Chapter XI: The Three Aunts

WHILE Rhona watched and waited through that foggy afternoon, and while Mrs. Mordaunt was wandering about, no one knew whither, three ladies sat over their tea at No. 3, Winifred Place, close to Burton Square.

These were "the aunts" of whom Rhona had spoken confidentially to the Colonel. For over thirty years, they had lived in this prettily furnished West-End abode. It had been purchased in more prosperous days, when the Miss Mordaunts had a father living, and plenty of money at command. Much less money lay now within their reach; yet they preferred exercising any amount of economy in small things, to the giving up of their London home.

Whatever form this necessary economy took, it did not appear to touch the comfort of their outward condition. There was about them a general air of cosiness and satisfaction, as they sat round a little basket table, dallying with tea and cake, after the fashion of dames who have plenty of leisure at command.

Miss Mordaunt, a well-dressed woman, fifty-five in age, occupied the principal arm-chair, holding herself with the pose of one who knew or believed that her personality was of some consequence in the world. She wore an elaborate cap and rich ruffles, and her slender arched nose suffered from the incongruity of a low and narrow forehead. Barbara Mordaunt, the eldest of nine sisters, only three of whom were still living, had always been reckoned good-looking, though her good looks were not enhanced by the expression of self-complacency.

Miss Susanna Mordaunt, known in familiar circles as "poor Susie," or "poor dear Sue," lacked only three of Barbara's years, but lacked altogether her imposing presence. "Poor Susie" was, and ever had been, small, plain, and afflicted with painful shyness. She rarely ventured to hold an opinion of her own, contrary to Miss Mordaunt's; or if she held one, she rarely ventured to let it appear. Susie Mordaunt had been the snubbed member of the family; nevertheless, she bore an expression of content, unmixed in her case with self-satisfaction.

Between Susanna and the youngest sister, Clara, lay a gap of nearly twenty years, bridged over by the six remaining sisters, none of whom now survived. Two of the six had been married, one to an Irishman, one to a Scotchman, and they had left two widowed husbands—Mr. Malony in Ireland with ten children, and Mr. Macpherson in Scotland with nine children; the large family being in each case accompanied by scanty means.

Clara Mordaunt, though on the wrong side of thirty, looked young still, being tall, slender, and almost pretty, with a repetition of Barbara's marked yet delicate features, and with a better forehead.

In addition to the nine Mordaunt daughters, there had been two sons, one a little older than Barbara, still living, one a little younger than Barbara, many years dead.

Henry, the eldest, the greater part of whose life had been passed in India, was a somewhat singular man. As a boy, he had been unpopular in his own home; and later on, a severe disappointment had affected his character unfavourably. He had never married; he wrote home seldom; and for eighteen or nineteen years, his face had not been seen in England. Sometimes, in one of his brief and rare epistles, he spoke of retiring. But again, if pressed to do so, he would ask, what was the use? All his interests were in connection with India and the army; and in England, he would have nothing to do.

William Mordaunt, the second brother, gentle and yielding in nature, had been the idol of his nine sisters. And when he died, the general devotion was transferred to his only son, Arthur Mordaunt,—that same Arthur whose widow and child were now residing at Mrs. Burrell's.

But Arthur Mordaunt was of a different stamp from his father. The devotion of his numerous aunts implied also their management of him, and he had no notion of being so managed. When they wished him to become a lawyer, he wished to become a clergyman; and his will carried the day. When they desired him to settle down in England, he desired to go abroad; and his determination proved the strongest. When they would fain have had him marry a "sweet girl" of their own selection, he preferred to choose for himself; and choose for himself he did, despite all advice and opposition.

There came slowly between him and them a widening gap of separation, the result of all these pullings in opposite directions. "The aunts," headed and represented by Barbara, could not get over his disdain of their "sweet Lucy," could not believe that his Mary was a desirable wife for him.

Gradually the correspondence between him and them languished and ceased. His whole heart was wrapped up in his Mary, and they almost ignored her existence. No actual quarrel took place, but there was a falling apart.

