Chapter XIX: A Link Wanting

"I DON'T think, for my part, there ever 'was' a woman so badly off as me; and I don't care who hears me say it neither," Mrs. Burrell declared in aggrieved tones, while her solemn eyes looked more solemn, her long thin nose seemed longer and thinner, and the drooping mouth-corners hung lower than ever before. "It's no manner of use telling me other people have troubles too. Of course they have; and what then? I suppose I know about other people as well as you do, for the matter of that. Besides, other people don't lose their husbands, and have their houses burnt down, and their children's legs broken, and everything lost, all of a slap, as one may say. No; it is no use your telling me other people are as badly off as me, for I don't believe it."

Neil Burrell had not made the remark imputed to him by his distressed aunt, though doubtless he had intended to bring it forth, and probably she read it in his face. A telegram from Mrs. Burrell had brought him to London the second day after the fire. He found his aunt still domiciled under the roof of the hospitable groceress who had first received her, dressed in borrowed clothes, and in a condition of greater depression over her losses than of thankfulness over her safety. Neil had paid a visit of inspection to the melancholy ruins of "Number Three," and now sat to condole with his aunt.

"And I always 'shall' say it was a shame of the Colonel to let down Hope, poor lamb, knowing as he did she couldn't get safe to the bottom. I shall always say it was a shame," reiterated Mrs. Barrel. "Why, he wouldn't let Miss Rhona go so; and if it wasn't right for one, it wasn't right for the other. If I hadn't been near crazy with the fright, I should have stopped her. And now she'll die in hospital, and I shall never see her again."

"Oh, I don't think she'll die, aunt," the young man said cheerfully. "People don't die of broken legs. You'll soon go and see her, and find her better, I don't doubt. There is sure to be regular days for friends being admitted."

"And how am I to stay in London, so as to go to her?" demanded Mrs. Burrell. "I that have got no home now, and nothing belonging to me. It isn't as if my poor husband was alive. There's nobody for me to turn to. Why, the very gown on my back isn't my own. 'I' to come to wearing charity! I wonder whatever my poor dear husband would have said."

"But it won't be all a dead loss to you, aunt. You've insured well, I believe."

"And if I have, what then?" Mrs. Burrell wanted to know. "I suppose the money won't come in to-morrow. And how am I to get clothed and fed, till it does. I can't take another shop and start it afresh, all in a minute. And I'm sure I feel so upset and shaky, I'm fit for nothing, and shan't be for weeks. And there's Mr. Powis been in here this morning, telling me I ought to be thankful and resigned. It's easy for folks to talk. If 'his' house was burnt down, I expect he wouldn't be so particularly thankful."

"I don't suppose he meant to say you ought to be thankful for that, aunt, only thankful that things are not worse," said Neil. "But there's something I want to say—"

He had tried before and failed.

"Worse! How could things be worse?" Mrs. Burrell demanded. "Unless Hope had been killed outright; and we don't know yet that she isn't."

"Aunt, I just wanted to say—" began Neil again.

"And the fuss that is made about Bertha," pursued Mrs. Burrell irately. "One would think she was the chief person in all London. Dr. Marsden going in to see her, and Mr. Wynne asking how she did, and Colonel Smyth talking of her bravery. The girl's head will be just turned. I don't see for my part what she did so very extraordinary, more than other people. She always was quiet. But there! I'm used to ingratitude, and I've pretty well given up expecting to be put in my proper place. Bertha must look out for herself now. 'I' can't give her a home any longer, for I've none to give."

"Good evening, Mrs. Burrell. What were you saying about Bertha?" asked Colonel Smyth, at that moment ushered in by Mrs. Burrell's hospitable hostess.

"Good evening, sir," Mrs. Burrell said grimly. "I was only just telling my nephew, Bertha would have to look out for herself for a bit. Seeing I haven't any longer a home of my own, it isn't to be expected I can provide a home for her. I'm sorry I have to say it, but—"

"Not at all, not at all! No need to be sorry," said the Colonel. "I have had thoughts of proposing to Bertha to become Miss Rhona's personal attendant, and I am very well satisfied to learn that she is free. We must have somebody, and the child is accustomed to Bertha's ways. That will provide for your niece, and will be a satisfactory arrangement in every way,—supposing she is willing. We shall probably leave London in a day or two for the west of England, and Bertha can accompany us."

Mrs. Burrell's face expressed the reverse of gratification.

