GATHERING UP THE THREADS.
"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt
remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But
I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To
spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London
itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your
own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most
extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take
a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of
life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to
be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our
dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected
any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed.
I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due
respect,—I am not speaking of affection."
Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's
harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was
beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from
him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general
wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though
himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But
after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the
child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no
means supply her place.
There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and
the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though
Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old
custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara
trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what
he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona
had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement.
"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly
to Barbara.
"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to
be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us
with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how
it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure
you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one
another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could
have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our
last letters displease you?"
Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed.
"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd
fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and
not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't
be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is
all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget."
"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for
her pride and affection were alike wounded.
"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having
vanished.
Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought.
Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been,
with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of
expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab.
Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his
wrong-doing upon his head?
"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat
she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all
these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget.
Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean
to carry the thing on so long."
"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I
certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step."
"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara
observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put
into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline
needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that
Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have
received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!"
"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie
between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the
risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave
the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I
didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter
of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have
seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must
surely have been in some of them."
"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor
Arthur's death."
"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll
excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed
to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us."
"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget."
"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as
I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation
at Mary's flight and concealment."
"I thought she had treated us wrongly."
"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me
another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in
Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that
he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called
her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives
in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor
himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know
what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so
on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last
paragraph.
"'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not
therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find
her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything,
please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the
neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this
to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread
inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them.
"'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I
had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through
his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had
thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case.
I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance.
Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest
confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'"
"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with
an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I
have done my best to convince people—"
"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a
tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence."
"Did you answer the letter?"
"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and
mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that
it should go no farther."
"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I
think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters
really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be
under the same roof with Mary."
"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries
soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging
at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do
next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing
myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I
went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of
taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear
Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was
absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's,
and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it
again directly."
"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said.
"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly.
"And then you told Mary who you were?"
"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I
could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly
laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid
feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her."
"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone.
"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much
more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and
put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an
acquaintance with the little one, and that was all."
"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I
wonder your letters did not betray you."
"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained
there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my
incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady.
Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was
in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless
questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first
instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt
less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared,
and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet
creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of
nothing but Rhona lately."
Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking
earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry."
"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago."
"I never saw you so like our dear William."
"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is
only that child! She can twist me round her finger."
"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara.
"As Mary has been to us."
"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you
know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically
none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet
words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses."
"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than
appeared on the surface."
"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and
lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope."
Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for
some seconds.
"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently.
"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be.
I shall offer them both a home."
"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed.
"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under
one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not
that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would
inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for
sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you
must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any
amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of
the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be
hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object."
"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is
hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously
passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite
what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to
understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself."
"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help.
She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into
my confidence lately."
"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to
come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But
what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?"
"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed.
Bertha promises to remain with me."
"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never
heard from her?" inquired Barbara.
"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to
write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of
things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in
on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one
first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and
brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?"
"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem
stronger."
The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with
mother, my pet?" he asked.
"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and
laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad
I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all
about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly."
"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a
selfish pleasure."
"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt
Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so
very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about
you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time."
"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise.
She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted
her cheek.
"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at
an end now."
"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel
Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—"
"Good-bye!"
Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely
growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some
fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the
restored mother.
"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back
in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you
think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I
want—that you and she and I should make a home together."
"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly.
"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her."
"And will it be in the country, uncle?"
"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably.
What will mother say?"
Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back
before they could have thought it possible.
"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would
so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried
rapturously, throwing herself upon him.
"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling.
THE END.
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Edinburgh & London