When Arthur Mordaunt was suddenly taken, more than two years had elapsed since the last letters exchanged between him and the Miss Mordaunts. Even the news of his death failed for a considerable time to reach them. This fact was less strange than it might seem; for Miss Mordaunt had an aversion to daily papers, and the small "weekly," in which alone she indulged, gave scant information. Mary Mordaunt ought doubtless to have written, but she did not.

The unexpected arrival of Arthur's young widow and child in London was a severe shock to the three aunts, who once had so dearly loved their nephew. Sorely as he had afterwards disappointed them, they had not ceased to love him. But none of the three—except perhaps "poor Susie,"—felt the slightest disposition to welcome Mrs. Mordaunt with cordiality. Things could not now be helped, it was true; yet undoubtedly she had been the main cause of Arthur's indifference to "that dear Lucy Miles" in the past, and of his subsequent long expatriation. Mary Mordaunt's beauty and grace did not incline the heart of Barbara any more favourably towards her, but rather the reverse. There were associations in connection with her very charms, which turned their sweetness into acidity.

The child, however, was Arthur's child, and William's grandchild; consequently, the affections of all three aunts went warmly out towards Rhona. Not that the warmth appeared in manner. Miss Mordaunt prided herself on a calm and passionless demeanour; and Miss Mordaunt had ever been Clara's model, while Susie's natural disposition had been, with much perseverance, snubbed into something of the same outward shape. But though little was said, much was felt.

Rhona Mordaunt might have no doubt whatever in her little heart that the conduct of "the aunts" was purely and simply unkind. Rhona, however, knew nothing of their real motives. She could not penetrate the workings of Barbara Mordaunt's mind, or see how much of a real wish to do right existed there, side by side with much self-deception as to what was right.

Those who knew the Miss Mordaunts well were often struck by a certain peculiarity in their modes of action. It was observable that they never seemed able to take any view of a subject except from their own particular standpoint. It was observable also that they never deemed it necessary to explain to others their reasons for action. Susanna Mordaunt might have been an exception, but she was in chains to her sisters' opinion on all points. Where Barbara went, there Clara went, and there Susanna was dragged meekly in their rear.

They were "a very united trio," friends said, not disapprovingly, but sometimes with a smile.

It was of course right that they should be "united;" yet strong affection is by no means inconsistent with freedom of thought. Barbara and Clara Mordaunt, so far as was in their power, checked all freedom of thought in Susanna.

It had appeared to Barbara a thing desirable that their home should become the home of little Rhona Mordaunt. Several arguments helped to this conclusion. She wished it for her own sake; she wished it for the sake of her dead brother and nephew; she wished it for the child's sake; she wished it above all for Clara's sake. The elder sister was often troubled by Clara's listlessness and want of regular occupation. It seemed to her that a bright intelligent child in the house, to be petted and cared for, might supply the lacking occupation, and might arouse Clara from her growing habits of indolence and inertia.

Clara, without fathoming all her elder sister's motives, fell in cordially with the idea; and Susanna not only fully agreed, but would have liked to give a home to Rhona's mother as well.

In this desire, Susanna outstripped the others. Barbara had not the slightest intention of offering an asylum to the friendless Mary Mordaunt.

"For a few days, it would be all very well," she said, "but for a permanency, never!" She counted such a step impossible, seen from a pecuniary point of view; and she counted it undesirable, seen from every other point of view.

With the young mother in the house, Rhona could in no sense become their child, and the required occupation for Clara would still be wanting. There would be inevitable clashings of authority, and the peace of their home might be lastingly broken up.

Moreover, Mary Mordaunt had no particular claim upon them. She must, of course, expect to work for her own living. And to support herself alone would be a far easier matter than to support herself and Rhona. So reasoned Barbara, coveting the possession of the lovely and thoughtful child. It really did appear to her, seen purely from her own standpoint, the kindest and most natural step, under the circumstances, that she should offer a permanent home to her nephew's child, thus setting the young mother free, not merely to toil under the drudgery of a daily teacher's life, but to accept a situation of resident finishing governess, such as she was well qualified to undertake.

