“NOW we shall see!” Dulcibel announced in a tone of much excitement, as she drew near the door of a lonely cottage, walking by her husband’s side. On his other side trotted Joan, solemn and content.
The morning had turned out a sunny contrast to the day before, and they had decided to bring Joan with them. She was very willing to come. The last few minutes there had been about her a certain air of expectancy; and when they turned from the high road into a side lane, Joan’s little hand had given the first pull in that direction. George Rutherford marked this silently.
“Now for it, Georgie, dear! Will she acknowledge the child, I wonder? What do you think?”
“Possibly the child may acknowledge her,” suggested George.
“To be sure; I didn’t think of that. What a queer place for a lady to stay in! Clean, certainly, but—. And she really is a lady, isn’t she? Didn’t you say so?”
“My dear, I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance yet,” said George.
“Oh, you are always so dreadfully cautious and uncertain! I like to make up my mind one way or the other, and then if one is mistaken one can so easily change. What are you waiting for?”
A gesture checked Dulcibel’s advance. She stood still wonderingly. Joan slid her little hand out of George’s, walked calmly to the cottage door, and endeavored to turn the handle, with the air of one at home.
“Joan, does mother live here?” asked George.
“Muvver an’ Frint,” pronounced Joan.
“George!” interjected Dulcibel.
“Spartan brevity,” murmured George. “Hush—wait, Dulcie!”
Joan’s efforts produced an effect. The door was opened from within, and a fresh-faced, elderly woman stood there. She uttered an exclamation, put up her hands, and fell back a step. Joan offered a kiss, evidently as a matter of course. Then she returned to George, and endeavored to pull him forward.
“If it isn’t little Miss Joan—her very own self!” said Mrs. Flint.
“There!” Dulcibel said.
“This is the little girl whom we found beside the shaking bridge,” said George gravely.
“It’s Mrs. Brooke’s little girl, sir.”
“I told you so!” sounded from Dulcibel.
“Is Mrs. Brooke indoors?”
“No sir; Mrs. Brooke has left this morning quite sudden—she said she was obliged. She’s been gone two hours and more.”
Husband and wife exchanged looks, Dulcibel of course muttering once again—“I told you so!”
George Rutherford’s fair, good-humored face had taken a stern set.
“Where has Mrs. Brooke gone?”
“I don’t know, sir, indeed. But there’s a letter for you, sir, and perhaps that’ll make things clear, for I confess I don’t understand about Miss Joan, and that’s a fact, seeing Mrs. Brooke took her away to see friends, and you found her all alone at the shaking bridge. I don’t understand it, sir; but would you please to step in and sit down? I’m sorry things aren’t straighter—it’s early yet, you see. I’ll get the letter, sir.”
Dulcibel accepted one chair, and George another, Joan leaning against his knee. “That woman is not Welsh,” Dulcibel remarked, in Flint’s absence.
“No; English. She came, when her husband died, to live with his parents, and since their death this cottage has belonged to her. I believe her husband was a soldier; and she has two sons now in the army, who help to keep her.” George spoke abstractedly, adding—“This seems strange.”
“Just what I have expected all along,” said Dulcibel.
Mrs. Flint came back, and George received the folded sheet, a slight exclamation passing his lips as he noted the address—“How could she know my name?”
“Why, of course you gave it yesterday,” said Dulcibel.
“No, I did not.”
“No, sir, you didn’t mention no name,” chimed in Mrs. Flint. “I couldn’t make out how it was the lady seemed to know, if so be that’s right.”
“Quite right,” George said laconically.
He opened and read slowly—read more than once, with a look of growing astonishment. He seemed to forget the presence of others. Once or twice he put the letter down on his knee, gazing into the distance, rubbing his brow and combing out his beard, with gestures of perplexity peculiar to himself. Dulcibel could endure the suspense no longer.
“Georgie, what does she say? Do please tell me.”
George woke up, as from a dream, and gave the paper to his wife.
“Read it,” he said; and then he suddenly caught up Joan, and folded her in both his strong arms. “Little lamb—poor little, motherless lamb!” broke from him in stirred, deep tones, while his brows were still sternly bent. Dulcibel sat looking at him.
“Then it has been done all on purpose, Georgie, dear?”
“Read the letter,” George answered; and Dulcibel obeyed. It ran as follows:—
“Sir,—Forgive a broken-hearted woman fortroubling you. I am poor, ill and friendless.”“I have not known what to do. The last year anda half since my husband’s death has been onelong misery. My money is now almost at an end,and I have no more coming. I am broken-down inhealth, and I cannot work.”“The thought of dying and leaving my little Joanin the hands of strangers has pressed upon menight and day. Sometimes I have been halfmaddened by it, and by my own helplessness.I am alone in the world—cut off from my ownfamily, and also from my husband’s family—no matter how. They never forgave him formarrying me. I cannot tell you more.”“It came to my knowledge that you would be inthis part, just when I was doubting what to donext. And I came here, hardly knowing why. Onlyit seemed to me as if you were the one personin all the world who would be willing to help!And I am in such sore need!”“I could not ask help of you to your face. Youknew me once, in past days, and I was ashamed.Sometimes I thought I would send you my childwith a letter, begging you to care for her.Then yesterday—it came all at once—when I wasin the valley with Joan, you were there too.You did not see me, but I knew your faceagain—how could I help it? And the thoughtcame into my head to leave Joan beside thebridge, where you would be sure to pass.I told her to sit still till a kind gentlemancame to her, and I said good-bye and went awayto watch, not very far, but out of sight. I sawyou carrying her away—my darling—asleep in yourarms. And, oh, how I blessed you in my heart!I think a mother’s blessing must be worthhaving, even from one so unworthy.”“You will care for her, will you not—oh, willyou not? It will not be the first kindnessdone by you to me or mine; but you will notknow my married name—better that you shouldnot. I know you—something of you, at least—of your goodness, your Christian generosity.And I have felt that I might dare to do withyou as I would not dare to do with, I thinkany other human being.”“I shall never see Joan again. I am hopelesslyill, and have few months to live. Joan willsoon forget me. My heart is breaking as Iwrite these words; but it will be best so.”“I have a near relative abroad who will takeme in—only I must go to him alone—I could nottake Joan—could not leave her with him when Idie. I promised my husband I would keep herfrom him. And yet I have nowhere else to go—no money—no way of supporting Joan and myself.Now you see the straits to which I am brought.Will you not have pity upon me?”“I have no hope for the future. I am not fitto pray. But, oh, if God would care for mychild,—would make you take pity on her! I donot think you will cast her off. I have noright to expect God’s mercy. I have onlylived for myself, and years of wilfulnessare being visited on me heavily. I am reapingnow the wages of the past. It is very terribleto be drawing near to death, with no friendon earth or in heaven to help me. But wouldthat my wrong-doings might not be visited onmy child! Will you not care for her?”“Joan will be four years old on the last dayof the year. She is like her father—not likeme. She has a quick temper; but she is soloving where she really loves.”“You will never see or hear anything of meagain from this day. My own people do noteven know whether I am still alive, exceptthe one to whom I am going; nor do they knowthat I have a child. My husband’s people know,but do not care. If Joan ever came in theirway they would only spurn her.”“I have no more to say, except to plead againfor your pity for my little one.”“I am yours, &c., M. BROOKE.”
