Chapter VII: The Colonel and His Landlady

THE Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had never yet seen one another. Neither of the two evinced any particular curiosity as to his or her fellow-lodger. Still it was singular that weeks should pass without an accidental encounter on the stairs or in the street.

Once, the doors of their respective apartments opened at the same instant. But before Mrs. Mordaunt could catch a glimpse of the Colonel, he had beaten a sharp retreat.

"What a funny man he must be, mother!" little Rhona said, laughing. "He seems to be quite afraid of you."

She had met him herself twice, and Colonel Smyth had looked steadily, with evident interest, at the child's fair face, but not a word had been exchanged.

Rhona's life at this time was a lonely one. From nine o'clock every morning until about half-past four in the afternoon, she had to employ herself as best she might in her mother's absence. There was nothing to be seen from the window, and her books were not many in number. Every day she had some simple lessons to prepare, set her by Mrs. Mordaunt the evening before; and when these were done, she read and re-read Rollin's "Ancient History," Mackintosh's "History of England," and a few more volumes of a like nature. Now and then Mr. Powis brought her a story-book for perusal, and had he understood what a boon he was conferring, he would have done so oftener.

The little delicate plant soon showed signs of drooping, under lack of fresh air and sunshine. Not so much to the mother's eyes, for Mrs. Mordaunt's return was always the signal for flushing cheeks and eager talk. But Bertha knew, as no one else did, how often the child sat listlessly, curled up in her sofa corner, too languid to employ herself, spending hour after hour in wistful dreams of the dear Italian home or tired longings for her mother.

Mrs. Mordaunt often took her for a little stroll in the afternoon, when her own day's work was done, little equal as she might be to this extra exertion. And sometimes Mrs. Powis' nurse, with half-a-dozen small children, called to escort her in a longer ramble. But London streets wearied rather than refreshed Rhona. And the afternoon stroll grew quietly shorter week by week, suiting the lessened powers of mother and child.

For Mrs. Mordaunt had never been strong, and her strength was now severely taxed. The walk to and fro, between Mrs. Burrell's and Mrs. Howard's, was far too long when supplemented by a considerable ramble with her pupils, and often by a little turn with Rhona. Also, she had the stress of four hours' teaching, and another hour at night with Rhona, not to speak of the continual weight at her heart whenever she was absent from her child. Rhona never complained, but Mrs. Mordaunt realised only too well the long and lonely days which had to be passed through. Moreover, the having to venture out in all weathers, after almost a lifetime in sunny southern climes, and yet more the continual struggle with her own nervous and shrinking timidity—a timidity natural to her, and fostered by a hitherto guarded and sheltered existence,—these things told heavily upon her. But she hardly knew how much her health was suffering. She was only bent upon keeping on.

Sometimes it occurred to her that the distance between her lodgings and her work was too great, and that she might be wise to search for a room nearer to Mrs. Howard's. Yet for Rhona's sake, she dreaded the thought of a move. During her long daily absences, the remembrance of Bertha was an unspeakable comfort. Mrs. Burrell was, in a general way, kindly disposed towards the child, but Bertha would have done anything for her. Busy as Mrs. Burrell kept her niece, Bertha rarely allowed an hour to pass, without glancing in, if but for one moment, to see if the child were happy. Besides, Mrs. Mordaunt was earnestly desirous to remain in Mr. Powis' parish. She felt that if anything happened to herself, he would be a friend to Rhona.

One foggy evening, the Colonel caught a cold, which after some days of neglect proved rather severe. He spent a whole morning over a blazing fire. Then masculine patience failed, and he sallied forth, in despite of rain. Naturally, the cold was worse next day. And Mrs. Burrell, being summoned by his express wish, found him doing the sick man in deplorable wise, rolled up in a big shawl, and coughing incessantly. Mrs. Burrell, accustomed to take a shady view of matters, thought him very bad, and told him so; whereat the Colonel's face grew longer, and his voice grew thicker.

"There's a very bad sort of throat going about," Mrs. Burrell said, by way of further encouragement. "Wouldn't you like to see a doctor, sir? We've got one living close by, quite handy."

Colonel Smyth growled a protest. "Only one doctor in the world whose opinion I value a rap."

"Well, sir, couldn't we get him?" asked Mrs. Burrell.

"No!" the Colonel said indignantly, forgetting at once his hoarseness and his reserve. "I wouldn't have him know I am in London,—on any account."

Then, seeing by his landlady's face that he had committed himself to something,—he did not exactly know what,—Colonel Smyth added, with a return of hoarseness,—"That is to say, I should not mind his knowing. But it might go farther."

