She hurried on with fevered and troubled steps, picturing to herself every possible kind of hurt which Joan might have received. Proximity to Joan seemed to waken into active life all the motherly dreads and desires and passionate affection which for long years had lain half dormant. Abroad she had been able to wait month after month, never hearing a whisper of Joan, only content in a quiet belief that her child was happy. Now every moment of uncertainty and delay seemed intolerable.
Visions of Joan hovered perpetually before her as she pressed forward—not of George Rutherford’s handsome adopted daughter, but of a little willful, loving child, with velvety, dark eyes and marked, black brows, and sweet, clinging arms. She could almost hear again the prattling utterance so frequent in those days—“Doan wants muvver! Doan does ’ove muvver so.” Did Joan love mother now?
“O, Joan, Joan, my darling!” sobbed Marian, pausing once to lean against a tree trunk. “To think that I could have ever given you up! But I was so alone, so friendless; I didn’t know what to do. If I had known God then I could have kept you, darling—I could have trusted him, and he would have cared for us both. O, Joan, I wish I had. How could I ever leave you?”
Then she was hurrying onward again, passing lane after lane, turn after turn, with never a moment’s hesitation as to the way.
Outside Woodleigh she paused once more, not this time to indulge in tears, but to master herself and subdue all signs of agitation. Calmness was an absolute necessity if she would not betray herself. She would perhaps see Joan, and she must see her as a stranger, manifesting no especial interest in her more than in others. If Joan might ever know her as a mother, this was not the time. So hard did Marian foresee her self-imposed task likely to prove that she could at this moment have turned and fled. Only she would not, and did not.
“I WANT to speak to Mrs. Blogg, if you please.”
Marian made the request with no sort of preface, standing within the door of the Cross Arms Hotel. The flurried waiter whom she had accosted stood still for an instant.
“Mrs. Blogg! I don’t know as you can.”
“There has been an accident, and people hurt,” said Marian.
The waiter pricked up his ears, noting her pale and strained look.
“Anybody as you are interested in travelling by the train?” he demanded.
“Yes,” said Marian.
“And you want to know about them, eh? What name?”
“I must speak to Mrs. Blogg,” said Marian.
“You’ll have to wait, then,” responded the waiter, his sympathy lessening. He ran over Marian with a pair of sharp eyes, a little puzzled as to her social status. “There’s people in the parlor; but you can sit there—or here.”
“I can wait here,” Marian answered quietly.
“What name am I to give Mrs. Blogg?”
“You needn’t give any. Tell her I have just come from a distance, and she will know me.”
The waiter looked dubious, but vanished. Marian remained in the shabby, gas-lighted hall, silently awaiting the advent of the landlady. Many people came and went, some staring curiously at Marian; but none of them would do for Mrs. Blogg, even allowing for any amount of change through lapse of years.
Then with a sudden sense of shock, she saw a tall, fair-bearded man pass out of the dining-room. There was an extraordinary familiarity in look and gesture. “Mr. Rutherford!” faltered on her lips. For a moment she forgot George Rutherford’s present condition, and the years that had passed since her last sight of him. Almost instantly it dawned upon her that he was far too young; but the faint utterance had reached his ears. He turned back, and asked—
“Did you speak? Do you want anything?”
The opportunity was not to be lost. Marian stood up respectfully, and said—
“I beg your pardon, sir; I took you for Mr. Rutherford.”
“No; my name is Ackroyd, but we are counted alike. Mr. Rutherford is my uncle.”
Marian lifted a pleading face to his.
“Then perhaps, sir, you won’t mind telling me how Mr. Rutherford is, and Mrs. Rutherford, and the young ladies. I’m only just come back from foreign parts, but years ago Mr. Rutherford was good to me and mine. They told me of the accident, and I couldn’t rest till I knew more.”
“Mr. Rutherford is most seriously injured,” said Leonard Ackroyd sadly. “The doctors have very little hope that he can pull through.”
“Poor Mr. Rutherford!” murmured Marian, moved for him, yet overwhelmingly full of another dread “And the ladies, sir?”
“Mrs. Rutherford is ill with the shock. I do not know that there is actual bodily hurt, but she has been in a frightfully hysterical state. One of the young ladies has a cut on the forehead and a strained arm. The marvel is that matters are not worse—with them. Mr. Rutherford is as bad as he can be.” A deep sigh, as of unspeakable relief, had escaped Marian.
“Sir, could I be of any use? I am a good nurse,” she said.
Leonard hesitated, scanning her face.
“I cannot say we are not in need of one,” he said. “But I must know your name, and more about you.”
“Mr. Cairns of the farm is my father. I married long ago, sir, without his leave; and I’ve only just come home after years and years away. I am a widow. Mr. Rutherford would know all about Polly Cairns, if he could listen.”
“But you are not Polly Cairns now.”
“No, sir; I’m only ‘Marian.’” She lifted deprecating eyes to his face. “‘Polly Cairns’ is what Mr. Rutherford would know me by. I don’t suppose he ever heard my married name—and I’ve no wish to bring it forward. I’ve no reason to be proud of it. If people will just call me ‘Marian,’ it’s all I want. Sir, I couldn’t tell you how good he has been to me and mine—one way and another. I owe him my life, if I could give it for his. And if I might just help a little—any way—nursing or watching by him—there’s nothing would make me more glad.”
Leonard demurred still.
“I am grateful for the kind thought on your part,” he said; “still, you are a perfect stranger to me. Does anybody here know you?”
“Yes, sir, the landlady. At least, she knew me as a girl. I’ve asked to speak to Mrs. Blogg, and it’s that I was waiting for when you came by.” Marian looked wistfully again into Mr. Ackroyd’s face. “Sir, you may trust me.”
“I am sure I may. Still I must have a word with Mrs. Blogg. Wait here for me.”
Another five minutes, and Leonard reappeared with Mrs. Blogg. The comely little woman of Marian’s recollection had developed into redness and rotundity, but the kindliness of tone and manner were unchanged. Mrs. Blogg advanced, beaming.