“Sir,—Forgive a broken-hearted woman fortroubling you. I am poor, ill and friendless.”“I have not known what to do. The last year anda half since my husband’s death has been onelong misery. My money is now almost at an end,and I have no more coming. I am broken-down inhealth, and I cannot work.”“The thought of dying and leaving my little Joanin the hands of strangers has pressed upon menight and day. Sometimes I have been halfmaddened by it, and by my own helplessness.I am alone in the world—cut off from my ownfamily, and also from my husband’s family—no matter how. They never forgave him formarrying me. I cannot tell you more.”“It came to my knowledge that you would be inthis part, just when I was doubting what to donext. And I came here, hardly knowing why. Onlyit seemed to me as if you were the one personin all the world who would be willing to help!And I am in such sore need!”“I could not ask help of you to your face. Youknew me once, in past days, and I was ashamed.Sometimes I thought I would send you my childwith a letter, begging you to care for her.Then yesterday—it came all at once—when I wasin the valley with Joan, you were there too.You did not see me, but I knew your faceagain—how could I help it? And the thoughtcame into my head to leave Joan beside thebridge, where you would be sure to pass.I told her to sit still till a kind gentlemancame to her, and I said good-bye and went awayto watch, not very far, but out of sight. I sawyou carrying her away—my darling—asleep in yourarms. And, oh, how I blessed you in my heart!I think a mother’s blessing must be worthhaving, even from one so unworthy.”“You will care for her, will you not—oh, willyou not? It will not be the first kindnessdone by you to me or mine; but you will notknow my married name—better that you shouldnot. I know you—something of you, at least—of your goodness, your Christian generosity.And I have felt that I might dare to do withyou as I would not dare to do with, I thinkany other human being.”“I shall never see Joan again. I am hopelesslyill, and have few months to live. Joan willsoon forget me. My heart is breaking as Iwrite these words; but it will be best so.”“I have a near relative abroad who will takeme in—only I must go to him alone—I could nottake Joan—could not leave her with him when Idie. I promised my husband I would keep herfrom him. And yet I have nowhere else to go—no money—no way of supporting Joan and myself.Now you see the straits to which I am brought.Will you not have pity upon me?”“I have no hope for the future. I am not fitto pray. But, oh, if God would care for mychild,—would make you take pity on her! I donot think you will cast her off. I have noright to expect God’s mercy. I have onlylived for myself, and years of wilfulnessare being visited on me heavily. I am reapingnow the wages of the past. It is very terribleto be drawing near to death, with no friendon earth or in heaven to help me. But wouldthat my wrong-doings might not be visited onmy child! Will you not care for her?”“Joan will be four years old on the last dayof the year. She is like her father—not likeme. She has a quick temper; but she is soloving where she really loves.”“You will never see or hear anything of meagain from this day. My own people do noteven know whether I am still alive, exceptthe one to whom I am going; nor do they knowthat I have a child. My husband’s people know,but do not care. If Joan ever came in theirway they would only spurn her.”“I have no more to say, except to plead againfor your pity for my little one.”“I am yours, &c., M. BROOKE.”
“Sir,—Forgive a broken-hearted woman fortroubling you. I am poor, ill and friendless.”“I have not known what to do. The last year anda half since my husband’s death has been onelong misery. My money is now almost at an end,and I have no more coming. I am broken-down inhealth, and I cannot work.”“The thought of dying and leaving my little Joanin the hands of strangers has pressed upon menight and day. Sometimes I have been halfmaddened by it, and by my own helplessness.I am alone in the world—cut off from my ownfamily, and also from my husband’s family—no matter how. They never forgave him formarrying me. I cannot tell you more.”“It came to my knowledge that you would be inthis part, just when I was doubting what to donext. And I came here, hardly knowing why. Onlyit seemed to me as if you were the one personin all the world who would be willing to help!And I am in such sore need!”“I could not ask help of you to your face. Youknew me once, in past days, and I was ashamed.Sometimes I thought I would send you my childwith a letter, begging you to care for her.Then yesterday—it came all at once—when I wasin the valley with Joan, you were there too.You did not see me, but I knew your faceagain—how could I help it? And the thoughtcame into my head to leave Joan beside thebridge, where you would be sure to pass.I told her to sit still till a kind gentlemancame to her, and I said good-bye and went awayto watch, not very far, but out of sight. I sawyou carrying her away—my darling—asleep in yourarms. And, oh, how I blessed you in my heart!I think a mother’s blessing must be worthhaving, even from one so unworthy.”“You will care for her, will you not—oh, willyou not? It will not be the first kindnessdone by you to me or mine; but you will notknow my married name—better that you shouldnot. I know you—something of you, at least—of your goodness, your Christian generosity.And I have felt that I might dare to do withyou as I would not dare to do with, I thinkany other human being.”“I shall never see Joan again. I am hopelesslyill, and have few months to live. Joan willsoon forget me. My heart is breaking as Iwrite these words; but it will be best so.”“I have a near relative abroad who will takeme in—only I must go to him alone—I could nottake Joan—could not leave her with him when Idie. I promised my husband I would keep herfrom him. And yet I have nowhere else to go—no money—no way of supporting Joan and myself.Now you see the straits to which I am brought.Will you not have pity upon me?”“I have no hope for the future. I am not fitto pray. But, oh, if God would care for mychild,—would make you take pity on her! I donot think you will cast her off. I have noright to expect God’s mercy. I have onlylived for myself, and years of wilfulnessare being visited on me heavily. I am reapingnow the wages of the past. It is very terribleto be drawing near to death, with no friendon earth or in heaven to help me. But wouldthat my wrong-doings might not be visited onmy child! Will you not care for her?”“Joan will be four years old on the last dayof the year. She is like her father—not likeme. She has a quick temper; but she is soloving where she really loves.”“You will never see or hear anything of meagain from this day. My own people do noteven know whether I am still alive, exceptthe one to whom I am going; nor do they knowthat I have a child. My husband’s people know,but do not care. If Joan ever came in theirway they would only spurn her.”“I have no more to say, except to plead againfor your pity for my little one.”“I am yours, &c., M. BROOKE.”
“Sir,—Forgive a broken-hearted woman for
troubling you. I am poor, ill and friendless.”
“I have not known what to do. The last year and
a half since my husband’s death has been one
long misery. My money is now almost at an end,
and I have no more coming. I am broken-down in
health, and I cannot work.”
“The thought of dying and leaving my little Joan
in the hands of strangers has pressed upon me
night and day. Sometimes I have been half
maddened by it, and by my own helplessness.
I am alone in the world—cut off from my own
family, and also from my husband’s family—
no matter how. They never forgave him for
marrying me. I cannot tell you more.”
“It came to my knowledge that you would be in
this part, just when I was doubting what to do
next. And I came here, hardly knowing why. Only
it seemed to me as if you were the one person
in all the world who would be willing to help!
And I am in such sore need!”
“I could not ask help of you to your face. You
knew me once, in past days, and I was ashamed.
Sometimes I thought I would send you my child
with a letter, begging you to care for her.
