Chapter IX: Where Could She Be?

"HEY? What? I don't understand," said Colonel Smyth sharply.

"If you please, sir—"

"What do you mean by coming in like that without knocking? Insufferable impertinence!" growled the Colonel, in angry tones.

For he had been indulging himself in a lengthy evening siesta, and like the rest of the world, he objected much to be caught napping out of authorised hours. The Colonel sat bolt upright, and made believe to have been absorbed in the book which lay open on his knee.

"If you please, sir, I did knock,—several times," Bertha answered, "but I could not make you hear."

"The noise in the street, my good girl, always that wretched rumble going on. And when one has an interesting book into the bargain,—but mind you knock another time loud enough to get an answer. Well—what do you want?"

"It is half-past nine o'clock, sir, and Mrs. Mordaunt hasn't come back," said Bertha. "Mrs. Burrell thinks you might perhaps be able to advise us what to do."

"Not come back! Mrs. Mordaunt! Where from? What is she about?"

"Nobody knows, sir. She went to her teaching in the morning as usual, and that is the last seen of her. Miss Rhona expected her home about three o'clock. We are afraid she must have lost her way in the fog."

"Not at all surprising if she has,—a comparative stranger to London! No doubt she will have taken shelter somewhere."

"Miss Rhona is so frightened," said Bertha. "We can't persuade her to go to bed."

"Frightened! The child! Of course she is, poor little mite. Thoughtless of the mother, not to manage differently."

Colonel Smyth considered; then asked,—"Where does she go to her work?"

Bertha named the square.

"Humph! Easy enough to miss a turning in the fog between that and this. I wouldn't answer for coming straight myself. Probably they have kept her for the night,—most humane thing they could do under the circumstances."

"Miss Rhona thinks her mother is sure to have started for home, sir."

"Miss Rhona knows no more about the matter than anybody else. Children are always positive," said the Colonel.

"And there is something else too," Bertha continued, after a slight break. "Mrs. Mordaunt dropped her pocket-book in the hall, as she went out this morning, so she has no money with her."

"People don't commonly carry money in pocket-books, my good girl."

"This is a particular kind of pocket-book-purse," said Bertha, preserving her quiet manner. "Miss Rhona knows her mother has not a penny with her besides. And if anything was to happen to Mrs. Mordaunt,—such as being knocked down or run over in the fog,—there would be nothing about her to show who she is, or where she lives."

"Umph! I don't like that," muttered the Colonel. "Not of course that one need suppose anything 'has' happened to her. Still, people have no business to go about in London, without their names and addresses in their pocket."

"She thought she had, you see, sir. But I have not put this idea into Miss Rhona's head. There is no need to frighten her more."

"Of course not—of course not. I'll come and see the child if you like."

Bertha opened the doors with alacrity, ushering the Colonel into Mrs. Mordaunt's room. He expected to find Rhona sobbing and distressed, with ordinary childish show. Instead of which, he came upon a calm and tearless little face, white as marble, with the large eyes widely opened, and only a slight quiver round the lips, telling of strong feeling below.

"Well, my dear, so mother hasn't come back yet," said the Colonel, sitting down beside her.

"No," said Rhona, looking up in his face. "And I can't go and find her! If only I were old enough! Bertha says I must not go out; and I am afraid mother would not let me."

"Pshaw, my dear; nobody could find anybody such a night as this. You would be lost yourself, before you reached the end of the street," said the Colonel, with an uneasy conviction that Rhona would look upon him as the right person to search for Mrs. Mordaunt. "Much worse than looking for a needle in a haystack, and you know how hopeless a matter that is. Mother has no doubt missed her way in the fog, and wisely taken shelter somewhere."

"But she has nowhere to go," objected Rhona.

"Plenty of places in London," said the Colonel. "There are always shops; and anybody would give one shelter on a day like this. I should not wonder for my part, if Mrs. What's-her-name has kept your mother for the night."

"Oh no, I am sure she would not," the child said decidedly. "And mother would not stay. She would be quite quite certain to try to get home."

