Chapter XX: Restored Hope

"YOUR father does not seem to have explained—" Barbara breathed in an undertone, as she stood facing Arbuthnot Wynne in the bow-window. "I thought he would have done so. If I had not been taken by surprise at your coming, I would have told you more myself."

"My father is hardly in a condition to speak much this morning," said Mr. Wynne.

"But you are surely acquainted with general particulars? No fear!"—as he glanced towards the bed. "I am speaking low, but it would be just the same if I spoke loudly. Mary hears nothing and heeds nothing, except what is immediately addressed to her. She has been in this state for weeks, ever since the delirium left her. It is an extraordinary state, almost as if she had been stunned, and could not rally. I cannot get your father to say what he thinks, except that matters will improve as she grows stronger. But he will not allow us to put any questions to my niece."

"No questions!" said her listener.

"I mean, on that point, about the child! You know of course that there was a child, her only one. When she left this neighbourhood before Christmas, in a fit of vexation at a plan of my proposing—poor Mary!—she took the little girl with her. We heard no more of either of them, till she came back, alone, and so ill as to be unable to speak rationally. For weeks, she never mentioned the child except in delirium, and then quite incoherently. It is only the last few days that she has begun to speak of her with any appearance of sense. The day before yesterday, Dr. Wynne told us to do nothing until he should come again; and yesterday, as you know, he was unable to pay his visit. I am very much perplexed. It seems as if we ought to make use of this opportunity to discover more about the child,—and yet—if it would do harm to my niece—"

"I think you had better let me see how she is," said Mr. Wynne.

"Yes, certainly. But it is not as if you had been with her all through," said Barbara dubiously.

Mr. Wynne's "Yes" was rather mechanical than assenting. "And the child's name is Rhona?" he said in a dreamy manner.

Unexpectedly, there came a muttered echo from the bed,—"Rhona! My little Rhona!" as if in response.

"We have to avoid saying that name in her hearing," said Barbara softly. "It is the one thing she notices now, and the one thing which excites her."

"The child is—how old?" asked Mr. Wynne.

"About nine years old."

"Like the mother?"

"Some say so. I do not think so much of the likeness myself, though certainly the eyes and general outline are much the same. I never saw a sweeter child. Poor little thing! It is sad if she has been thrown upon strangers all this time. But our fear is that she has died, and that her death has caused this illness. I must not take up your time, only I am sure you will be cautious. Dr. Wynne is so very much afraid of a relapse."

Arbuthnot Wynne went back to the bedside thoughtfully. He could feel no doubt in his own mind as to the identity of the two Rhonas. At this moment, he was so completely occupied with the endeavour to unravel the perplexities of Colonel Smyth's conduct, that it actually did not occur to him to tell Miss Mordaunt there and then his belief that the child was found; neither did her last words reach his understanding.

Could Colonel Smyth have known that Rhona's mother lay ill at No. 3, Winifred Place? Did he wish deliberately to keep mother and child apart? Was his conduct governed by a dread of losing the child, a determination to keep her to himself at all hazards? These thoughts flashed like lightning through the young doctor's brain, as he passed from window to bed. Barbara saw only a slow step and absent manner. She wished, with a touch of impatience, that Arbuthnot Wynne were more like his father.

The usual questions were asked, Mary paying no heed to the questioner. But as he stood somewhat long, watch in hand, examining her pulse, she moved restlessly, and lifted her eyes again, with a pleading mutter—"Rhona! My little Rhona."

Arbuthnot Wynne restored the watch to his pocket, and said composedly—"Rhona is well, Mrs. Mordaunt, I believe."

Barbara was horrified, and vainly strove to catch the doctor's eye. He was looking steadily at Mary Mordaunt, and she returned the gaze pitifully, wistfully, as if struggling to see through a fog.

"My little Rhona?" she repeated.

"Yes, your own little Rhona," responded Mr. Wynne. "She is coming to you by-and-by."

Mary's eyes brightened slowly into such intelligence, as had not been seen in them once since her arrival at Winifred Place. "Rhona is coming! My own little Rhona! O aunt Barbara! Do you hear?"

Barbara stood rigidly irresponsive and cold.

"By-and-by," repeated Mr. Wynne, in the same quiet yet cheerful voice, and he gently patted Mary's hand. "You must get a little stronger, and then you will be fit to see her."

"Dear little Rhona! My own little darling!" murmured Mary, with some agitation.

"Yes, dear little Rhona. She is a sweet little girl," said Mr. Wynne soothingly. "So like you in face."