"So that matter is easily settled," pursued the Colonel. "I was afraid you might not wish to part with her. Now I can broach the subject without delay. Bertha is with Miss Rhona at this moment, I believe."

"I don't know as I should altogether say Bertha was fit to be a lady's maid," remarked Mrs. Burrell.

"A lady's maid!" Colonel Smyth laughed. "I dare say not! My little girl hardly requires a full-blown lady's maid yet. Bertha is thoughtful and dependable, and the child likes her. I'm not at all afraid that she won't do. How are you going to dispose of yourself, Mrs. Burrell?"

"That's just what I wanted to say," broke in Neil. "I have been trying again and again, but I couldn't get her to listen. Aunt, it 'll make Nannie and me as proud and pleased as can be, if you'll come and stay in my cottage for a few weeks, till you've had time to look about you, and see what to do next. I don't pretend it's anything much of a place, but I know it is clean, and Nannie will do her very best to make you comfortable,—that I'm sure of. When Hope is better, she can come and share your room, if you haven't settled plans by then. I had a mind to propose Bertha coming too, but it seems she's provided for."

Neil looked regretful, and Mrs. Burrell suddenly resolved to further the Colonel's proposal. She did not wish Bertha to become an inmate of Neil's little house.

"I don't mean to say, sir, that there is anything against Bertha," she remarked, turning to the Colonel, and forgetting that she had not thanked Neil for his generous offer. "Bertha isn't fit, to be sure, for a fine lady's maid, but, as you say, it's not that you want, sir. Bertha is willing enough, and never fails to do her best; and she thinks there's nobody in the world like Miss Rhona. She'll be glad enough, I don't doubt; and if she wasn't, I'd soon make her."

"Thanks, but you may as well leave the matter to me," responded the Colonel curtly.

And Neil asked, "Will you come, aunt?"

Mrs. Burrell's gratitude, if tardy in expression, was sincere.

Colonel Smyth left soon, signing to Neil to follow him. Outside the door, he thrust a slip of folded paper into the young man's hand, saying, "Don't think this a liberty, but you will be at some expense with Mrs. Burrell. Use it any way you like for her,—no need to say anything. I gave her a five-pound note this morning, to cover what might be due for my rooms or Miss Rhona's."

Colonel Smyth strode away, and Neil found himself in the possession of a ten-pound Bank of England note.

"I like that Mr. Wynne so much. He is nice," said Rhona, an hour later.

She was on a little couch near the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes which did not fit her well, and the small slight figure seemed slighter than ever. The nervous excitement of the previous day had given place to weakness and lassitude, but she still suffered from fits of sudden terror if left alone.

"Yes, he is very nice," said Colonel Smyth, who had just come into the drawing-room, looking well and vigorous, despite bandaged shoulder and arm in sling.

On his entrance, Mrs. Montague went away, and the Colonel took a seat close to the child.

"Yes, Mr. Wynne is very nice," repeated Colonel Smyth thoughtfully. "But I am seriously meditating how you and I shall get away from him."

"Get away from Mr. Wynne," said Rhona in astonishment.

"Yes,—elude him, in fact," said the Colonel, watching her expression. "I am thinking of taking you first to Bath, and then—somewhere else."

"I know what 'elude' means," said Rhona soberly. "But Mr. Wynne won't come after us."

"Well, perhaps not," said the Colonel.

Then both were silent. Some other idea, foreign to the subject in hand, seemed to have possession of Rhona's mind. A wave of colour rushed suddenly over her face.

"Uncle, may I ask something?"

"Anything in the world, my little dear."

"I thought I heard you tell Mrs. Montague that I must have a new frock," said the child in a low voice.

"More than one," said the Colonel lightly. "As many frocks as you like, Rhona. We'll get one here to start with, and then you shall choose in Bath anything that takes your fancy,—pink and blue and green and all sorts. Somebody is coming from a shop to-morrow morning to take orders. Mrs. Montague would not have you bothered about it to-day. But of course we have to get a whole new wardrobe for you—hats and bonnets, and boots and shoes, and—and—pelisses and capes,—and in fact everything."

"I don't think I want a great many new frocks," said Rhona gently. "And I haven't left off black, you know, for father!" The Colonel had lost sight of this fact, and was rather staggered. "Please," continued the child, with a manifest effort, "please, uncle, may there be a little bit of crape on my frock? Because—because—"

"There, there, my pet, don't cry," the Colonel said, stooping with his newly-found tenderness to kiss away two heavy tears. "I am a stupid old fellow, and I forgot you were in mourning still. But you shall have anything in the world that you wish, only don't cry."