"You see, one can't possibly do anything except wait," explained the Colonel, putting down a mental suggestion that one might do something else. "If your mother is there, she is all right. And if she has taken shelter in a shop, she is all right too. And if she really has tried to find her way home, and has wandered out of the road,—why, it comes to the same thing, for she will 'have' to take shelter somewhere until the morning. She might in such a case be anywhere, far or near. Hunting for her would be an absolutely hopeless matter. It is a thousand pities that she didn't take a cab, and drive straight back, while she was able,—I doubt if even a cabby could find his way far now. But she is not used to London yet, and perhaps the idea did not occur to her."

"Mother might think of that, but she would not do it," Rhona said.

And the story of the purse followed.

Colonel Smyth listened, as if he had not heard the same before, and Bertha stood patiently near the door, without uttering a word.

"Come, that explains a good deal," he said. "One may almost look upon that fact as a satisfaction, my dear, seen in one aspect. Having no purse, she would not, of course, get into an omnibus, and thinking her purse lost, she would not like to venture on a cab. No doubt she has tried to walk home as usual, and has missed her way, and some friendly individual has given her shelter."

It was all very simple and encouraging, if only Rhona could have been sure.

"So now, my dear, you will be a good sensible little maid, and go to bed and sleep soundly till she comes back in the morning," pursued Colonel Smyth.

Rhona shuddered. "Oh, not to bed!" she said. "Oh no,—not to bed. I never went to bed without mother's kiss. I'll wait here."

"But you can't sit up all night," remonstrated the Colonel. "I do not in the least expect your mother to return before daylight. The fog has been tremendous the last two hours. Wherever she is, there she will have to stay."

"I think she wouldn't wish you to stay up, Miss Rhona," said Bertha.

"Ah,—just so," said the Colonel, catching at the suggestion. "Mother wouldn't wish it. You have to do exactly what she would like if she were here, and of course she would tell you to go to bed. Why, look!—you haven't eaten the grapes yet. Your mother shall have some more, so don't keep these. I promise to send somebody early to-morrow, to ask about her at Mrs. Howard's. But most likely, she will appear before we can send. Don't distress your little heart; mother is old enough to take care of herself, after all."

"God will take care of her," said Rhona, in a low voice.

"Very well, my dear, put it any way you like," answered the Colonel; and he said good-night in a hurry.

"Bertha, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Rhona slowly, when he was gone, and her look was very pitiful.

"Yes, Miss Rhona; I do think your mamma must have taken shelter somewhere, just as the Colonel says."

"I wish I knew," Rhona answered, sighing deeply. "I do wish I really knew. But I'll go to bed now, because mother would like it. I don't want any help, Bertha, only please come back presently, just for a minute."

"Yes, Miss Rhona. Would you like to have me in the room to-night? I could sleep on the sofa."

"No, thank you," replied Rhona. "Mother might come in any time,—only please come to see me the last thing. And if mother rings at the front door, you'll be 'sure' to hear?"

Bertha could see how strongly the child's self-command was strained, and she dreaded that sleep might prove an impossibility.

"Yes, indeed, dear," she said, "I will be sure. But I don't expect your mamma back before to-morrow."

"You don't know and I don't know," said Rhona. "Only God knows. And He can take care of my own sweet mother."

Bertha lingered yet, though aware that she was required elsewhere. "You'll ask Him, won't you, Miss Rhona," she said.

"I am asking Him all the time,—every minute," said Rhona. '"It is the only thing I can do. O Bertha! If I were a big strong man like the Colonel, I wouldn't sit indoors, and leave mother out in that dreadful fog, with nobody to help her."

"You see, Miss Rhona, the Colonel doesn't believe she is out in the fog now; and he doesn't know where to go."

"Ah, but I would try," said Rhona plaintively. "And if my father were here, he would go. There is nobody now to take care of mother."

"Except—" Bertha said in a low voice.

"Yes,—except God. I mustn't forget," said Rhona. And then with a sigh, she rested her head against Bertha, murmuring, "O Bertha! It 'does' ache so."

Bertha hardly knew whether the "aching" referred to head or heart; perhaps it was to both. "Yes, I know," she said sadly. "But you'll get into bed now, Miss Rhona, and try to go to sleep."

Rhona answered in the affirmative, though with a sound of hopelessness. An hour later, when Bertha came softly in, the child was lying quietly with clasped hands, and wide-open unresting eyes. Further on, when once more she stole down for last glimpse, she found the same. So the hours of the night dragged by.

