Chapter VIII: A Bunch of Grapes

"MOTHER," Rhona said wistfully one morning; "I wish you had not to go to Mrs. Howard's."

Mrs. Mordaunt was vaguely conscious of the same wish. She had been very weary for many days past, and this day an indescribable weight of dizziness and confusion oppressed her. Breakfast had been a mere make-believe. Rhona's eyes watched her mother wistfully. She did not know what was wrong, but she could plainly see that all was not right.

"Mother, I do so wish you hadn't to go," she repeated.

"I must," Mrs. Mordaunt said, stooping to kiss the child.

"But you are not well. I know you aren't. Wouldn't Mrs. Howard let you off for just one day? Do you think she would mind? It is so cold and foggy. Look how thick the air is,—all yellow."

"Yes; I must not mind that. I am really getting used to the London atmosphere," said Mrs. Mordaunt, trying to speak cheerfully.

"We never had fogs in Italy, mother."

Mrs. Mordaunt put her hands to her brow with a sudden movement. "O Rhona! Don't talk to me of Italy just now. I can't stand it. Don't make me look back."

Rhona stood in silence, watching her mother's preparations. They were not so expeditious as usual. Twice she stopped, with a bewildered expression, as if unable to remember what had to be done next; and she would have forgotten her cloak altogether, if Rhona had not brought it. Mrs. Mordaunt was not naturally forgetful, and Rhona had a sense of something unusual.

A good-bye kiss was as always exchanged, and Mrs. Mordaunt moved away. At the door she paused, and came back.

"My darling," she said, bending over Rhona,—"did I speak crossly just now? I did not mean it, Rhona."

"O mother! No,—as if you 'could' be cross!" said Rhona eagerly, pulling Mrs. Mordaunt down upon the sofa, and clinging to her. "You are never never cross for one moment, darling mother; only you are so tired to-day."

"Yes,—I am tired," said Mrs. Mordaunt dreamily. "I think this fog oppresses me, for I feel as if I hardly knew what I am doing this morning. It must be a kind of stupid headache, I suppose. Perhaps having to attend to lessons will rouse me. I could not rest all night, and that is so wearying."

She laid her head down on the arm of the sofa, closed her eyes, and remained still.

Rhona watched her wonderingly.

"Mother, you look as if you were going to sleep," she said at length.

Mrs. Mordaunt sprang to her feet, with an incoherent exclamation, and a white scared look.

"O Rhona! You startled me so!" she said hurriedly. And then, with an attempt at a smile, "I—I think I forgot where I was. How stupid of me! I must have been almost asleep for a minute. My head feels so strange. But I must start at once, and walk fast."

"Couldn't we ask Mrs. Burrell to send word that you are not fit to go to-day?" pleaded Rhona, distressed at her mother's manner. "I am sure Mrs. Howard wouldn't mind. You do look so very pale."

"No, no, my pet, it will never do to let Mrs. Howard think me an invalid. I was only startled for a moment, and the strange feeling seems going off. Perhaps walking will do me good. If this fog lasts, the children will not be allowed to go out, and I shall get home early. That is one good thing about bad weather. Good-bye, my darling."

"Good-bye, 'sweet' mother," Rhona said passionately.

She stood, smiling, while her mother went out, and watched her over the balusters. But when the front door was opened and shut, a change came over the child's face. She went back heavily into the room, her little hands clasped, and large tears filling the dark eyes. Rhona would not give way willingly, and she took out her lesson books without delay. But the French translation made slow advance, and more than one bright drop splashed down into the fresh writing, making a smudge upon the page.

A tap at the door caused her to look up.

"Come in," she said, expecting Bertha.

Instead of Bertha, a sunburnt hand appeared, bearing a bunch of grapes; the hand being followed by some grizzly moustaches.

"Who is it?" Rhona asked, rather alarmed. Then in a changed tone, "Oh, I am so glad. Please come in."

"All alone?" asked Colonel Smyth, gratified at the manner of his reception.

