“Marian Brooke is your mother, my child,” said George seriously.
“Must I call her so?” asked Joan, with reluctance. “It seems so unnatural: ‘My mother, Mrs. Brooke,’ or ‘Mrs. Brooke, my other mother!’ That is all I could say. Shall I ever have to see her, father? I should not like that.”
“Yes; I have been thinking. She ought to come here.”
“Oh no: it would be a worry for you. I’ll go to Cairns farm some day soon, and have an interview. It will be rather dreadful, but I shall get through somehow, I dare say. Of course I can’t pretend to be fond of her, and she could not expect it. She gave me up, and she has no right over me now.”
George’s look was hardly of assent. He said gently—“She is your own mother, Joan—nothing can undo that. Wrongly as she acted, the tie remains. I cannot think much yet, I can only feel. We shall see in time what is right. God is a very present help, darling, always, at all times. But he does not always help us just as we would choose. He brings us often by ways that we cannot understand.”
GEORGE RUTHERFORD was going downhill steadily. Bodily and mental powers seemed to be failing him together. As the long summer days grew brighter and more warm he appeared to be held in the grasp of an indescribable sadness, preventing all his wonted enjoyment of fair sights and sounds in nature.
They could not arouse him to his old interest in things around. If Joan coaxed him into the garden he soon asked to return indoors; and if she read aloud he listened without comment, growing speedily weary.
Dulcibel did not think so much of this as did others. Like many people who are greatly given to causeless and unreasoning fears, she was often by no means the first to take alarm where real reason for alarm existed. “George was languid with the spring,” she said. “He would be stronger by-and-by. For her part, she really thought he wanted rousing. It was getting to be quite a habit of depression—very bad for anybody.”
Mr. Forest viewed the matter differently.
“There is something pressing on Mr. Rutherford’s mind,” he said seriously one day, after for a while holding his peace. “I find no other cause sufficient to account for the change in Mr. Rutherford of late.”
Mrs. Rutherford and Joan exchanged meaning looks. As yet no mention of Joan’s newly-found relatives had been made beyond their own circle. Even to Mr. Forest, old and tried friend that he was, not a word had been said. Joan and her adopted mother were almost equally loath to have the matter known, and speech had not yet become necessary. At present George Rutherford seemed disposed to shirk the subject—to put it aside. If Dulcibel brought it forward, he did not respond. If Joan alluded to Mr. Brooke or Marian, he said only—“We shall see what to do before long.”
And still he had gone downward; losing strength day by day; wearing always a look of care and trouble and weariness on the broad brow and in the brown eyes, never seen there in past days. Therefore when Mr. Forest spoke of “something pressing on Mr. Rutherford’s mind,” an involuntary glance passed between Dulcibel and Joan, noted at once by the doctor.
“Ah!” Mr. Forest said quietly.
Dulcibel’s eyes went to Joan again.
“There have been—worries,” she said hesitatingly. “Yes; I think my husband is worried, Mr. Forest—a good deal, perhaps.”
Mr. Forest waited, and Joan spoke impetuously.
“Mother, Mr. Forest ought to know all. He can’t judge rightly about father without.”
Dulcibel began to cry, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; and Joan took the matter into her own hands, flushing and paling alternately, as was her fashion when this subject had to be touched upon.
“It will have to be told,” she said. “Things can’t be hidden long, mother; and Mr. Forest will tell nobody else until we wish.”
A gesture of assent was his response.
“Yes, I know—yes, of course; we are quite sure,” Joan said, clasping her hands over the back of a chair. “It is a great trouble, Mr. Forest; and you will understand. You know all about me, and how it is that I live here. Just lately we have found out who my—my—people are.” She hesitated for a word. “One grandfather of mine, old Mr. Brooke, has been staying lately at Mrs. St. John’s; and the other is old Mr. Cairns, of Cairns farm. His daughter, Marian Brooke—the one who nursed mother so long—is my real mother. Of course I don’t feel her so, but she is. That is the trouble.”
Joan spoke fast, only half articulating her words. Mr. Forest would not show how startled he was. There had always been a spice of romance about Joan—a kind of princess-incognita flavor; and he had a sense of sudden descent into prosaic lower levels. A vision of the sturdy old farmer in his gaiters, and of the farmer’s angular daughter, Hannah, in tucked-up skirts and ponderous boots, swept before the mind’s eye of the doctor.
But Joan saw only a kind look of sympathy, heard only a thoughtful—“Yes; this must be a trial for you all.”
