Mary had known the child to be living, while Rhona +had believed the mother to be dead. No other sound came from either. +Rhona was by her mother's side with a spring, lying over her, clasped +and clasped, in a very agony of joy, too intense for any other manner +of expression. + +The silence was absolute. Mother and daughter remained locked together +in that wordless grasp, as if they might never part again, and the face +of neither could be seen. Sue was quietly dropping tears behind the +screen. Clara seemed lost in astonishment. Barbara still looked pale +and overcome. Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth had no eyes except for Rhona. + +"This will not do," Barbara said, and she glanced from one to another +with a husky laugh. "We all seem petrified. Henry!" + +The Colonel turned to her, as with a new idea, and stooped to bestow a +kiss. "I declare I'm forgetting," he said apologetically. "We have not +met for so long. It is rather a shame to take you by surprise, in this +fashion." + +He paid the same brotherly attention to Sue and Clara, then turned anew +to the sofa. + +"Rhona,—my little girl," he said. + +A moment's silence, and he repeated, "Rhona!" + +"Yes, make her stand up, Henry. Mary will be worse," Barbara said, +in sudden alarm. "But how Rhona happens to be with you—! It is all a +mystery." + +The Colonel left explanations till later. "Rhona, my pet!" he said +again, and he touched her arm. + +She raised herself slowly, pale as ashes, and lifted her eyes to his +with a dazed dreamy look. Then there was a flush, and a low cry, as +Rhona flung herself upon him. "O uncle, uncle,—O uncle, it is mother, +it is my own own sweet sweet mother!" she sobbed wildly. "I don't know +what to do,—I don't know how to bear it,—I am so glad!" + +The three sisters were in tears, and not they only, for the Colonel +himself was actually sobbing. Of all who were present, Mary alone kept +calm. She lay placidly, with folded hands, and a smile of indescribable +content. + +"It is more than I dared hope," she whispered, so low that Sue alone +overheard. "To see her so well cared for—so bright and strong—the +little darling! My God, how I thank Thee! Thou hast been better to me +than all my fears." + +"Rhona, don't—don't now—hush, my pet," the Colonel was saying huskily. +"You must not make yourself ill." + +But this was no manner of weeping to make any one ill. Rhona was soon +able to go back to the couch, with a face of eager joy, clasping one of +the Colonel's hands, and clinging afresh to her newly-found mother. + +"I don't think we shall ever be able to be glad enough," she whispered, +"It is all so beautiful!! And to think of finding you here—with aunt +Barbara! And oh, mother darling, I do want you to love my dear dear +uncle. He is so good, and he saved me out of the fire, and he has given +me such lots of things. I do love him!" + +"Is it Colonel Smyth?" asked Mary, turning to him with a grateful +smile. She had heard and seen nothing as yet, beyond Rhona. + +"It is Henry Mordaunt—aunt Barbara's brother—your husband's uncle," the +Colonel said, bending over her. "You shall hear all soon, Mary. Your +little Rhona has been a dear child to me this summer." + +"It is all so strange,—so bewildering,—I cannot quite understand," Mary +said patiently. "But I have my darling,—my darling,—thank God for that." + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +GATHERING UP THE THREADS. + +"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt +remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But +I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To +spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London +itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your +own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most +extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take +a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of +life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to +be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our +dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected +any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed. +I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due +respect,—I am not speaking of affection." + +Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's +harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was +beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from +him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general +wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though +himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But +after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the +child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no +means supply her place. + +There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and +the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though +Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old +custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara +trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what +he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona +had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement. + +"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly +to Barbara. + +"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to +be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us +with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how +it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure +you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one +another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could +have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our +last letters displease you?" + +Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed. + +"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd +fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and +not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't +be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is +all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget." + +"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for +her pride and affection were alike wounded. + +"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having +vanished. + +Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought. + +Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been, +with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of +expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab. +Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his +wrong-doing upon his head? + +"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat +she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all +these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget. +Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean +to carry the thing on so long." + +"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I +certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step." + +"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara +observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put +into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline +needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that +Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have +received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!" + +"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie +between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the +risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave +the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I +didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter +of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have +seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must +surely have been in some of them." + +"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor +Arthur's death." + +"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll +excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed +to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us." + +"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget." + +"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as +I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation +at Mary's flight and concealment." + +"I thought she had treated us wrongly." + +"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me +another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in +Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that +he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called +her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives +in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor +himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know +what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so +on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last +paragraph. + + "'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not +therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find +her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything, +please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the +neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this +to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread +inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them. + + "'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I +had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through +his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had +thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case. +I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance. +Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest +confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'" + +"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with +an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I +have done my best to convince people—" + +"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a +tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence." + +"Did you answer the letter?" + +"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and +mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that +it should go no farther." + +"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I +think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters +really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be +under the same roof with Mary." + +"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries +soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging +at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do +next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing +myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I +went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of +taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear +Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was +absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's, +and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it +again directly." + +"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said. + +"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly. + +"And then you told Mary who you were?" + +"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I +could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly +laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid +feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her." + +"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone. + +"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much +more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and +put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an +acquaintance with the little one, and that was all." + +"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I +wonder your letters did not betray you." + +"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained +there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my +incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady. +Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was +in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless +questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first +instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt +less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared, +and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet +creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of +nothing but Rhona lately." + +Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking +earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry." + +"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago." + +"I never saw you so like our dear William." + +"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is +only that child! She can twist me round her finger." + +"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara. +"As Mary has been to us." + +"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you +know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically +none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet +words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses." + +"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than +appeared on the surface." + +"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and +lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope." + +Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for +some seconds. + +"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently. + +"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be. +I shall offer them both a home." + +"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed. + +"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under +one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not +that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would +inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for +sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you +must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any +amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of +the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be +hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object." + +"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is +hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously +passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite +what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to +understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself." + +"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help. +She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into +my confidence lately." + +"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to +come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But +what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?" + +"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed. +Bertha promises to remain with me." + +"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never +heard from her?" inquired Barbara. + +"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to +write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of +things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in +on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one +first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and +brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?" + +"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem +stronger." + +The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with +mother, my pet?" he asked. + +"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and +laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad +I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all +about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly." + +"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a +selfish pleasure." + +"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt +Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so +very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about +you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time." + +"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise. + +She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted +her cheek. + +"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at +an end now." + +"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel +Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—" + +"Good-bye!" + +Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely +growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some +fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the +restored mother. + +"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back +in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you +think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I +want—that you and she and I should make a home together." + +"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly. + +"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her." + +"And will it be in the country, uncle?" + +"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably. +What will mother say?" + +Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back +before they could have thought it possible. + +"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would +so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried +rapturously, throwing herself upon him. + +"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling. + + + + THE END. + + + + Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO. + Edinburgh & London + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78795 *** |