Then yesterday—it came all at once—when I was
in the valley with Joan, you were there too.
You did not see me, but I knew your face
again—how could I help it? And the thought
came into my head to leave Joan beside the
bridge, where you would be sure to pass.
I told her to sit still till a kind gentleman
came to her, and I said good-bye and went away
to watch, not very far, but out of sight. I saw
you carrying her away—my darling—asleep in your
arms. And, oh, how I blessed you in my heart!
I think a mother’s blessing must be worth
having, even from one so unworthy.”
“You will care for her, will you not—oh, will
you not? It will not be the first kindness
done by you to me or mine; but you will not
know my married name—better that you should
not. I know you—something of you, at least—
of your goodness, your Christian generosity.
And I have felt that I might dare to do with
you as I would not dare to do with, I think
any other human being.”
“I shall never see Joan again. I am hopelessly
ill, and have few months to live. Joan will
soon forget me. My heart is breaking as I
write these words; but it will be best so.”
“I have a near relative abroad who will take
me in—only I must go to him alone—I could not
take Joan—could not leave her with him when I
die. I promised my husband I would keep her
from him. And yet I have nowhere else to go—
no money—no way of supporting Joan and myself.
Now you see the straits to which I am brought.
Will you not have pity upon me?”
“I have no hope for the future. I am not fit
to pray. But, oh, if God would care for my
child,—would make you take pity on her! I do
not think you will cast her off. I have no
right to expect God’s mercy. I have only
lived for myself, and years of wilfulness
are being visited on me heavily. I am reaping
now the wages of the past. It is very terrible
to be drawing near to death, with no friend
on earth or in heaven to help me. But would
that my wrong-doings might not be visited on
my child! Will you not care for her?”
“Joan will be four years old on the last day
of the year. She is like her father—not like
me. She has a quick temper; but she is so
loving where she really loves.”
“You will never see or hear anything of me
again from this day. My own people do not
even know whether I am still alive, except
the one to whom I am going; nor do they know
that I have a child. My husband’s people know,
but do not care. If Joan ever came in their
way they would only spurn her.”
“I have no more to say, except to plead again
for your pity for my little one.”
“I am yours, &c., M. BROOKE.”
“Georgie, what a most extraordinary and incomprehensible letter!” exclaimed Dulcibel with much emphasis.
George waited a moment, then said—“Yes.”
“Who can she be?”
A shake of the head answered.
“Don’t you know? Haven’t you the least idea?”
“No.”
“Not the very smallest? But you must have seen her some time or other. She evidently knows you quite well.”
“The knowledge is not reciprocal, Dulcie. I have no association with the name.”
“No—with her married name—she says you won’t recognize that; and ‘M’ may mean anything. But can’t you think of anybody you have been kind to—a Mary, or Maria, or Millie—somebody whose family you have helped in some way?”
George might have recalled a good many people to whom he had been kind, and a good many families helped by himself; but there was again a negative gesture.
“Memories are treacherous sometimes, Dulcie. Mine doesn’t serve me at the present moment.”
He turned to Mrs. Flint, and put a few inquiries, eliciting from her nothing in the way of information.
Dulcibel, at George’s suggestion, went into Mrs. Brooke’s bedroom, to search for any letters or papers which might have been left behind. Again the result was nothing, till, at the moment when Dulcibel was about to quit the room, a small folded paper, lying on the floor in a corner, attracted her attention. She caught it up, gave one glance, and rushed into the other room.
“Georgie!”
“My dear, don’t be breathless. What now?”
An old yellow half-sheet of paper, folded neatly over one short, thick lock of black hair; and on the outside was written, “Hubert Brooke: aged 21. Woodleigh.” That was all. But it might mean more than a stranger would suppose, for George’s home was Woodleigh Hall of Woodleigh.
“Singular!” was George’s comment.
“She must be some friend or acquaintance of yours.”
“I can’t possibly say. I am as much in the dark as you are yourself. This must have been dropped by accident. We will keep it carefully.”
Then he sank into a brown study.
“What do you mean to do next?” Dulcibel asked at length.
“Find her,” George answered with brevity.
“Find Joan’s mother! But how?”
“I don’t know yet. I am afraid you will be sorry to leave this pretty place so soon; but—”
“Sorry—I should think so! Leave it on her account! I think that woman has treated you atrociously,” Dulcibel said in her most indignant tone.
George did not gainsay the remark.
“Giving over her child to you in this cool fashion, and absolutely leaving you no choice! I don’t know which is worst—the wrong to you, or the wrong to Joan. How does she know that you won’t refuse altogether to have to do with Joan; and what would become of the poor little thing then? I think I never heard of such utter heartlessness. I don’t wonder at her feeling miserable. She ought to be miserable.”
“True enough,” George said quietly. “She has acted very wrongly; and therefore I am the more anxious to find her.”
“Of course she ought to be found, and to be made to work for the child. But I thought we were to have another fortnight here.”
“I could leave you at the hotel, Dulcie, with Leo and Joan, and come back to you all.”
“As if I should care for that! Oh, dear, no, Georgie! I don’t want Wales without you. How soon must we start? This evening? It really is too bad!”
“It is disappointing for you,” her husband said kindly.
“Oh, I don’t mind so much about that! What I do hate is seeing you imposed upon. Ninety-nine men in a hundred would send that child to the workhouse; and serve the mother right too!”
“But you don’t really wish it, Dulcie?”
“I don’t know what I wish,” Dulcibel answered, half crying. “Only I am out of patience with the whole affair; and I don’t like to see wickedness successful; and I haven’t a notion how to get my things packed in time, and I hate travelling all night. But I suppose it has to be.”
* * * * * * *
The search for Joan’s mother, carried on with a vigorous disregard of expenditure of time and money, proved futile. She had managed her retreat cleverly. Joan became from that time a permanent prótegé of George and Dulcibel.
SEVENTEEN years had passed away, bringing and leaving changes with them as they came and went. But the changes had at Woodleigh Hall been gentle and gradual in kind. George Rutherford dwelt there still as master, and Dulcibel as mistress. No earthquake had shaken the foundation of Dulcibel’s being. They had lived on year after year, feeling themselves and things around to be always much the same; only of course everybody was growing a little older. And Joan was a daughter of the house—not the daughter, since they had a child of their own. Somehow Joan Brooke always took her stand as the eldest daughter, although of course the position belonged by right to her junior in years, Nessie Rutherford. But Nessie was not self-asserting, and Joan undoubtedly was. Nessie did not mind being second, and Joan did. Dulcibel might object for Nessie; but that was a different matter.
Joan never seemed to realize her own true condition in life, as a forsaken waif, disowned or unknown by her own relations, and dependent on strangers. She no more thought of George Rutherford as a stranger, or of herself as his dependent, than if he and she had been veritable father and daughter.
George Rutherford was the best of husbands, the kindest of fathers. But there were sides to his nature which had no chance of expanding towards Dulcibel or Nessie; and in those directions the companionship of Joan proved especially satisfying.
Joan habitually called George and Dulcibel “father” and “mother.” She had been brought up to do so; and nothing pleased her better than being taken for “Miss Rutherford.” The very word “Brooke” called a frown to her face.