“It weighs on my husband’s mind, I’m sure,” said Dulcibel, shedding tears. “He is so fond of Joan. I often say she is more to him than Nessie—not that Nessie feels jealous—she is so sweet-tempered, poor dear! And it is no fault of Joan’s either. But he can’t bear her out of his sight now, and he looks—I’m sure I don’t know how he looks—as if he couldn’t hold up his head, or care for anything.”
Mr. Forest put two or three questions to Joan. How long had Mr. Rutherford known these particulars? How had they first come to his hearing? How had he received the tidings?
“Ah! That last severe attack—yes, I remember,” he said, passing one hand thoughtfully over his chin. “A shock was the cause; you told me so much. Yes, I understand now.” Then, after a pause for consideration, during which he sat gazing on the ground—“This cannot be allowed to go on. Something must be done.”
“What can be done?” Dulcibel asked helplessly.
“That is the question. Anything rather than leave Mr. Rutherford to brood over it as he has done lately.”
“But I don’t see what to do,” repeated Dulcibel. “Are we to make my husband talk?”
“Anything rather than to have things as they are now,” Mr. Forest said again.
“I don’t believe talking will do any good. It can’t undo about Marian and all the rest,” said Dulcibel.
“Mother, that isn’t all. I don’t think you understand,” Joan said suddenly. “I know what really makes father so unhappy;” and her own eyes were full to overflowing. “He has said something once or twice—not much, but enough. He thinks I ought to leave him and you and go to Mrs. Brooke—because she is my mother. To leave you and this dear home altogether, and only come sometimes as a visitor to see you all!” cried Joan. “I told him I couldn’t—couldn’t—I should be wretched. I said it would break my heart, and I would rather die. And he hasn’t spoken since; but I know he is always thinking—always.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Forest. “It is wearing him out.”
“He thinks of nothing else, night and day,” said Joan mournfully. “I am always seeing it in his look. He thinks he ought to give me up—ought to make me go. It is just the one thought of Mrs. Brooke being my mother, and a mother having the first right. He doesn’t think of the way she behaved—and he can’t look on the other side.”
“He is not able,” said Mr. Forest gravely. “The weakness of mind shows itself there. You cannot depend upon Mr. Rutherford’s judgment in this or any other matter. If once he is possessed of a certain view of a question, he cannot take any other view. But nothing could be worse for him than this continued strain.”
“I did ask him once if he would like to have Marian here to see Joan,” observed Dulcibel. “That was ten days ago, I think; and he only said ‘Not yet.’”
Joan turned pleading eyes upon the doctor.
“What ought I to do?” she asked. “If I only knew, I would bear anything for father’s sake—indeed I would.” She clenched her hands till the brown fingers grew white with pressure. Mr. Forest made no immediate answer; and Joan went on—“I could see Mrs. Brooke at the farm. Would that do?”
“Or send for her,” suggested Dulcibel.
“I hardly think the agitation of seeing Mrs. Brooke would be advisable for him at this moment,” Mr. Forest observed. “Remember, we do not know how she would act; and very little is needed in your husband’s present state to bring on another acute attack like the last. He has less strength now to cope with it. One thing is certain, the weight of decision ought not to rest with Mr. Rutherford. He should be made to feel that the whole responsibility is taken out of his hands—that the matter must rest with Joan’s conscience, not with his.”
“Conscience! As if I could ever think it right to leave father for anybody,” Joan said hurriedly. Then, sighing—“Yes, I see what you mean. It is conscience with father. He thinks it must be God’s will that I should go to live with Mrs. Brooke, and that he ought to make me go. And then he would break his heart at losing me—oh, I know he would! Mr. Forest, what ought I to do? How can I put things right?” cried the girl beseechingly. “Don’t you see how dreadfully difficult it is—if I see one thing to be right, and father thinks it wrong?”
“The question for you scarcely hinges there,” said Mr. Forest. “The judgment and conscience of a thoroughly weakened brain are not trustworthy. It is well for you to see that dearly. You feel it right to remain here, and certainly my own view of the matter is the same. But the fact that your father’s view of it arises from disease or weakness, does not lessen the ill effects upon himself. The mental struggle and strain which he is undergoing may have the worst possible results.”