Mary absolutely smiled. "So like—everybody said."

"No one could help seeing the likeness," Mr. Wynne answered.

"Will she come to me soon—soon?" asked Mary.

"Very soon, I hope. Rhona has gone into the country, with kind friends, for change of air. You will like to see your dear little girl come back, looking rosy and well. Children love the country," said Mr. Wynne, speaking rather monotonously, and appearing unconscious of Barbara's distressed endeavours to beckon him away.

"Rhona loves the country," echoed Mary. Then a perplexed expression came over her face, and she murmured—"Friends! Friends!"

Mr. Wynne dared not risk a mention of Colonel Smyth, unknowing what associations she might have with the name. "Very kind friends," he said. "Everybody loves little Rhona."

Mary's troubled look continued. She was evidently more awake to past and present than she had yet been, but some sad dread or bewilderment hung about her still. The wistful dark eyes seemed searching for more information.

"I thought—I thought—" she muttered confusedly. "I can't remember—but—I—I thought—"

Mr. Wynne's hand was on her wrist again. "Never mind. It will all come back by-and-by," he said. "Try to lie quiet now, and think of little Rhona playing among the daisies."

"The daisies!" And there was another smile. Then with a start and moan—"But Rhona—Rhona—they said she was dead. I heard them say my little Rhona was dead."

"You heard wrongly. Rhona is not dead."

Mary looked at him in a half-wild manner, singularly contrasting with her late torpidity. "But they said she was dead, and I could not bear it,—I could not wake up to life again. If Rhona is dead, I want to die too."

"No," Mr. Wynne said gravely, "you would not wish that. You would wish to live and to serve God. But your little Rhona is not dead."

"Where is she?" Mary asked.

"She has gone into the country with friends. She is not at Mrs. Burrell's any longer," said Mr. Wynne.

"Mrs. Burrell!" Mary evidently recognised the name, though her memory was confused. "Oh yes,—Mrs. Burrell."

"Rhona is not there any longer," said Mr. Wynne, his last remnants of doubt as to the truth of his conjecture entirely dissipated. "She has been taken into the country for change of air that she may become rosy and strong. You will be content to wait a little while, until she can come back to you."

"Oh yes,—I can wait now. My little darling!" murmured Mary, and she smiled peacefully. "My own little Rhona."

She lay whispering—"Rhona! Sweet Rhona!" for some seconds, till her eyes seemed to close of themselves, and she sank into such a calm and natural sleep as she had not enjoyed since the beginning of her illness.

Mr. Wynne stood silently watching her, till that stage was reached; and then he turned to leave.

Barbara, listening to all this, was utterly aghast. She really credited Arbuthnot Wynne with inventing a pretty little fiction for the purpose of temporarily cheering the invalid, and all her righteous indignation was aflame.

Leading him downstairs into the drawing-room, she shut the door, turned herself about, and broke into the ejaculation—"How you 'could!'"

Mr. Wynne faced her with the slightest possible smile, and made no answer.

"How you could!" repeated Barbara.

"I beg your pardon. Could what?"

"Could raise false hopes,—could lead her to believe that we know what we do not know. But I must undeceive her at all risks. I can never lend myself to such a plan. Your father would never—"

"My father is perhaps not acquainted with certain facts—"

"I assure you he is. I have informed him of every particular. Do you know that you may have done irreparable harm?" said Barbara, much excited and alarmed. "Your father has been so anxious that her thoughts should not be turned in the direction of the child, at least until we can be assured that she is still living. And now you have led her to expect to see Rhona again almost immediately. It will be impossible to quiet her down."

"By-and-by, I said."

"But you promised it. You undertook to say that Rhona would come. And we do not even know whether the child is alive. I suppose you were playing upon words when you said she was not dead,—but however true in one sense of those who are in heaven, that certainly is not the sense which you have conveyed to Mary. Poor dear Mary! I cannot imagine what I shall say when she questions me, as she is sure to do, now you have thoroughly aroused her. Excuse me, Mr. Wynne, but you are young, and I do think that if you had simply followed out your father's plans with my niece, it would have been wiser—would have been more seemly. I have no more to say, except that I at least cannot pretend what I do not know to be true."

"Neither could I!" said Mr. Wynne, apparently content that Barbara's remarks should enjoy full swing before he made his own explanation.

"But—pardon me—I think you have done so."

"You are supposing too hastily that I have no reason for my line of action," said Mr. Wynne gravely. "What will you say, when I tell you that I not only suppose, but have the fullest conviction, that little Rhona is at this moment alive and well,—that only a few days ago I actually held her in my arms?"

Miss Mordaunt looked at him in bewilderment. Was he trying to take her in also?

"Well?" he said, unable to help smiling.

"But why—why not speak sooner—if you have really known this?"

"I did not know it."

"Did not know, and yet you profess to have seen Rhona, to have held her in your arms. You are pleased to speak in enigmas," said Barbara impatiently.

"You shall have plain English. Did my father happen to mention to you, rather more than a fortnight ago, a bad fire which took place one night, at which I was present? Several people were saved, including a little girl."

A light flashed into Barbara's mind. "Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "Of course I remember. And that child—"

"Was named Rhona. I carried her from the spot myself, when she was brought down the fire-escape. A pretty little dark-eyed girl, about eight or nine years old seemingly,—the adopted child of a Colonel Smyth, living in the same house. They were lodgers at a Mrs. Burrell's,—and you may have observed just now that the name 'Burrell' was familiar to Mrs. Mordaunt."

"I could not think what you meant," Barbara said.

"You had not the clue; and it was hardly possible to explain all this in Mrs. Mordaunt's presence."

"And the child's name was Rhona—Rhona Mordaunt?"

"The name of the child was Rhona. I can say nothing as to the surname. 'Mordaunt' would of course have arrested my intention at once, but I had no associations with 'Rhona.' Till within the last half-hour, I had no idea that your little missing niece was named Rhona. It may seem strange to you, Miss Mordaunt, but so it is. As to the surname, Colonel Smyth twice evaded inquiries—so distinctly that I could not ask again. The relationship between him and the child puzzled me a good deal."

"But he could not have adopted her long. Did he profess to be a near relative?"

Mr. Wynne shook his head. "The matter seemed to be in a state of entanglement. Rhona called him 'uncle,' but told me once plainly that he was not her uncle. On the other hand, Colonel Smyth once spoke to me in a manner which certainly implied that she was his great-niece. Colonel Smyth had dislocated his shoulder, and Rhona was suffering from the night-alarm. I attended them both for three or four days. Then the Colonel started off with his little charge to Bath, saying that he meant to take her afterwards into the country for thorough change. So my assertions upstairs were strictly true."

"I beg your pardon for having doubted you. But, Mr. Wynne, suppose after all it were not our little Rhona? Suppose she proved after all to be another child of the same name?"

"I hardly think such an outcome of the affair possible. My old friend, Mrs. Montague, who sheltered them after the fire, told me a few more particulars, which I noticed little at the time, though now they seem important. The little Rhona's mother, a pretty young widow, was at the lodgings with the child until after Christmas,—how long after I cannot say. Mrs. Montague often saw her going to and from her daily work as governess. One very foggy day, she disappeared, and she was believed to have been drowned in a neighbouring canal. They say a body was found, sufficiently resembling her. But the matter seems to have been clothed in mystery. Since then, Mrs. Montague has frequently seen the Colonel and the child walk out together. I believe she took it for granted that he was her grandfather. People may live almost next-door to one another in London, yet know strangely little of each other's circumstances."

"Extraordinary!" Miss Mordaunt said repeatedly during this narration. Her remark at the end was, "Yes, true, but women have generally more curiosity than men. Would not your friend at least know whether the mother's name was Mordaunt?"

"She might, probably. I did not hear her mention it."

"And you made no attempt to find out, from her or from other people? The landlady, for instance."

"I am not a woman," said Arbuthnot Wynne, with a half-smile. "I hardly exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Burrell; and the child was always spoken of as 'Rhona' or as 'Miss Rhona.' No, I made no effort to discover anything further. It was not my business, and I avoided asking questions, since the Colonel evidently did not wish me to be enlightened. You must remember that I did not dream of the child's connection with you. Nor did I, till the last, expect to lose sight of them so soon."

"Well, we must write immediately to this Colonel Smyth. I must write," said Barbara.

"Of course I could make inquiries now of Mrs. Montague and of others in the neighbourhood," said Arbuthnot Wynne thoughtfully. "Mrs. Burrell has left London, but her address would probably be known to some of her acquaintances. Yes, we must communicate with Colonel Smyth, if possible. But there lies the difficulty. He gave me the name of the hotel in Bath to which he was going ten days ago."

"Would he not be there still?"

"Hardly. He spoke of remaining in or near Bath three or four days."

"And that was ten days ago! But letters would be forwarded after him. If we could find the child, it would put fresh life into Mary. What a mercy that you came in to-day! We might not have found out about Rhona for months."