“What, Polly Cairns—Polly Cairns! you don’t tell me! It is Polly Cairns, too! Yes, yes, no mistake about that! Dear, dear me, what a time you’ve been away—near a quarter of a century, I do believe! Ah, my dear, it was sad work, going as you did! But you’ve repented since, I don’t doubt. That is the way things come about—marrying in haste and repenting at leisure. And you’re changed from the lass I used to know. Life hasn’t gone too smooth with you; I can see it in your face. And to come back now, of all days! Dear, dear me! Such a good friend as Mr. Rutherford was to you all; and now he to be dying under my roof, and you turned up all of a sudden! And you want to help in the nursing? Well, sir, if I was you, I’d just take Polly at her word, for she comes of a capable stock, and she’ll do her best. But I don’t ought to call you Polly Cairns, my dear—a married woman and a widow—and I don’t know as I ever was told your surname.”
Marian heard all this as in a dream, awaiting Leonard Ackroyd’s decision.
“My surname! Call me ‘Marian,’ please,” she said, with a slight start. “The rest doesn’t matter. I’d sooner be ‘Marian’ or ‘Polly’ than anything else.”
“Well, if you’d rather,” said Mrs. Blogg, not quite satisfied. “As you say, it doesn’t matter.”
“Thanks; then I think we may make use of you,” were the next words which reached Marian’s understanding; and she found herself following Mr. Ackroyd upstairs.
“Am I to attend to Mr. Rutherford, sir?” she asked, with a composure which seemed strange to herself.
“Not to-night. He is in good hands. The difficulty has been about the ladies.”
Marian’s heart gave one hard throb. Was he going to place Joan in her charge?
“Mrs. Rutherford is sleeping now, from the effects of an opiate, and you must watch her carefully. If she should seem in any way worse, call me at once. I shall be in this room, close at hand. Miss Rutherford will be able now to go to her sister.”
“Miss Rutherford!” Did that mean Joan, or was Joan the “sister”?
“Sir, are both the young ladies hurt?” asked Marian in a low voice.
“No; only Miss Brooke.”
She knew the truth at last, but no more could be said. No especial interest might be displayed in Joan; and Mr. Ackroyd was turning the handle of Mrs. Rutherford’s door. A slim, pallid girl came softly to meet them.
“Mother is quite sound still, and not so restless,” she whispered.
“That is right, Nessie. I have found some one to watch by her. You must go and lie down in Joan’s room.”
“Oh, I would rather stay here! Mother needs me most.”
“No, I think not. Joan is feverish, and ought not to be alone; and you want rest.”
Nessie yielded at once. She murmured a few directions to Marian, telling her what the doctor had said and ordered; then moved away with her cousin. Marian held the door open behind them for two seconds, and watched them cross the passage to a door on the other side, within which Nessie disappeared. Joan must be there!
Calm as Marian had seemed, she was by no means calm at heart. For Joan was so close—her only child—so close after all these years of separation, and Marian could not go to her—might not venture to say—“Joan is my own!” Rashly she had given away that right, and mother and child were apart still, though so near, parted by the mother’s own deed.
Dulcibel slept heavily hour after hour, sometimes muttering a little in the early part of the night, but gradually becoming more reposeful. Marian watched beside her dutifully, but all the while her thoughts were on the other side of the passage.
Now and then she crept to the door, opened it softly, and listened with beating heart. Three times this was done fruitlessly. The fourth a broken murmur of sobs reached her ears.
Was it Joan’s voice? Marian clasped her hands together, and moved slowly towards that other shut door, drawn as by invisible cords. For the moment she forgot Dulcibel, forgot her own responsibility as a nurse, forgot everything except the wild longing to comfort Joan.
“What is the matter?” spoken low and somewhat sternly by her side, took sharp effect. Marian stood suddenly upright from her bending attitude of attention.
“Sir, I thought something was wrong in the young ladies’ room. I thought perhaps—”
“Mrs. Rutherford is in your charge, not the young ladies; and she must not be left. Can I depend upon you, Marian? If Mrs. Rutherford woke and found herself alone, the consequences might be injurious, after such a shock.”
She sighed quietly, and said—
“I was wrong, sir. I will not leave the room again.”
“Miss Rutherford will come to me if anything is needed. But the less said to Miss Brooke to-night about her father’s state, the better for her,” Leonard breathed.
“Sir, how is he?” asked Marian.
“Mercifully unconscious still. The suffering from the scalds would be terrible, otherwise.”
“If Mrs. Rutherford wakes, sir—?”
“I do not suppose she will at present. When she does, try to evade giving particulars. The doctor will come again early. He did not leave Mr. Rutherford until past two.”
And Marian went back to her vigil, not to break it again until the slow hours of night were over.
About six o’clock Dulcibel first opened her eyes. She dozed off again without a word; and two or three more partial awakings followed, before any distinct consciousness of her whereabouts was shown. But at length the light blue eyes examined Marian in rather mystified fashion, and Dulcibel asked—
“What is the matter?”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” asked Marian.
“Tea? Yes, if you please.” Dulcibel shut her eyes, sighed, and seemed dozing off again, Marian stood like a statute, fearing to rouse her, but she soon looked up again, with an impatient—“Why don’t you make haste, and bring me my tea?”
“The water won’t be long boiling,” said Marian, lifting the kettle. “It’s hot now.”
“I don’t know you. What is your name?” asked Dulcibel suspiciously.
“Marian, if you please, ma’am.”
“Marian what?”
“My father is Mr. Cairns of Cairns farm?”
“Cairns! Yes, I know. Where is my husband?”
“Lying down in another room,” Marian said, cautiously.
“Lying down! What do you mean?” asked Dulcibel, with considerable sharpness. “What nonsense! Gone to bed, I suppose.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Marian.
“Why is he in another room?”
Marian was sorely puzzled how to answer. “You had hysterics, ma’am,” she said at length.
“Hysterics. Yes, I remember.” Recollection seemed to flash back in a moment, and Dulcibel started to a sitting posture. “Oh, I know; I am forgetting! That fearful train—I know it all now. And they would not bring George to me, or let me go to him. But I must go now, and see if he is hurt. Quick—my slippers and dressing-gown!”
She threw herself impulsively out of bed, shaking off Marian’s hand.