"Quite," said Rhona. "Mother is always away all the morning, and most of the afternoon. Won't you sit down, please?"

Colonel Smyth disregarded the request, and stood looking fixedly at the child.

"Lessons a trouble?" he inquired.

"No," faltered Rhona.

"Something is, that's plain. Dear me, look here—why, it's a downright blot. Mother will be angry, I expect?"

"Mother is never angry—never," said Rhona. Then with a sudden movement she turned away, and her little hands went over her eyes.

"Come, come; that will never do!" said the Colonel decisively.

And before Rhona knew what was coming, she found herself seated on his knee, with his arm round her, and her head on his shoulder.

For two or three minutes not a word was spoken. Rhona gave one long sobbing breath, and then remained motionless,—greatly comforted.

"Better now?" asked the Colonel presently. "What is it all about?"

"Mother!" Rhona evidently thought no more explanation was needed.

"Ah!" the Colonel said, as if he understood. "But I would not cry about it if I were you. Crying does nobody any good. Do you like grapes?"

He held up the luscious bunch. Rhona allowed herself to be raised to a sitting position. "Yes,—thank you," she said wistfully. "We used to have them in Italy, but we don't now."

"Well, we will leave them here, and you can dispose of them at your leisure," said the Colonel, rising. "Come and take a peep at my room first."

Rhona followed at once, much interested. He took her round step by step, pointing out pictures, showing Indian curiosities, opening drawers full of tropical shells, bits of coral, or impaled insects. Rhona said little, but her eyes grew large and shining with eagerness, and the wan look passed from her face. The Colonel's attention seemed drawn to her irresistibly.

"Better now, my dear?" he asked a second time, as she stood gazing into a pink-lined shell from some Eastern strand.

"Oh yes, thank you," Rhona answered gratefully.

"Look here," said the Colonel abruptly, laying his and on the top of her head,—"I've a notion you read and think too much. Little girls of your age have only to laugh and skip."

It was not a childlike look that she gave him, with her soft serious eyes. "But I am mother's only friend now," she said. "So I 'must' think."

"What made you come away from Italy?" asked Colonel Smyth.

"Mother had not enough to live on there," said Rhona. She was usually as discreet and reserved as any grown person, but the Colonel had charmed her into confidingness. "We didn't know what else to do; and mother thought the aunts would help us, perhaps."

"The aunts," repeated Colonel Smyth.

"The three aunts in London," said Rhona. "Mother has nobody belonging to her except me, but they are my father's aunts." She spoke in a curious staid manner.

"Three Miss Mordaunts, eh?"

"Yes," Rhona answered. "But I don't like the aunts. One was just a little kind, and the others were so cross. They wanted to take me away from mother, and make me live with them. As if I 'could!'"

"Of course you couldn't," said the Colonel.

"Mother has nobody else,—and father told me I must never never leave her. I think it would kill mother to lose me."

"Of course it would," assented the Colonel, looking deeply interested, yet speaking absently.

"And when mother found out what they really meant, she was so frightened that she hunted for these lodgings, and we came off as quick as possible, and didn't tell anybody where we were going."

"Ran away, in short," said the Colonel, with a chuckle.

"Oh no, I don't think it was running away, because the aunts had no right over us," said Rhona seriously. "God gave me to mother, and they ought not to have wanted to take me from mother. If they would have had her too, it would have been all right, but they were so unkind to mother. Only think—if she had to live all alone, or among strangers! But we knew aunt Barbara and aunt Clara would be angry, and perhaps aunt Susanna too; and mother was afraid, so we came away quietly."

"What was their reason for being unkind to your mother, my dear?"

Rhona reflected. "I am not sure that I ought to say more," she replied. "Mother thought she knew, and of course she told me her thoughts. But I almost think mother will say I have talked too much already about our affairs. And, please, she would not like you to tell anybody else about us and the aunts, because we don't wish them to know where we are."

The Colonel was a good deal diverted at the old-fashioned preciseness of manner. "You are safe with me, my dear," he said. "I have no friends just now to talk with; and if I had, your information should go no further. Now I have an engagement, so I must say good-bye. But you ask your mother's leave this afternoon, and I will take you for a walk to-morrow."

