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.