Chapter XIII: The Colonel and Rhona

COLONEL SMYTH tapped thrice during the delivery of Mrs. Burrell's speech, and receiving no answer, he peeped in and entered.

"Nobody spoke, so I thought nobody was here," he said. "How is the little maid this morning? Why, Rhona! Hallo!"

"I'm sure I didn't mean any harm," began the now alarmed landlady.

The Colonel cut Mrs. Burrell short. He strode past, caught up the stony-faced child, carried her to the window, and flung it open.

"Water!" he said in a loud peremptory voice.

And Mrs. Burrell brought a tumbler, "all of a tremble" herself, as she afterwards declared.

Colonel Smyth forced a few drops through the clenched teeth, and dashed some lavishly into the rigid features.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked fiercely.

"I'm sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of making Miss Rhona ill," Mrs. Burrell said, in a voice half-aggrieved, half-apologetic. "I'm sure I didn't say anything much. It wasn't to be expected I could go on day after day, and not a word said,—keeping a child without pay that has nobody belonging to her."

"Pay!" said the Colonel, with flashing eyes. "Bring your bill to me to-morrow morning. You hear?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, pallid between contending emotions, as indignation fought with prudence.

"And if you say one word more to this child about the matter—I leave that day week. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," repeated Mrs. Burrell, trembling with anger, yet by no means forgetful that the Colonel was a lodger worth retaining. "I'm sure I hadn't the least wish to say what I oughtn't to Miss Rhona. I only just said her poor mamma had always settled with me every week, and so she did,—and I only just asked her what she meant to do if Mrs. Mordaunt wasn't to come back soon—as I've heard you say you didn't think she was like to do, poor thing."

"Hold your tongue!" commanded the Colonel. "The child is coming to."

A gasping cry told of returning life; and then there was a burst of agonised sobs and hysteric laughter.

Colonel Smyth would not have believed this ordinarily quiet and gentle child to be capable of so wild an outbreak. The pent-up billows of the last ten days had their way at last. Once and again, the paroxysm seemed dying away, only to return with renewed violence. Rhona was evidently conscious, for she shrank and shuddered at Mrs. Burrell's touch, and clung to the Colonel as if for protection.

Some measure of embarrassment might under the circumstances have been natural to an elderly bachelor, whose acquaintance with childish tears had been hitherto of the slightest. But the embarrassment, if felt, did not appear. Those little clinging fingers sent a curious thrill of pleasure through the Colonel's hardy frame. He would not have her out of his arms. And when the landlady suggested and brought eau-de-Cologne, he applied it himself, clumsily yet tenderly. Then as the rending sobs of distress changed into moans of sharp bodily pain, always more or less the accompaniment of tears with Rhona, he paced the room, bearing the slight creature in his arms, now and then touching her forehead with his moustached lips, till the moans too died away, and Rhona was asleep.

"Best thing for her, poor mite!" the Colonel muttered.

He allowed the much-exercised landlady to depart, and carried Rhona into his own sitting-room. There, laid on a comfortable sofa, with a shawl spread over her, she spent many hours in unconsciousness. The Colonel had his own luncheon, without disturbing the sleeper; and his usual walks were foregone that he might keep watch beside the couch. He had a book in hand, but he read little. Ever and anon his glances wandered to the small delicate face, with its broad saddened brow, and long lashes lying on white cheeks.

From time to time, Rhona stirred uneasily, and more than once she clasped her hands with a muttered—"Mother!" But still she did not wake.

The Colonel put down his book, and gazed steadily at Rhona. A curious far-away look came into his own eyes, as he did so,—a look of sorrowful recollection. The Colonel's rugged features were strangely softened by it.

"Wonderful likeness!" he murmured. "Why didn't I let myself see Mary Mordaunt sooner? Folly, to put off. As if I ever meant her to go on so any length of time! Poor thing!—And she might have been spared this. I shall never forgive myself. A young lonely thing like that, with a double claim on me. Why should it be worse to see Margaret's child than Margaret's grandchild? And I was thirsting for it all the while. If the look in her eyes had been like this child's, I couldn't have resisted it. Well, well, well,—no use to worry myself now. There's only this poor little one to see after."

The Colonel actually gave vent to a heavy sigh. He went slowly to a drawer, unlocked it, and drew out a small morocco case, containing a miniature likeness. Then for two minutes he stood at the foot of the couch, comparing in a succession of glances the girl-face in the picture and the child-face on the pillow.