"I should like to have some crape on my frock," said Rhona sadly. "People all do, and I haven't yet. And I think—I think—now—I'm afraid—mother can't be coming back—"

Colonel Smyth thought the same. He was unable to contradict her.

"I know I oughtn't to be too sorry," sobbed the child, breaking into irrepressible weeping. "And I do try, I do try to be good. But oh, I do want so to see her again—just once—only once."

Colonel Smyth always felt himself at a loss when this trouble came up prominently. He was aware of the kind of comfort which she needed; and he was aware also of his own inability to give it, further than in a very vague and superficial manner. Kind words and touches were all that he usually attempted on these occasions.

"You won't feel it so acutely by-and-by, my poor little one," he said presently, finding her grief not easy to soothe. But this caused such heartbroken sobbing that he speedily regretted the utterance. "Why, Rhona, Rhona!" he said almost reproachfully. "What has come over my little darling to-day? Don't you love your old uncle still?"

"Oh yes, yes," Rhona answered, with bitter tears. "But I do so want mother,—I do so want mother. I don't know how to get on without her. If I only could see her again, just for one minute,—only one minute."

"Rhona, do you know you are making me very unhappy?" said the Colonel, stooping over her. "If I knew how to take better care of my little pet, things would be different."

"No, no; it isn't that," cried Rhona almost passionately. "I love you dearly, and I always shall, and you are so, so good to me. But you aren't mother. Nobody can be mother. I wouldn't be naughty if I could help it, but oh, I do want mother to-night."

Then, as she buried her face in the sofa-cushion, trying to smother the sobs, he heard her moan brokenly,—"Mother—mother—do come—O mother! I do want somebody—somebody—to teach me—"

Colonel Smyth listened, and could make out no more. "What is it you want, Rhona?" he asked.

She had evidently spoken her thought unconsciously, and was startled at the question.

"Somebody to teach you what, my dear?" he went on.

Rhona gave him one hasty look with full eyes, and hid her face anew. "I didn't mean to say it," she sobbed. "Nobody ever speaks to me now—about—about Jesus—and mother always did. I do want mother to-night."

A pause followed, somewhat perplexed on the part of the Colonel. Tears seemed to be lessening; and for once, it was almost a relief to him to note the signs of pain, which would render her unfit for conversation. Sobs gradually came to an end, and Rhona lay back patiently, with closed eyes and drawn brows, one of her little hands clutching the back of the sofa.

But as the Colonel remained silent, she looked up at him with a frightened expression, and said—"Don't be angry, please."

"My dear, I am not angry," said Colonel Smyth.

"I didn't mean to say that. Oh, don't be angry,—please, please don't."

"I am not angry, Rhona, not the very least, I assure you," said Colonel Smyth, stooping down to kiss her. "It is much best that you should say what is in your mind. There is nothing to be angry about. But I don't exactly understand why you wish to be spoken to about things that you are already well acquainted with," the Colonel said in a measured manner, as if he were counting out his words. "You are always a good little girl."

"Oh no, not lately. I've been getting all wrong, and mother would help me—"

"Well, well, I can only say I have not seen it," said the Colonel. "You shall tell me another day what you have done that is so wrong."

"It isn't doing. I don't feel rightly," said the child in a low voice: and again she repeated, "Mother would know."

"I am afraid I can't promise to talk to you like your mother, Rhona. You see I was differently brought up, and—in fact, it is not my way. But if there is anything I can do, that you would like, such as—such as reading to you, for instance—"

"Mother always read the Bible to me every evening," said Rhona wistfully. "And sometimes a hymn."

It cost the gallant Colonel much more of a struggle than might be supposed, to answer,—

"I'll do that, if you think it will make you happier."

Rhona accepted the offer unhesitatingly; and evidently without a question in her mind as to his willingness.

"Before I go to bed?" she asked.

"Yes, if you like, my dear," said the Colonel, with internal reluctance.

"Mother always talked to me and explained," said Rhona.

A bright idea struck the Colonel. "I couldn't possibly do that, my little girl, but you shall tell me what your mother used to say, and that will keep her teaching in your mind." Then to avoid further awkward suggestions, he said hurriedly,—"Come now, don't you want to know why you and I are going to run away from Mr. Wynne?"