Joan stood thinking, with drawn brows and troubled look. “Yes, I see,” she said. “And anything that will take away the worry, anything that will make him feel happy again—”
“If you were to see Mrs. Brooke,” suggested Mr. Forest, “and she were to state plainly that she had no idea whatever of reclaiming you?” Joan’s face flushed into sudden brightness. “You and I may count this unnecessary; but for your father’s sake—”
“Oh, I do think that would be best—I do think it would put his mind at rest,” Joan said earnestly. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’ll go this afternoon—at once. And to-morrow I can tell you all about it.”
Ten minutes later Joan entered her father’s room, wearing hat and gloves. It had not occurred to her to ask Mr. Forest’s advice about informing her father where she was going, but he had evidently counted open speech better than silent brooding. Joan felt disposed to speak frankly.
“Are you going out, my dear?” George asked listlessly.
“Yes, father, to Cairns farm. I am going to see Mari—my—Mrs. Brooke, I mean.”
“Your mother.” George did not appear to be startled. He was not easily startled. That which tried and harassed him was having, with his enfeebled brain, to decide a difficult question or to bear responsibility.
“Yes, father. You wanted me to see her some day; and perhaps it will be best over.”
She stood by his arm-chair, looking anxiously at the once fine lion-like face, now thinned and weakened. Some strong wave of feeling below could be dimly seen. Joan pressed his hand to her lips.
“I think it will comfort you to have me go, father dear.”
George drew Joan down into his arms, and held her tenderly—held her as one might hold a precious possession before parting with it.
“My Joan—my child,” he murmured—“the comfort of my life. But I give you up, my darling, if God so wills. It is right and just.”
“No, father,” Joan answered, growing white, “I do not believe that it is God’s will. She gave me up to you, and she cannot ask for me again.”
“If she did not—” George said slowly. “But Joan, my child, if she does, I consent. I dare not hold you back.”
“Father, I would not go,” said Joan gently. “I am not a little child now, and I must decide for myself.”
“If it is right,—you will do what is right,” George said. “That must come later. I cannot often think, or I would have seen her before this. She may not claim you, my darling; but if she did—”
“And if she did not, father dear?”
He smiled at the thought—a smile of sudden sunshine.
“But we must be willing,” he murmured—“willing, whatever God calls us to bear. The fight has been hard. I think I can consent now, from my heart. You have been a dear girl to me all these years, dear, past telling. Still, if we have to part, we can do it in obedience; and, after all, a mother’s claim! Yes, she forfeited it, perhaps, and yet—no, I cannot think clearly, my darling. I can only feel—only be willing, and our God will guide us.”
Joan had no voice with which to answer. She kissed him passionately and hastened away.
ALL these months Marian Brooke had lived quietly at the farm, making no effort to see her daughter.
Hardly “making no effort,” for she did occasionally allow herself one bitter-sweet pleasure. Now and then she would find her way to Woodleigh Church, and feast her eyes upon the dark-eyed girl in the squire’s pew. But on such occasions Marian found her own devotions to be almost pushed out of existence. She could see nothing, remember nothing, think of nothing, except Joan.
So she usually attended the little hamlet church which lay nearest to Cairns farm. It was only when the mother-thirst grew, through long starvation, to an intolerable pitch, that she indulged herself in one of these stolen Sunday studies of Joan. After all, there was more of pain than of satisfaction in such study.
For as time went on she felt only more and mom vividly that the giving away of her child had indeed been final—that she must yield up all hope of ever winning back the love of Joan in this life.
“You will never see or hear anything of me again from this day,” Marian had written to Mr. Rutherford, under the expectation of speedy death. She had no distinct recollection now of the actual phrases employed in her letter, but was disposed to magnify them into more positive promises than they really were.
Marian could not count herself free to make herself known to Joan without Mr. Rutherford’s consent. She believed that she had not promised that she would never divulge her name and relationship; but even on this point she had doubts. The letter had been hurriedly written, under strong excitement.
Had George Rutherford been in his usual health, Marian must have gone to him—must have told all—must have appealed to his pity and his judgment. But his present condition precluded this. She had heard that any severe shock or great trouble might tell upon him fatally; and she dared not come forward. His great love for her child Joan was known through all the neighborhood: her child—not his! That fact was not known.
So through, the past winter and spring there had been nothing for her but to wait; and as she waited, much of peace came back to Marian’s spirit.
Old Mr. Cairns began more and more to appreciate the presence of his long-lost elder daughter; and Jervis was happier than for many long years before.
