Chapter XII: Still Absent

"ALWAYS wasting your time up in that room! I tell you what it is, Bertha,—I won't have you go on so any longer, and that's a fact. I don't mean to have everything in the house go to wrack and ruin for want of proper care, just because you haven't eyes nor ears for anybody except that child. It is all very well to pay proper attention, and I'm as sorry for her as the rest of you, but I just 'won't' have you running in every half-hour to dawdle and gossip. You've got your work to do, and I expect to have it done,—if not, you'd best look out for a home elsewhere, and the sooner the better. Look at the dirt left in this corner. I never knew anybody so careless before. There's no manner of dependence to be put upon you."

Mrs. Burrell was, as she would herself have described it, "out of sorts" that morning; and she found some relief in venting her uncomfortable sensations thus. The present condition of things affected her peace of mind; and since no one could be lawfully blamed for their said condition, she took refuge in blaming Bertha with undue severity for certain unwonted, touches of neglect.

There could be no doubt that Bertha was a little infatuated about the fair child upstairs. She was ready—metaphorically—to kiss the ground on which Rhona trod, and for Rhona's sake, she could even slur over certain duties. The blame, though disproportioned to the offence, was not altogether undeserved.

"So you mind!" continued Mrs. Burrell. "Mind!—You don't go to Mrs. Mordaunt's room again in a hurry, without I send you."

"Good-morning, Mrs. Burrell. Anything gone wrong?"

Mrs. Burrell's wrathful look changed suddenly, as she found herself face to face with the Colonel.

Bertha passed on silently, and the landlady said in aggrieved explanation,—"Only that girl, sir. But young things will be young, and one can't look to have them different."

"Scolding won't make them old before their time," said the Colonel, and he too left Mrs. Burrell to her own reflections.

A whole week had gone by, and still Mrs. Mordaunt remained absent. Not a word from her or about her reached any one. Colonel Smyth had inquired and advertised in vain. Possibly the advertisements might have been successful; for though the Miss Mordaunts read few papers, they had relatives and friends not so self-denying. But Colonel Smyth perhaps did not feel himself at liberty to reveal Mrs. Mordaunt's abode to her husband's relatives, if the doing so could be avoided; and he couched the advertisements in vague language.

Though Mrs. Mordaunt had not returned, the child was still at Mrs. Burrell's, living in the back bedroom. Thus far, she had not needed to appeal to anybody's generosity. Mrs. Burrell supplied all her wants, conjecturing that the contents of the purse would be amply sufficient to meet this week's expenses, and possibly the expenses of a week or two beyond. But afterwards?

That was the question which fretted the landlady's mind. Suppose Mrs. Mordaunt did not return, what was to be done with the child? It was not of course to be supposed that she—Mrs. Burrell—could keep on Rhona Mordaunt indefinitely, without remuneration. The idea was absurd. No one could expect it of her. But she did greatly wish that other people would allude to the necessity for some early change, instead of leaving the suggestion to spring from herself.

A whole week! What could have become of the poor young widow? Everybody was asking this question, though nobody seemed to trouble his brains as to its effects, possible or probable, upon Mrs. Burrell's pocket.

In the Colonel's mind, little doubt existed that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run down in some crowded thoroughfare, and killed on the spot, thus finding in the great metropolis a nameless grave. Almost the only alternative, according to his view of the case, was that she might have wandered away in the bewildering fog to the brink of a certain canal, not so very far distant, and there, with one sudden splash and one brief struggle, have ended her sad short life. Mr. Powis held much the same opinion. But nobody had ventured to suggest such ideas to Rhona. She was daily and hourly watching still, with unshaken hope, for her mother's return.

"I should think it can't be very much longer," she had said that morning to Bertha, while taking her simple breakfast. The child looked sadly pale and thin, and her dark eyes wore a touchingly wistful expression. "It can't be very much longer, Bertha. Colonel Smyth thinks she must have been knocked down and stunned in the fog." Rhona was always recurring to this idea, as if to reassure herself. "Just stunned, and that might not mean she was so very very much hurt. He says she might be carried to a hospital, or taken into somebody's house,—and if she were stunned, she couldn't tell them her name or where she lived."

"Colonel Smyth has asked at some of the hospitals, has he not, dear?" asked Bertha.

"Yes, and he can't hear anything. But you see, they would not know her name, so she might be somewhere without their finding her. O Bertha! If only she had not dropped her purse."

"God will take care of her," said Bertha in a low voice.

"Yes,—I try not to forget that. Of course He knows all—everything. Mother says we must trust Him. Bertha, don't you think it must be just as Colonel Smyth says? He understands better than we do."

"I dare say he does, dear." Bertha found it hard to meet the child's gaze.

"So it can't be a very great deal longer, before she comes," continued Rhona. "When people are stunned, it doesn't generally last longer than a week, does it? I asked Colonel Smyth, and he said there was no knowing."

"I shouldn't think it did—often," faltered Bertha.

"And every single day is nearer her coming back," said Rhona. "I don't think I ever had such a week,—oh, so long. The minutes seem to creep—creep. And I am always thinking I hear mother's step,—and yet she never comes. If only I just knew where she is, I could bear it better. I 'could,'" repeated the child, with an indescribably pitiful look.

"I am sure you do bear it all wonderfully, dear," said Bertha. "But you must eat some breakfast now."