"Is going to Bath running away?" asked the child languidly.

"Well, yes, in a sense,—if our object is to avoid him."

"But I don't see why you want to avoid him, uncle."

"That is what I have to explain. There are two doctors, named Wynne,—this young Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, and his father, Dr. Henry Wynne. They live together in a house which happens to be very near to those three aunts of your father's, who were such a trouble to you some months ago. Well—it happens that once upon a time, I knew Dr. Henry Wynne very well, and if I saw him, he would recognise me directly. Then of course, he would mention having seen me to my—ahem, to those good aunts of yours, the Miss Mordaunts. And that might bring them here, and then they would see you. Indeed, it is an event—their seeing you, I mean—which might come about any day, apart from an encounter between Dr. Wynne and myself. If our friend, the doctor, happened to meet the Miss Mordaunts, and happened to mention you by name—"

Rhona's eyes were strained and intent, as she drank in every word. And before he came to a pause, she was trembling like an aspen leaf. "Oh, take me away,—please take me away!" she entreated.

"There's nothing to be frightened about, my little girl. I'll undertake to protect you against all the aunts that ever existed. But perhaps you don't care to see them just yet."

"No, no, please,—they wouldn't let me stay with you." Rhona looked positively blue with terror.

"Don't be afraid," repeated the Colonel. "You are my little girl now, not theirs. But I don't think you would be any the better for having them in and out, at present. So you and I will go straight to Bath, the day after to-morrow—if you can have a new frock so soon. And when we are at Bath, we will settle what to do next. What do you say to the country—real thorough country, with any amount of fields and wild flowers? Yes, I see by your face that will do. And I have just settled with Bertha that she shall come with us, as your maid, to take care of you. You like Bertha, I know—and when I have to be out, I shall be able to leave you with her safely."

Rhona's eyes sparkled. "O uncle, how lovely! I did dread losing that nice dear Bertha. And now Mrs. Burrell won't be able to scold her any more. And I do love the country."

"So I imagined. Now it is all settled, and you must go to sleep," said the Colonel, with his caressing air. "Shut your eyes, little one."

"I can't think why you are so kind," Rhona whispered, as she obeyed.

A connecting chain hung at this moment between Rhona and her mother, almost complete. One middle link alone was wanting.

Dr. Wynne, daily attending Mary Mordaunt, knew the outline of her story, knew about the child whose position was a problem in the Mordaunt household, and knew the child's name to be "Rhona."

Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, on the other hand, had accidentally come across Colonel Smyth and Rhona, and had seen much of them during three or four days. He knew Rhona's Christian name, but not her surname, for the Colonel had evaded an inquiry on this point, and delicacy withheld Mr. Wynne from pressing the matter further. He also knew Rhona to be the Colonel's adopted child, and believed her to be at least no near relation. He was a little perplexed as to the real connection, certain words having dropped from the Colonel rather at variance with an assertion of Rhona's. The doctor had, moreover, heard that Rhona's mother was supposed to have been drowned. He gathered altogether that some slight mystery existed, in connection with the Colonel, with Rhona, or with both.

The one link wanting to complete the chain which might have brought mother and daughter together again, was that Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne mention little Rhona by name to his father, that Dr. Wynne's attention should be arrested by the said name, and that through a few natural inquiries, the whereabouts of Mary Mordaunt's child should be revealed to the aunts.

But this link was not yet supplied. It happened that those few days were exceedingly busy ones to both the older and the younger medical man. They scarcely met even at meals, and exchanged few words except on business. Moreover Colonel Smyth's evident reserve as to his own affairs and evident wish not to be seen or recognised by Dr. Wynne, rendered Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne doubly cautious in speaking about him.

Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne was much less intimate than his father with the Miss Mordaunts. He had been acquainted with them all his life, but the acquaintance had never ripened into friendship. General particulars as to the appearance, disappearance, and reappearance of Mary Mordaunt had reached him. If, however, he knew vaguely that there was a child in the question, he did not know the child's name, and "Rhona" was a word which called up no associations in his mind. He had not seen Mary Mordaunt, during her brief former stay, near the Miss Mordaunts; and her story as a whole had made no particular impression on him. Dr. Wynne, not Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne, was the family physician at Number Three, Winifred Place.