Within the spacious drawing-room of Woodleigh Hall sat three silent people, one afternoon in the early autumn.
Of the three silent individuals one was George himself. Seventeen years had brought a few grey lines into the tawny beard; but they had not detracted from his vigorous strength of frame. At fifty-three he was almost as fine a specimen of manhood as he had been at thirty-six—some said finer. There was a mellowed, softened calmness about the lion-like face not often to be seen. He seemed deeply interested in his book.
These years had not dealt quite so kindly with Dulcibel as with her husband. Instead of rounding and softening, she had grown thinner and more angular. While the fair hair showed as yet small signs of turning color, the features had become rather sharp, the two eyebrows were lifted into permanent arches of anxiety, and troubled lines were stamped around eyes and mouth.
Not that Dulcibel had undergone any unusual amount of trial in the seventeen years of her married life. Facial lines have more to do with inside than outside circumstances. And, after all, it is quite as wearying to be perpetually expecting trouble as to be perpetually enduring it.
The third person was a girl, very young, for she could not have been more than sixteen, and singular in appearance. Nobody except her mother counted Nessie pretty, and Dulcibel thought her lovely, but Dulcibel stood alone in her opinion, as mothers are apt to do sometimes. If George Rutherford was fair in coloring, and Dulcibel fairer still, Nessie supplied a superlative to her parents’ degrees of comparison.
She was rather small, of slender make and colorless complexion; with eyes of the lightest blue, lashes and eyebrows of almost invisible paleness, and limp, long hair of dull flaxen-white. The beauty of which Dulcibel loved to discourse lay in the delicate features, the pure, transparent skin, and the tiny snow white hands. But the cheeks had no tinting; the lips had only a faint hue of pink; the eyes did not sparkle; the face as a whole was devoid of animation. It was tender and refined, perhaps capable of sweetness, but too statuesque. Nessie seemed to have inherited nought of her father’s energy or of her mother’s restlessness.
“Dulcie, I have been thinking—”
“Just in a moment, Georgie dear. I must finish this note. It is almost post-time.”
George was silent, and the pen scratched on vehemently.
“Believe me, yours sincerely, D. Rutherford,” murmured Dulcibel, half aloud, as she wrote the concluding words. “There, that is done! What a bother; I have blotted the last page! Well, it must do.”
“Hurry doesn’t save time in the end, Dulcie.”
“I know what does save time,” retorted Dulcibel, ringing the bell, “and that is, not being interrupted. Take these at once, please.”—as the servant appeared.
“Anything important?” asked George.
“Yes; you wouldn’t think it so, but I do. What were you going to say to me just now?”
“Leo is coming home, for one thing.”
“When?”
“Almost immediately.”
“What for?”
“Various reasons. Indian fever for one. I have a long letter from him by this mail.”
“Was that what you wanted to tell me just now?”
“No,” George answered, smiling, “it was not, Dulcie. I have been thinking that Nessie looks pale; and I should like to take you all a little trip into Wales.”
“Why Wales?”
“I have a fancy for revisiting sometimes old scenes.”
Dulcibel faced round upon him.
“You mean that you want to go to the valley where we found Joan?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you may as well know one thing beforehand,” said Dulcibel, in a resolute voice—“and that is that I will not walk over the shaking bridge, and Nessie shall not either.”
George’s moustache twitched slightly, and he smoothed out his beard.
“The terrors of that bridge seem to have made a strong impression on you, my dear.”
“I wouldn’t cross it again for anything—not for anything you could mention—or let Nessie. What makes you want to go there?”
“I think a little change would do you and Nessie good before the winter; and I should like to show the said bridge to Joan. I have a fancy that it might recall something more of her early days than she can remember now.”
“Has Joan been asking—”
“No, dear. I have evolved the idea entirely out of my own inner consciousness.”
“It seems to me rather absurd. Of course if you mean to do it, we shall do it, though I would rather take a trip into Scotland. But, anyhow, Nessie and I will not walk over the bridge; and if I could have my way, you would not either.”
“You and Nessie shall only stand and look on at our perilous feat.”
“It is all very well to laugh, but bridges do break down sometimes,” retorted Dulcibel, with the least touch of tartness. “What makes you think Nessie unwell?”
“I don’t; I only think her pale.”
“She never is anything else. And she has had no walk to-day. Why don’t you go out, Nessie?”
“Joan promised to go out with me, mother. I would rather wait for Joan.”
The very voice was colorless and languid, like the face and figure. Dulcibel sat looking at Nessie. Then the door opened to admit as complete a contrast as could well be conceived.
Joan at twenty-one was not greatly altered from Joan at four. There were the same rich eyes of black velvet, under restless brows ever in motion, and the same dark, clear skin, flushed in checks and lips with a healthy red. Perhaps the features were not so regular as might have been expected in her childhood; but the upright, well-made figure showed off her good looks to the best advantage. People sometimes said it mattered little what her features were, for there was no getting beyond those eyes. Her manner was swift, direct, eager, full of readiness and impulse; and when she smiled her whole face lighted up into real beauty. Joan was a warm-blooded, warm-handed, warm-hearted creature—no lack of animation in that quarter.
“Ready to go out, Nessie? Why, you are not dressed.”
“I didn’t know when you meant to come back,” responded Nessie, not stirring.
“Three o’clock, I told you; and it is past three. You had better make haste—though of course you won’t,” added Joan, laughing, as Nessie slowly found her feet. “It’s a lovely afternoon. Father, don’t you want a little turn in the garden? Nessie always takes half an hour to put on her hat.”
“To be sure I do,” George answered promptly; and the book was forsaken at once. Dulcibel sat looking after the two, as they passed out through the low French window.
“Come to the copse,” Joan suggested, clinging to George Rutherford’s arm. “It is delicious there. Oh, I wish I had not offered to take out Nessie to-day!”
“My dear, why?” asked George.
“I’d rather be with you, father; and I thought you had an engagement.”
“So I had, but it has fallen through. We can’t always have our own way in everything, Joan.”
“But I like to have mine—always,” responded Joan. “And I do want to have a walk or a read with you to-day. Only I have promised to take out Nessie—so I must.”
“It gives Nessie enjoyment.”
“Poor Nessie! We shall just plod, plod, along the high roads in a sort of indefinite way, and everything will be ‘nice’ and ‘pretty.’ Nessie is so provokingly good and dear and tiresome and fond of me. Of course I am glad she is fond of me; but I do wish I could shake her up into something different. If only she were like you.”
“Everybody can’t be that, Joan.”
“No, indeed. I wish everybody could. It would be a different sort of world. Not that it isn’t a nice enough world now. I haven’t anything to complain of—anything really to trouble me.”
“If you can say so much, you are better off than most people,” George observed musingly.
“Yes; most people seem to be always wanting something more than they have. But then I have you, and that makes all the difference. I have you, father!”
The black eyes looked up with a suppressed rapture of affection, and a sudden keen pain shot through George Rutherford’s heart, he could not have told why.
“Joan, that is not enough,” he said.
“Not enough to have you? Yes, it is, father dear. I don’t want anything else besides in the world.”
“Or—in heaven?”
Joan’s eyes fell.
