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.