“Let me alone. What have you to do with it? I must go to my husband directly. And the girls too! Is Nessie hurt?”
“No, ma’am.”
No particular inquiry as to Joan followed, and the mother’s heart gave a vexed throb at the omission.
“The slippers—make haste! I can’t wait a moment, or I shall not be able to go. I feel so giddy and strange. Make haste. Is my husband in the next room?”
“No, ma’am; I believe he is downstairs somewhere. I do not know where, but Mr. Ackroyd knows. Indeed you are not fit to go,” urged Marian. “I am sure the doctor would not allow it, or Mr. Ackroyd.”
“Mr. Ackroyd? Oh, I remember! I saw him yesterday evening. But he has nothing to do with the matter.” Dulcibel paused, and sank down on the bed. “I don’t think I can go after all,” she murmured. “I do feel so ill. Tell my husband to come to me, if you please.”
JOAN, not much more fit than Dulcibel to leave her bed, was a good deal more resolute in carrying out her own will. She would not permit any appeal to Leonard.
“But if you would only just wait till Mr. Forest has been!” pleaded Nessie.
“That is exactly what I don’t want to do,” Joan answered. “He might keep me prisoner, and I want to be free. It is no use talking, Nessie. I must go to father.”
She dressed herself with few words, accepting help from Nessie. A black ribbon tied over the plastered cut on her forehead gave her a somewhat nun-like appearance, not lessened by the white cheeks and heavy, sad eyes below. All sparkle had vanished from Joan’s face.
“I didn’t know I could look so uninteresting,” she said, turning away from the glass. “Well it doesn’t matter.”
“Joan, do you feel very ill?” asked Nessie, wistfully.
“I don’t know. If I find there isn’t much wrong with father, I shall be all right. I am only stupid. I can’t think why you did not find out more last night.”
Nessie attempted no direct answer.
“Leo said I should have breakfast with him at nine; and it is just nine now,” she said.
“Where? In the coffee-room?”
“Oh, no! He has taken the little private sitting-room. Leo seems to think of everything, and it is such a comfort to have him to arrange for us. Wasn’t it strange, his arriving when he did just in time to come and meet us at the station? You will let me send up a tray to you here, Joan?”
“No,” Joan said resolutely. “I am going down.”
She took the lead as usual, passing first through the door. Leo met them on the stairs, his vigorous frame and tawny beard showing even more marked resemblance to those of George Rutherford in full daylight than in the dimness of the evening before. Joan’s black eyes looked up into his brown ones defiantly, as she read there surprise and disapproval.
“Mr. Forest has not been in yet. You were wrong to get up, Joan,” he said, with a brotherly frankness which she resented.
“I didn’t choose to lie in bed,” she answered.
“Where is breakfast to be?”
Nessie pointed to a door just below the flight.
“And where is father?”
Leo drew a little aside, for Joan to pass him.
“Breakfast first,” he said.
“No; I must see father first.”
“Not till Mr. Forest has seen you both.”
Joan stood still, and almost stamped her foot, frowning at him, much as the dignified infant beside the bridge had frowned at the good-humored school-boy.
“I must go to father. I will go to him,” she said passionately. “No one has a right to keep me away.”
“You will not question Mr. Forest’s authority. He has forbidden it.”
“Then I shall speak to Mr. Forest! I am not going to be treated like a child.”
Joan reined up her head and marched before the other two into a shabby little sitting-room, where breakfast lay on the round table.
“Shall I pour out tea?” she asked stiffly.
“Nessie will do that. You must sit here,” Leonard said, drawing forward an easy-chair.
Joan rejected it immediately, and placed herself bolt upright on an ordinary cane-backed chair, trying to ignore certain hazy and floating sensations, akin to those experienced on board ship.
“I think the sooner Joan has a cup of tea the better,” said Leo.
“I am not going to touch anything till I know the truth about father.”
Leonard was silent for a few seconds, and he brought a cup to her side.
“Now, Joan, a little toast, and a scrap of chicken?” he asked kindly.
Joan was fighting against an overwhelming grasp of sickness and exhaustion. She sat bolt upright still, but her lips were the color of the white table-cloth.
“No,” she said—“nothing yet. I will hear about father first.”
“Joan, be reasonable,” urged Leo. “You are fit for nothing till you have taken some food. I promise to tell you presently; and you shall see him so soon as Mr. Forest consents.”
“You are to tell me now,” Joan retorted imperiously. “I don’t want to be reasonable. I only want to know about father.”
“Just a little tea first,” pleaded Nessie.
“No!”
Joan spoke with a sharp ungraciousness, and then she rose and walked to the window, which she flung open, as if in craving for air. The others could hear a gasp. Nessie looked at Leonard and whispered—
“Hadn’t you better give way?”
“You are wrong, Joan; but if you are determined, you shall have your will,” Leo said at length. “Come and sit down.”
“No; I can’t sit down! I can’t eat! Why will you torture me so?” Joan said, with a look of anguish. “Oh, I know it must be something so terribly bad, or you could not keep me waiting! And I don’t know how to wait—I don’t know how to bear it!”
The slight displeasure in Leonard’s manner vanished, and he went to the window.
“You will take cold,” he said; “the air is so sharp. Joan, come and sit down, and you shall ask what you like.”
The look of those black eyes, with their dread and pain and gratitude, touched him keenly. She allowed him to lead her to the arm-chair, and leaning back in it, she shivered violently.
“Yes,” she said—“yes. Oh, go on, please!”
“He seems about the same this morning as last night—not conscious yet. Yes, very much hurt—” as the blanched lips moved questioningly,—“I cannot tell you how much. The scalds are terribly severe. There would be great suffering if he were conscious. The immediate danger is from them, but there are other injuries also. The insensibility arises from a very bad blow on the head. A good nurse is in attendance, and Mr. Forest was there a long while. You could do nothing, and he would not know you. Better that you should take care of yourself now, so as to be able to help when your help is needed, if—when—Yes, I was going to say, when he begins to come to himself. He will want you then.”
“If!” was the only word which passed Joan’s lips.
“Yes, surely we must say that—if it is God’s will that your dear father should recover. We must pray for him,” Leo said, earnestly.
