WYVERN HOUSE.
ONE hot June day, two flys might have been seen proceeding through
lanes and high roads, in a pretty midland district. Fields and meadows,
trees and hedges, formed the chief features of the landscape, with
finishing touches of cows and sheep. Occasional ponds made a variety,
and occasional hills broke the level line of the horizon.
The second fly was closed and heavily loaded with luggage. One young
woman, respectably dressed, sat inside. The foremost vehicle, which was
open, held two individuals—a grey-haired gentleman of soldierly aspect,
and a fair child in deep mourning. The large soft eyes of the little
girl were roving eagerly to and fro, while the gentleman seemed well
content to watch her face.
"How pretty!" she said repeatedly. "O uncle, how pretty! Mother used
to talk so about the fields. I do love them. And shall we live in the
country always—quite always?"
"I don't know about living there always," Colonel Smyth answered. "If
we like the old house, we may find it pleasant for part of the summer.
London is best for winter."
"I don't like London ever the best," Rhona said decisively. "I think
country is much much the nicest. Oh, look—look, uncle, at those sweet
little lambs. I wish I could play with them. And those big birds."
"They are rooks. That is a rookery," said Colonel Smyth.
"Is it? I thought they were crows. Mother said once that she liked
rooks so. But the dear little lambs are the prettiest. See, there are
more of them! O uncle!"
Words seemed to fail Rhona. She laid her hand on his knee, and drew a
deep breath of satisfaction.
"We must be getting near the house now," said Colonel Smyth, delighted
with her delight. "I wonder how you will like it, my little girl."
"I am sure I shall like it, if there is a garden," said Rhona. "I can
see some chimneys, uncle, and ever so many trees all round. Do you
think that is the house, perhaps?"
"May be so, my dear. I am as much a stranger to the place as you are
yourself."
"It does seem so very funny that you should never have seen your own
house."
"Not so funny, when you remember that it has not long been mine. The
old lady who left it me in her will was living here less than two years
ago."
"And was her name Mrs. Smyth?" asked Rhona, in a meditative manner.
"Her name was Mrs. Smyth."
"And was she your grandmother?"
The Colonel laughed heartily. "No, not my grandmother."
"Or your aunt?"
"No," said the Colonel.
"She couldn't have been your mother, because of course you wouldn't
have left her to stay all that great while in India."
"Perhaps not," the Colonel said, more gravely. "No, she was no relative
of mine at all, but she left me her house for the sake of her only son,
who was a great friend of mine in India."
"I should have thought she would have left it to him!"
"So she would have done, no doubt; but Captain Smyth died some years
ago, and she had nobody else belonging to her."
"I think it is very funny that you have the same name as Mrs. Smyth,
and yet you aren't any relation," Rhona said deliberately, as if
weighing the matter.
"People change their names sometimes," said Colonel Smyth, watching the
effect of the words. "Mrs. Smyth made a stipulation in her will that
her heir should take her name."
The full sense of his utterance seemed to dawn upon Rhona slowly. She
was looking about still, but after nearly a minute of silent enjoyment,
her eyes went to his face in perplexity.
"But, uncle,—have you got 'two' names?"
"Yes," Colonel Smyth answered. "The old and the new. Some day I will
tell you what the old name is, but not to-day,—not yet. See, Rhona,
this really is the house; we are turning in at the gate."
"Oh, what a beauty of a house!" Rhona exclaimed, delicately ceasing at
once to ask questions. "Oh, isn't it sweet! Such lovely creepers all
over it. And the roses!—Oh, the roses."
Colonel Smyth lifted rather than helped her out at the front door,
and led her through a quaint lattice porch into a still more quaint
sitting-room, furnished in the style of a century earlier. But things,
if old, were well preserved.
Rhona gazed round her wonderingly, and took refuge in the deep
window, where roses clustered outside. She stood there in a trance of
happiness, which yet was clouded by one shadow. What would not this
have been to her mother? A sigh broke from Rhona, and for a moment her
eyes were dim with tears.
Colonel Smyth and Bertha were busy with the luggage, but presently a
step made her turn, and she found a middle-aged person behind, dressed
in black, with cap and spectacles, most respectable in appearance.
"Pretty little dear!" the new-comer murmured. "And a orphan too."
Rhona said, "How do you do?" politely, and put out her little hand.
It was immediately taken possession of.
"Pretty dear! And such sweet manners too!"
"Yes, yes, the Colonel says to me, 'She's a lady, Mrs. Burrows,' and
so for sure she is. I'm Mrs. Burrows, my dear, and been Mrs. Smyth's
housekeeper for over thirty years, and the Colonel's now to continue.
And before that in her service nigh upon fifteen years. Yes, it's
forty-five years I've lived in this house, and never had but one
mistress. A good mistress she was too,—ah, dear me!—but that's over
and gone. My new mistress don't seem like to be a hard one!" And she
laughed.
"Are you going to have a new mistress now?" asked Rhona gently.
"That's about it, Missy. The Colonel says to me, says he, 'I'm
bringing you a new mistress, Mrs. Burrows, and you'll find her in the
drawing-room.'
"Dear me, it did put my heart all of a flutter, and me looking for a
bachelor household. And I never to be at the door in time to welcome
you,—all the fault of that Tom, calling me into the yard just when the
carriages was coming round the corner. But I'll be even with him yet.
So I came off here, all of a flutter as I say, to see my new mistress."