"I believe it will almost serve for a likeness of Rhona herself a few years hence," he said, as he locked up the little case.

"Rhona."

He bent low, and spoke the word gently. Colonel Smyth was not commonly counted gentle, but all the dormant tenderness in his nature was drawn out towards this child.

She started instantly into full consciousness, almost instantly into full recollection. One "Mother!" burst from her lips at the moment of awaking, and then, with a low, "Oh, I forgot!" she hid her face.

"Come, my dear, you are to take this," said the Colonel. "I thought you would like sandwiches better than anything else,—not so much trouble to get through. Don't feel hungry, do you? But you are going to eat to please me."

Rhona silently submitted, so far as making the attempt was concerned, though success was small. He had soon to take away the plate. She gave him one soft grateful look, and then lay again with closed eyes, and a look of patient suffering. The Colonel was very much at a loss how to deal with the child. He drew a chair to her side at length, and sat down.

"Rhona, can you bear a few words?" he asked. "I am afraid Mrs. Burrell has been bothering you, and I want to set matters right. Try not to cry, my dear—" as two heavy drops fell.

"I wouldn't if I could help," said Rhona gently.

"Mrs. Burrell said something about bills, didn't she? I have told her she is to bring the bills to me, and not to say another word to you."

Rhona looked at him anxiously, and tried to raise herself.

"Don't move, my dear,—what do you want?" asked the Colonel, as she fell back.

"I can't sit up," said Rhona. "I wanted to get out mother's purse."

"If you like to put the purse in my charge, I will keep it for you safely, and not spend a penny in it till—" the Colonel paused. "Till your mother comes home," he had been about to say. But he did not believe Mrs. Mordaunt ever would come home. Was it true or false kindness to buoy up the child with hopes which would probably never be realised?

He knew how she was looking at him, waiting for more; but the sentence remained unfinished.

"I should like to give it to you, please," Rhona said at length, in a tone of indescribable sorrow, which went to the Colonel's heart. Not for years had his sympathies been so stirred.

"Remember, Rhona," he said, as he helped her to get out the purse—"nobody really knows. Your mother may come back yet. We must not make up our minds too hastily."

"But you don't think—you don't 'think'—" the child said in a low voice of agony, tears running down her cheeks.

Colonel Smyth hesitated again. He could not say "Yes." He would not say "No." Something else was in his mind to be said; only he had not meant to commit himself so soon. But Rhona's face was too much for him, and prudent considerations went to the winds. What he did was to lift her again on his knee, folding her round with his strong arms, and letting her head lie on his shoulder, while he asked in a tone husky with strong feeling,—

"Will you be my own little girl, just till mother comes back? Perhaps she will yet,—nobody knows. Shall I take care of you till then?"

Rhona clung to him silently, weeping still, yet with a lessened sense of forlornness.

"You don't want to go to those aunts of yours, do you?—The Miss Mordaunts that you told me about."

"Oh no, no, no," sobbed Rhona, with sufficient childish energy. "Oh no, no,—they were so unkind to my sweet mother."

"Then you shall not. We will keep out of way for the present. And you will be my little girl now,—just till mother comes back. Do you think you can manage to call me 'uncle,' instead of 'Colonel Smith?'"

"I don't mind," Rhona whispered. "I mean, I'll try,—if you like."

"I should like it much best."

"I'll try," repeated the child. "Only you are not my uncle."

"Never mind that. Perhaps some day you will wake up and find that I am. Queerer things do happen."

"I don't see how I could, because I haven't got any uncles," said Rhona soberly. "Father had no brothers, or mother—mother—either."

"Never mind, my poor little one," the Colonel said soothingly. "You will not object to having a new uncle now, at all events. And mind,—you have to tell me everything you want, just as if you really belonged to me. You understand?"

"So Miss Rhona is to take her meals with the Colonel," said Mrs. Burrell, having received orders to that effect, later in the day. "Going to see after her till Mrs. Mordaunt comes back, he says! Well, of course it's no business of mine, so long as my bills are paid. But Mrs. Mordaunt won't come back, and he'll be tired of her before a month is over. 'I' know what gentlemen are. 'I' should have said she ought to have gone to her own relations, and not be put upon a stranger. Of course it isn't my business. And the Colonel will manage things his own way. The way he spoke to me this morning, I shan't soon forget." Mrs. Burrell was sore still, and disposed to view the Colonel's actions with jaundiced eyes.