"May I? Oh, that would be nice," said Rhona. "Only, won't you come and see mother, and ask her yourself?"

"Well, no—I think not—on the whole," said Colonel Smyth. "Some day I may peep in on you again, if she doesn't forbid it. I dare say you feel lonely sometimes when your mother is away."

Rhona was silent, and the Colonel awaited an answer.

"It is not exactly loneliness," she said in a soft reverent voice, peculiar to herself. "God is always here, you know."

Colonel Smyth positively started.

The words came with a certain assured sweetness, not at all as if the child were merely repeating what she had been taught to say, but rather as a simply assertion of that which in her own experience was true.

"So I cannot be really alone," she added. "But I do long often to have more of mother. And it is nice to have somebody come in for a little talk. I think I am fond of talking."

"You shall talk to me as much as you like," said the Colonel, stooping down, and letting his grey moustache brush her forehead. "Good-bye,—and mind you don't think any more about anything for the rest of the day."

Rhona reckoned that if the fog continued, her mother would get away from Mrs. Howard's in time to reach home before three.

The fog did continue. At noon, it lightened slightly. But by half-past two, it had grown again yellow and dense. There could be no doubt whatever that Mrs. Howard would keep her children indoors that afternoon.

Yet three o'clock and half-past three came, and Mrs. Mordaunt did not appear. Four o'clock, and she remained absent.

The next hour passed wearily to Rhona, who was sadly disappointed. No doubt, Mrs. Howard had kept her governess to amuse the children indoors. Rhona thought this rather hard. She did so want her mother to have a little extra rest for once.

Five o'clock passed, and still the minutes went relentlessly by, while Rhona sat waiting. She was no longer able to employ herself with books or work.

Bertha presently came in, and said,—"It is quarter to six, Miss Rhona. Your mamma seems late to-day. Will you wait for her, or have tea now? I do think you want it."

"I'll wait, please; it is no matter about me," said Rhona. "Bertha, I can't think what keeps mother so long. She is always home before this."

"I suppose she has to pick her way slowly," said Bertha. "We haven't had such a fog all the winter through. Perhaps the lady has made her wait because of the weather."

"Oh no, that isn't like Mrs. Howard at all. And mother would be sure to come."

"Perhaps she has missed a right turning somewhere," suggested Bertha. "That would make her late. But there are always people about, so she could ask her way. I wouldn't worry, if I was you, Miss Rhona. I must go now, for there's aunt calling, but I shan't wait long before I bring you a cup of tea."

She kept her word, and the cup of tea came, while Mrs. Mordaunt still remained away. Rhona could eat nothing, but having disposed of the tea, she sat patiently in the sofa corner, with her little hands clasped, and her large eyes bent ceaselessly on the door.

Half-an-hour later, Bertha reappeared, carrying a neat purse-pocket-book of dark morocco, rather large for a lady's use.

"Miss Rhona," she said, and she looked anxious,—"isn't this your mamma's?"

Rhona raised herself upright, and took the purse. "Yes," she said gravely. "That is mother's. It used to belong to father."

"She must have dropped it as she was going out this morning. Hannah found it just now, lying in a corner of the hall, close to the front door. I think there is money inside, Miss Rhona, but you wouldn't know how much there ought to be."

"Yes; I know," said Rhona, in the same serious tone. She counted slowly the contents of the two pockets, and glanced through a few papers. "It is all right. But—"

"I am glad she didn't drop it outside," said Bertha.

"But mother has been thinking all day that the purse was lost," the child said sadly. "I am so sorry; for she was tired enough before. And if the fog was ever so bad, she wouldn't have been able to get into an omnibus, because she has no money with her—not one penny."

"She could take a cab, and promise to pay here," suggested Bertha.

Rhona shook her head. "That would cost too much," she said. "Especially when mother would be thinking that she had just lost her purse. Poor darling mother!"