The one family fret and trial was Hannah’s uncomfortable rasping temper. But this mattered less to Jervis now he had Marian’s companionship, and Marian herself did not seem to be easily ruffled. She was a good deal changed in that respect since early girlhood.
“Something’s wrong with Betsy,” Hannah announced as they rose from early dinner.
“Wrong—how?” inquired Jervis.
“I don’t know. She’s been sick all the morning, and she’s gone to bed, leaving everything on my hands—as if I hadn’t enough to do already—and Saturday too!”
“The poor thing can’t help being ill, I suppose,” said Jervis.
“Nobody said she could,” retorted Hannah. “Other folks can help being lazy, though.”
The cut at her sister was obvious; but Marian only asked, with a half-smile—
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Oh, I never count on you for anything!” Hannah responded, with an indignant whisk of her body towards the dresser. “You’ll be wanting to read your Bible all the afternoon, because of to-morrow’s Sunday-school. That’s about all you’re good for! I’ve got the bread to make, and a pie for to-morrow, and father wants a lot of bread-and-butter and tea taken out to the mowers in the front meadow—I can’t see on earth why! And Betsy wants looking after too. She’ll have to see to herself, for I’ve no time. And there’s no end of sheets to darn.”
“Well, I can darn the sheets and see to Betsy,” said Marian. “If you like, I’ll make the pie.”
“I dare say!” Hannah answered ungratefully, “I know what your pies are like.”
Marian allowed the question to drop. Discussion with Hannah was at all times useless. When once she had made an assertion, however recklessly, she would cling to it afterwards with a bull-dog tenacity. Marian had a light hand for pastry, but one batch of pies had proved a failure in the course of the winter; and Hannah never forgot it.
The old farmer vanished, and his son also. Marian helped to clear away the dinner-things; ran upstairs to attend to the prostrate Betsy; then settled herself near the window of the large kitchen for a prolonged darning of sheets. About an hour passed thus uninterruptedly. Hannah usually chose to perform bread-making in the airy back kitchen, so Marian was left to herself. She worked steadily for an hour, sometimes singing softly; and then pausing for a dreamy gaze out of the window, in the midst of which her sister entered.
“That’s the way to get work done!” Hannah remarked with a grim derisiveness.
“I am not wasting time, Hannah,” said Marian. “It’s only—”
“Oh, you’re not, ain’t you?” interrupted Hannah.
“No. My hand is tired, and I’m taking ten minutes’ rest. Two sheets are done.”
“Well, there’s plenty more that wants doing,” said Hannah.
Exit Hannah, and enter Jervis in her stead. His flushed face and audible breathing told their own tale.
“Jervis, you haven’t been in the hay-field?” said Marian.
“Yes. It wasn’t wise. Never mind.”
Jervis sat down, leaning forward, and not speaking. Marian gave him a glance or two of sympathy, but kept silence until he seemed more comfortable.
“I wish you could get rid of that tiresome asthma,” she said.
“Not likely. It seems tied to me—most likely for life,” Jervis answered cheerfully. “There, I’m better now. I’d no business to go near the hay.”
“Farming doesn’t suit you,” said Marian.
“I’d give it up gladly, and do anything else, if father was willing. But I don’t like to go against him now, after all the trouble he has had. And so long as he can see to everything it doesn’t much matter that I can’t. I don’t know how things will be by-and-by.”
“We haven’t got to settle now for by-and-by,” Marian observed placidly.
She darned on for a while, saying no more, and too much wrapped up in her own thoughts to be conscious of her brother’s steady observation.
“Polly, are you thinking about your child?” he asked.
Marian started; his words brought her back so suddenly to a forgotten present.
“Yes—” and she sighed—“I was seeing her dear little face just then as clear as daylight, just like what she was when I gave her away.”
“You’ve never told me yet who you gave her to.”
“No,” Marian answered.
“And you’d rather not? You can’t trust me? Sometimes I do think a second ought to know it beside yourself. Suppose you should be ill—too ill to speak—and should want your child sent for?”
“I’ve thought of that. But I don’t see my way to telling yet. Yes, I trust you—more than anybody else in the world. It’s myself I can’t trust. Just now I’m feeling stronger and not so troubled; but how can I tell that it’ll last? And if your persuadings should pull the same way as my own heart, I think it would be too much for me.”
“And you don’t think it would be right to try to get your child back?”
