Chapter V: Colonel Smyth's Arrangements

THURSDAY came, and a supply of heavy luggage arrived, followed later by Colonel Smyth himself.

Divested of outdoor wraps, he showed as an elderly man, disposed to stoutness, yet of upright and military carriage. He had closely cropped hair, iron-grey in hue, and there was a certain fierceness about the outline of his grizzled moustache, calculated to intimidate the womankind. Moreover, his glance was severe, his manner was curt, his voice was peremptory, and he appeared to be altogether of a particular and impatient disposition.

Mrs. Burrell, Hope and Bertha, not to speak of Hannah Hoskyns, were hard at work for hours, attending to the Colonel's requirements. Happily for them, shop-business was slack that afternoon; yet somebody had to remain always within call. Moreover, preparations for the Colonel's late dinner took considerable time.

Even Neil was pressed into the service of the military man. That which had to be done, whether in the way of moving boxes, hanging pictures, or aught else, was done at once; for the Colonel would on no account consent to defer operations till the morrow.

"Sharp was the word," as Mrs. Burrell privately declared, in much dudgeon. And if anybody failed at a glance to see and carry out the Colonel's will, very sharp was the blame. "I'm sure, if I had known what he was going to be like—! I don't know what in the world we shall do, if he keeps on much longer. It's enough to drive us all frantic."

At length, the rooms were arranged; furniture was placed as the Colonel desired, "daubs" had given place to artistic views, lumber had found its way to the lumber-room, and countless fidgets had received attention. Books remained to be unpacked, but Colonel Smyth would trust no hands save his own about his beloved books. This point reached, he subsided for a while, and the ordinary work of the house might receive attention.

"Talk of trouble," Mrs. Burrell groaned. "That man gives ten times as much trouble in an hour as Mrs. Mordaunt does in a week."

"Men always do," Hope averred, out of her limited experience.

In truth, the occupants of the back bedroom had given little enough of trouble that afternoon. The young widow had spent the greater part of her morning in a long walk, the object of which was a possibility of regular employment as daily governess in a private family. But the hope had proved delusive.

Two hours of teaching every morning, with twenty pounds yearly by way of remuneration, seemed something worth grasping, in addition to her most slender income. Mr. Powis was actively interesting himself among his friends on Mrs. Mordaunt's behalf, and he had succeeded in finding two music-pupils, each for one hour weekly, at very low terms. It was something to make a beginning, he said, and Mrs. Mordaunt acquiesced. But as weeks passed with no further advance, difficulties loomed increasingly, and patience was sorely taxed.

Mrs. Mordaunt was not only a highly-cultivated but a highly-accomplished woman, thoroughly well fitted for the work of teaching. Yet this availed her little in London, without friends or recommendations. Mr. Powis spoke for her warmly, but Mr. Powis was only a recent acquaintance, and he had a character for being sanguine.

Since their simple early dinner, the mother and child had spent an undisturbed "tête-à-tête" afternoon. Mrs. Mordaunt was busied with some fine needlework. And Rhona sat close beside her, threading needles, and chatting often as if with a wish to wile away the long hours, but her fair brow looked grave with a reflection of her mother's evident sadness. This morning's disappointment had fallen upon them heavily.

Increasing darkness presently made needlework an impossibility. Lights were due; but though busy feet went to and fro in the house, no one entered. Mrs. Mordaunt laid carefully aside the delicate white cambric over which she had been employed, glad to take a few minutes' rest, for the morning's excursion had left her unnerved and wearied.

As the passing minutes grew into a full half-hour, she rang the bell, once and twice in vain. A third effort brought Hope, dusty and flurried, to ask what was needed.

"Candles, if you please, and I shall be glad of tea early," Mrs. Mordaunt said in her gentle way, contrasting not a little with the Colonel's dictatorial air.

But whether or no Hope marked the contrast, she was speedily distracted by fresh demands on the part of the Colonel, and forgot all about Mrs. Mordaunt's needs, while Bertha was not permitted an instant's freedom. Mother and daughter had to sit idly in the fire-light, and tea bade fair to be unusually late instead of unusually early.

"Mother, I think they ought to attend to us," said Rhona soberly. "I don't mind your having to rest a little longer, but I do want you to have a cup of tea."

"Everybody seems to be busy about the new lodger," said Mrs. Mordaunt.

"Yes,—he's a Colonel," remarked Rhona. "Colonel Smyth, Bertha says. I wonder if we shall know him."

"Not likely," Mrs. Mordaunt said, her lips hardly forming the words.