"To be sure, sir," Mrs. Burrell said, as if she understood, which certainly she did not. "And you wouldn't like a word sent to any friend or relation neither,—some one, I mean, sir, that might come and help you get agreeably through a few days of illness, if it was to turn out to be anything."

The fish rose to the bait, but in such wise that Mrs. Burrell rather repented throwing her line. "Thanks, Mrs. Burrell!" the Colonel said sharply, in a voice of remarkable clearness. "You seem to take a great interest in my private affairs. I am much obliged to you for your solicitude. For the future, however, I recommend you to attend to your own concerns rather than mine. You may as well understand once for all that I have no friends and no relatives—"

"Dear me, sir, how melancholy!" Mrs. Burrell said to him, as she had once said to Mrs. Mordaunt, gratified curiosity predominating over annoyance.

"Will you be so good as to hear me out, instead of cutting me short?" demanded the Colonel. "I was about to say simply that I have no friends or relatives, whom it would give me at this moment any special pleasure to see, except—but it does not matter. If I choose to enjoy a few weeks or months in quiet, that is my own concern. I do not pretend to have no relations in the world—plenty of them, no doubt, to come and bicker over my goods when I am dead. But I have not the least intention of dying yet, so you really need not trouble yourself."

"I am sure, sir, I hadn't any idea of giving offence," Mrs. Burrell said, half-irate, half-apologetic. "But you see, sir, you 'do' look bad; and I thought—if it was to chance to be one of them throats—"

The Colonel coughed obediently to the suggestion, but repeated, "I am not going to die yet, Mrs. Burrell."

"No, sir, to be sure," assented Mrs. Burrell; "though I suppose, as one may say, nobody knows beforehand when his time is. And there was Mr. Green, in the next street, carried off by a throat, only ten days ago."

"Who is Mrs. Mordaunt's doctor?" asked the Colonel unexpectedly.

"She don't have one, sir, though to my thinking there's need. If anybody ever did look like a downright ghost, it's Mrs. Mordaunt when she comes back of an evening. And then there's the child."

"Where does Mrs. Mordaunt come back from?"

"She goes out teaching, sir," Mrs. Burrell answered, though convinced that what she said came as no news to the Colonel. "Every day except Sunday. And that child left alone from half-past nine—or I'm not sure it isn't nine—of a morning, till near five. It isn't Mrs. Mordaunt's fault."

"Every day from half-past nine till nearly five," repeated the Colonel.

"That's about it," said Mrs. Burrell, "and Saturdays no better; for if she's back sooner from Mrs. Howard's, she goes out again to give music lessons. It's my belief she's just killing herself. And the child sits there alone, hour after hour, as patient as a lamb,—never a tear nor a grumble. I get her down into our little parlour once in a way, but Mrs. Mordaunt seems to have a dread of the child making acquaintances. And Miss Rhona is always content. It isn't natural. I doubt she's too good for this world."

"Stuff and nonsense, my good woman," said the Colonel testily. "There is no such thing as being too good for this world. Bad people die quite as often as good ones."

Mrs. Burrell could not dispute the assertion, though of course she held fast to her own opinion. To do her justice, she was not yielding to a mere spirit of gossip, but was moved by an honest desire to interest the Colonel in Rhona, for the child's benefit. Being somewhat offended, however, at the term "good woman" as applied to herself, in what she counted a slighting manner, she showed signs of beating a retreat.

"Stop a moment. What is the matter with the child?"

"I don't know as there's anything particular, sir, only she looks pale, and don't seem to have any spirit. And she talks,—to hear her talk, it's like a dying person."

"Humph! Stuffed full of religious notions, I'll warrant," muttered the Colonel. "Children are regular little parrots."

"Yes, sir. But it isn't a parrot-like sort of way that Miss Rhona has. She's a child of wonderful feeling, and understands for all the world like a grown person."

The Colonel sat plunged in thought, his brows drawn together. Mrs. Burrell hesitated two or three seconds, then withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

That recalled Colonel Smyth to the present position of affairs, and he went back to the consideration of his cough. He did not, however, cease to consider Rhona also.

No immediate results followed upon the conversation. But in a few days, when his cough had vanished and he was abroad again, he began to institute a system of nods and smiles, exchanged between himself and Rhona, when they chanced to meet, which was not often.

Rhona learnt to look out for these occasional glimpses of the Colonel, as a pleasant excitement in her life.

No words were as yet spoken. And still, it never came to pass that the Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt had an encounter.