“Father, I hope I shall be in heaven some day—because—because you will be there.”
“Because Christ your Lord will be there, Joan darling.”
A little pause, and then “No, father!” came distinctly.
“You do not love him, Joan?” The pain sounded in George’s voice this time. They had reached the copse, and were walking in a path amid young trees, all tinted with their autumn coloring.
“I don’t know,” Joan said, after a pause. “Yes, I think I love him, because he has made me your child. I always thank him for that—every day.”
“But you don’t love to think much of him?”
“Father, I’m always thinking of you,” Joan answered calmly. “Always—all day long. And when I’m not with you I only want to come back to you again. I do love God for giving you to me; and I always shall. But I don’t keep thinking of him, because I keep thinking so of you. How can I possibly help it?”
“God can teach you how, my dear,” he answered. “There is no other way.”
WOODLEIGH was a very scattered village, numbering about one thousand inhabitants all told, yet containing only one double row of straggling houses, which might by courtesy be termed a street.
Woodleigh Hall stood well apart from this little central cluster, in its own grounds, on something of an eminence, from which views could be had of pretty and undulating country around.
George Rutherford’s father had inherited the place from a distant relative. Left at twenty-one, by his father’s death, in possession of the property, George had steered marvellously clear of the perils sure to assail a young man in such a position, owing much of his safety, under a higher Power, to the companionship of a wise and loving mother. Not until her death, in his thirty-third year, did George Rutherford begin to think seriously of finding a wife.
After considerable hesitation he had found one in Dulcibel Lloyd; not at all the kind of wife that any one would have expected him to choose, the very last person that anybody else would have chosen for him. But this was almost a matter of course. Men usually go contrary to expectations in such matters.[?]
And whether or no Dulcibel was able to give him all that he required, either in the way of heart or of intellect, he and she had been very happy together. The last seventeen years had gone by with smooth rapidity.
George Rutherford was a busy man; he always had been so, ever since he emerged from boyhood. Property brings responsibility with it, and George felt those responsibilities with all seriousness. Alike generous and tender-hearted, no case of need came within his ken to be passed over or put aside. Investigation was followed invariably by such assistance as seemed wise.
In these matters Dulcibel was a very meet help to her husband. She dearly loved to have half-a-dozen interesting “cases” on hand, and to be running hither and thither after them.
Joan’s inclinations lay in a different line. Books were her prime interest, and parish work was distasteful. With “father” she would go anywhere, but in a cottage she always became shy and curt, and left all the talking to him. George tried in vain to awaken wider sympathies. All the outflow of Joan’s affections seemed to be at present towards him, and him alone. Still she was very kind to Nessie, and Nessie was very fond of Joan, in a gentle, colorless style.
A stranger would have been oddly struck with the contrast between the two, as they walked side by side that afternoon, along a high road, according to Joan’s prediction. Nessie could not endure wet grass or stiles; but she liked walking, and could manage a very considerable distance at a good pace. Naturally her tendency would have been to lounge languidly onward, but Joan never would permit this.
“I do love autumn,” Joan broke out, when they had plodded steadily for half an hour in silence—“next best to spring.”
“I don’t, because winter is coming,” said Nessie.
“Well—and spring comes after winter. One may enjoy each in turn. Nessie, suppose we turn down this lane, and go around by that queer old red house, with any amount of chimneys.”
“Mrs. St. John’s house.”
“I don’t know who lives there. We should just have time to do the round before dark, if we are quick. It is not too far for you?”
“Oh, no!” and Nessie turned obediently. “I thought you called there once with father.”
“No; he went in, and I didn’t. I hate calls. I can’t bear being introduced to people as Miss Brooke, and having remarks made on my name.”
“Well, you seem like one of us,” said Nessie placidly. “Is that why you never will call on anybody, if you can help it?”
“That’s principally why,” said Joan.
“Mother doesn’t much care for Mrs. St. John,” said Nessie. “She thinks her proud and cold. But sometimes people are called so when they are shy.”
“At all events we don’t mean to call on Mrs. St. John now,” said Joan, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, and a rapid movement of her eyebrows. “I’d rather be excused, and so I dare say would you. Come, we shall have to step out well, Nessie. It is a good way round—seven or eight miles altogether. What a pity father didn’t come with us?”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Mother wanted him for something. Those clouds look rather suspicious for by-and-by; but it won’t rain yet. I’d have brought my umbrella if I had noticed them.”
The red house of which Joan had spoken was well shaded with tall trees. A rather small drawing-room stood on one side of the front door, and in this drawing-room sat two ladies, working or making believe to work, and talking without any make-believe. Both were well advanced in years: the elder, Mrs. St. John, about seventy-five, the other only some ten or twelve years her junior. And while Mrs. St. John, a slender, upright little body, with white hair, and sharp eyes, and mittened hands, expressed her thoughts with a clear and resolute utterance, the other lady seemed too listless and depressed for ought but deliberation, and even slowness. She was very sweet-faced, this second occupant of the room, but there was a look of premature age about her stooping figure and faded complexion. A careless observer might almost have mistaken her for the senior of the two.
“The fact is my dear Amelia,” Mrs. St. John was saying—“the fact is, you always were given to rather distorted views of your duty. And this is a case in point.”
She spoke with the freedom of a sister, yet the ladies were not sisters, or even relatives, but only old school-friends.
“I do not feel any doubt as to what my duty would be, if it were not for my husband’s wishes,” the other answered in her spiritless manner. “But, feeling as he does—”
“Knowing him to feel as he does, your course of action is quite clear,” said Mrs. St. John decisively.
“I am not sure. If I could persuade him—”
“My dear Amelia, have you ever once, in all your married life, succeeded in persuading your good husband that you were a better judge than himself on any single question?”
A flickering smile crossed the other’s face.
“Hubert is very decided, certainly,” she said—“very decided, when once he has made up his mind.”
Then the smile was quenched in sudden tears.
“No, that is it—never, never! If I ever could have touched him, it would have been for our boy—my boy!”
“Then you see the uselessness now. But I did not mean to distress you, Amelia. Take some eau-de-cologne—or, stay, an early cup of tea will do you good.”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, you must not be in such low spirits—positively you must not. I begin to think we have made a mistake in letting you come here; but you seemed to wish it. And after about twenty years—”
“Over twenty,” breathed the other.
“About twenty, I said. After twenty years, I do think, my dear Amelia, that for one professing to be so religious as yourself there is a singular want of resignation to Providence, in fretting still, year after year. You ought by this time to have learnt a spirit of submission. Other people have their sorrows too. I have lost my dear husband, I hope I know how to bear my loss with fortitude.”
“It is very wrong of me—very wrong, I am afraid,” the other lady said, with a meek tremulousness. “I do hope it is not want of submission to God’s will. He knows what is best—I know—I am sure. But still, people do suffer so differently; and some troubles seem to cut away the very ground from under one’s feet. If I could have seen my boy again before he died, or if I might have watched his child growing up—have held the little thing in my arms.”
“Quite impossible, Amelia. Your husband would never have consented. And if the child is alive now, she is a woman. Perhaps you would have wished to welcome her mother also to your home and heart?”
“As Hubert’s wife—yes.”
“But as the milkman’s daughter—no!”
“He was—quite a respectable farmer,” faltered the lady; “and she I believe, was well educated.”
Mrs. St. John made an indescribable gesture.
“Perhaps, my dear Amelia, you would like to call upon Cairns the next time my butter and milk bill has to be paid. You might take a message from me that his butter has been very poor lately, at the same time that you announce yourself as his daughter’s mother-in-law!”
“I don’t think you need talk like this to me. It is not quite kind,” remonstrated her friend.
Mrs. St. John rose and walked to the window.
“Dear me, what a change in the weather! It is coming on to rain—quite a pelt. I hope your husband is not out-of-doors.”
There was no answer to this. The other lady seemed struggling to control her emotion; and, failing to do so, she left the room. Mrs. St. John stood looking towards the door, tapping a small table with the long pointed fingers of one mittened hand.
“Poor dear Amelia! She is sadly weak still—the same good creature as always, but with such a want of mental stamina. I must do my best to brace her up while she is here. This perpetual fretting has gone on long enough. It is just a habit of mind now—hardly genuine. Quite out of the question that she should hold any communication with the Cairns family; and if there is a child of Hubert’s still living, the less Amelia knows of her the better. Dear me, what a drench! I hope nobody is out in it.”
Her face showed satisfaction as a comely, courtly old gentleman, with flowing white locks; entered the room.
“Mr. Brooke! I am delighted to see you indoors. What tremendous rain.”
“Coming down in bucketsful!” said Mr. Brooke. “Very sudden change; but the glass showed a tendency to fall this morning. Can you tell me where Amelia is?”
“She will be back, I think, directly. We happened to touch upon the old subject, and she was overcome.”
“As usual,” said Mr. Brooke, his features taking a grim set.
“Yes; but I hope it will not last. Dear Amelia is evidently in rather a low state just now; and associations in this neighborhood are trying.”
“Amelia has never been here before.”
“No,” said Mrs. St. John slowly—“no, certainly; but somebody was here. And if Amelia does not know many particulars, imagination supplies material to fill up gaps.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Brooke. “Ha, two young ladies out in the rain!”
“Where?”
Mrs. St. John gazed through the panes, speedily descrying a couple of girlish figures. They seemed to be taking shelter under a small elm, just outside the garden gate; but the shelter was evidently very partial.
“Foolish young things. No umbrella, of course,” said Mr. Brooke.
Mrs. St. John was putting up her eye-glass.
“I know who they are,” she said. “One of them is a daughter of Mr. Rutherford, and the other, no doubt, is her sister. The youngest came to call on me once with her mother—a washed-out, uninteresting little thing—not two ideas in her head.”
“She is likely to be washed-out now, in good earnest. Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Brooke, pleased with his own joke. “Who is this Mr. Rutherford?”
“He has property at Woodleigh. A very philanthropic sort of individual, I believe;” and a sneer was apparent. “He came in once on business, about a needy person whom he wished to help. His wife has taken the trouble to call on me twice during the three years and a half that I have lived here. I do not think it incumbent on me, at my age, to pay return calls, beyond leaving my card; and people ought to understand this; but probably Mrs. Rutherford does not. She certainly has not given herself much trouble about me. As it happens, her calling or non-calling makes little difference to me; for she did not at all take my fancy.”
“Nevertheless, it might be a charity to offer her daughters a shelter in the storm,” suggested Mr. Brooke, getting rather tired of Mrs. St. John’s utterances. “There is lightning—pretty near too. One of those girls is frightened; and standing under a tree is not particularly safe.”
“Perhaps they would come in if we beckoned,” suggested Mrs. St. John.
Mr. Brooke threw up the window, and signs of invitation were freely made, not at once to be responded to. The girls seemed very slow to hear or heed, Joan being extremely reluctant to enter the house. But Nessie was timid in a storm, and her fears overruled Joan’s unwillingness. They crossed the open space at a run, and stood under the porch.
Mr. Brooke himself opened the door.
“Come in, pray,” he said. “Mrs. St. John thought you might be glad of shelter.”
“I don’t mind it, but Nessie does. Thank you,” Joan said, not very graciously, as she preceded Nessie into the drawing-room.
Mrs. St. John’s hand was extended to Nessie first. “How do you do?” she said, rather distantly. “You and I have met before, I believe. Is this your sister?”
“It is—Joan,” Nessie answered, with a slight break, recalling Joan’s words as to introductions.
“My friend, Mr. Brooke. The two Misses Rutherford,” Mrs. St. John said, by way of introduction. “Pray come to the fire, and dry yourselves.”
Joan’s black eyes had given one startled flash at the sound of the gentleman’s name. A Brooke was not necessarily a connection of her own, but she never liked to hear the word. She said nothing, however, placing herself in front of the fire. Nessie followed tamely, being much given when with Joan to act as Joan’s shadow.
“HAVE you really walked all the way from Woodleigh?” asked Mrs. St. John.
“That is nothing,” averred Joan.
She was conscious of Mr. Brooke’s eyes upon her—fine black eyes still, remarkable in contrast with his snowy hair—and she raised her own to meet them. His gaze was searching and perplexed. Joan’s brows bent angrily.
“How far off is Woodleigh?” asked Mr. Brooke.
“Four or five miles, I believe,” Mrs. St John said. “I have only driven round there once or twice. Not keeping my own carriage, I cannot manage distances often.”
“And you do not think anything of an eight miles’ walk, or more?” said Mr. Brooke, directing his remark to Joan.
“No,” Joan said, with sufficient brevity.
Mr. Brooke’s eyes were on her still in a persistent gaze much to her indignation and discomfiture. She turned round with her face to the fire, and her back to him, ostensibly for the better drying of her wet skirts. Nessie at once did the same.
“Sisters are not always alike in face,” Mr. Brooke remarked deliberately. “But I do not think I ever witnessed so remarkable a dissimilarity as in the case of these two young ladies. It is quite extraordinary.”
Nessie said nothing, leaving Joan to speak for herself; and Joan’s spirit of truthfulness forced an unwilling confession.
“We are not sisters,” she said curtly.
“Not—ah, only cousins?”
Joan counted him interfering as well as disagreeable.
“We are not sisters really,” she repeated; “but it is just the same as if we were. Nessie, I don’t believe it is any use our waiting for the rain to stop.”
“No,” assented Nessie.
“You cannot possibly walk home in this downpour,” objected Mrs. St. John.
“Yes, we can. It doesn’t matter,” said Joan. “And father would not like us to be out so far-away, after dark.”
“Your father?” queried Mr. Brooke. “I suppose—Mr. Rutherford?”
Joan’s eyes flashed an accompaniment to her “Yes.”
“I presume this to be a second case of ‘not really,’” Mr. Brooke said in a cynical manner.
“No, it is not. He is my father,” Joan retorted, her black brows drawing together over the dark eyes with a look of positive fury for an instant. Little knew Joan how familiar that look was to the white-haired old gentleman in front of her. A strange expression came into his face—of pain, of wrath, of positive fear. His lips were livid, and the full snowy eyebrows above his black eyes contracted into one straight line, after the manner of Joan herself.
“Your name is Rutherford, then?” he said hoarsely, as if not quite able to control himself.
