Chapter XXII: Number Three, and Number Three

"NO answer to my letter, Mr. Wynne. A week to-day since it went off," said Barbara Mordaunt. "My sister-in-law's questions are becoming very difficult to evade."

"She certainly improves," said Arbuthnot Wynne.

"Yes, but how will it be, when she has the shock of learning that the child is lost to us again?"

"She must not at present have that shock. You must avoid the word 'lost' in speaking of Rhona."

"Easier to avoid the word than the sense," said Miss Mordaunt.

"I would keep clear of both. After all, it is merely a question of time. Sooner or later, we shall trace them. And there is hope so far, in the fact that your letter has not been returned to you."

"Hardly likely to be as yet. It will probably lie waiting at the hotel for weeks. It may have been forwarded after Colonel Smyth,—but could any man delay answering such an appeal?"

"Unless—" Arbuthnot said dubiously.

"Unless—Yes—"

"One hardly likes to suggest the idea. But Colonel Smyth certainly was an enigma to me. I could not at all see through him. The only clue which has occurred to my mind, and which I do not wish to entertain, is that he really is not anxious to find the mother and to restore the child."

"Impossible! Human beings are not such monsters!"

Arbuthnot's lips parted in a smile. "I should not describe Colonel Smyth as a monster," he said. "But—"

"It could not be. The thing is out of the question."

"Such things have been, I should be very sorry to accuse the Colonel of any such motive, without strong proof. But I confess, he was a perplexing subject. His evident shrinking from an encounter with my father was and is a mystery to me."

Barbara stood in thoughtful silence for some seconds. "I do not know what view to take," she said at length. "Do you think we might venture to name Colonel Smyth to Mary?"

"That has occurred to me. I will see how she is to-day."

Nearly a week earlier Arbuthnot Wynne had paid a visit to old Mrs. Montague, for the purpose of learning all he could from her and others about the child. Inquiries had resulted in the knowledge that Rhona's surname was indeed Mordaunt, and that the Colonel was generally believed to be no relation, having only adopted the little girl after the disappearance of her mother.

Mr. Wynne had also succeeded in obtaining Neil Burrell's address, and a letter was forthwith despatched to Mrs. Burrell, asking where Bertha Stephens could be found, and requesting an answer by return of post. The answer came as desired, bringing disappointment with it. Mrs. Burrell had had no news of Bertha since leaving London. "Not one word of thanks from that ungrateful girl," the writer complained. She could not say anything at all about where Bertha might have gone. So this clue failed.

Standing by Mary Mordaunt's side, Mr. Wynne noted a marked improvement in her condition. She asked questions confusedly still, and memory was at fault, but powers of mind and body were returning. "I think we shall have her in an arm-chair soon," he said.

Then, when she asked in anxious tones for her child, evidently under a vague impression that he had a hand in the management of affairs, he said, "Rhona has gone into the country with your friend, Colonel Smyth."

"My friend!" She looked bewildered, and her eyes roved round the room.

"With Colonel Smyth," repeated Mr. Wynne in a distinct voice. "He was in Mrs. Burrell's lodgings. Was he not a friend of yours?"

"Colonel Smyth! At Mrs. Burrell's!"

"Yes,—Mrs. Burrell, Number Three, Albert Terrace."

Mary started sharply, and put her hand to her head. "Number Three—Number Three—" she muttered hurriedly. "Number Three—Winifred—Winifred—"

"Albert Terrace, not Winifred Place," said Mr. Wynne. "Mrs. Burrell was your landlady, at Number Three, Albert Terrace. And Colonel Smyth—"

Mary held her forehead still, looking eager and nervous, as recollections came upon her. "Mrs. Burrell—oh, yes—Number Three, Winifred—"

"No; Albert Terrace," said Mr. Wynne patiently. "There was Hope Burrell too, the landlady's daughter, and Bertha—"

"O yes, that nice Bertha!" said Mary. "Yes, I remember. And Rhona, Rhona, my little Rhona!"

"Yes: and Colonel Smyth," said Mr. Wynne again.

The name seemed at last to arrest her attention. "Colonel Smyth—" she said. "Yes,—Colonel Smyth—"

"You knew him very well, I suppose?"

"O no, not at all," she said, with a vague little laugh. "Why, I never saw him."

Arbuthnot Wynne naturally regarded this as a slight hallucination.

"No—never," repeated Mary, evidently trying to recall the past, and she laughed again. "He was such an odd man. But Rhona liked him—my little Rhona. When is Rhona coming to me—please—please?"

"By-and-by," said Mr. Wynne; and no more was said about Colonel Smyth.

Mary recurred, however, many times to his name during the day, sometimes with a half-smile, sometimes with the remark, "Such an odd man," and sometimes with confused recollections of other events in connection with him.

"That has not cleared up matters at all," Arbuthnot said later in the day, when relating to his father what had passed.

Dr. Wynne, though better, was still a prisoner, his attack having proved a sharp one.

"I shouldn't have expected that it would," Dr. Wynne answered drily.

"It was worth the trial. The most singular thing to my mind, is the extraordinary likeness of the two faces—Mrs. Mordaunt's and little Rhona's,—not only one to another, but both to a third which I have seen somewhere and at some time. I cannot recall time or place."

Dr. Wynne looked surprised, and said, "I should not have expected you to remember her."

"Whom?"

"Mrs. Pratt."

"I have not the least recollection of the name."

"No,—it is her face that you recollect. She was in and out a few times one winter long ago. You were a mere boy at the time, but no doubt you may have seen her occasionally. I had known her earlier; and when she happened to be in London with her husband, she consulted me upon her health."

"Then the likeness—Was she any connection of Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"Rather near! Mrs. Pratt was Mrs. Mordaunt's mother."

Arbuthnot's "Ha!" was expressive.

"That is not all the story. As a girl, she was intimate in the Mordaunt household. There was at one time an affair between her and the eldest son, Henry Mordaunt."

"She must have been a pretty creature."

"One of the loveliest women I have known, and one of the most disappointing. She was engaged to Henry Mordaunt for two years, and then threw him overboard for the sake of Lieutenant Pratt. When Arthur Mordaunt engaged himself to Mary Pratt, the Miss Mordaunts were greatly displeased. They have never admitted that the fact of the young lady being the daughter of Mrs. Pratt had any connection with their displeasure, but no doubt it was so."

"And the name of Mrs. Pratt before her marriage was—?"

"Margaret Willis."

Arbuthnot mused a little.

"Henry Mordaunt—" he said, at length. "I am half ashamed to ask,—but is he living still?"

"Others are putting that question beside yourself. Miss Mordaunt has not heard from him for many months, and her last letter was returned from India by a stranger. He was a singular character,—naturally blunt and reserved, and made worse by being misunderstood at home. I always believed that there was more good in Henry Mordaunt than appeared on the surface,—more warmth of heart than was supposed. But he never was a favourite with his sisters; and Miss Willis' conduct certainly had a souring effect upon him. It must be nearly twenty years since he last came to England."

"Then I may safely say, I do not know him. Hardly likely that he should have come into our nursery to make my acquaintance," observed Arbuthnot. "I have learnt more about the Mordaunt family in the last fortnight than during all those twenty years. Somehow they never interested me particularly."

"And they do now?"

"Rhona does," said Arbuthnot.