“No, I don’t—I can’t; I wish I could. She’s in a happy home, and doesn’t want me. And they that have kept her all these years have the right to her now. It wasn’t as if I’d given them any choice. I threw my child into their arms, so to speak, and took myself off, and they couldn’t give her back to me, if they wished. Yes, it was a mad thing to do—mad and foolish and wrong. Anybody else would have sent her off to the workhouse—anybody but one who is all kindness; and it was his kindness that I trusted. But I sometimes wish now that my trust had proved false; for if my child were poor and unhappy she’d be glad to welcome me—glad to see her own mother. She wouldn’t be glad now. And yet if he had cast her off, she might have been brought up in wicked ways. Sometimes I don’t know what to wish—what to think. I feel it was the maddest deed a mother ever ventured on, almost—a mother who loved her little one, as I loved Joan. Worry must have driven me pretty nearly out of my mind, before I could have done it.”
Jervis said “Yes” to this. “But you’ve looked happier of late,” he added kindly.
“I’m getting more used to waiting. It was dreadfully hard at first—hard to know I’d put my child away from me with my own hand, and mightn’t try to take her back. It’s been easier lately, or else I’ve grown stronger. There’s help for those who pray and trust; and if God lets us bear the punishment brought by our own doings, he’s willing to forgive. Yes; I think I must be stronger.”
A half-smile flickered round her mouth as she spoke.
“Things do seem to get better as one goes on. Sometimes earth grows less and hopes of heaven get brighter, and then troubles don’t matter so much. Perhaps my child will learn to love me yet—by-and-by. God knows how I thirst and pray for that! But it don’t do to snatch at what one wants before the right time.”
“No, my dear,” Jervis answered, in a grave voice.
The window looked out upon a large yard which opened by means of two heavy wooden doors upon a muddy lane. At the present moment nobody was in the yard, and the wooden doors were shut.
As Marian gazed dreamily, one of the doors began to stir in a slow and uncertain fashion, as if moved by unaccustomed fingers. It was pushed gradually open, and a girlish figure entered—a slender, well-dressed figure, stepping with a somewhat gingerly and reluctant air, as if not particularly gratified to be there.
Marian’s loosely folded hands became locked with a tight clasp, and her absent gaze changed into a fixed stare.
“Why, Polly, what’s the matter? Do you know that young lady?” asked her brother.
Marian showed no signs of having heard the question. She seemed almost to have lost consciousness of her whereabouts.
“I wonder who it is, and what she wants,” Jervis said again, just as Hannah came bustling into the kitchen, with tucked-up sleeves, pinned-up skirts, and floury hands. “She looks puzzled where to turn. Perhaps I’d better go—”
“Go where?” demanded Hannah shortly. “Somebody in the yard? Oh, I see! Why, it’s Mr. Rutherford’s daughter. What on earth does she want here, I should like to know? We don’t supply the Hall with milk now—more shame that we don’t. I never did like that Mrs. Rutherford, coming and turning everything upside down, with her fussy ways, as soon as ever she was married. I’m not going to begin sending again now, after all these years, so she needn’t think it. Shouldn’t wonder if Miss Rutherford has come for that, and I shall just say no. Well, she is finding her way to the door at last. One would think she’d got no eyes. Polly’ll have to go and answer the bell, for Betsy’s upstairs.”
But Marian still remained seated in that strange trance, with fixed eyes and locked hands, as if seeing and hearing nothing.
“What on earth’s up with her now?” uttered the amazed Hannah.
“I don’t think she’s well,” said Jervis uneasily. “Polly, my dear—Polly,” and he grasped her shoulder gently, giving a slight shake. “Polly, wake up; are you asleep? That’s right—” as Marian rose.
“Will you answer the bell, or shall I? Come, my dear, we must be quick. Miss Rutherford is waiting.”
Marian resumed her seat.
“I can’t stand,” she said. “I think—I think I’m taken dizzy. My head’s all of a maze.” She looked up at her brother entreatingly. “You go, Jervis, please,” she whispered. “And let me have a word with her before she leaves.”
“Yes, to be sure, if she doesn’t mind,” replied Jervis cheerfully. “You’d like to ask all about Mr. Rutherford, wouldn’t you?”
AS Jervis had opened the door to his sister, one wintry evening, months earlier, so now he opened it to his niece. But he no more knew Joan to be his niece than he had known Marian at first sight to be his sister. He thought of her only as Mr. Rutherford’s adopted daughter—Miss Rutherford. Joan was so commonly spoken of in the neighborhood by this name, that very many, including Jervis, quite believed her to be Mr. Rutherford’s niece.
