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."