ABOUT THE AUNTS.
"WHAT are you looking so grave about, my little girl?" asked Colonel
Smyth.
About a fortnight had passed since the journey from London to Bath. It
seemed a natural thing now, to Colonel Smyth, having a child and her
maid as part of his "impedimenta."
They had spent five or six days in Bath, shopping vigorously. The
Colonel had taken Rhona to the best shops in and about Milsom Street,
allowing her such a choice of pretty things as she had never enjoyed
in her life before. He was anxious to interest her, to draw off her
attention from sad recollections. And it was not in child-nature not
to be charmed. Rhona took the matter with a certain outward placidity
natural to her, but enjoyment if subdued was genuine.
Dress interested her least. She was bent upon having a due amount
of crape upon her new black frocks, and enforced the same with sad
earnestness. That once settled, the possession of clothes seemed to
come to her as a thing of course; only she showed herself solicitous
that the Colonel should not spend too much, amusing him greatly thereby.
"Not that, please; it is very nice, but it is too expensive," she
would say in her gentle way, when goods were spread upon the draper's
counter, or when hats and bonnets were pulled forth by the milliner.
"Not a penny too much, my dear!" the Colonel would answer, and the
"expensive" article was at once chosen.
Rhona thanked him always, though with a doubtful look.
But when he led her into a large fancy warehouse, and desired
her to select what she would in the way of desk and work-box and
travelling-bag, her eyes did shine,—not only then, but during hours
after, while unweariedly examining the intricate fittings of her new
morocco, rosewood, and leather possessions. Finding the plan so far
successful, Colonel Smyth followed it up perseveringly.
Next day he had her at a jeweller's, for the choice of a little silver
brooch, locket and chain. The morning after, their destination was a
bookseller's, where he presented her with a Turkey-morocco bound Bible,
and a Church Service to match. That day's work transcended all, in
Rhona's opinion. Her childish delight in her new treasures was a pretty
sight, and it did the Colonel's heart good.
Yet even at her brightest, a shadow would often sweep over the
sweet face, and if the Colonel asked,—"What now, Rhona?" the answer
invariably was, "Mother would be so pleased! If only mother could see
them all!"
They had remained two nights in their first Bath hotel, moving then to
a second, with no expressed reason on the part of Colonel Smyth. He
resolved next to give Rhona a week or two of sea breezes, before trying
the effects of country air, and took her straight to Ilfracombe.
A new vista of delight opened there before the child's wondering
eyes. She had never yet tasted the charms of English sea-shore life.
Hours were spent in scrambling over the rocks and up the hills, with
the Colonel. Happily for her, he loved walking, and as her powers of
exertion increased, she could never have too much of it. At first,
every effort wearied her, but before the close of one week, a marked
change had taken place, shown by increase of colour and appetite.
Colonel Smyth had never seen her look so well. His devotion to the
child grew daily, till at length he was scarcely happy to have her out
of his sight; and his love was abundantly returned.
More than a week of fine weather was succeeded by high winds and
drenching rain, rendering it impossible for Rhona to go out. Two days
of imprisonment passed cheerily enough, filled up with arrangements of
shells and seaweeds collected during hours of sunshine.
On the third afternoon, Colonel Smyth left her busied over
glove-mending,—Bertha as usual sitting with her during his absence.
He was gone longer than he intended. On his return, the gloves were
forsaken, and Rhona sat alone in the window, looking out with sorrowful
intentness at the sea. The voice with which she greeted him told of
some hidden distress.
He was soon beside her, taking her small hand in his, and asking—"What
are you so grave about, my little girl?"
"Oh, I'm only—thinking," said Rhona, with one of her deep sighs. "I
have been talking to Bertha."
"What about, Rhona?"
There was no answer, and Rhona's face went down on his knee.
After a minute, the Colonel repeated his question.
"I've been talking—at least, Bertha has—about—oh, only about herself,"
said Rhona. "She went away before you came in, for fear you should
see she had cried. She didn't cry much, but only a little. It made me
unhappy, because I don't know how to help her. Mother could, but I
can't. I do wish mother was here."
"Bertha was wrong to trouble you," said the Colonel.
"O no, no,—" and Rhona looked imploring. "Oh, please don't stop her.
She has nobody else in the world to speak to: and I like it. I do like
it, uncle. Please don't stop her."