"Uncle didn't mean me," said Rhona, distressed. "I am not anybody's
mistress. I am only a little girl."
"And the Colonel's adopted daughter, ain't you, Missy?"
"I don't know. Yes, I suppose so. I am his little girl, and he is my
uncle," said Rhona.
Mrs. Burrows nodded. "That's just it, my dear, just it exactly. You'll
please forgive me for calling of you 'my dear,'—I'm that taken aback by
finding you no bigger, after what Colonel Mord—goodness me, what am I
after saying next? And I've got that London maid to see to, so you'll
excuse me being all of a flurry, my dear. It's the first time we ever
had a maid in the house out of that wicked London, and I'm all of a
tremble to think of the ways we'll learn from her."
"Oh, I don't think you need be afraid, because Bertha is so very good,"
said Rhona earnestly.
"Well, I hope it may be so, my dear, but London's a place knowledgeable
for wickedness, and we ain't used to such ways here. But I've got to
see after her, howsomever. I shouldn't wonder if you'd like a cup of
tea, Miss."
"I should—so much," Rhona said gratefully.
And Mrs. Burrows bustled out as the Colonel came in.
"Well, my pet, have you been making acquaintance with the old
housekeeper?" he asked, kissing her. "A worthy soul, and of course I
must keep her on, though really she has so long been head-woman here,
and her husband head-man, that I only wonder they admit me at all."
"I like Mrs. Burrows," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "Uncle, she
called you 'Colonel Maud' just now, and I don't think she meant to do
it. I couldn't help hearing it—it came out so quick."
"You shall call me Colonel Maud too, if you like," said the Colonel,
with a comical expression.
"I don't want to, uncle. I only thought I ought to tell," Rhona said,
flushing.
"You are a little soul of honour," said the Colonel, kissing her.
"Never mind what Mrs. Burrows says. How do you like the new home?"
"Oh, very very much," Rhona answered.
As weeks passed, this first impression was strengthened. The house
proved to be not only pretty, but comfortable. Colonel Smyth was not,
generally speaking, a lover of rural scenes. "Real country meant real
dulness," he had been often heard to assert. But for Rhona's sake, his
inclinations seemed to undergo a change; and the time spent at Wyvern
House was to him a time of no little enjoyment. Shady lanes and green
fields, flowers and ferns, rambling and gardening, became matters of
new interest, in connection with the delight they afforded to Rhona.
She seemed at length to shake off the long oppression caused by her
mother's disappearance, and to become a happy child again, brighter in
spirits and healthier in face than ever yet since her father's death.
Colonel Smyth was perfectly happy in her happiness. He never wearied
of attending to his darling's wants, walking with her, gardening with
her, reading with her, doing his utmost, indeed, to spoil her, had
Rhona been an easily spoilable child. Many would in her place have
suffered from his unlimited devotion and indulgence, but her intense
conscientiousness and strong sense of duty were great safeguards.
The evening Bible-reading was now an established custom, and it was to
Colonel Smyth an increasing pleasure. Memories of early days were often
stirred, not to be again laid to rest. The plain reading of a chapter
was gradually growing into a systematic half-hour's study, with much
looking out of references. Rhona could never talk to him so freely as
to her mother and Bertha; yet her simple faith and vivid realisation
of unseen things were sufficiently apparent, to shake the Colonel out
of his long-settled religious torpidity, and to set him thinking. The
thinking led in time to prayer, and prayer led in time to a new life.
With him, as with many, the spiritual dawn broke slowly, but already a
change could be seen.
Since coming to Wyvern House, no further conversation had taken place
about "the aunts," or about Rhona's feeling respecting them. From
certain slight indications, the Colonel was convinced that she had not
forgotten the subject. It seemed, however, to have fallen so far into
the background amid her new interests, that he hoped it might in time
die out of existence.
It was the Colonel's pleasure to escort Rhona on Sundays to a Church at
some little distance, partly for the sake of the walk, partly because
he desired at present to avoid meeting acquaintances in the village.
One Sunday, however, many weeks after their arrival at Wyvern House,
the fair weather, which had so far served them well, gave place to
drizzling rain. He yielded reluctantly to Rhona's entreaties, and
consented to take her for once to the Parish Church. His dislike arose
in some measure from fear of a chill for Rhona, but still more from an
objection to being the centre of interest to the village congregation.
The ordeal had, however, to be borne one day; and the Colonel at length
resolved to face it like a man.
During the Prayers, he was uncomfortably conscious of many gazing eyes.
But when the clergyman had mounted the pulpit, his thoughts all went
from himself to Rhona. For the text given out was—
"If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father
forgive your trespasses."
Colonel Smyth soon regretted greatly that he had not kept Rhona at
home that day. She listened to the sermon quietly, but with a look of
earnest thought which gradually grew into an expression of intense
sorrow, and tears were soon running down her cheeks. Once or twice, the
little hand was lifted to wipe them away; otherwise, she remained very
still. The Colonel could do nothing then, and as they went home, no
word was spoken.
When the house was reached, she ran away to her own room. At dinner,
she was evidently struggling to be calm, and to respond to his cheerful
conversation, but she could eat little, and tears soon broke out anew.
The Colonel would not leave her. He made the child lie on a sofa,
petted her, and finally read her to sleep.
She woke up better, but still troubled and sad.
Tea passed quietly, and then Colonel Smyth lifted her on his knee,
folding his arms round her.
"I wish I had not taken you out this morning, my little girl," he said.