Joan’s face too had become colorless, but she suddenly grew cool and self-controlled.
“I am Mr. Rutherford’s child,” she said slowly. “I belong to him, and to no one else. He is my own dear, dearest father. Nothing else matters—to me or to anybody. I do not see that it concerns strangers; and I did not come here to be catechised. Nessie, if you like to stay, you may; but I am going home at once. The carriage can be sent for you.”
Nessie looked frightened, and Mrs. St. John came forward, with an appealing—
“My dear Mr. Brooke.”
“Stay! One moment;” and Mr. Brooke laid on the girl’s arm a detaining hand, which she indignantly shook off—“one moment, pray! You need not fear that I shall trouble you after to-day. But I have a wish—an impertinent curiosity if you like to term it so—I have a wish to know whether Rutherford is your name.”
A pause and then—
“No, it is not,” said Joan.
Mr. Brooke seemed inclined to say more, but he did not. His pale features writhed with suppressed agitation. Then a light footfall outside became audible, and he abruptly quitted the room. A lady’s voice could be heard alternating with his in the passage, and both receded.
Joan held out her hand to Mrs. St. John, with a brief “Good-bye.”
“You must not think too much of Mr. Brooke’s ways. He is rather a singular character,” said Mrs. St. John, half apologetically. “Must you really leave? Well, I can lend you cloaks and umbrellas; and the rain is not quite so heavy.”
Joan would have spurned the offered wraps, but for Nessie’s sake. It was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to take a waterproof for herself, and she was in an agony of impatience to be off, hardly able to endure Nessie’s slow fumbling over buttons. Mr. Brooke remained absent, and Mrs. St. John no longer pressed for a lengthened stay.
The two set off at express train speed, Joan racing Nessie almost out of breath. Nessie submitted for a while, and then had to protest. Joan went a little more slowly, but kept grim silence all the way, till within the garden of Woodleigh Hall.
“That dreadful old man!” broke from her at length.
“Mr. Brooke? He was rather funny,” said Nessie. “I couldn’t understand quite what he meant. But do you know, Joan I thought him a little like you—in face, I mean. He has just your—”
“Nessie—if you dare!” cried Joan furiously.
Nessie gazed sideways at her companion in astonishment.
“Why, Joan!”
“He is not like me, and I am not like him,” cried Joan. “Mind, you are never to say so, Nessie; and least of all to mother. I can’t bear Mr. Brooke, and I hope we shall never, never, never see him again.”
“It’s odd, though, his being a Mr. Brooke,” said Nessie. “Oh, I suppose—” as the idea dawned slowly on her intellect—“I suppose that was why you would not tell him your name!”
“It was no business of his. Why must he meddle?” asked Joan hotly.
Nessie took refuge in puzzled silence, and the front door was reached without more words. Dulcibel came out to meet them, exclaiming at the condition of Nessie’s boots and skirts. Joan rushed off to her own room, flung aside her wet clothes, and hurried downstairs again, straight to the study.
George Rutherford was writing letters, and merely gave a half-glance up as Joan burst in.
“I am busy, my dear,” he said, expecting her to take a book and sit down, after her wont.
But Joan stood still by his side, and George looked at her a second time—to lay aside his pen. He saw immediately that letters for the next post were not the most pressing matter just then.
“Why, Joan—my dear little girl,” he said tenderly.
Joan dropped down in a careless heap by his side, laying her white face against his knee, and clinging convulsively to the hand which he held out.
“O, father—father—don’t let them take me from you!” she cried, in a tearless, unsobbing anguish of terror.
“What has happened, my dear?” asked George, trying to raise her; but she only crouched lower, and grasped him more tightly. “Where have you been?”
“Father, you wouldn’t give me up—father, dear. Say you never, never, never will!” implored Joan.
“Never, if the choice rests with me.”
“No, no, no—say never—without that,” moaned the girl. “Father dear, please, please!”
“Joan, you will make yourself ill; look up at me,” commanded George, with a kind of gentle sternness.
She obeyed at once, lifting a face absolutely colorless, except for the dark hues of eyes and brows. He had never seen her thus before.
“Now tell me what has occurred—quietly. You must not excite yourself.”
Joan restrained herself so far as to speak steadily, but her voice was hoarse, and she trembled like an aspen-leaf.
“My dear child, you seem to me to be making a great deal of what is perhaps little or nothing. Brooke is no uncommon name—and for a Brooke to have black eyes is nothing unusual either. Nessie noticing a likeness is perhaps rather a strong point. But I don’t think much of his curiosity. That is a quality not at all confined to the female sex; and you did your best to rouse it.”
“I did not mean—Father, what shall you do?” asked the girl, growing quieter, though her face had still a scared look.
“Nothing at present!”
“You won’t try to find anything out?”
“I do not think that necessary. If the old gentleman’s suspicions were raised—if he has any reason for wishing to know more—he can very easily make inquiries.”
“And if he did; and if—if—somebody should want to have me?”
“I don’t think anybody could well come forward now with a stronger right than mine over you, Joan. And, remember, your twenty-first birthday is passed.”
Joan’s face lightened up.
“Oh, I am glad! I didn’t think of that. Then nobody could take me from you now, dear; dear father!”
“No, I do not think you could be forced away, my Joan,” he said. “And I could never ask or wish you to go—unless at the call of duty.”
“It never could be my duty to leave you for anybody—never!” said Joan emphatically.
“I cannot say, my dear. That will be as God chooses,” George Rutherford answered. And then he said wistfully—“Joan, don’t love me too much.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Joan, with a startled look up.
“Don’t let it be the reigning love in your heart. Christ must be first.”
“But he is not,” said Joan calmly “I know that quite well, father dear, and I have told you so before. I hope I shall learn to love him some day—enough to go to heaven. I want that, of course.”
“And that is to be all, in return for the love which made him die for you!”
Something of the ardent devotion which had glowed in Joan’s face, as she looked up, glowed now in George Rutherford’s face as he lifted his eyes towards the gray sky. An awed feeling came over Joan.
“Father, do you love Christ really—truly—so as to be always thinking of him?” she asked.
“Yes, Joan.” There was no hesitation in the answer.
“But if you could choose—if you might go to him—or stay with us—mother and Nessie and me—father dear, you do love me very, very much—if you had to choose—”
“I have not to choose. But if I had—that would be the ‘far better.’”
Joan’s face clouded over, and two or three large tears fell.
“It will not seem strange to you some day,” George Rutherford said, stroking the dark head. “Wait till you know him, darling. He is so fair—the ‘chiefest among ten thousand!’ That has all to come to you by-and-by. Only he must be sought before he will show himself; and it isn’t a happy thing for us to be content apart from him. Remember, the more love I give to him, the more love I have for you.”
“Oh, father, it all seems so far-away; and I don’t care for anything or anybody except you!” murmured Joan.
“GEORGIE, I can’t believe it is seventeen years since we were here last. Why, it seems exactly like yesterday,” said Dulcibel.
She did not so often now call him “Georgie” as “George,” which name indeed better befitted his fine presence. But associations of early married life were strong in this place, and Dulcibel reverted to the term naturally; for they were back once more in the old Welsh hotel, close upon the wide Welsh moor, with its grounds and its avenue, and its fair surrounding hilly landscapes. The hotel had made some advances in refinement with advancing years: otherwise things were little changed.
Only people were changed. George and Dulcibel were bridegroom and bride no longer, but middle-aged man and wife; and the infant Joan had become a finished young lady; and Nessie took the place of the absent Leo.
Moreover, of all the faces around the horseshoe table at dinner the evening before, not one could be recognized as identical with a boarder in the hotel at a certain date seventeen years earlier. The tide of life had swept them elsewhere, bringing back only the Rutherfords and Joan.
Morning having come, and everybody feeling refreshed after a goad night, George Rutherford suggested an excursion somewhere. Nessie waited passively for other folk’s opinions. Joan’s face glowed an assent. Dulcibel, standing at the front window of the drawing-room, and gazing out with a pensive air, gave utterance to the remark with which the chapter begins.
“Joan has grown a good deal since yesterday,” George observed rather drily.
“But seventeen years. Can you believe it? Seventeen years! And it all comes back so strongly. I can remember Joan crouching in that corner for almost a whole day, refusing to say a word to anybody. And there was a clergyman, Mr. Meredith, standing just here with me, talking about her—such an odd child she was!”
“Mother, we are wasting our time,” said Joan, disposed to frown.
“You two girls may go and get your boots on,” George said. “Mother and I will settle plans meantime.” And as they vanished he came a step nearer. A few people were at the other end of the room, talking, but none stood within easy earshot. “Well, Dulcie, where shall we go?”
Dulcibel looked up rather defiantly.
“The valley, of course, George; but Nessie and I will not cross the bridge.”
“No?” George uttered the word half-questioningly.
“Certainly not,” Dulcibel answered. Then a pause; and Dulcibel lifted her eyes anew to meet his. “What do you mean?” she asked involuntarily.
“I had you with me, Dulcie, the last time I was there; and I shall want you this time.”
“You’ll have Joan. I don’t mean to cross that bridge.”
“I should like my wife not to be a slave to causeless fears. Failure in such little battles means loss to one’s self.”
“We’ll get ready, George, as soon as you like. But I shall not cross the bridge.”
George smiled, and seemed to yield. Dulcibel thereupon went off to her dressing-room. She kept all the rest waiting for her, as a matter of course. After the lapse of seventeen years, buttons had still to be sewn on her boots at the last moment.
“I wish Leo were here. Well, it will not be long,” was George’s remark on starting.
The walk to the valley was full of recollections for him and Dulcibel. They paced it together most of the way, the two girls keeping in front, except where there was space for four abreast. Then Joan always fell back immediately to her father’s side, and Nessie to her mother’s.
George had a book of poetry in his pocket—Trench’s Poems once more. But he had not brought it this time at Dulcibel’s suggestion. Seventeen years of married life had quite convinced Dulcibel that an unpoetical wife could not become poetical for her husband’s sake. She often asserted decisively now that he must take her as she was; and George most wisely did so, expecting no unreasonable things.
The Shaking Bridge was reached at last; hanging still upon its wires and chains, vibrating at a touch. And the stream flowed below, and the trees hung lovingly over, and the banks were rich with luxuriant, dewy moss.
Dulcibel stood still, and beckoned Nessie to her side.
“We are going to wait here,” she said resolutely.
George was looking at Joan. She seemed to have forgotten her companions, and was stepping on the bridge, with heightened color and intent eyes. He followed her half over, his steady tread making the whole structure heave and swing. There he remained, while Joan walked to the other side, and stood still, looking about dreamily.
“Can you remember it, Joan?” he asked.
She turned her face towards him.
“Not well, father. It is not in the least like what I have fancied—except grass and trees—and people. I have a picture in my mind of a little girl sitting on the ground, and somebody taking her up in his arms. But I don’t know how much is really recollection, and how much is imagination.”
“A difficult question to settle. Can you recall your mother leaving you here?”
“No,” Joan said slowly. “No, father.”
She walked on a few paces, and stood still again, absorbed in thought. George went back to his wife.
“Now Dulcie.”
“I’m not going over, George.”
George smiled and held out his hand. Dulcibel hesitated, unable to refuse an answering smile, and then accepted the offered grasp, with a reiterated, “I don’t mean to go.”
“If you thought there was real danger you would not be content to let me cross.”
Dulcibel found this unanswerable.
“But if I would rather not,” she said, relenting.
“Then you will come to please me, and not yourself.”
“You are the most tiresome, provoking, tyrannical man I ever knew,” Dulcibel answered; after which her eyes fell, and the lashes grew moist, and she clung to his arm. “Georgie, dear, I’m very horrid, I know, but I’ll come. Only Nessie is not to walk over alone.”
“I will go back for her,” said George, marvelling at the illogical nervousness which professed to doubt the strength of the bridge, and yet insisted on a double weight.
Once across, Dulcibel’s spirits rose, even while she was declaring that she should not have a moment’s peace until the return crossing was effected. George smiled again, brought Nessie across, sent her on to Joan, and said softly—
“The old lesson, Dulcie.”
“What old lesson?”
“‘I will fear no evil.’”
“David must have been a very different sort of person from me,” responded Dulcibel rather combatively.
“Peter was not so different.”
“Peter! Why?”
“‘O thou of little faith!’” quoted George; not the first time he had quoted the words in this valley, whether or no he remembered the fact.
“I can’t help being what I am,” said Dulcibel.
“You don’t really mean what that would seem to imply.”
“No,” Dulcibel said at once honestly, “I suppose not. At least if I were talking to somebody else, I should say that one has to trust, and that God can do all for us. But practically I don’t find that I am different from what I used to be. I suppose I don’t trust enough. Of course it is very easy for you, always strong, and always expecting the best, and never afraid. I am afraid of things. It gives me such a dreadful feeling now to think of seventeen years having gone by since we were here last. And one never can tell what will happen next, or how long things will still go on so. Every year makes changes more likely. But don’t talk about changes now—there’s no need. We’ll sit down soon and have some biscuits. Girls, you can hunt out a cosy corner, somewhere near the river.”
Dulcibel had of course brought her luncheon basket, and a waterproof cloak for emergencies. The latter was spread out to form a seat for herself and Nessie, George and Joan being close by. Biscuits were disposed of with relish, and talk flowed merrily. Each item of the former visit was recalled, together with divers reminiscences of Joan in childish days, till the black brows showed her objection to the subject. Then George produced a green volume.
“Do you remember this, Dulcie?”
“Trench’s Poems? Why, I do believe that is the book I brought here last time, when I used to think I ought to like everything that you liked. And you read aloud a doleful poem that made me cry.”
“Father, do read the same again!” begged Joan.
“That you may see mother cry?”
“I should not be so silly now,” said Dulcibel. “It was a thing in short stanzas, three lines to each; I remember that, though I have forgotten all the rest. And you know, George, I detest poetry.”
George said “Yes,” as he turned over the leaves.
“But you would like father to read it again now, wouldn’t you?” asked Joan.
Dulcibel’s “Well, perhaps—yes,” was not very enthusiastic.
“If I can find it,” George said dubiously. “My recollections are rather vague. Ha, here it is, I believe!”