"I could eat, if mother came back. It doesn't seem as if I could now," the child said wearily; and then heavy tears fell, not with a burst of weeping, but in slow large drops, like the beginning of a thunder-shower.

Bertha could not but stay to comfort the lonely child; and that was how she came in for a scolding from Mrs. Burrell.

All this time, the Colonel continued to pay frequent visits to Rhona, showing great interest in her well-being. He entered her room at least three times a day, and he sent her many little delicacies from his own table, but he did not ask her to take meals with him. Thus far—with the caution, perhaps, of an old bachelor—he seemed desirous to avoid committing himself, and anxious to eschew responsibilities. But the question of Rhona's future haunted the Colonel at least as much as it haunted Mrs. Burrell. Something would have to be done soon, and he knew it.

Three more days of waiting exhausted Mrs. Burrell's patience. She found her way into the back bedroom, soon after breakfast, and stood uneasily within the door, one hand fidgeting the antimacassar over a chair-back.

Rhona was seated at the table, writing a French translation. There was a singular fortitude about this frail child. She seemed bent upon keeping on exactly in the same lines of conduct and occupation which her mother, if present, would have had her pursue. The opening door caused a tremulous start as if from an electric shock, followed by a look of bitter disappointment. It was so a dozen times a day.

Mrs. Burrell meant to be very kind. She began by asking how Rhona was, hardly prepared for the reply,—

"I shall be quite well when mother comes back."

"But, Miss Rhona—" said Mrs. Burrell

"I can't till then. Of course I can't. It makes me 'ache' so, to have her away all this time," the child said sadly. "But she is sure to come soon. Don't you think so?"

Mrs. Burrell was at a loss. She could say neither "yes" nor "no," with those eyes upon her,—eyes which seemed to have gained in size and brightness, the last few days, and in a kind of intense watchfulness.

"Miss Rhona, I don't want to trouble you," the landlady remarked, after a pause. "But your poor mamma always settled with me every week for the week's expenses. And it is two days after the usual time,—two days and more."

"Oh yes, yes,—I oughtn't to have forgotten," said Rhona hurriedly, her face working. The long strain of suspense was telling greatly upon the child. "I have enough, in mother's purse,—quite enough for this week, and next week, and more. Mother would want me to pay, I am sure." She drew the large purse with some difficulty out of her pocket.

"It don't matter just this moment," said Mrs. Burrell, feeling uncomfortable. "I'll bring the bill to-morrow. You see I'm only a widow myself, and obliged to work for my livelihood. If I could afford to keep you without pay, I'm sure I should be glad enough. But that is just what I can't do."

"Oh no, and there is no need," said Rhona. "Mother will be back in a day or two. She is sure to come very soon now."

"But if she didn't, Miss Rhona?"

"If she didn't!"

The dark eyes turned an appalled look upon the landlady.

"Well, Miss Rhona, you needn't be vexed," said Mrs. Burrell, misunderstanding the expression. "Of course nobody can tell what has become of your poor mamma,—if we could, there 'd be no need to wonder. And if she don't come back soon, I don't see what you're to do."

"I can't do anything. I can only just wait," Rhona answered, her face taking its most unchildlike expression. "I must wait till God brings mother back to me."

"Yes, of course, Miss Rhona." Mrs. Burrell spoke rather pettishly. "Yes, of course,—that's all very proper and nice, I don't doubt,—but people can't live upon waiting, nor upon hopes. I suppose you haven't got enough in your poor mamma's purse to keep you for very long. I've been thinking whether there aren't any friends or uncles or aunts of yours, who would take you in and give you a home, so that I should have my room free to let to somebody else, if it was to happen that your mamma 'didn't' come back;—for a good long while."

The appalled look returned as a flash; and in deference to it, Mrs. Burrell added the last five words after a break, originally intended to be a full stop. But the break was too long, the first intention too distinct. Rhona read her real meaning.

A pause followed. Mrs. Burrell was uneasy at the effect of her own words. Rhona sat still, with her little hands loosely folded, uttering not a sound, but staring fixedly at the landlady, while a grey hue overspread her face.

"I don't mean anything particular, so you needn't be frightened," Mrs. Burrell was constrained to add. "You see you're only a child, Miss Rhona, and you don't understand. But people must look forward and arrange things, or, dear me, how ever could the world get along?"

Rhona neither stirred nor spoke, and her fascinated gaze remained unchanged.

Mrs. Burrell winced under it. She thought Rhona was trying haughtily to stare her out of countenance.

"I don't see that you've any call to look at me like that,—I don't really, Miss Rhona. It isn't like a young lady. I'm sure I have been a good friend to you, and anybody would say so. I'd do more if I could, but the fact is I'm not well off, and I don't mind saying it. I have got myself and my own girl to consider, not to speak of a niece put upon me as it was. And it's no use to say I'm not enough burdened already, for I am.

"I didn't mean to put it into your head about your poor mamma never coming back,—though to be sure everybody is saying it, and the Colonel most of all—but I don't see how you are to go on week after week and nothing settled. I thought maybe the Colonel might do something, but he don't seem disposed. And if there's relations they ought to be told,—that's 'my' opinion. Your poor mamma said one day that there was some she didn't want to have to do with. But if there's no other home for you, and they are willing to take you in, I don't really see as you've got much choice. That's all I have to say, and it's my duty to say it. But I didn't mean to startle you, of course, Miss Rhona. Do wake up, and look natural, and stop staring,—it's enough to give one the creeps, I declare, to see you."