NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE.
"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off,"
said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very
difficult to evade."
"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne.
"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the
child is lost to us again?"
"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word
'lost' in speaking of Rhona."
"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt.
"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of
time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far,
in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you."
"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel
for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could
any man delay answering such an appeal?"
"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously.
"Unless—Yes—"
"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was
an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue
which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain,
is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the
child."
"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!"
Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel
Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—"
"It could not be. The thing is out of the question."
"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel
of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a
perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my
father was and is a mystery to me."
Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know
what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture
to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?"
"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day."
Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs.
Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others
about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's
surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally
believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after
the disappearance of her mother.
Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and
a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha
Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post.
The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs.
Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word
of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could
not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this
clue failed.
Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement
in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was
at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall
have her in an arm-chair soon," he said.
Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a
vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he
said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth."
"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room.
"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was
in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?"
"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!"
"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace."
Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number
Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number
Three—Winifred—Winifred—"
"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was
your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—"
Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as
recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three,
Winifred—"
"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell
too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—"
"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona,
Rhona, my little Rhona!"
"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again.
The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she
said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—"
"You knew him very well, I suppose?"
"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never
saw him."
Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination.
"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she
laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little
Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?"
"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth.
Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day,
sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd
man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in
connection with him.
"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the
day, when relating to his father what had passed.
Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having
proved a sharp one.
"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily.
"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the
extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little
Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen
somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place."
Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you
to remember her."
"Whom?"
"Mrs. Pratt."
"I have not the least recollection of the name."
"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times
one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you
may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she
happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her
health."
"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?"
"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother."
Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive.
"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt
household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest
son, Henry Mordaunt."
"She must have been a pretty creature."
"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most
disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and
then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur
Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly
displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young
lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their
displeasure, but no doubt it was so."
"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?"
"Margaret Willis."
Arbuthnot mused a little.
"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is
he living still?"
"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has
not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned
from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt
and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always
believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on
the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was
a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a
souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last
came to England."
"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he
should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed
Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last
fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never
interested me particularly."
"And they do now?"
"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot.