Chapter XXVI: Gathering Up the Threads

"I SUPPOSE I must not venture to say what I feel," Miss Mordaunt remarked, as a preliminary to the giving forth of her opinion. "But I certainly do think it has been a most extraordinary proceeding. To spend months in London,—not only in England, but actually in London itself, not half-an-hour's drive distant from us,—and never to let your own sisters know that you were on this side of the globe! It is most extraordinary! Not only that, but to have property left you, to take a new name, to retire from the army, to change your whole manner of life,—and still to leave us in ignorance! I do think we have reason to be pained, and I confess I am pained, more than you can imagine. Our dear William would never have treated us so. I should not have expected any great show of confidence from you, but this is going far indeed. I do think you have not acted rightly towards us, not even with due respect,—I am not speaking of affection."

Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth paced to and fro impatiently during his sister's harangue. It was not the first he had had to endure, and he was beginning to feel irritated. Rhona had been all the evening absent from him, in her mother's room. He had of course yielded to the general wish that Rhona should at once take up her abode in the house, though himself bent upon sleeping at the hotel, despite all opposition. But after weeks of close companionship, he felt at a loss without the child's loving little face and voice; and his three sisters could by no means supply her place.

There had always been friction between him and them in past days; and the friction began again so soon as they came together. Pleased though Barbara really was to have him back, she reverted at once to her old custom of complaining about this and wondering about that, while Clara trod in her footsteps. It was just what he had expected, and just what he had all along sought to avoid. He began to wonder that even Rhona had succeeded in drawing him out of his comfortable retirement.

"I suppose you may venture to say what you like," he responded tartly to Barbara.

"But, Henry,—if you only will consider! Of course you do not like us to be vexed, and you expect to be received just as if you had treated us with brotherly confidence. But if you only would consider! Think how it will look in the eyes of our friends! Think of Dr. Wynne! I assure you I feel bewildered. All these months within almost a walk of one another, and not a single word from you to enlighten us! What could have been your motive? Were you offended with us? Did anything in our last letters displease you?"

Colonel Smyth hesitated, frowned, and finally laughed.

"It's of no earthly use being put out," he said. "I always was an odd fellow and did things my own way. You must put up with me as I am, and not count me worse than the reality. The thing is done now, and can't be helped. I promise not to treat you so cavalierly again, and that is all I can do. You will have to forgive and forget."

"I may forgive, but it is not easy to forget," Barbara said coldly, for her pride and affection were alike wounded.

"No, indeed," echoed Clara, who alone beside was present, Sue having vanished.

Colonel Smyth sat down and was silent, seemingly lost in thought.

Barbara, looking at him, was struck again, as she had already been, with a nameless change in his face, with a certain softness of expression underlying the rugged outline. Her conscience gave a stab. Henry might have acted wrongly, but what was she about, to visit his wrong-doing upon his head?

"Yes, we 'will' forgive and forget," she said, and rising from her seat she kissed him twice. "There shall be no coldness between us after all these years of separation. We will forgive all, and try to forget. Perhaps—I dare say it was so—perhaps you did not at first really mean to carry the thing on so long."

"No; you are right there," the Colonel said, looking relieved. "I certainly did not intend it. I was drawn on, step by step."

"There are a few points that I am not clear about yet," Barbara observed, after a moment's thought. She and her sisters had been put into possession of a good many facts that evening, but the outline needed filling up. "I suppose you decided to retire, after hearing that Mrs. Smyth had left you her property. Strange that you should have received so much from one who was a complete stranger to us!"

"I must have mentioned Captain Smyth to you. There was a strong tie between us, in the fact that I was once able to save his life at the risk of my own. Mrs. Smyth never forgot it. Yes, I settled to leave the army immediately—but I had had thoughts before of doing so. Why I didn't write to tell you all these things I really don't know. A matter of laziness, I suppose. I am only surprised that nobody should have seen a notification of my change of name in any English paper. It must surely have been in some of them."

"No one did, at all events. I wrote to you about Mary, soon after poor Arthur's death."

"Yes; that letter reached me, and helped to hurry me home. You'll excuse my saying so now, Barbara, but I didn't like the view you seemed to take of Mary's position—saying she had no claim upon any of us."

"Did I?" Barbara looked thoughtful. "I forget."

"Something to that effect. The next letter from you reached me just as I was on the point of starting for England, and was full of indignation at Mary's flight and concealment."