A tap at the door, and Nessie answered—“Come in.” Marian opened it and entered.
“If you please, sir,” she said, “I cannot manage any longer to pacify—”
Marian came to a dead pause, and stood as if suddenly turned to stone, her hands wrung together, her gray eyes fixed on that white girl face in the arm-chair. Joan seemed to dislike the scrutiny. Her drooping eyes opened widely for an instant, and the brows above drew into a frown.
“Who is that woman? Take her away!” she said distinctly, with a touch of pettishness. “I want to hear more about father. Don’t let anybody come in.”
Nessie went to Marian’s side, and asked—
“Shall I come to my mother? Does she want me?”
But Marian did not seem to hear—certainly did not heed. Leo began to think there was something about her uncomfortably peculiar.
“Marian, you must not leave Mrs. Rutherford alone,” he said.
Marian seemed to wake up with a start.
“No—yes, sir,” she said. “I beg your pardon.” Instead of walking out of the room, she drew nearer to Joan, gazing earnestly still. “The—the young lady—looks faint,” she said, with a manifest effort for self-control. “Could I do anything?”
“Go away—I don’t want you here,” said Joan, impatiently. “I am asking about my father, and you interrupt us.”
Marian’s face fell like the face of one who has received a heavy blow. Joan, intent on other thoughts, did not notice this; but Leo did, and was perplexed. Nessie glided from the room, beckoning Marian to follow.
“Do you want anything? How is mother?”
Marian had difficulty in collecting herself, so as to answer rationally.
“Mrs. Rutherford was very anxious to get up,” she faltered—“very impatient to hear more about Mr. Rutherford. It might, perhaps, be best to—to—” and Marian came to a confused pause.
“I think you must be tired with sitting up all night,” Nessie said kindly. “You look quite pale. After breakfast you shall go for a walk. That will refresh you more than anything.”
Marian murmured a grateful response, but one voice rang incessantly in her ears—“Who is that woman? Take her away! Go away—I don’t want you!” And “that woman” was Joan’s own mother—the girl who did not want Marian was her own child!
Alone at last! Hurrying out of the village, away to the old churchyard, unseen by any human eye, alone in her grief, Marian sat upon a flat gravestone, heedless of cold or damp, rocking herself to and fro with smothered sobs.
“O Joan, Joan, my darling! And you do not know me—do not want me—do not love me! O, God, is there any comfort for such pain as this! Canst even thou help me? For I gave her away—my child—my only one! And I need not—ought not. If I had known thee! Thou wouldst have cared for us. If I had but known thee—trusted thee! Joan, my child—my baby—will God ever bring us together again—ever make me dear to you again? How can I hope it? I don’t deserve that he should. For it was my own doing—my own folly! And I dare not tell Joan who I am! I think it would kill me if she had no love to give! It is such heart-breaking work; and none to help—none to comfort! I thought some light had come, and now all is darkness again! Oh, the madness of having given her up; left her when she was mine—altogether mine; and now mine no longer! The madness—the sin! Does Joan see that—the wrong to her—and does she hate her mother for it? Wrong to Joan—wrong to others—how evil done comes home to one in later years! But, O Joan, your mother is bitterly punished!”
NEARLY a month had passed since the day of the collision, and George Rutherford still lay in the Cross Arms Hotel. It had been impossible to move him to his own home.
He had gone very near to the gates of death. Had the scalds alone been in question, it would have been, as Mr. Forest said, a hard fight to pull him through; but there were severe injuries in addition to these. A less vigorous constitution must have succumbed.
For three weeks there came no glimmer of consciousness. He escaped much suffering thereby, and the surface wounds healed, as they hardly could have healed if he had been awake to pain, and restless under it. Danger from the scalds was not now talked of, but the doctors still looked serious, and spoke with increasing gravity of the blow to the head. Some signs of his awaking to life had shown themselves, only they were faint and feeble signs; and when he spoke it was like a little child speaking.
All through this month Marian Brooke had not seen Joan a second time. For Joan was in close attendance upon her father at the hotel, and Marian was in attendance upon Dulcibel at the Hall.
Almost immediately after the accident Dulcibel had been ordered home by Mr. Forest; and she continued from day to day so weak and shaken as to be still quite an invalid, able to sit up only for an hour or two in the day, and strictly forbidden to see her husband. Indeed, the mention of his name, or the slightest hint of peril to his life, brought on violent hysterical attacks.
Nessie devoted herself to Dulcibel, and Marian became gradually a necessity to them both. Dulcibel took a fancy to this stranger from the first, and waywardly refused attendance from anybody else, thereby giving no little offence to the Hall servants. Marian showed calm indifference to their displeasure, and quietly submitted to Dulcibel’s will, never revealing her ceaseless desire for one more glimpse of Joan. Thus far she was known at the Hall only as “Marian,” or “Nurse.”
Leonard Ackroyd had taken up his abode in Woodleigh, though it would be hard to say whether the Hall or the hotel was more strictly his headquarters; he was constantly backwards and forwards between the two. Indeed, had he been George Rutherford’s own son he could not possibly have acted with more kind thought and helpfulness.
Two London trained nurses undertook the actual care of George Rutherford, but Joan was constantly present also. From the first there had been no withholding her.
She did not look well, though the cut on her forehead was healed. The long and terrible anxiety about her adopted father had told upon her severely. Even Mr. Forest’s authority did not suffice to make her take enough sleep and exercise. Appetite and energy were alike gone, and she seemed to care for nothing but to sit hour after hour, day after day, in the semi-darkness of the sick-room, gazing on the loved features, for the first time in her life irresponsive to her voice.
“Joan, you cannot go on like this,” Leo said one day.
He had called at the hotel, as usual, for news of his uncle, and Joan came downstairs to see him. He was struck with the change in her appearance, the fixed pallor, and the spiritless, sad droop of the black eyes. She shook hands, saying, “Good-morning,” and then sat down in an easy-chair, leaning back with a worn-out, strengthless air.
“Joan, you cannot go on like this. We must make a change. It is too much for you to be constantly in the room.”
“Oh, no—I could not be anywhere else,” said Joan. She raised her eyes to meet his, with a mournful smile. “It is nothing,” she said. “If only father were himself again I should be all right: I can’t be well while he is ill.”