Morning dawned, clear and sunshiny, the dense pall of yellow fog having vanished like a dream. Some mistiness still hovered over the great city, but this was soon dispelled.

"There will be nothing to keep mother from coming home early this morning," said Rhona, as Bertha stood by her side. The child seemed less affected by her long night-vigil than Bertha had feared. She looked pale and heavy-eyed, but the eyes themselves were full of peace.

"You have not had much sleep, dear," Bertha said pityingly.

"I couldn't," Rhona answered. "I did so long to know where mother was. The first part of the time seemed almost more than I could bear. I could only just pray and pray that she might be safe. And then I had such beautiful thoughts of how the Lord Jesus loves mother,—oh, such love! It made me so happy."

"He loves you too, Miss Rhona," Bertha said gravely.

"Yes,—oh, I am sure of that. But the other thought was what comforted me. I had a feeling of mother lying in His arms, and being taken care of until He brings her back to me. I do hope He will bring her very very quickly. Bertha, I am going to get up now, so as to be ready."

"Yes, dear," Bertha said, and she turned away, lest Rhona should see the tears in her eyes.

Colonel Smyth's morning meal did not take place till nine o'clock. But at eight, he came to Mrs. Mordaunt's room, hat in hand. Rhona had been dressed for an hour, and was taking her breakfast.

"Oh, are you going to look for mother?" she said eagerly.

"I'm just thinking of asking at Mrs. Howard's door, my dear, whether she is still there, and if so when we may expect to see her. You poor little white-faced mite! Come, cheer up; we shall soon have her back now, I don't doubt. You don't call that scrap of dry toast 'breakfast,' I hope! Here, my good girl,—" he turned to Bertha, who had brought in the small tray—"just get for the child some of that cold chicken which I had yesterday. She wants feeding up—looks like a wraith already," muttered the Colonel. "Mind, Rhona, you are to eat a good meal."

"I don't think I am hungry, but I'll try," Rhona said gently. "How kind you are."

"Pshaw! You are the first person that ever thought so. I'm capable of a feeling of humanity, perhaps. Good-bye. I shall soon be back again."

There was much looking out for the Colonel's return, downstairs as well as upstairs. He entered at length by the shop, instead of through the usual side-door, having been absent considerably more than an hour, and asked of Mrs. Burrell, "Not come back yet?"

"Mrs. Mordaunt? No, sir."

"I am afraid it is a bad business," said the Colonel. "She left Mrs. Howard's early yesterday—two o'clock in the afternoon."

Mrs. Burrell uttered a sound of dismay and commiseration.

"The fog was hardly at its worst then, certainly not so bad as an hour later. Mrs. Howard advised her to start immediately after luncheon, on account of it, and recommended an omnibus. She says she saw little of Mrs. Mordaunt, but thought her looking extremely ill. And the children say she seemed confused and unlike herself all the morning. I asked if she had discovered the loss of her purse while there, and it appears not; at all events, she did not allude to it.

"Really I do not know how to tell that poor child. We must do so gently; merely suggest that she has probably found shelter somewhere, and may return at any moment. If she has simply wandered out of her way, and taken shelter for the night, she would return early, of course. I made a good many inquiries of policemen and in shops, all to no purpose. Nobody appears to have noticed her. And in London, how can one expect that any one should—such a day as yesterday?"

"I hope she hasn't been run down in the fog," Mrs. Burrell said, with a lugubrious expression.

"I hope not, but it is by no means unlikely. Mrs. Howard showed feeling. I told her she ought to have sent the poor thing back before luncheon, or else have kept her altogether—and she wishes now that she had done so. No good blaming folks after the event, however. A good deal seems to hinge upon that unfortunate dropping of the pocket-book. If it had been in her pocket, the news of an accident would have reached us before this. As things are, if she were knocked down and stunned, they would not know where to send word, until she came to her senses again."

The Colonel went slowly upstairs, heralding his approach by creaking boots.

Mrs. Burrell remained behind, and might perhaps be excused for a wonder how the rent of Mrs. Mordaunt's room was to be paid, if Mrs. Mordaunt did not return.

"There could be nothing for that poor child but the workhouse," she said.