“Is Mrs. Brooke at home?” asked Joan. Rapid walking and suppressed agitation had brought a flush to her cheeks, and her dark eyes wore their look of mingled trouble and defiance. The black brows above were drawn into one straight line of rich pencilling, and she held herself upright with a resolute dignity which scarcely sufficed to conceal her inward trembling.
“My sister Marian?” Jervis was surprised to find Marian’s surname known. He was aware what pains she had taken to suppress it, both during her stay at the Hall, and during her stay at home.
“Yes—Marian Brooke. I wish to speak to her, if you please.”
Jervis privately thought that the young lady need not have assumed quite so haughty an air. He began to wonder whether perhaps “Polly” were to be called upon again to act the “nurse” to somebody at the Hall. That seemed on the whole more likely than a request for renewed supplies of milk or butter. Joan, meanwhile, never doubting that all the Cairns family must be fully aware of the relationship between herself and them, wondered a little at the unconsciousness of his manner. Marian, his sister! That meant that he was her uncle—Joan’s uncle! Joan was quite prepared to repel any advances made on the score of this relationship, but as yet there were no advances to repel.
“My sister Marian is just inside,” said Jervis. “If you would like to come in—”
“Yes, I want to speak to Mrs. Brooke,” repeated Joan, with a touch of impatience. Jervis was struck by the distressed alternations of flush and paleness, and by the nervous excitement which underlay her haughtiness.
“Certainly!” he said in his pleasantest manner. “Will you please step inside, and I will call Marian.”
“What’s it all about, Jervis?” demanded Hannah, from the kitchen-door.
“Miss Rutherford wishes to see Polly,” Jervis answered.
“Oh!” Hannah said, making her appearance. “Well—she’ll have to come in here then. The parlor’s all in a mess. I haven’t had time to get anything straight.”
“It does not matter where,” observed Joan. Beforehand, she had pictured an interview alone with Marian; but now a despairing indifference to spectators seized upon her. These people of course all knew the facts of the case. And what did it matter? What did anything matter? What was aught in the world to Joan, except one aim—to bring rest and ease to her father’s troubled heart?
Marian Brooke forgot her own sensations as Joan came in. She rose again, and came forward, walking slowly, with her eyes fixed on the young girl’s face—the face of her long-lost child. Jervis looked on wonderingly. Hannah stood and stared with bare, floury arms, and pulled-up skirts. Only Marian and Joan moved, drawing nearer together.
Mother and daughter! And both knew it. Each knew also that the other knew it. But no brightness was in either face; for never till this moment had Joan felt the reality of the relationship, the tremendous force of that tie of nature which nothing could ever undo. She felt it, but only with a sense of bitter pain and shrinking. There had been a time when those dark eyes of Joan’s had looked lovingly into Marian’s with lisped words of tenderness to “Muvver, muvver!” Nothing of that kind now. The very memory of such days, ever fresh in Marian’s heart, had died out of Joan’s mind; and the sudden dread which showed itself in the girl’s whitening face, was reflected in the silent anguish of the mother’s passionate yearning.
Then Joan stood still, gazing down upon the red-brick floor. What was she to do or say next? What was she here for? And Marian broke the silence, speaking in the muffled tone of one half-choked.
“I think, perhaps, you’d like to see me in another room, wouldn’t you, Miss Rutherford, my dear?”
Joan laid one hand on the table for support, conscious of pallor and sickness.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said huskily. “Yes, I think I should like that best. But it doesn’t really matter. You all know, of course. I am not Miss Rutherford really. It is kind of you to be willing to call me so; but of course you know! I am Joan Brooke, your daughter; but much, much more Mr. Rutherford’s child!” added Joan, with a sob.
One moment’s dead pause, and then, “Well, I never!” broke from Hannah.
“Polly, my dear, is this your secret?” Jervis asked sorrowfully.
“Yes,” Marian said, coming closer to Joan. “It has been my secret, and I wish it was still. She shouldn’t have told. There wasn’t need. Why did you, my dear?” Marian asked of Joan, almost reproachfully.
Joan’s downcast eyes gave one startled look up.
“Didn’t they all know?” she gasped, rather than said.
“No, my dear, only me—nobody but me,” said Marian, taking one of Joan’s gloved hands, and fondling it between her own. “You won’t mind me doing that, will you, my dear? I’ve craved so for a touch! It seems to put new life into me. But I wouldn’t have told them yet, if you hadn’t. I didn’t mean to.”
