Chapter XVIII: The Mordaunt Household

"SUE."

Susanna Mordaunt started out of an absent fit, and said hurriedly, "Yes, Clara. Yes. Did you speak before? I didn't hear. I was only thinking about—. But is anything the matter?"

"A good deal, I should have thought. What are you mooning over now?"

"Oh, I was only—only—just thinking," said Susanna, in a tone of apology. "One can't help thinking a little sometimes, you know."

"One wouldn't wish to help it, I should suppose. What an absurd way you have of putting things?" the younger sister said tartly.

"I was only just wondering about that poor little Rhona," said Sue, accustomed to such snubbings.

"Wondering does no good," responded Clara.

She was unwinding wool at the drawing-room bay-window, full in the spring sunshine, and an occasional whisk or tug told of considerable pettishness. The winder whirled round by fits and starts, answering accurately to her mode of management.

"It seems to me that Barbara is perfectly demented," she broke out at length.

"Why?"

"I don't profess to know why. I only state the fact. How on earth are we to meet all these extra expenses when our income is barely enough for our three selves? Here has Mary been in this condition for weeks—and how long she may go on so—"

"Not in the same condition all the time," broke in Susanna.

"Quite as bad, at all events. And she has been in this particular state for weeks—three or four certainly—so I only said what was true. Who can tell when she will get over it? She may never recover at all, but just drag on a miserable existence for years, with no more sense than a baby. Such things do happen. And we have to bear all the expense of the night nurse, and of medicines, and of extra help in the house, and very likely of Dr. Wynne's visits too. We can hardly expect him to give all this attention to a mere stranger for nothing, as he does to us.

"But Barbara is infatuated. If I venture a word about expenses, she only says, 'It will be all right.'

"'I' should say it would be all wrong. She cares for nothing in life just now, except Mary. I believe she will fall ill herself soon with over-nursing. And what is the use of it all? Mary is not our own niece. She has absolutely no real claim upon us."

Sue had words in her mind about "the claim of helplessness," but she lacked courage to bring them forth. Fearing to be laughed at for the expression, she kept silence, and then was distressed at her own cowardice.

"For my part I am sick of it all," Clara continued pettishly. "I don't see why we are to be worried and put out of our way, just for the sake of Mary. Barbara is never free now—hardly ever in time for meals—and in a perfectly 'distraite' condition when she does vouchsafe us half-an-hour of her company. She seems to have no interest to spare for anything or anybody outside Mary's room. And I know what it will all mean by-and-by. Nothing but scraping and saving and paring, and not being able to afford this, that, and the other, for a year to come. Besides, when Mary does get better—if she ever does—what is to become of her? I hope to goodness she is not to be a permanent member of our family."

"I don't see why not," said Sue faintly.

"If you don't, I do. Of course it sounds a charming arrangement, but I for one should detest it. I can't endure those soft pretty women, who are always looking out for admiration. And suppose the child turns up, are we to take both of them in? We may as well decide at once to live on bread and water. It is not long since Barbara would have said the same, but her ideas seem all upside down. Not that I expect that Rhona ever will turn up. I believe the child is dead, and that is what has driven Mary out of her mind."

"Oh, don't say that, Clara; it gives such a wrong impression!" protested Sue.

"What, saying that Mary is out of her mind? I don't know how else to describe it. From the day she came to the house, she hasn't recognised a single person, and has scarcely spoken a rational sentence."

"But the first part of the time it was delirium."

"Very much like madness, I should say, and this is very much like idiocy. I don't quite know which is the worst. Three weeks and more of delirium—"

"Not more," put in Sue softly.

"Yes, more!" Clara reiterated, as if her assertion settled the matter. "And since then, as much sense as a baby two months old."

"But, Clara, that is only weakness. Dr. Wynne hopes it will soon pass off. He said yesterday that after such an illness, we must expect her to live for a time a mere vegetable existence."

"I don't believe Dr. Wynne knows anything about it, nor anybody else either," retorted Clara. "No one can tell what brought the illness on. And sometimes people's brains are so much affected by illness, that they never have their full senses again—never. A nice pickle we shall be in, if it turns out so with Mary. I don't see for my part what business we have had to take such a burden on ourselves."

Barbara was standing within the door, as the last words were uttered. She came with her dignified air to the table, and asked, "What would you have wished, Clara? Surely not to turn the poor thing out upon the world."

"I don't know what I wish, except to have things as they used to be," Clara answered, with tears in her eyes. "It is all miserable now. Nothing goes right; and Sue is my only companion from morning till night."

Sue took the implied slight calmly, saying, "I wish I were a better nurse that Barbara might be more often free to sit with you."

"I do not wish it," said Barbara. "Clara must not try to draw me from my duty."

"Is it our duty?" Clara questioned. "What is Mary to us?"

"She is Arthur's wife—William's daughter—"

"By marriage—"

"Yes; by marriage, of course. And she has thrown herself upon us in her helplessness. Could we have refused to take her in?"

Sue's face said, "No."

Clara slightly shrugged her shoulders, and snapped her worsted with a harder tug than usual. An impatient exclamation broke from her.

And as she joined the severed ends, Dr. Wynne was announced. He entered, hat in hand, an elderly man with silvered hair and placid eyes, yet not altogether unlike his son in manner and general contour.

"Good-morning," he said to one, and "How do you do?" to another. After a few remarks, there was the usual question, "What about the invalid to-day?"

"I think there is a change for the better," said Barbara. "She still notices nothing that goes on round her. But twice this morning, she has answered a question put to herself."

