NUMBER THREE WINIFRED PLACE.

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED

22 BERNERS STREET, W.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. A STRANGER

II. MR. POWIS' VISITOR

III. MOTHER AND CHILD

IV. ANOTHER LODGER

V. COLONEL SMYTH'S ARRANGEMENTS

VI. NO FRIENDS TO THE FORE

VII. THE COLONEL AND HIS LANDLADY

VIII. A BUNCH OF GRAPES

IX. WHERE COULD SHE BE

X. IN THE FOG

XI. THE THREE AUNTS

XII. STILL ABSENT

XIII. THE COLONEL AND RHONA

XIV. AN EVENTFUL EVENING

XV. FIRE!

XVI. ACROSS THE WAY

XVII. AFTERWARDS

XVIII. THE MORDAUNT HOUSEHOLD

XIX. A LINK WANTING

XX. RESTORED HOPE

XXI. ABOUT THE AUNTS

XXII. NUMBER THREE, AND NUMBER THREE

XXIII. WYVERN HOUSE

XXIV. RHONA'S REAL UNCLE

XXV. TOGETHER AGAIN

XXVI. GATHERING UP THE THREADS

NUMBER THREE, WINIFRED PLACE.

CHAPTER I.

A STRANGER.

"THERE'S a ring at the door! I shouldn't wonder if it was somebody after lodgings! Look sharp, will you, Bertha, and don't go to sleep on the way. I never in all my life saw such a dawdle as that girl," concluded Mrs. Burrell.

It was a dismal afternoon in November. No actual rain had fallen since early morning, but the air reeked with damp, the sky was shut off by a dense haze overhead, and slush lay thickly on roads and pavements, while the thermometer stood at only one degree above freezing-point. Foot-passengers were hurrying to and fro, with a very evident dislike of the outer atmosphere, a very plain intention to get quickly through their divers businesses.

Mrs. Burrell's shop, No. 3 of a row, lay close to one of the greater thoroughfares, though actually situated in a side street. In Mrs. Burrell's estimation, the locality was "quiet": for though the rumble of traffic went on unceasingly, the said traffic did not pass her door. But some lodgers in Albert Terrace were wont to hold a different opinion.

The shop was well stocked with wools and fancywork of all descriptions, with Shetland shawls, worsted comforters, dainty work-baskets lined and unlined, supplemented by countless ornamental knick-knacks.

Part of the street was given up to shops, part to private houses, part to lodging-houses, pure and simple; not every one caring, like Mrs. Burrell, to combine the two vocations.

Mrs. Burrell herself was in appearance an eminently respectable and superior person, about fifty years of age, tall and upright in figure, with a sallow complexion and strongly-marked features. The curl in the end of her long nose, and the droop at each corner of her mouth, told tales of an uncomfortable temper; and her unsmiling eyes seemed to be ever on the look-out for something or somebody to blame. She had never yet learnt the happy and needful art of "shutting her eyes to things," had never yet realised the profound truth that other people's faults can no more be cured in a day than our own can be. Expecting absolute perfection in everybody—except of course in herself,—and failing to find what she looked for, she lived in a state of chronic dissatisfaction.

So Mrs. Burrell's pretty daughter, Hope, and still more, her sad-faced orphan niece, Bertha Stephens, and most of all her over-driven maid-of-all-work, Hannah Hoskyns, had altogether rather a "hard life of it," especially in the London season. Nothing so shadows the individual lives in a household as the perpetual presence of even one habitual grumbler, male or female.

As it was not now the season, Mrs. Burrell's "upstairs apartments" were empty, and had been empty for more than a fortnight. This was a somewhat unusual event, however. Mrs. Burrell's "connection" was so good, that even when London was most deserted, her rooms were often occupied.

Business in the shop had been slack that afternoon. Mrs. Burrell found time, without difficulty, to sit down to tea with her daughter and niece in the small parlour behind, keeping watch through the glass door for possible customers. Once a young lady in sable furs appeared, and Hope was despatched to meet a demand for "one skein of white Andalusian wool." Then came the ring at the side-door, which "might mean lodgers;" and Bertha disappeared.

"I never saw such a dawdle as that girl—never, in all my days," repeated Mrs. Burrell. "If your father, now, had had an idea of what he was asking me to undertake when he made me promise to keep her—"

"Why, mother, if we didn't have Bertha, we should be obliged to get in somebody else to do her work," said Hope.

"Then I hope it would be somebody I could depend upon," responded Mrs. Burrell. "Which is more than I can say for you two girls. I'm sure the trouble and the worry and the plague I have to keep things going, nobody knows."

Hope shrugged her shoulders, yawned, and drank her tea. Mrs. Burrell's mode of incessant faultfinding told ill upon this only daughter, inducing carelessness and a growing spirit of hardness, where a few words of kind encouragement would have made her willing to do her utmost. But—"nothing ever pleased mother," Hope was wont to say—"so where was the use of trying?" She had not been brought up by that mother to work from any higher motive.

The effect of the same treatment upon Bertha was different. A higher motive, lacking in Hope, was present in Bertha. She did not toil the less hard, though certainly she toiled the more hopelessly, so far as regarded the satisfying of Mrs. Burrell.

Bertha was not pretty, yet her face would have been very pleasant but for its singular sadness of expression. The downcast grey eyes were soft and pathetic, and she had a shrinking manner, as if labouring under a constant expectation of being blamed.

As a matter of fact, Bertha Stephens was expeditious in almost everything that she undertook. But Mrs. Burrell, deceived by her quietness, never could believe that she was not wasting her time. Some people count "speed" to be synonymous with "bustle."

"Well—here you are at last!" was the greeting she received on her return. "Who was it?"

"Only a mistake," Bertha answered. "A gentleman came to the wrong door."

"I thought it was something important, you were gone such a time."

Bertha sat down silently, making no attempt at self-defence.

"Have you finished putting up those curtains?" asked Mrs. Burrell, in a needlessly sharp manner. The question might just as well have been uttered kindly.

"Yes, aunt."

"You have been long enough about it, I hope! And the spots on the bedroom carpet,—of course you haven't seen to them."

Bertha looked perplexed. "Which spots?" she asked.

"As if you did not know. Don't pretend, Bertha. The best bedroom, of course. I showed them to you yesterday evening."

"You showed them to me, mother, not to Bertha," said Hope.

"Bertha knows better," said Mrs. Burrell curtly.

Bertha evidently did not know better. She remained silent.

"You will please to see to that as soon as ever you have done your tea. Anybody may call any day after lodgings, and I must have the place fit to be looked at. There's some one else come, Hope. Be quick."

Reluctantly Hope rose, leaving half a cup of tea to grow cold, and made her way into the shop. This customer kept her longer than the last had done.

Hope at length was free to turn once more towards the back-parlour. But hardly had she so turned, when she was arrested by a slight sound in her rear.

A lady had entered, and stood there,—quite a young lady, if one might judge from appearances, yet dressed in deep mourning, with a black crape veil falling behind, and a widow's cap within the bonnet. She was rather above medium height and slenderly made, with small hands clasping and unclasping each other continually. A red spot showed in either cheek, the dark eyes were dilated, while the muscles round the delicate mouth quivered with incessant motion.

"Can I show you anything, ma'am?" asked Hope.

"Thank you, no. I am not come to buy," the lady said, in a hurried yet gentle and gracious manner. "I believe—I believe you have lodgings in this house to let."

"Will you wait a moment, please? I'll call my mother," said Hope.

The lady remained motionless till Mrs. Burrell appeared, when she mechanically advanced towards the counter.

"I have been recommended to come to you," she said, in the same nervous though sweet voice which she had before addressed to Hope. "You have, I am told, rooms to let."

"Yes, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell answered agreeably. "How many would you please to want?"

"It is only for my little girl and myself. Your rooms are vacant now, I believe—at this present moment. I could come to you without delay?"

"Yes, ma'am," repeated Mrs. Burrell, for the last words had been uttered questioningly.

"I mean literally without delay—this afternoon," continued the lady, speaking again very hurriedly. "Circumstances have obliged me—There are reasons why I wish to leave my present rooms at once—immediately. It is not easy to find exactly what I want at such short notice, especially as I am a stranger to this part of London."

Mrs. Burrell was silent, looking with some wonder at the speaker's agitated lips.

"Indeed, I might say I am a stranger to London altogether." A faint smile accompanied the words, but was quickly lost in the painful quivering of every muscle. "Perhaps you would kindly—"

"Would you like to come inside and sit down, ma'am?" asked Mrs. Burrell, as the lady came to a sudden pause, pressing one hand to her side. "I'm afraid you are not very well."

"Thank you, no,—no; it is nothing. I must not waste a moment. The truth is, I have been a little upset to-day, and not being very strong—but it does not matter. If you would kindly tell me what rooms you have—"

"Three, commonly. Sometimes I throw in a fourth," said Mrs. Burrell.

"That would be much more than I need. But you do not let them all together?"

"Well, no; I like that best, ma'am, but I don't stand out for it," said Mrs. Burrell. "In the autumn, I had a gentleman and his wife in the parlour and best bedroom, and there was a single gentleman in the back bedroom. It's a tidy room enough, but there is no parlour belonging to it. I've turned the little lumber-room into a servant's room once in a way, but it is a trouble, and I don't care to have it to do."

"I think the one bedroom at the back might suit us," said the lady. "I cannot offer high terms. It is only for myself and my little girl, so we could manage nicely with one room. My little girl is only eight years old, and I shall have to leave her alone for several hours every day, while I am out—teaching." The speaker's lips trembled anew, as if this were a state of things to which she was not accustomed. "I am anxious to be in a house where she will be just a little looked after, and where I can leave her safely. She never gives trouble or gets into mischief. Still I do feel uneasy when she is alone, and your clergyman, Mr. Powis, told me—"

"Oh, are you a friend of Mr. Powis', ma'am?" Mrs. Burrell had not entirely liked the aspect of affairs hitherto, but now her face cleared.

The lady hesitated. "I cannot quite say that, but Mr. Powis mentioned your name to me, and assured me that we should be comfortable here."

"I don't think you need be uneasy, ma'am," Mrs. Burrell said, with complacency. "Though it isn't, of course, for me to say it; I never do have complaints as to any want of comfort. Mr. Powis often sends his friends to me; indeed, his recommendations have been helpful. He is a good man,—a very good man is Mr. Powis. He'll never fail to go out of his way to do a kindness to anybody, and that's what I like in a clergyman. It's fine to be a grand preacher, there's no doubt, but I like a clergyman who'll take a little trouble for the sake of folks."

Mrs. Burrell was really grateful to Mr. Powis for his frequent "recommendations" of her lodgings. She endeavoured to show her gratitude by forming one of his congregation at least once every Sunday. And if she rarely exerted herself to listen to his sermons, she rarely missed an opportunity of praising him.

"I am sure he is a good man," responded the lady,—"though indeed I cannot claim more than a bare acquaintance with him. But now will you kindly let me see your rooms? My name is Mordaunt—Mrs. Mordaunt."

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."