Chapter XXV: Together Again

"HOW strangely one may be mistaken in other people! I never knew you till now, aunt Barbara. So very very good you have been to me! I can never repay you."

"It is easy to be good to people, if one loves them," Barbara answered.

"I don't know about being easy,—and I do not know why you should love me. I have been nothing but a trouble."

"I have not felt you a trouble."

"No, because you are so good—so self-forgetting. You must let me thank you this once, dear aunt. I sometimes feel as if the weight of obligation were more than I could bear."

Mary Mordaunt looked wan and shadowy still. She was exceedingly fragile after her illness, and would remain so, the doctor said, for a long while. Callers were still almost entirely forbidden, for the slightest excitement brought on confusion and forgetfulness; and she had not yet been downstairs.

Many weeks had now gone by since Mary first learnt that her little Rhona was still living. Before that, through some inadvertent remark uttered within her hearing, she had fully believed the child to be dead. Gradually, and not sooner than was found needful, it had been broken to her that Rhona's present whereabouts was unknown. Mary bore the shock better than was expected, though it threw back her recovery for at least a fortnight. She seemed to have learnt in this illness a new calm, to have gained a new power of waiting. Possibly some part of the calm was due to her uncertain memory, and her want of power to realise things.

Advertising had not yet been tried. Arbuthnot Wynne's conjecture, as to the motives which swayed poor Colonel Smyth, had been so strongly adopted by the three aunts, that they were quite convinced of its uselessness. To advertise would simply be, they said, to drive the Colonel deeper into retirement. Mr. Wynne recommended the attempt being made, but the ladies deferred following his advice. Private inquiries were instituted in divers directions, thus far with no results. Barbara would have given much to find the child, and so to still the wistful longing in Mary's eyes. But "that wicked man," as Clara commonly designated the unfortunate Colonel, had taken his measures effectually, and Rhona's retreat remained undiscovered.

"You must not think of it as an obligation at all," Barbara kindly answered. "Do not distress yourself, Mary, about gratitude. I am quite content to have shown you that at least my intentions from the first were not cruel."

"Cruel! O no. If only I had not been so foolish and impulsive!"

"It is easy to look back afterwards, and see that we did not, either of us, act too wisely. But that is over now."

"I hope somehow—some day—to be able to repay," whispered Mary. "When I am strong, and can work again."

"That will not be yet. You have to submit to be taken care of at present. And if it is God's will for you, I am sure you will not murmur."

She found this simple suggestion always efficacious.

Mary smiled faintly. "No," she said. "Oh, how my Rhona loves His will."

"And you too, Mary?"

"Yes, I think so." A strained look came into her eyes, as she repeated—"Yes, I think so. Before my illness, there was such a blackness of darkness everywhere? It comes back in memory sometimes, and makes me shudder. I hope never to go through the same again. But things seem different now—the darkness is gone. I don't think I wish to have what God does not choose for me. Perhaps it is partly because I have no strength—no power to feel anything keenly."

Two days later, Mary was permitted to make her first excursion downstairs. Barbara presided at afternoon tea, Mary lying upon a sofa, white, frail, and placidly smiling. Sue hung about the couch in a state of dumb devotion; and even Clara, who had thus far held out in some measure against the invalid, at length succumbed, showing a kindness equal to Barbara's.

Tea was almost finished, when Mary said wistfully—"I suppose nobody has heard anything more of Mrs. Burrell lately?"

"Why, yes," Barbara answered. "I did not care to trouble you by bringing up the subject, as there was nothing good to report. But Mr. Wynne told me that she had at last set up a new shop near her old quarters,—the next street, is it not, Sue? Mrs. Burrell has heard nothing of her niece, and cannot tell what has become of her."

"It seems strange," Mary said.

"More than strange. A most ungrateful girl," observed Barbara. "It is her simple duty to write, after all that Mrs. Burrell has done for her."

"I shouldn't wonder if her silence is all the fault of that wicked Colonel," said Clara. "I told Mrs. Burrell that he was probably the one who ought to be blamed. She said she shouldn't wonder, for she always had had her doubts about him."

"But Bertha Stephens is not a child, to be entirely under his control," said Barbara. "However, we shall know more some day soon." And she spoke cheerfully for Mary's sake. "If other means fail, I really think we had better in a few days try advertising. Does Mrs. Burrell seem doing well in her new shop, Clara?"

"Things looked prosperous, but she spoke dolefully. I should take her for an arrant grumbler," said Clara. "A very unpleasant old woman, in my opinion. The daughter is a pretty girl. She is going to be married soon to the young schoolmaster who took in Mrs. Burrell after the fire,—her nephew, isn't he? It seems a happy arrangement. I suppose the engagement is a satisfaction to Mrs. Burrell, but she looked uncommonly grim over even that."

"If you please, ma'am, a gentleman wants to speak to you."

The door had been opened noisily, and these words came with abruptness. The parlour-maid being out that afternoon, her place was temporarily filled by the housemaid, a new importation from the country.