Tears were slowly dropping from Marian’s eyes, as she went on caressing the little cold limp hand. Joan submitted only, making no response. Jervis said nothing after his first involuntary question. Hannah came to the other side of the table, rested her floury hands upon it, and scanned Joan all over.
“Well, I never!” she repeated. “You don’t mean to say it’s true? I never! And you not to say a word about it all these months! I never! What’s to be done next, I wonder?”
“Hannah, you’d better come away,” Jervis said in an undertone.
“Come away! What for?” demanded Hannah. “If this young woman is Polly’s daughter, she’s my niece, and I s’pose I’ve a right to speak to my own niece.”
“Not now. It’s not the time,” urged Jervis. “Not now, Hannah. Come away, and leave them quiet. Polly will tell us all by-and-by. Hannah—Hannah, come away.”
His whispered importunities prevailed. Very reluctantly Hannah permitted herself to be drawn aside, and the kitchen-door was shut. Mother and child stood alone, each facing the other.
For a minute neither spoke. The tall clock ticked on with loud, slow distinctness; and the afternoon sun streamed in through the lattice window, casting slender, diamond-shaped shadows on the red-brick floor. The purring even of the old cat lying beside the fender came to Joan’s ears, and the shrill chirp of a cricket in the hearth.
“You’ll sit down, my dear—won’t you?” Marian pleaded at length in a trembling voice. “You won’t mind sitting down here, just for a little?”
Joan allowed herself to be led to the big arm-chair of old-fashioned shape, commonly occupied by the old farmer—her grandfather. She sat in it, upright and pale, like one in a dream. Marian stood in front, gazing and gazing as if her eyes could not have their fill.
“I want to know if this is really true?” Joan said at length, speaking with a resolute composure. “It was old Mr. Brooke who told me.”
Marian was surprised at the question. Joan’s manner hitherto had implied no sort of doubt; and Joan, looking up, read her expression. “I know—I know,” she said bitterly. “Of course it is true—really. I haven’t any hope—really—of finding it a mistake. But he said you could tell me all about it. And I have come to ask.”
“Mr. Brooke’s son, Hubert, was my husband,” Marian said.
“Yes, so he told me. And you are my—”
Then a pause. Marian’s face worked.
“What made you give me up?” asked Joan suddenly. “If you had loved me, and kept me with you, I should have been your child now. I should have learnt to care for you. Now I am Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford’s child. I love them dearly, dearly, and I should be miserable away from them. Father is everything in the world to me. And it was your doing. You gave me up of your own free will; gave me over to them. It was a wrong, unjust thing to do. You did not deserve that they should keep me; but they did, and they were strangers—and you were my mother. And now I owe everything to them—not to you—nothing at all to you.”
Marian’s tears were streaming, and voice failed her for self-defence, if indeed she had any to offer.
“Father is ill, and he has a fancy that you will expect to be able to claim me as your own child,” Joan went on feverishly. “That is what I have come to speak about to-day. I want your help.”
“I’d give my right hand to help you, my dear, if it would be any good,” said Marian brokenly.
“Do you really care about me still?” asked Joan, with a momentary touch of curiosity. “I wonder you did not keep me, then, instead of giving me away. Of course I know that you had no money; but poor people don’t always give their children away in that fashion, directly they are in difficulties. It seems such an extraordinary thing to have done. I can’t understand it at all, and other people can’t either. Everybody says how wrong you were.”
Marian moved her head in mute, sorrowful assent.
“That is all over now, and can’t be helped,” pursued Joan. “I only want you just to see that it is not anybody’s doing except yours—that of course life is quite altered both for you and me by it. I want to speak to you now about my father. Since he heard all this from Mr. Brooke—my grandfather—he has been very unhappy and worried. It is making him ill again. He seems to think that you have a first right to me. He seems to think I am wrong not to be willing to leave him, and to live with you. As if I could!” Joan cried passionately. “He is everything to me—dearer than all the world. And you are only a stranger. You turned me off when I was a little helpless child, and gave up your right, and now you cannot take it back; anybody must see that. The very idea is absurd. But father’s head is weak since his accident, and he cannot grasp things as he used to do. If a fancy takes hold of him, he has no power to shake it off. And he has got this thought into his head, and nothing that I can say makes him feel differently. It is his illness, the doctor says, and the worry and unhappiness are wearing him out, and I have come to you for help. I think you ought to be willing to do this one thing for me, when you remember hew very much I owe to dear, dear father. It is only just that you should.”