"Why, she might make at least a hundred guineas a year," Barbara said.

This being Miss Mordaunt's view of the question, she made her proposal in straightforward terms, under the pleasant conviction that she was doing a generous deed. It scarcely even occurred to her, when she thought with secret pleasure of the child's presence in the house, how keen must be the opposite feeling of Rhona's mother at the bare idea of losing that presence. She only saw the matter from her own side.

Mrs. Mordaunt's startled and unqualified refusal came to the sisters with something of a shock, and roused feelings nearly allied to anger. Mrs. Mordaunt, though never ungentle, was greatly agitated; and Miss Mordaunt was betrayed into some strong expressions of displeasure.

"You are acting very foolishly, Mary, in refusing what is so plainly for the child's benefit," she said, as she took her departure at the close of a long and emotional interview.

Mary Mordaunt was palpitating and quivering like an aspen leaf; while Miss Mordaunt had a flushed appearance, and reined up her head frequently, with an air of injured dignity.

"I think you ought at least to be grateful for what is so kindly intended, and not be betrayed into such a show of temper. However, I shall not yet look upon the matter as settled. You are speaking hastily now, and it is better that you should have time to weigh it quietly. After a few hours' consideration, you will probably see things as I do myself. To-morrow morning, I will come again, at this time, for a little more conversation on the same subject. I shall not see you again to-day."

Barbara had little doubt that, by means of continued pressure, she should in time be able to bend Mary Mordaunt to her will. She left her sister-in-law alone for the remainder of the day, restraining Susanna and Clara also from going to the lodgings. Nothing was farther from the thoughts of any one of them, than that the young widow should take sudden flight before nightfall, leaving no clue by which her whereabouts and that of the child might be traced. But so it was.

When Barbara Mordaunt made her call next morning, as appointed, soon after half-past ten, she found the small sitting-room and bedroom empty. Mrs. Mordaunt had "paid up her week," the landlady said, and had settled all her little bills. But she had offered no word of explanation as to the unexpected move. For Barbara there was not a note or even a message.

"One would suppose the silly young thing was running away from a set of vipers," Miss Mordaunt said indignantly to her sisters, an hour later, for once excited and upset. "I never heard of such a thing in my life! To treat her best friends in such a way! But it just shows her to be unworthy of our kindness. Did she suppose we were going to steal the child without her consent? Foolish woman! She ought to know better what is for Rhona's interest."

So strong indeed was Miss Mordaunt's displeasure at poor Mary's unwise flight, that her sisters seldom ventured to allude to the subject. As weeks passed by, the very names of "Mary Mordaunt" and "little Rhona" were unheard among them.

But on this foggy afternoon, the absent ones were much in the mind of Susanna; she could not have told why.

And as they sat long over their tea, she broke out—"I do wonder what has become of poor Arthur's wife and child,"—the next moment growing alarmed at her own temerity.

"I suppose they are where they have chosen to go," said Miss Mordaunt, with a composure which might have been taken for hardness. "We have no responsibility in the matter. Mary is not a girl, to be under our control."

"Only she is so young,—hardly more than a girl in age. It does seem to be our duty to find her again, if possible."

"I do not see any question of duty in the matter," rejoined Miss Mordaunt. "If Mary chooses to write, she is at liberty to do so. Otherwise, we are not bound to trouble ourselves."

Certain words darted into Susie's mind,—"Am I my brother's keeper?" But it was an understood family axiom that "Barbara always knew best." And Susie put the words aside, yet found herself continuing, with a meek persistency—

"Sometimes I can't help wondering—if we were just to advertise—"

"Advertise!" Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows took a journey more than half-way up her low forehead. "My dear Susie! What will you propose next? This is capital tea, Clara, though I do not like the Assam flavour."

"But they might be in want," said Susie.