"Really that girl is too much for civilised nerves," muttered Clara. "Shut the door, Maria."

"A gentleman!" repeated Barbara. "What is his name?"

"He didn't give no name, ma'am." Maria stood with her fingers on the door-handle, unheeding Clara's order.

"Then ask him."

"I did ask him, and he said it was of no consequence, ma'am, and could he come in?"

"You had better say I am engaged, and he can call again. Or stay,—perhaps it will save trouble in the end if I see him now. Show the gentleman into the dining-room."

Maria retreated awkwardly with that intent, and nearly backed into the arms of somebody close behind.

"Hallo, look out!" a gruff voice said; and then,—"I suppose we can come in. Stand back."

"Please, sir, if you please, sir,—this way, sir," protested Maria.

But her efforts being vain, she resigned herself to the inevitable, and looked on, open-mouthed.

Those within the drawing-room saw a grey-haired and upright gentleman enter, leading by the hand a child in deep mourning.

Barbara's first impulse was to rise and say severely,—"There is some mistake. I desired that you might be shown—"

"How do you do, Barbara?" said the new-comer, flushing slightly under his bronzed skin.

"Henry!"

Barbara was not easily overcome, but she actually turned pale, and sat down, motes dancing before her eyes, and bees buzzing in her ears. The child was unnoticed by her in that moment's agitation. She had no thought except for this brother, so long absent, so suddenly restored.

"Sue,—Clara,—it is Henry,—our Henry!" she muttered.

Hers was not however the only recognition.

"Barbara!—It is Rhona!" Clara exclaimed in amazement.

At the same moment, the child's glance fell upon the sofa near the fire, partly sheltered from observation by a large screen.

Mary already knew all, and was receiving her joy calmly. A bright flush rose in either cheek, and she clasped her hands, neither starting nor exclaiming, but lying quietly, with riveted gaze. For two or three seconds, Rhona had been unconscious of her presence.

"MOTHER!"

Mary's colourless face had flushed, but Rhona's bloom gave place to deadly pallor. For Mary had known the child to be living, while Rhona had believed the mother to be dead. No other sound came from either. Rhona was by her mother's side with a spring, lying over her, clasped and clasped, in a very agony of joy, too intense for any other manner of expression.

The silence was absolute. Mother and daughter remained locked together in that wordless grasp, as if they might never part again, and the face of neither could be seen. Sue was quietly dropping tears behind the screen. Clara seemed lost in astonishment. Barbara still looked pale and overcome. Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth had no eyes except for Rhona.

"This will not do," Barbara said, and she glanced from one to another with a husky laugh. "We all seem petrified. Henry!"

The Colonel turned to her, as with a new idea, and stooped to bestow a kiss. "I declare I'm forgetting," he said apologetically. "We have not met for so long. It is rather a shame to take you by surprise, in this fashion."

He paid the same brotherly attention to Sue and Clara, then turned anew to the sofa.

"Rhona,—my little girl," he said.

A moment's silence, and he repeated, "Rhona!"

"Yes, make her stand up, Henry. Mary will be worse," Barbara said, in sudden alarm. "But how Rhona happens to be with you—! It is all a mystery."

The Colonel left explanations till later. "Rhona, my pet!" he said again, and he touched her arm.

She raised herself slowly, pale as ashes, and lifted her eyes to his with a dazed dreamy look. Then there was a flush, and a low cry, as Rhona flung herself upon him. "O uncle, uncle,—O uncle, it is mother, it is my own own sweet sweet mother!" she sobbed wildly. "I don't know what to do,—I don't know how to bear it,—I am so glad!"

The three sisters were in tears, and not they only, for the Colonel himself was actually sobbing. Of all who were present, Mary alone kept calm. She lay placidly, with folded hands, and a smile of indescribable content.

"It is more than I dared hope," she whispered, so low that Sue alone overheard. "To see her so well cared for—so bright and strong—the little darling! My God, how I thank Thee! Thou hast been better to me than all my fears."

"Rhona, don't—don't now—hush, my pet," the Colonel was saying huskily. "You must not make yourself ill."

But this was no manner of weeping to make any one ill. Rhona was soon able to go back to the couch, with a face of eager joy, clasping one of the Colonel's hands, and clinging afresh to her newly-found mother.

"I don't think we shall ever be able to be glad enough," she whispered, "It is all so beautiful!! And to think of finding you here—with aunt Barbara! And oh, mother darling, I do want you to love my dear dear uncle. He is so good, and he saved me out of the fire, and he has given me such lots of things. I do love him!"

"Is it Colonel Smyth?" asked Mary, turning to him with a grateful smile. She had heard and seen nothing as yet, beyond Rhona.

"It is Henry Mordaunt—aunt Barbara's brother—your husband's uncle," the Colonel said, bending over her. "You shall hear all soon, Mary. Your little Rhona has been a dear child to me this summer."

"It is all so strange,—so bewildering,—I cannot quite understand," Mary said patiently. "But I have my darling,—my darling,—thank God for that."