"Mother, you are so tired. Couldn't we ring again?" asked the child anxiously.

"Better not yet. We must have a little patience, darling."

"Then put your head down on the sofa-pillow,—so—sweet mother," Rhona said lovingly, as she twined a slender arm in one of Mrs. Mordaunt's, and bent over her, with wistful eyes. "Is that nice? Was it a very very long way this morning?"

"Yes, rather. But I don't mind the actual distance so much, Rhona. It is these noisy crowded streets which try me,—and the terribly unprotected feeling. I cannot shake off the nervousness of that, or of having to speak to strangers about myself. Sometimes I feel quite ill with the effort,—yet I ought to be able to do what other people do. I am afraid you have a poor weak silly mother, darling." She did not often betray her feelings thus to her child, for she had a dread of agitating Rhona. But occasionally a passing impulse proved too strong for her usual principle of action.

Rhona's pained voice in answer immediately opened her eyes to the mistake.

"O mother! Don't say such things. Please don't,—it makes me so unhappy, You 'know' I understand. Father always took such care of you, and you never had to do anything alone till—till—" the poor child could hardly speak, for struggling sobs. "O mother! I do wish I were old enough to take care of you. Couldn't you let me walk with you another time? I should like it so much; indeed I should. And I could wait outside the house for you, I shouldn't mind how long. O mother! Do let me, and then you won't feel quite so lonely perhaps."

"My pet, you 'do' make me ashamed of myself," Mrs. Mordaunt said, sitting up, and taking into her arms the little slight figure, quivering with distress. "Hush, darling,—don't cry, or you will make yourself ill, and that always gives me such a heart-ache. I will not call myself silly again, if it grieves you. But you know, I have to conquer these feelings of nervousness and weakness, darling Rhona. If I did not, I should be wrong, and foolish too. I 'have' to stand alone; and if it is God's will for me, He can give me strength. If dear father were here, he would wish me to do God's will bravely. So now you are not going to be unhappy any more. Let me see you smile!"

The smile came, but it was dim in kind. Tears flowed in one sense readily with Rhona, if her feelings were stirred or hurt for others. But in another sense, they did not flow easily. Unlike most children, she could not weep without positive physical pain and after exhaustion. For some minutes, neither spoke; and Rhona's head lay silently on her mother's shoulder.

"They seem quite to have forgotten us," Mrs. Mordaunt said at length, speaking cheerfully. "We shall be glad of our tea when it comes, shall we not?"

"Yes,—very," Rhona said, sighing. "Mother, isn't it funny how much harder it seems to be patient about little things than big things? I wonder why. I think I feel generally pretty patient about our great troubles,—leaving the dear Italy home and all that. But I 'do' get vexed when you want your tea so much, and they won't bring it. I get vexed if things are uncomfortable, and there is no real reason."

"There is always a reason," said Mrs. Mordaunt.

"Oh yes,—the people of the house are busy. But that isn't a good reason. They ought to remember us."

"But perhaps the good reason lies behind," said Mrs. Mordaunt, softly laying her hand on Rhona's. "When a great trouble touches us, we know it comes from God, and we lean on Him, and He comforts us. But when there are little worries, we think they only come from man, and we forget that the least things may be part of our discipline, and so we are easily upset and vexed."

"Such a little thing as tea being late,—is that a part?" asked Rhona slowly. "Mother, in our last lodging, when the woman was so careless, and cooked everything badly, I used to see how patient you were. Was that why?"

"That was why I tried to be patient, darling, though indeed I was not always. But I am sure that not even a pin's prick of worry can reach one of His children, without His permission. And if so, it follows that the little pin-prick is from Him, as much as the greatest sorrow,—and then it must follow that we have to accept all patiently."

Rhona folded her hands.

"I didn't see that before," she said quietly. "Then it is not wrong of them to keep us waiting, if they are just doing God's will."

"Ah, that is another part of the question," said Mrs. Mordaunt, almost smiling. "Neglect of duty is wrong in any case. It may be God's will that you and I should have our patience tried, but certainly it is not His will that anybody should be careless or forgetful. There is the same difficulty—if it is a difficulty—in great troubles, Rhona. Sorrow may come through another person's wrong-doing, and yet may come to us straight from God, though the wrong-doing could not possibly be as He wills. For instance,—suppose a thief came and stole everything we have here. He would not be doing God's will,—and yet the trial of losing our things would be sent straight to us from God."

"Oh yes,—I see," Rhona said. "I shan't mind little worries so much, if I think about them like that. Only I do wish the tea would come. Oh, here is Bertha at last."