“He is better,” Leo began, and then paused. “But—”
“Yes, I know,” Joan responded. “Mr. Forest says ‘But’ so often. I suppose it isn’t cruel of you both. I suppose one ought to understand.”
Leonard was silent, his eyes bent pityingly upon Joan from beneath the full brows; and he passed the fingers of one hand slowly through his tawny beard with a puzzled gesture. Joan looked up, and an expression of sharp pain crossed her face.
“Don’t, Lee—oh, don’t!” she cried. “Oh, please don’t! I can’t bear it.”
“Don’t—what?” he asked, in surprise.
“That! Father does it. Oh, don’t, please! If only you were not so like him!”
She held both hands over her eyes, shivering. “Joan, you are quite overwrought,” he said gravely. “We shall have you ill next.”
“I’m not ill. I am not going to be ill. I am only—only—wretched.”
“But things are a little better than they were, dear Joan,” he said in soothing tones, which thrilled her again.
“Yes, I know. I wish you wouldn’t speak in that voice—like his! Yes, I know he is better from the burns; but it is so dreadful to see him like this, day after day the same, just knowing all of us, and not seeming to care—like himself speaking from behind a great thick curtain; and I can’t get at him—I can’t touch him. It isn’t he that speaks, and it isn’t me that he hears. I never thought illness could be so dreadful—could change a person so. And he isn’t changed really. It is his own dear self that is there, only one can’t reach him, one can’t touch him. And nobody seems able to do anything. Mr. Forest only says we are to wait—wait. I wonder how long! It’s enough to kill one.”
Her hands went over her eyes again, with a moan.
“‘Call upon me in the day of trouble!’” Leo said quietly.
“Yes. Father would tell me to think of that; but I can’t,” said Joan, looking up again, with inexpressible dreariness in her black eyes. “How can I? I can’t think of anything except father. I have tried to pray, and it is no use—there seems nobody to hear. God is so far-away; and now father seems far-away too; even when I am close beside him there is that dreadful far-away feeling, as if a black cloud were wrapping him all round, and keeping us off. Do you know the feeling? I always have it when I try to pray, and that keeps me from praying. But I never had it with dear, dear father before. I have always had him, and it was all I wanted; and now he can’t understand or answer, and nobody else is of any use. All the world is nothing to me except father.”
Joan did not know that she had given Leo pain, perhaps she would not have cared if she had known it. Sorrow makes some people selfish, and Joan was selfish in this grief. There seemed no room in her oppressed and burdened heart for sympathy with others. She could not have told why she turned now to Leonard in her trouble, only it was a relief to speak freely to somebody, and he had always stood in the position of brother to herself and Nessie. The years of his absence in India had modified that position, perhaps much more than any of them were aware. It might have been that the very resemblance to George Rutherford, from which she shrank with positive suffering, yet helped to draw her out.
“What does Mr. Forest say to you about father?” she asked suddenly.
He was thinking of Joan’s last words, and did not at once take in the meaning of the question.
“Mr. Forest? About your father?” Leo repeated dreamily.
“Yea, of course—about father,” said Joan with impatience.
“Much the same, I suspect, as he says to you.”
“He says nothing to me—about what we may expect, I mean. He only talks of waiting, and being patient, and taking each day as it comes. But I am tired of waiting, and I never was patient; and I like to look on. And then he lectures me about going out; and I hate to go out. The sunshine seems such a mockery, when father is lying like this. I can’t enjoy anything if he can’t enjoy it too. I only want to sit in a dark room till he is well.”
“But is that right, Joan?”
“Right I don’t know. And I am sure I don’t know why I should talk to you like this,” continued Joan, lifting her eyes once more, with a perplexed look. “It seems so foolish, only one must speak out a little now and then, and nobody else can understand. I don’t know whether you can—but you look a little as if you could. Nessie can say nothing, except ‘I’m sorry;’ and mother and I never do understand each other the very least.”
“I think you and I do, Joan,” said Leo.
“Oh, I don’t know!” repeated Joan, falling into a languid tone. “Only, as I say, one must speak to some one. But I am going back to father now, unless you will tell me first what Mr. Forest really thinks. I do want to know.”
“It is hardly possible that he should say anything decided at present,” said Leo.
“Of course. Everybody knows that,” responded Joan, listlessly, yet with a touch of petulance. “But I suppose he says a good deal more to you than he does to me. He thinks I can’t stand hearing the truth. And he doesn’t guess how much worse it is not hearing, only being left to think and imagine, and—Leo, won’t you tell me?”
“Yes,” Leo said in his gentlest voice. “If you will put your bonnet on and come for a little walk, Joan, I will tell you all Mr. Forest has said to me?”
“And not without?”
“No.”
“It is cruel,” Joan said, rising. “I am so tired, and the sunshine makes me miserable. But I suppose you will keep to what you say.”
“For your sake, Joan,” he said, apologetically. “You must have air, and you have not been out for three days.”
“I don’t want to go out.”
Yet he did not withdraw his condition, and she moved away, returning presently in hat and jacket.
“Where are you going to take me?” she asked, as they left the hotel together.
Leo was watching anxiously her faltering steps. “Do you think that you can walk, Joan?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I must,” she said, with a faint smile. “It is only the glare of the light and the fresh air that make me so dizzy. Oh, yes, I’ll manage, if I may take your arm for a moment!”
Leonard gave her his arm, but stood still, sending a boy round the corner for a carriage. Another minute, and Joan was leaning back against the cushions, with shut eyes, and a strange sensation of being whirled through space. She made no attempt to rouse herself; and Leo said not a word; but presently the keen air, at first too strong, proved reviving, and Joan sat up.
They were by this time in a country lane, flanked by hedges, dressed in a sparkling veil of hoar-frost. Though a cold day, it was entirely still, and the sun shone from a blue sky.
“Better?” her companion asked.
“Yes. It is nothing—I am only stupid! What are you going to tell me about father?”
“We have not had our walk yet. No, I am not going to be unreasonable—” as she exclaimed indignantly. “But I don’t wish you to look again as you did ten minutes ago.”
