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.