"Do you think she ever will or can get back her full senses, Dr. Wynne?" asked Clara bluntly.

"I have no reason for supposing otherwise," said Dr. Wynne in a laconic manner. Clara was not a favourite of his.

"But how long will she be like this?"

"I have not seen her to-day. Miss Mordaunt's report sounds hopeful."

Then, before going upstairs, he mentioned casually the fact that his son, Arbuthnot, had been up all night at a fire.

The ladies asked interested questions.

"Arbuthnot was called suddenly, after midnight, to a patient at a considerable distance," Dr. Wynne said, "and he came in for this fire on his way home. No lives have been sacrificed, happily, but it seems to have been a narrow escape with some of the inmates. The fire-escape had been called elsewhere, and barely arrived in time. One girl, lowered by sheets from a top window, broke her leg; and a gentleman dislocated his shoulder—a Colonel, I think my son said. The Colonel's little girl was saved too—a pretty child, according to Arbuthnot. He sat up with her the rest of the night, fearing the effects of the shock."

"So kind of him—just like Mr. Wynne," murmured Sue.

"Well, yes; Arbuthnot is never reluctant to take trouble," said Dr. Wynne. "Besides, he is fond of children, and he is a boy still in his love of adventure."

"And I suppose there was work for him to do,—broken bones," suggested Miss Mordaunt, little dreaming of the close connection which existed between herself and the "pretty child" of Dr. Wynne's story.

"He had his share. I saw him go off this morning with a bundle of clothes for the child, pretty nearly everything having being lost. However, I have really heard very few particulars. Now, Miss Mordaunt, if you will kindly let me go upstairs—"

They stood soon beside the bed. Rhona would hardly have recognised her mother in the wan wasted being, with half-closed dim eyes, and transparent powerless fingers. As a rule, during these days of deadly weakness, Mary Mordaunt paid no manner of attention to those around, and the task of arousing her sufficiently to receive food or medicine was a constantly recurring difficulty. Dr. Wynne had truly described her state as a mere "vegetable existence." She breathed and lived and took nourishment, but all thought and memory seemed to have fled.

This day there was a change. When Dr. Wynne drew up the blind, letting a ray of light fall upon the bed, and then bent to examine her face, the heavy eyes were lifted to his with an intelligent look, and a faint smile parted the white lips.

"Come, that is better. How do you do?" Dr. Wynne said gently, taking one of her hands.

"How do you do?" Mary repeated mechanically.

"Not so weak to-day, are you?" asked Dr. Wynne.

Mary watched him, with a puzzled languid look.

"Who is he?" she whispered at length.

"Dr. Wynne," Barbara answered. "Our kind Dr. Wynne, dear, who has been to see you every day, for such a long time. You will know him again now, I think. And you know me, don't you, Mary?"

The gaze was transferred to Barbara for two seconds.

"Yes," Mary said indifferently.

Dr. Wynne's hand made a silencing gesture, when Barbara would have pressed the matter.

Mary sighed, shut her eyes, and gave no more sign of attention through the rest of his short visit.

Outside the room Barbara said, "I think one word would rouse her now,—the child's name."

Dr. Wynne shook his head. "Too great a risk at present," he said.

"But surely anything would be better than this state?"

"We can hardly say that. There might be more harm than good in such an arousing. Remember, if the death of the child has been the direct cause of this illness, any agitation connected with the subject might cause a relapse. And a relapse now would almost certainly be fatal. No, we must be patient a little longer. There is undoubtedly an improvement to-day."

Barbara accompanied him to the front door. As he went down the steps, the postman came up, and Barbara received a letter from his hands. She hardly glanced at it, being more intent on first telling her sisters exactly what Dr. Wynne had said.

"But when Mary is well, where is she to go?" asked Clara.

"Time enough to think about that," Barbara answered. "Our way will be made clear."

"It isn't generally made clear as one wishes," said Clara pettishly. "Who is that letter for?"

"For me. I do not know the handwriting," Miss Mordaunt said in an absent tone; and then her face changed suddenly. "How strange! My last letter to Henry returned from India! Not from the Post Office. Somebody has enclosed it in an envelope, and written,—look—'Not here—gone some months ago.' Extraordinary."

"Odd!" echoed Clara.

Barbara's face showed agitation. "Where can Henry be? He has never failed before to give us notice of any permanent change of address. I thought he was a fixture in that appointment."

"Nobody is a fixture now in India," said Clara. "Well,—he is a queer sort of brother. I suppose he will deign some day to tell us his whereabouts. Meantime, we must remain in blissful ignorance."

"Clara, you don't understand," said Barbara, in distress. "It is not merely a question of his telling or not telling. Suppose something has happened to him. Suppose he has been taken ill, and died suddenly—"

"I wouldn't fancy that. Of course we should have heard," said Clara, while Sue looked sorrowful.

"I am not so sure. Who would tell us? Henry's friends are not our friends."

"Well, I think we ought to take in a daily paper," said Clara promptly. "But as for Henry, I really don't believe there is anything wrong. I really don't, Barbara," and she spoke affectionately, wishing to cheer her sister.

Clara cared little herself for this almost unknown elder brother. But Barbara had been his companion in childish days, and loved him still, despite long years of separation and coldness.

"I wouldn't fancy troubles, if I were you. Henry always was an erratic being. I dare say he has gone rushing off to Kamschatka or the Cape, and has forgotten to leave directions for the forwarding of his letters. We shall hear from him by-and-by; and he will count us very silly to have supposed that anything was wrong. Couldn't you come out for a walk with me this morning, instead of spending all your time in Mary's room?"