That the link should have remained long unsupplied was, under existing circumstances, hardly possible. Only three days after the fire, however, Colonel Smyth announced his intention of proceeding within twenty-four hours to the west of England. "Bath first,—then either sea-side or country," he said. Sufficient wearing apparel for the journey would arrive, according to promise, that same evening, and "the sooner they could be off, the better."

Mr. Wynne, though rather astonished, had no objections to offer. Colonel Smyth's shoulder was doing as well as could be wished, and medical advice if required could be readily obtained in Bath. Rhona was still shaken and poorly, but change of air and of scene might be the best possible remedies for her overstrained nerves. So the matter was speedily settled. Mr. Wynne had again a curious consciousness that the Colonel wished to avoid further intercourse with himself and his father; yet he would have found it difficult to give a reason for the feeling.

Mrs. Montague had insisted on the Colonel and the child remaining in her house during these three days, though perhaps the nearness of No. 3, Albert Terrace, was hardly desirable for Rhona. Mrs. Burrell had already gone to pay a long visit to Neil and his sister. Hope, still in hospital, seemed to be doing well.

Bertha was now installed as Rhona's attendant upon liberal wages, five pounds of which were paid her in advance by the Colonel for immediate necessities. The fire, causing this change of condition, had opened out a new vista of happiness to poor Bertha.

Hannah Hoskyns, believed to have been the unfortunate cause of the fire, had been sent home without a character, bitterly abused by her former mistress.

About ten days after the disappearance of Colonel Smyth, with Rhona and Bertha, from the neighbourhood of London, the elder Dr. Wynne was suddenly laid aside by a sharp attack of bronchitis. He had been an unusually healthy and vigorous man hitherto, but for once he was forced to succumb, and his busy son had to fill the place of two as best he might.

Therefore, it came to pass that at the hour when Dr. Wynne usually dropped in to see Mary Mordaunt, not Dr. Wynne but Mr. Arbuthnot Wynne appeared.

He was slightly apologetic, being well aware that the ladies of "No. 3, Winifred Place" objected to his comparative youth.

"Yourself, please,—not your son!" Miss Mordaunt had been known to say majestically to the elder doctor, when on one occasion, being severely pressed with work, he had ventured to send Arbuthnot in his stead. But this day there was no choice, Dr. Wynne being a prisoner to his room, voiceless and almost breathless.

"Really I am very sorry about Dr. Wynne, very sorry indeed," Miss Mordaunt said. "He seemed the day before yesterday to be rather unwell; and yesterday, as he did not come, I feared his cold might be worse. One never expects Dr. Wynne to give in, but of course he must not run risks. Do you think he might be able to come to-morrow? One day more would not perhaps signify, and as he has watched the case all through—"

Arbuthnot Wynne knew his father to be in for at least a week's imprisonment, and suggested that it might be hardly wise to leave the invalid so long.

"No, certainly not,—though she seems better,—I could not undertake the responsibility. I am only afraid she may not like a stranger about her. But please come upstairs. I know your time is valuable just now. I hope Mary will not be startled."

She preceded him upstairs, and opened the bedroom door.

When they entered, it was Mr. Wynne who started, not Mary Mordaunt.

That face! He knew it immediately, recognising at a glance its marvellous likeness to the fair little face he had seen less than a fortnight earlier. Frail and wan, transparent and nerveless, as this young creature was, he could not mistake the resemblance. The same broad brow, only not quite so full and intellectual, the same delicate outline of feature: only sharpened by illness; the same large dark eyes, only heavy and dim.

Beyond one slight start, he did not betray himself. But when he took her hand, and asked how she was, she lifted her eyes to his, with a look of indescribable bewilderment and sadness, muttering confusedly, "Rhona! My little Rhona! My child Rhona!" And again he found difficulty in controlling his surprise.

Mary Mordaunt was slowly waking up from her impassive and enfeebled condition. And during the last few days, the name of Rhona had been on her lips. As yet, however, nothing fell from her which might afford any clue to the truth about the missing child. And Dr. Wynne, at his last visit, had still forbidden any direct attempt to find out particulars from the invalid.

So Barbara was not a little dismayed to hear Mr. Wynne ask quietly, "Is Rhona your child, Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"Mr. Wynne, will you kindly come here for a moment," she said hastily, moving towards the bow-window, with a somewhat imperative sign to him to follow her. Miss Mordaunt had known Arbuthnot Wynne as a schoolboy, and she never lost sight of this fact.