"They might, of course,—and that might bring Mary to her senses. I doubt if anything else is likely to do so. When people are thoroughly wilful, they commonly have to pay for it. However, Mary has something to depend upon, and no doubt she has friends in London. When she requires our aid, she will come and ask it."

"You would not send her away, sister?" Susie spoke beseechingly.

Miss Mordaunt's eyebrows repeated their former movement. "I should be sorry to make any promises beforehand. Mary has treated us so far with scant civility. If she were willing to apologise—"

"O Barbara! It was only the thought of losing her child. She is so sweet—so gentle—"

"Yes, as long as she can have everything her own way. I am not hard upon her, Susie, but you must not expect unreasonable things. What has put this into your head to-day?"

Susanna looked ashamed, and murmured something about "the fog."

"Sue would have taken in Mary as well as Rhona," remarked Clara carelessly. "Fancy! Having her always about—never a moment to ourselves."

"Susie knows better," said Miss Mordaunt. "She is as well aware as I am that we could not possibly afford the additional expense. Rhona alone would have involved considerable need for increased economy."

"Oh yes, of course," Susie said hurriedly. "Only if it 'had' been possible—"

"Which it was not," Clara said decisively. "Why, we can't now afford more than three shillings a pound for our tea, and when dear papa was alive, we always gave six shillings."

"Which it was not," added Miss Mordaunt, almost simultaneously with Clara. "Why, Susie, I explained the whole matter to you one day lately, and made it perfectly clear."

Explaining is not always making clear, and so Susie might have answered. Anything connected with figures or prices fell always to a jumble in her brain. She only ventured, however, to remark, "Of course you know much best,—only I cannot help being sorry for poor Mary. She has such a sweet face; and Rhona too."

"Sweet faces are often deceptive—as we know," said Miss Mordaunt. "Mary has evidently been made too much of, and is in fact thoroughly spoilt. The child is very pretty, I grant, though I could wish she were more like Arthur,—less of a Willis. If we had her to ourselves, we could train her into our ways, but I should be sorry indeed to undertake her, with the mother at hand to counteract all our efforts. However, I really see no use in all this talk. If Mary chooses to let us know her address, she can do so any day. Till then, we have nothing to do but to let her alone. Can you tell me, Clara, how long it is since our last letter from Henry? It seems to me that he is keeping us this time even longer than usual."

Clara shrugged her shoulders. "Henry is a sort of outside-the-world being to me," she said. "I sometimes wonder if he really is my brother."

"You don't mean that, and I do not like to hear you say it," responded Miss Mordaunt. "Remember Keble—

"'No distance breaks the tie of blood,
Brothers are brothers evermore.'"

"Oh yes, of course," said Clara, to whom the couplet had been so often quoted as to have lost its force. "I don't suppose distance does affect the tie,—but coldness and silence do."

"It is Henry's way. He was always so different from our dear William."

The three faces had a saddened look of recollection for a moment.

"Well,—but about Henry's letters," said Clara. "We have heard absolutely nothing since last March; and then only a scrap of paper, scrawled over. And before that, we had a letter,—nine months earlier. And before that, a gap of two years."

"But Henry promised not to treat us so badly again," said Barbara, who always felt herself bound to make excuses for the oldest member of the family. "And in his last, he seemed to hold out hope of coming home before long. I feel sometimes that we really ought to meet."

"He ought to retire and live with us," said Clara decisively. "It is not as if there were any money-difficulty. Most unmarried brothers as well off as Henry is, would be delighted to share what they have with their sisters. But he never seems to dream of such a thing."

"We must not blame him. He may have reasons—difficulties—unknown to us," said Barbara.

Clara started suddenly up, and went to the window. "A cab stopping here! How black and thick it is! I can see nothing. But I am sure I heard wheels. Yes, and there is the bell."

A long parley appeared to take place at the front door. "What can Janet be about?" Miss Mordaunt asked once or twice. "We shall have the house full of fog."

Clara had left the window and returned to her seat near the fire. "A mistake probably," she said. "Anybody might go wrong, such an evening."