"I thought she had treated us wrongly."

"And she thought the same of you. Oddly enough that mail brought me another letter, from a complete stranger, an English clergyman in Italy, who had been a friend of poor Arthur's. He wrote to say that he was very anxious about Mary,—'young Mrs. Mordaunt' as he called her,—that she had seemingly given offence to her husband's relatives in London, and was consequently alone and friendless. He was too poor himself, he said, to give material assistance, and he did not know what would become of the poor young thing,—could I help her?—and so on. Stay, I have the letter in my pocket-book. I can read you the last paragraph.

"'Mrs. Mordaunt writes to my wife in confidence, and I must not therefore say much more, but I cannot abstain from this effort to find her a friend in her great need. If you are disposed to do anything, please direct your inquiries towards a certain Albert Terrace in the neighbourhood of — Street. I entreat you not to write one word of this to the Miss Mordaunts, your sisters. Mrs. Mordaunt seems to dread inexpressibly the idea of her present retreat being discovered by them.

"'You may wonder how I am acquainted with your name and address, but I had much to do after the death of Arthur Mordaunt, with looking through his papers. By the same means, I am also aware that you have had thoughts of an early return to England. I trust this may be the case. I hardly see how you can do anything for Mrs. Mordaunt at a distance. Once more, I entreat you to remember that all this is in the strictest confidence, and that not a word of it may reach your sisters!'"

"He seems to have looked upon us as terrible ogres," Barbara said, with an uncomfortable laugh, and then tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, I have done my best to convince people—"

"I am sure you have, and most successfully," said the Colonel, in a tone of kindness. "But this will help to explain to you my silence."

"Did you answer the letter?"

"No. Perhaps I should have done so. I respected his confidence, and mentioned his letter to no one, until this evening. I would rather that it should go no farther."

"Of course,—you may trust us," Barbara said, with a glance at Clara. "I think you should write to him now, for my sake, to explain how matters really are. Then you went to Mrs. Burrell's lodgings, on purpose to be under the same roof with Mary."

"I went to an hotel, on my first arrival in London; and a few inquiries soon made me acquainted with the fact that a Mrs. Mordaunt was lodging at No. 3 Albert Terrace. I really had not made up my mind what to do next, for I was anxious to know more about Mary, before committing myself. But, learning that there were vacant rooms in the same house, I went there—on Christmas Day, I believe—not with any fixed intention of taking them. However, while I was in the house, I happened to overhear Mary's voice singing a hymn, and somehow that settled me. It was absurd, of course,—but the contralto was so exactly like Margaret's, and the hymn, one that she used to sing for the children. I knew it again directly."

"I wondered if you had ever thought of the connection," Barbara said.

"Of course I did," the Colonel answered gruffly.

"And then you told Mary who you were?"

"No, I did not. If I had, all this trouble might have been spared. I could not make up my mind to any definite course of action. Partly laziness, perhaps,—I didn't want to be bothered,—and there was a stupid feeling which you won't understand—a dislike to seeing her."

"I think I do understand," Barbara said in a gentle tone.

"Not that she really is so very like. The resemblance in Rhona is much more striking. However, one thing and another made me hold aloof and put off doing anything, week after week. I was beginning to pick up an acquaintance with the little one, and that was all."

"And you were supposed all the while to be merely a Colonel Smyth! I wonder your letters did not betray you."

"That was easily avoided. Letters went to my bankers', and remained there till I called for them. There was no difficulty in keeping up my incognito, and the only person who showed curiosity was my landlady. Certainly I came rather near discovery at the time that Wynne was in and out, but he is a thorough gentleman and asked no needless questions. Well—I suppose my wish for secrecy went too far in the first instance. One is drawn on somehow, and once fairly in for it, I felt less and less inclined to break out of the coil. Then Mary disappeared, and I found myself with the child left on my hands. She is a sweet creature—wins her way into one's heart. I seem to have thought of nothing but Rhona lately."

Clara was opportunely summoned out of the room, and Barbara, looking earnestly at her brother, said—"You are altered, Henry."

"If I am, it is the child! You would not have said so six months ago."

"I never saw you so like our dear William."

"Pshaw!" the Colonel said, half-touched, half-amused. "I tell you it is only that child! She can twist me round her finger."

"She seems to have been to you a little angel unawares," said Barbara. "As Mary has been to us."

"There was not the same need with you three good creatures. Did you know that I have been for years past a man of no religion—practically none?" In a husky tone, the Colonel added—"That little one's sweet words and ways have, I hope, brought me to my senses."

"I know you never talked: but I always hoped you felt more than appeared on the surface."

"I can't talk now—it isn't my way. But there used to be no feeling—and lately it has come," said the Colonel. "More than mere feeling, I hope."

Habitual reserve checked further confidence, and both were silent for some seconds.

"What do you think of doing next?" Barbara asked presently.

"I can't part with the child, and where she is, Mary of course must be. I shall offer them both a home."

"Ours would have been open to them." Barbara looked disappointed.

"No, no, better not—you three do well together, and five women under one roof is too much!" The Colonel evidently meant what he said. "Not that Rhona is a woman yet, but she will be by-and-by. Clara would inevitably clash with her; and my little darling is too sensitive for sharp words. You have been at great expenses already—by-the-bye you must let me help you in that matter—and your income won't stand any amount of drain. Besides, you could not really wish to deprive me of the child—you don't know all that she is to me. No, no, my home must be hers and Mary's. You do not think Mary will object."

"I should say she would be only thankful to accept your offer. Mary is hardly in a state now to object to anything—she has grown so curiously passive. Dr. Wynne does not think her mind can ever again be quite what it was before her illness. I mention this, because you ought to understand what you are proposing to take upon yourself."

"We will look well after her, and Bertha will be an invaluable help. She is a thoroughly good and reliable creature. I have taken her into my confidence lately."

"You will need a confidential servant with Mary, for some time to come—when she is able to be moved, I mean, which will not be yet. But what if Mrs. Burrell wants Bertha again?"

"Mrs. Burrell has given up any rights she may have once possessed. Bertha promises to remain with me."

"Was it your doing, or Bertha's own fault, that Mrs. Burrell never heard from her?" inquired Barbara.

"My doing entirely. I told her I had reasons, and requested her not to write. Later on, I gave her some little notion of the real state of things. Well—I must be off. It is getting late, and I want to look in on Dr. Wynne and his son. But I must say good-bye to the little one first. Ah, here she comes—" as Rhona ran in, with shining eyes and brilliant cheeks. "She looks well,—eh, Barbara?"

"That is excitement," Barbara answered. "But she really does seem stronger."

The Colonel was folding Rhona in his arms. "Had a happy evening with mother, my pet?" he asked.

"So happy—oh, so happy," Rhona answered, drawing long breaths, and laying her head on his shoulder. "I can't tell you how very very glad I am. It does seem all so beautiful. And I've been telling mother all about you, uncle, and she says she can never never thank you rightly."

"Nobody wants thanking," said the Colonel. "Tell mother it was all a selfish pleasure."

"I don't think I can say that, because it wasn't selfish. And oh, aunt Barbara—please—" continued Rhona, with a deepening colour—"I want so very much to tell you that I am sorry I had such naughty thoughts about you. I didn't know you were nursing darling mother all that very time."

"My dear!" Barbara said in surprise.

She checked an inclination to inquire what the child meant, and patted her cheek.

"We will not think any more about past mistakes, Rhona. They are all at an end now."

"Yes, we have to think about the future, not the past," added Colonel Mordaunt-Smyth. "I must say good-bye—"

"Good-bye!"

Rhona broke into his utterance with a startled intonation, absolutely growing pale, to the Colonel's great satisfaction. He had had some fear of finding himself entirely supplanted in her affections by the restored mother.

"No, no, my darling; not real good-bye—only good-night. I will be back in the morning. If mother is willing, we shall not be separated. Do you think she will come and live with me, and bring you too? That is what I want—that you and she and I should make a home together."

"And Bertha too?" asked Rhona breathlessly.

"Yes, Bertha too. We can't do without her."

"And will it be in the country, uncle?"

"Well, yes, I think so—all the summer. London in the winter, probably. What will mother say?"

Rhona sprang to the ground and fled like a little lapwing. She was back before they could have thought it possible.

"Mother says it is the loveliest thing that could happen, and she would so like it, and you are the dearest dearest of uncles," Rhona cried rapturously, throwing herself upon him.

"Then that is a compact between us," the Colonel said, smiling.

THE END.

Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & CO.
Edinburgh & London