She gave him a terrified glance.
“Then it is to be bad news?”
“Nothing definite; only uncertainties and possibilities.”
Joan sighed heavily.
“Try not to think for a little while. Look at that coating of hoar-frost on the trees. Cannot you enjoy this?”
There was no enjoyment in Joan’s face. She looked from side to side with a weary indifference, and at last said—
“Are you taking me home?”
“I had not made up my mind whether to turn that way. Would you like to see Aunt Dulcibel and Nessie?”
“I don’t care.”
Leo seemed to be debating the point. When they reached a certain turn, which would have led them round by the Hall, he said nothing to the driver, and they went straight on. Something of relief appeared in Joan’s face; but presently she said—
“There’s another turning that would do as well.”
“Yes. Better for you to have a good round first,” Leo replied.
“Then you mean to stop at home on the way back?”
“Not if you decide against it.”
A pause; and then—
“No; perhaps we may as well—just for five minutes. I needn’t stay longer than that. Perhaps we may as well—before you tell me more exactly what Mr. Forest thinks about father.”
The same thought had occurred to Leo, though he by no means expected to hear it from Joan’s lips.
“Mother is sure to question me,” added Joan. “I had better be able to say that I really don’t know. But please don’t make me stay long, Leo. I do want to get back to father quickly.”
“I CAN’T think why Leo does not come back,” said Dulcibel complainingly.
“Perhaps he had somewhere else to go on his way,” suggested Nessie.
She was knitting a vague little mat with her small, limp, white hands, seated in Dulcibel’s bedroom, near the sofa on which Dulcibel lay. At the farthest of the three windows sat Marian, busily working, and still more busily thinking. Dulcibel never seemed content now unless Marian were within call.
“He had no business to go anywhere else. Leo knows how terribly anxious I am—how I cannot rest till I hear about the night. I do think he might come back, and tell me about your father, before attending to other business. It is not as if he were obliged. He is quite a man of leisure. And he has never been as late as this before. I am quite sure something must be detaining him—something seriously wrong. Nessie, do go and watch at the side window in the dining-room, and let me know directly you see him coming.”
Dulcibel spoke in a high, flurried tone, her cheeks flushing. Nessie obeyed, and Marian came nearer.
“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you,” she said soothingly. “It’ll be all right.”
“Not worry! How do you know it will be all right?” asked Dulcibel. “Oh, dear—if only Leo would make haste! I don’t know how to stand this suspense. My pillows are so uncomfortable, Marian; please shake them up. No; that is worse. I am aching all over to-day, and I feel so restless. I shall ask Mr. Forest if I can’t have a drive to-morrow, and see my husband perhaps. It seems so absurd to go on being ill like this, without any particular illness. If only Leo would come! I am quite sure something must be wrong—my husband is worse—or—”
Dulcibel was beginning to sob.
“But he may be better,” said Marian. “Perhaps he’s able to take more notice to-day, and likes to have Mr. Ackroyd with him.”
“I know it is not that—I am quite sure!” said Dulcibel. “Things always turn out wrongly with me.”
“If I was the one to say that to Mrs. Rutherford, I suppose I should be told that I showed a want of trust in God,” Marian said quietly.
Dulcibel almost smiled, then sighed.
“It’s easier to preach than to practice. If Leo would but come! Hush—is that the front door? Why doesn’t Nessie tell me she has seen him? Yes, it certainly is; and I can hear Leo’s voice. Something is wrong! Marian, go at once, please, and send him to me as quickly as possible. Don’t let him wait a moment.”
Marian obeyed, hastening down the wide oak staircase. At the foot of it she encountered Leonard Ackroyd alone.
“If you please, sir, Mrs. Rutherford is anxious to see you at once,” Marian said. “She is very much afraid Mr. Rutherford must be worse, from your coming later.”
“No; he is just about the same. Is Miss Rutherford with her mother? I’ll go upstairs to them?”
“Miss Rutherford is in the dining-room, I believe, sir. I will send her to you.”
Leonard went upstairs lightly, yet three steps at a time, in long strides; and Marian walked across the hall to the dining-room. She felt some surprise that Nessie had not come out, but entered, with a light tap.
No Nessie appeared within. One glance revealed that fact; and then all thought of Nessie faded out of Marian’s mind. For somebody else stood there beside the massive dining-table—stood facing her calmly, with lady-like composure and indifference.
Marian knew again these velvet-black eyes, with the marked, dark brows above—would have known them anywhere in the world. And the likeness to the little child of Marian’s recollections was more striking now than on a former occasion. The cold air had freshened Joan, and brought quite a color to her cheeks. Not only that, but, as she met Marian’s intense gaze, her dark brows drew together into the old petulant, childish frown of displeasure.
“What do you want?” Joan asked.
Marian scarcely understood the question. Her mind was possessed by one thought, and for the moment she quite lost sight of the need for self-control. With fixed, hungry eyes, and clasped hands she drew slowly nearer. Joan retreated two or three steps, but Marian followed as if unconsciously.
“What do you mean? What do you want?” demanded Joan, with considerable sharpness.
“Joan—my dear!” Marian spoke the words as if they were wrenched from her, not in the least knowing what she said. “O, my dear Joan—darling!”
“I am Miss Brooke, if you please!” Joan grew as white as pasteboard, standing haughtily upright. “Are you out of your mind, Marian? How dare you speak to me like that?”
“She doesn’t know! O, God, help me!” cried Marian, in thick, broken tones, staggering back against the sideboard. “I’m wrong—wrong—oh, help me!”
Joan stood looking, as deep sobs burst from Marian’s laboring chest. Two long minutes of silence were broken by no other sounds.
“I don’t understand what is the matter with you to-day—” Joan said this coldly and distinctly. “You seem to me to be talking nonsense. I don’t wish to say anything to give you pain, for I know you have been good to Mrs. Rutherford all through her illness. But of course I cannot be spoken to in such a way.”
“No, no; I was wrong,” moaned Marian, in a tone of such anguish that Joan could not turn away, could not walk out of the room and leave her. “I didn’t mean to say anything—I didn’t think I could be so weak!” Then the passionate sobs came back, and Marian leaned over the corner of the sideboard, wringing her hands again. “But, oh, I don’t know how to bear it—I don’t know how to bear it—now I’ve seen your face again! If you can’t say one kind word to me, I almost think—I—shall die.”
