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.