The maid-servant at length appeared, wearing a bewildered look.

"If you please, ma'am, there's a cab come, and the man says he has brought the lady home."

"Brought the lady home!" echoed three voices, in varied pitches of astonishment.

"Yes, ma'am. I told him we didn't expect any lady, but he wouldn't go. He says she told him '3, Winifred Place' as plain as could be. And he wants his fare."

"The lady had better give it him," said Clara. "What nonsense!"

"The man must be drunk," said Miss Mordaunt.

"I don't think he is, ma'am. He speaks quite quiet and sensible."

"Then it is a mistake. You had better ask the lady's name."

"If you please, ma'am, he did go and speak to the lady, and he couldn't get no answer. And he said he didn't mean to go away without I or somebody would look at her. He didn't know if it was a swoon or death, he said."

"Poor thing! Some stranger taken ill," said Miss Mordaunt. "The wisest thing he can do is to carry her to the nearest hospital. You did not go outside in the fog, I hope, Janet."

"I went to the cab-door, ma'am, and he held the lantern," said Janet, shivering at the recollection, yet gratified with her own cautious manner of breaking the news. "And please, ma'am,—it is Mrs. Mordaunt."

Barbara, Susanna, and Clara were on their feet simultaneously.

"Mrs. Mordaunt! Why did you not tell me at once?"

"Please, ma'am, I thought you would be startled. It frightened me like, to see her."

Janet was a confidential servant, of long standing, and she pretty well understood the condition of family affairs.

"Mrs. Mordaunt!" repeated Barbara. "And the child?"

"She's alone, ma'am. Miss Rhona nor nobody isn't with her. And she do look bad."

Miss Mordaunt for once forgot to be dignified. She hurried into the passage, fluttered and agitated, and stood at the open door, regardless of the rush of fog, inquiring where the cabman had found his "fare." He gave particulars briefly, as to time and place, volunteering the information that the lady had appeared to him, when first he addressed her, to be ill. Since telling him where to go, she had not spoken, and seemed to be unconscious.

"Sister, I hope it isn't anything infectious," whispered Susie, in a timid voice, edging up behind. "Don't you think—perhaps—the hospital—?"

"Certainly not," said Barbara. "That would not be returning good for evil. She has come to us in distress, and for to-night at least, she shall stay. You need not go near her, if you are afraid. Cabman,—" Barbara raised her voice,—"can you bring the lady in?"

The task proved not an easy one, but he accomplished it.

Barbara went before into the study, and signed him towards the sofa.

Mary Mordaunt lay there, as he placed her—silent, lifeless, deathly pale.

Clara had grown almost as colourless.

"What does it mean? Where can the child be?"

"I cannot tell. Clara, do not come in if it alarms you." Barbara spoke gently this time, not as she had spoken to Susie, for then there had been a grain of contempt. "I think Mary must have fainted. It may be nothing worse than a faint. When she comes to herself, she will tell us about Rhona. But we must have the doctor to see her, and he will say what is the matter. You had better pay the cabman, and ask him to leave a message at Dr. Wynne's. I am sure Dr. Wynne will come at once, if possible."

"In this fog?"

"Doctors never think about weather," Barbara answered quite sincerely. "I should not like any needless delay."

Every remedy that she could suggest was tried, and tried in vain.

More than an hour passed, and then the doctor arrived,—an elderly man, of strong bodily and mental build, with silver-grey hair, and quiet eyes. He had been a friend of the Mordaunt family for over forty years.

Under his superintendence, stronger means were employed for the restoration of the poor wanderer. And by-and-by, the watchers were rewarded by seeing the soft dark eyes unclose.

"She does not know us," Barbara said, in disappointment.

"Speak to her," said Dr. Wynne.

"Mary!" Barbara's voice was rarely to be heard in so tender an utterance. "Mary dear,—don't you know me? Mary, where is your little Rhona?"

But the question passed unheeded, and there came no sign of recognition.