“I do not understand. What difference can it make to you how I choose to speak?” asked Joan.
What difference—and Joan was her own child! But the words that quivered on Marian’s lips were not uttered.
“It is quite an absurd fancy. I never knew anybody behave in such a way,” said Joan, refusing to face certain wild conjectures springing up in her mind. “Do leave off crying, and be sensible. Mrs. Rutherford may want you at any moment. Of course I feel kindly towards you, and so we all do, for your care of mother, but I do not in the least know what you mean by all this. Please have no more scenes.”
Marian drew herself upright, and gave Joan one look of unspeakable pain and reproach, then slowly left the room, just as Leo entered it. Joan sat down, suddenly finding herself unable to stand.
“Aunt Dulcibel would like to see you,” he began; and then stopped. “Why, Joan—”
She could hardly utter the words, “I can’t.”
“Joan, what has happened?”
“I don’t know—only—” Joan was shivering like an aspen, and as white as when she had first left the hotel. “Don’t ask, please. I can’t see mother. I’m going back to father.”
“Has Marian said anything to you about him?”
“No, nothing!”
“But she must have said something. You were not like this when I left you.”
“Oh, no; she is only—odd!”
“How? I don’t understand.”
Joan took the most efficacious possible step for putting an end to further questions, for she nearly fainted away. Leo, much distressed, laid her on the sofa, and summoned the old housekeeper to his aid. Nessie presently stole in, to ask why nobody came upstairs, and was greatly concerned to find the state of affairs.
Leo and Nessie would gladly have kept Joan at the Hall for a few hours, but Joan would not hear of it. She offered no explanation of her sudden illness, and made nothing of it, seeming only desirous to get back as quickly as possible to George Rutherford. Before she was quite well enough for the drive Leo went once more for a few words with Dulcibel, whom he found in a very fractious state.
“It was too bad of Joan,” she said—“after promising to come and see her, and now to be going away without a word. But Joan never did care for her, and it was most ungrateful. Of course Joan couldn’t help fainting; but surely she could stay a little while, till well enough to walk upstairs. And where was Marian all this time? Nobody had seen Marian; and everything was upside down; and it was all extremely trying.”
Leo did his best to sympathize, and then went off in search of Marian. Quite by accident he met her outside, coming towards Dulcibel’s room. She looked inexpressibly wan and wretched, with drooping air, and heavy, reddened eyes. Leo paused, and gave her one searching glance.
“Come here, Marian,” he said, opening a door; and she followed him meekly into the little boudoir. “I want to know what has passed between you and Miss Brooke.”
“Sir?” Marian said.
“What passed between you and Miss Brooke? Something, surely—” as no answer came—“if it could cause her to faint, and you—”
Marian’s regretful start was very perceptible.
“Sir, I acted wrongly,” she said. “I acted wrongly, and I am sorry for it. But it wouldn’t make matters any better if I was to explain things to you, and I’d better hold my tongue.”
“Did you say anything about the doctor’s opinion of Mr. Rutherford?”
“No, sir. We did not mention Mr. Rutherford,” Marian answered, hanging her head patiently. “I behaved with what Miss Brooke counted too much freedom. She rebuked me, and I—I was much upset. I do not defend myself, but—”
Leo was considerably perplexed.
“Miss Brooke has not complained of you,” he said.
“No, sir. The less spoken the better,” Marian said, calmly and sadly. “I didn’t expect to be so easily overcome. I thought I was stronger. But we’re often most weak where we count ourselves strong; and so it’s proved with me.”
“Why should you be ‘weak,’ as you call it, in connection with Miss Brooke?” asked Leo.
Marian murmured something about a “likeness.”
“Are you speaking the truth to me?” asked Leonard, with some severity.
She raised her saddened, dim eyes to his.
“Yes, sir, the truth, but not all the truth. Miss Brooke does bear a likeness to one in the past, and it upsets me to see her. But there’s more behind, which I’d best not tell, and you’d best not ask. If Mr. Rutherford was up and well—”
Leo sighed.
“We must hope for that,” he said. “I suppose I ought not to insist on a fuller explanation just now. But I cannot risk any repetition of such scenes, for Miss Brooke’s own sake.”
“No, sir. You shall not have to blame me again.”
“How if you prove weak and easily overcome a second time, Marian?”
She straightened herself, and smiled dimly.
“There’s strength for the weak, and I’m safer now I don’t count myself to be strong,” she said. “No, I shall not be overcome again. I know now what I have to bear, and the sorrow I’ve brought on myself has to be borne with patience. It’s no easy matter, but it must be done. I’d offer to leave, and go back to my father’s, but I do think Mrs. Rutherford would feel it. She seems to depend on me so. It would be easier for me to go than to stay; only I can’t think it right. But you must decide, sir. They all look to you now.”
“I think we must not make any sudden changes,” said Leo gravely.
JOAN did not go upstairs to see Dulcibel. Nessie and Leonard would fain have persuaded her, but entreaties were thrown away. Joan seemed to be in the overmastering grasp of one desire—to get away from the Hall and back to George Rutherford with all possible expedition.
“No, no, no—not to-day,” she said impatiently, when Leo suggested Dulcibel’s disappointment. “Mother will not really care; and I can’t—I can’t. I might come across that woman again. Some other time I can see mother—not now—not to-day. Do let me go.”
She was so tremulous and unlike herself that Leo ventured on no further opposition. Once more in the open carriage, with only the cloudless sky overhead, a sigh of relief escaped Joan. “Dear, dear father!” Leonard heard her murmur; and the black eyes were soft with unshed tears.
“I am afraid our little outing has not done you as much good as I had hoped it would,” said Leo kindly.
“It doesn’t matter! I shall be all right now; and I don’t mean to leave father again. Leo the man is going the longer way round. Tell him not, please.”
“No; I want time for a few words with you.”
“About father—yes, you were going to tell me—I have not forgotten that,” she said.
“And about Marian, Joan. Would you mind telling me what she said or did that upset you so much?”
