Chapter II: Mr. Powis' Visitor

"YOU'LL have to look sharp, and get—why, where is Bertha?" asked Mrs. Burrell, entering the little parlour, with an air of perturbation.

"Gone upstairs," said Hope.

"That girl is never at hand when I want her. And you have no business here, Hope. Why are you not in the shop?"

"What did the lady want?" asked Hope, by way of answer.

"She is a Mrs. Mordaunt, and she has taken the back room. There isn't a moment to be lost, for it must be ready in less than two hours."

"Two hours!" repeated Hope.

"Yes, I don't know why. She is in some sort of trouble, and obliged to move in a hurry. She seemed dreadfully upset and flurried, poor thing."

"Only one lady?" asked Hope.

"There is a child too. You wouldn't think it, to look at her, but she has a child eight years old. It seems odd, a lady being content with one room, but it's easy to see she's poor. She goes out teaching. But she's a lady, and no mistake, so I suppose she's been reduced. I only hope I shall get my money regular."

"Oh, I dare say that will be all right," said Hope.

"I'm not so sure. There's no telling beforehand. I had my doubts from the first, and if she hadn't come from Mr. Powis, I wouldn't have fitted in things so easy for her. But Mr. Powis sending any one makes a difference."

Mr. Powis' name might this time have made rather less difference in the landlady's estimation, could she, by virtue of some unwonted power, have taken a backward glance into the study of St. Andrew's Rectory, less than one hour previously.

Mr. Powis was a tall and shy-mannered man, apt to be taken with bashful or silent fits, and never ready in speech. But he was, as Mrs. Burrell had said, and in a deeper sense than Mrs. Burrell had meant, a good man,—earnest and hearty in work for God, ready and self-forgetting in work for man. He was in appearance plain-featured, and at first sight not attractive. Yet people who went to him in trouble did not think him plain; and children were the last to count him unattractive.

He had been busy over his sermon that afternoon, when there came an interruption. Could he see a lady—a stranger? Mr. Powis hesitated. Would some other time do equally well? He was very much occupied. The answer returned was—No; it must be "now." Would Mr. Powis spare just five minutes?

The sermon-sheets were pushed aside, and a young fair woman in deep mourning appeared. She was even more tremulous and agitated then, than a little later at Mrs. Burrell's. He shook hands kindly and handed her to a chair, interested at once in her look, and foreseeing also at once that the five minutes were likely to prove elastic in nature. Mr. Powis could, however, bear an interruption patiently if there were a sufficient cause; and he read cause enough in the troubled face opposite.

Mrs. Mordaunt was the first to break the brief silence. Twice she tried in vain, voice failing her. The third attempt was successful.

"I am a stranger here," she said faintly. "I have no friends in London—no friends in England. My home has always been abroad,—and now it is all changed. I am a widow—and an orphan. I have come to beg your advice."

Mr. Powis signified his readiness to advise, more by gesture than by utterance.

"I must not take up your time—more than I can help," she went on hurriedly, with occasional pauses as if for breath. "But I have no friends,—none,—and I do so need one. And I have heard you preach once,—only once,—and I thought you would help me."

"Take time about it. Don't distress yourself," said Mr. Powis, pushing his papers farther to one side. "There is no need for haste. You are suffering,—ill, I am afraid."

"No, no, not ill. I have only been so cruelly agitated this morning, I cannot get over it. And I have no one to turn to—no one to help me. But you will be a friend—" and she looked up at him imploringly, like a child.

"I will do what I can indeed," he said. "Tell me your difficulty."

"I am encompassed with difficulties. I don't know how to breathe or how to move. And yet I must move, at once. I want to find lodgings in your Parish, if possible, to go into this afternoon. And I thought you would perhaps tell me where to inquire. I want to find a house where my little girl would be cared for, while I am out all day, teaching. That will have to be my work—teaching. Can you help me to find pupils?"

"Wait—one thing at a time," he said slowly. "You want lodgings for yourself and your child." He spoke the last word wonderingly. "I suppose she is quite tiny—poor little one."

"Rhona is close upon nine years old, and in mind is twice that. She has always been my friend and companion. You think me younger than I am!"—for he had uttered an exclamation.

"You look hardly over twenty."