"Well; I will not," said Colonel Smyth, passing an arm round the child.
The other arm was still in an invalid condition. "I wish I could cure
you of suffering so much for other people. It is not necessary, my
little girl."
"Isn't it? Mother always said it was right to feel. She said that was
what the Bible meant by weeping with those who weep," said Rhona.
"Yes, no doubt, but there are different modes of feeling. I don't like
to see my darling unhappy. Perhaps I could help Bertha. Is it money she
wants?"
"No, it isn't that at all," said Rhona, with a half-smile. "It isn't
that sort of thing. She wants—I don't know what. She isn't happy, and
she can't believe she will ever go to heaven. And I don't know how to
help her."
"I should think you could help her about as well as anybody," said the
Colonel.
"O no; because I am only a little girl. I want somebody to help me."
"Rhona, you are not going to cry?"
"I'll try not," whispered the child.
"I don't understand what you mean by wanting help. You said something
of the kind once before. I have read a chapter of the Bible to you
almost every evening since then,—certainly we have not missed twice.
But that does not seem to be sufficient. What more do you want?"
"I don't know," Rhona answered faintly.
And he asked—
"Is that quite true?"
"No,—I didn't mean to say it,—I didn't mean to tell a story," said
Rhona hurriedly. "I only meant—"
"You do not know how to express yourself? Is that the difficulty? Try!
It might do you good."
Rhona hid her face more completely, and was silent.
"Is Bertha's state of mind the only trouble? I think if I were you,
I should advise her to consult somebody,—some clergyman, like your
friend, Mr. Powis."
Silence still. The Colonel tried to obtain a glimpse of Rhona's face.
"My dear, if you break your heart to this extent for other people's
worries, how will you ever get through life? Come, Rhona,—Rhona, my
pet!"
"Oh, it isn't only that," Rhona broke out at length. "It isn't only
Bertha. It's about me too."
"What about you, darling?"
"I'm not right,—I can't keep right. Mother used to talk to me about the
Lord Jesus, so often. She used to tell me,—used to help me. It seemed
so different. I can't feel now as I did then. And I know I'm wrong—I
know I'm wrong—and I don't know what to do. Oh, I don't know what to
do."
Tears were still restrained, but the fight for composure was doing her
more harm than tears would have done.
Colonel Smyth drew up her face, and kissed the drawn brow tenderly,
though in another moment, it was again hidden, pressed into his right
shoulder.
"What is it that you feel to be wrong, my little girl?"
"I can't feel—can't feel—rightly—about—the aunts."
Colonel Smyth was very much taken by surprise.
It took him some seconds to get over his astonishment, and to ask—
"What do you mean?"
"I can't feel rightly,—I can't forgive them. I can't feel as I ought. I
can't forget."
"Can't forget what?" He thought he knew, but his wish was to draw her
out.
"What they did—to—to mother? If they hadn't—if they hadn't—mother might
never—never—"
That sentence could not be finished. The child was shaken by a passion
of weeping, but her physical strength was greater than some weeks
before, and she had it sooner under command than of old. "Oh, don't
ask, please don't ask," she gasped, when able to speak. "I didn't mean
to cry, but I couldn't help it. Don't make me speak of them, please. It
does make me so miserable. I can't forget,—and I can't—can't forgive
them. And if I don't—"
"My dear, you have had ample reason for feeling vexed with the Miss
Mordaunts."
"No, no,—not to feel as I do now. It isn't right. It is very very
wrong. You don't know—you can't see into my thoughts. And if mother
were here, she would help me—she would talk about Jesus!"
"Would that help you?"
"O yes!"
He let her cry still for some minutes, soothing her by degrees. When
she had grown calmer, he said—
"I am going to ask you to do something for me now."
"What?" asked the child.
Colonel Smyth's bronzed cheek took a deeper tint than usual.
"Nobody has ever spoken to me about Him for more than fifty years. I
want you to begin doing so."
She looked up in startled wonderment.
"Nobody for fifty years!"
"No, not since my mother died. I have heard sermons, of course, but
nobody has spoken to me of Him. Will you try, my little girl,—try to
talk, just as you would to your mother? I think it might help you,—and
perhaps—perhaps it might help me too."
Rhona could give no direct answer to the request. She only clasped his
arm, and half-sobbed—"Oh, you dear dear uncle!"