“She was rude,” Joan answered, a crimson flush mounting in her pale cheeks. “I could not allow that, of course; and when I spoke to her she cried, and seemed quite absurd. It was very foolish of me to care; but I am always so inclined to fancy that things mean more than they really do. I would rather not talk about it now, if you don’t mind. I would rather try to forget.”
“I think I ought to know all,” said Leonard. “There is the question whether she should be allowed still to wait on your mother?”
“You must settle that; I don’t know anything about it,” said Joan dejectedly. “Only I can’t see her again. If I go to see mother, Marian will have to be out of the way. I should not like to meet her a second time. I don’t think she meant any harm, only she was so queer and excited; and when she was rude it made me angry.”
“Marian told me she had behaved with what Miss Brooke counted too much freedom,” said Leo.
“What I counted!” Joan turned towards Leo, with a flash of her eyes. “She called me by my name—‘Joan’ outright, and said ‘dear’ and ‘darling.’ Was that only what I counted freedom? The impertinence of the woman!”
Joan’s drawn brows were for a moment furious, and Leo seemed startled.
“Not really?” he said.
“Yes—really and truly. You don’t think I am making up?”
“No, no; but it is extraordinary,” remarked Leo. “She has always been so singularly quiet and respectful in manner! I cannot understand the sudden change, except—Yes, she spoke of your likeness to some one.”
“Everybody is like everybody. I hate likenesses, and I am always being bothered about them,” said Joan pettishly. “I wish I had not told you so much. Please don’t tell mother, or I shall never hear the end of it. I don’t want to say another word about Marian’s absurdities. You promised to tell me exactly what the doctors think of father, and I am sure I have waited long enough.”
Leo said “Yes” thoughtfully.
“Go on. ‘Yes’?” said Joan. “Make haste, please.”
“It is not easy to know exactly what to say,” Leo answered. “Their opinion at the last consultation was not very favorable.”
She forced herself to speak composedly.
“Not favorable—how?”
“As to entire recovery. The injury to the head seems to be of a more serious nature than was at first thought. We all hoped that the long unconsciousness was due, at least in a measure, to the shock of the accident and the burns, and that when he once began to rally the mind would be clear. But it is not so.”
“He is so weak,” murmured Joan.
“Still it is something beyond mere weakness. Have you not noticed?”
Joan’s face was turned away, and Leo kept silence. She looked round at length with a sudden impatience and distress.
“Go on—oh, go on!” she said. “It is no use putting off. The worst can’t be worse than I often think. You have promised to tell me all—everything—not to hide a single word. I want to know the very worst;” and she clenched one hand over the carriage door. “Quick, please. It is dreadful having to wait like this.”
But Leo was unable to go on. Strong man that he was, not easily overcome at any time, the sight of that pleading girl face, with its quivering lips and dark, troubled eyes, proved too much even for him. His own bronzed cheeks lost coloring with the intensity of pity within—not pity alone, though that at the moment was the main feeling; for George Rutherford was very dear to his heart—and his frank, brown eyes were absolutely full of tears. When he would have answered, his voice failed.
“Leo, I am so sorry.” Joan spoke suddenly in a soft, low tone, more changed in one instant than he would have thought possible. “I am so very sorry. I forgot that dear father is your father as well as mine—as much, I suppose; I don’t know—it seems to me always that nobody can love him as I do. But that must be absurd. I’m afraid I have been selfish, thinking only of my own part in the trouble. But of course it is your trouble too. Would you rather not tell me any more? I’ll try to bear on a little longer.”
Leo was already recovering himself.
“No, no,” he said, huskily; “you have a right to know all.” They were approaching the hotel, and he leant forward to say to the driver—“Go straight on till I tell you to turn.”
“I did not mean to be unkind,” Joan repeated then wistfully. “I quite forgot, Leo.”
Leonard made no attempt to explain the nature of his own feelings. He said only—“Any questions you like.”
“Is there any hope that father will ever—ever be quite the same again—quite the same that he has been?”
“I am afraid—very little hope.”
“Will he recover, Leo?”
A pause, and then—
“We cannot be sure yet. He does not get on as he should. Still on the whole—”
“And if he does—if—if—Leo, I don’t know how to get it out!” cried Joan, with extreme bitterness. “Will—will there—will there be a change in him always? Will this go on? Don’t you understand? Will he—will he—his dear, dear mind—Oh, can’t you answer?”
“Dear Joan, that is the fear,” Leo answered very low.
Joan had no more to say. She looked like one crushed.
“I don’t mean that we can speak with any certainty yet, but that is the fear,” repeated Leo.
“Can nothing be done—nothing?” asked Joan, despairingly.
Leo’s answer was in two words only.
“Yes—prayer.”
“Prayer doesn’t always bring the thing one wants,” murmured Joan.
“It—or something better.”
“There can’t be anything better. There could not be. Oh, you don’t know what he is!” half-sobbed Joan. “There is nobody like him in all the world. Please tell the man to turn. I want to go back to father.”
Leo obeyed, and she sat leaning forward, with a look of eager longing and sorrow.
“Remember, Joan, things are not hopeless,” he said.
Joan was silent till they had almost reached the hotel. Then she said, with downcast eyes—“Thank you very much. You have been very good to me. And I think it is just a little comfort to know how much you feel it all too. Leo, please do pray that father may soon be perfectly well.”
Leo said only—“Yes.”
“I want you to pray hard—hard,” she reiterated. “I know there is the sort of prayer that must bring an answer. Couldn’t you pray that kind of prayer for father? I would if I knew how; but all seems stony and cold. If only I had asked father when I could! Nobody else can help me. And my prayers wouldn’t bring an answer; but perhaps yours, will.”
“Why not yours, Joan?”
“Because I love father more than Christ,” she answered very low. “Father is everything to me. But I want other people to pray—hard—hard!”
The hotel was reached, and no more could be said. Leo thought of the “effectual fervent prayer” which “availeth much.” But also he knew that Joan was leaving out of sight the one great condition on which all answers to prayer must hang, the—“if it be according to his will.” No petition which runs counter to God can be ever that kind of prayer which does avail much and which brings a full reply.