"I am twenty-seven. I was only seventeen when I married. My husband was a clergyman, a chaplain in Italy. Before that I lived in the south of France, with my parents. So England is a strange land to me. I was an only child, and my parents are gone, and six months ago my husband was taken. I have only my little Rhona left, and 'very' little to live upon. So it is needful for me to work."

Mr. Powis made a sound of commiseration, and then thought silently. "Your husband's relatives," he said at length. "Are there none? Or will they do nothing?"

A rush of colour suffused her pale face. "No, no,—I can ask nothing of them. I must work for myself."

"But perhaps if they knew and realised the state of your affairs—"

"No, no," she said feverishly. "I cannot go to them—again. Oh no, it is impossible. If you knew all, you would say the same. They have always disliked me, and we have always been strangers. I must keep out of their way."

"You have not seen any of them since your coming to England?"

"Yes,—I 'have!'" she said with an effort. "I cannot again. That is at an end. It is quite at an end. I stand alone now, and I must stand alone. By-and-by my Rhona will work for me, but now I have to work for her. Will you not help me to find pupils? That is all I ask."

Mr. Powis again studied the question seriously, in his deliberate fashion, playing with a paper-knife.

"I have not told you my name," she said. "It is Mary Mordaunt. I trust you to take no steps whatever without my consent—I mean as regards my husband's relatives. If you hear of any Mordaunts at any time, or come across them, do not reveal where I am. I want only to get a quiet corner for myself and my child, and just enough work to eke out a living. You see I do not expect great things!" And she smiled sadly.

"Do you think you have strength for what you propose?"

"Oh yes, yes!—I am stronger than you would suppose. Only I cannot stand agitation. Since Arthur's death, I have been subject to this tremulousness—a kind of throbbing from head to foot. The least emotion brings it on, and my feelings have been cruelly tried to-day. But I do not mind work—any amount! And I know I have a gift for teaching. When I am peacefully alone with Rhona—away from discords—I shall be perfectly well."

Then Mr. Powis thought of Mrs. Burrell, and he told his visitor all about her.

"Let me know if you decide to go there," he said. "But about the question of teaching—"

"Yes, about that!" she said earnestly.

"I am rather in a difficulty, knowing so little of you." He was touched with her almost girlish simplicity in the matter. "People are usually rather particular in their inquiries."

"But you shall know more—I will tell you anything you wish. I think it will be easy to satisfy you. And there is one kind old friend, a French 'pasteur,' who will confirm all I say, if you care to write to him. My father was in the Indian army till he retired, and we settled down abroad. And my education has been a very thorough one. It used to be thought that I might have to teach one day—before I was engaged, I mean. I could undertake all the plain branches, and music and singing and drawing—only not German. French and Italian are almost the same to me as English."

"And—excuse me—your religious opinions?"

"When I heard you preach, it was just what my husband would have said," she answered, with a luminous gleam in her eyes. "I have always thought the same as Arthur. You can ask me any questions you like—another day."

"When was it that you heard me?" he asked, rising as she rose.

"Three Sundays ago. I have only been in London a few weeks. Some one spoke of you; and Rhona and I wandered off together. It was a very long walk, too long for either of us, and I could not attempt it again. But when I found myself in perplexity and trouble, my first impulse was to come to you."

"You cannot recall the text of the sermon, I suppose?"

Her lips could hardly form the words,—

"'A Father of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in His
holy habitation.'"

"Ah, I remember," he said, as two burning tears fell. "Poor thing! But you will not say again, as you did just now, that you have no friend."

"I never say such things to Rhona," she answered brokenly. "I would not for worlds utter a word to disturb my child's faith. Rhona seems to live in an atmosphere quite above all doubts, and she does not know the difference between herself and me. I do believe, but I am at a lower level. I cannot see—cannot realise. Your sermon helped me,—if it would but last. Nothing lasts, except the darkness and the sorrow. Perhaps, if I were to hear you every Sunday, I might feel differently. I must not wait longer now. I have to find the lodgings, and to bring Rhona away quickly from where we are now. Good-bye, and thank you for all your kindness."

"We shall see more of you, Mrs. Mordaunt. You must come and make my wife's acquaintance, for she is tied to her sofa, and cannot go to you," were Mr. Powis' parting words.