“He would give you up to me!” Marian spoke faintly. Tears ceased, and she sat down in one of the stiff-backed chairs, looking straight before her. “He would give you up! That’s more than I dared to reckon on.”
“It is illness only,” repeated Joan, not quite catching the words spoken. “He would not have such an idea in his mind if he were strong and well. For, of course, I am his now—not yours—only his! I belong to him and to nobody else. But he is weak and ill, and he has this worry in his mind, that perhaps he ought to give me back to you, and he cannot shake it off.”
Joan stopped, struck with her mother’s look. Those gray eyes were gazing hungrily at her. In truth a sharp temptation had all at once assailed Marian, in the hour of her fancied strength. What if she took George Rutherford at his word? What if she accepted his offer, and demanded her Joan?
“Of course the idea is ridiculous,” Joan said coldly, with a change of manner. “I am of age now—not a child to be given away. Father knows that, and he will not force me to leave him. If he did, I would not live with you. I would earn my living elsewhere. But I have come to you to-day, because mother and I are so anxious about dear father, and I thought you would help me. I thought you might be willing to put matters straight—to tell father that he has every right to keep me, and that of course you could never think of asking me back. That is all I want. It is little enough—after the past! And I fancied you might perhaps care enough about my happiness to do it; I felt almost sure you would.”
Did she not care enough for Joan? Marian could only make a faint, wordless sound, and Joan went on: “Father has this constantly in his mind, and it weighs him down. It is making him worse, and the doctor says something must be done. I thought you would tell him—or write a letter to him—just saying that you do not want me, do not expect ever to have me back. That would put his mind at rest, and nothing else would in the same way.”
Marian was silent.
“It would kill him to lose me—and if I ever had to leave him it would break my heart.”
“To leave him—and come to me!” The words seemed dragged from Marian.
“Yes,” Joan answered, with darkening, resentful eyes; “nothing could make me more wretched.”
No reply came. The clock ticked on slowly, and Marian sat with bent head. How long this silence lasted, neither could have told. Marian felt at length a touch on the arm. Joan was standing by her side.
“Will you do it?” Joan asked hoarsely. “Will you give me up—altogether?”
“It is a hard thing to ask of a mother,” moaned Marian, still in the grasp of that dire temptation.
“Hard! Why, you have done it once, when you had no need!” The girl’s voice of scorn went through Marian like a knife-blade. “How did you know that I might not have been starved to death! You don’t suppose I can believe, after that, in your having ever cared for me!” Then with a sudden change to softness—“But if you will do this—if you will do what I ask—I promise to try and learn to love you.”
Again silence. Marian’s head had sunk on her chest.
“Then I shall take the matter into my own hands,” Joan said, flaming up into a proud and wrathful decisiveness. “I will tell father that I shall not leave him—that nothing can make me go away. And if it does him harm—if he is worse—then I will never, never speak to you again.”
When Marian again looked up, Joan was gone.
FOR nearly thirty hours Marian Brooke was in the thick of a conflict.
Nothing outside mattered much. She came and went listlessly, took her share in housework, ran little errands for Hannah, mended, darned, washed-up—did anything that had to be done. But her heart and her thoughts were out of it all. When Hannah grumbled and scolded, she did not even hear. If questions were asked, she forgot to answer.
Once more the light of peace had died out from Marian’s face. Once more the battle was too strong for her.
She sought no earthly help in this fierce fight. From whom might she seek it? Who of those around her could have understood the power of a mother’s longing for her child? Jervis would have been sorry and perplexed; but that was not what she wanted.
He was sorry and perplexed now; and Hannah was displeased. For all the evening after Joan’s departure, and through the greater part of the next day, Marian went about like one stunned by some great calamity, wan and hollow-eyed, with the look of a sufferer who had forgotten how to smile.
Jervis asked no questions, and would fain have had Marian left alone, but the old farmer and Hannah showed no such forbearance. They were brimful of curiosity, and put her through a long catechetical lecture with respect to Joan. It seemed to make little difference to Marian. She gave facts, with a dreamy and mechanical indifference; and when they blamed her for her long silence, she did not show signs of hearing.
All through the long hours of night the strife continued; and when morning came the victory was not won.
Must she give up her child again? If Mr. Rutherford were willing, must hers be the hand to cast Joan from her anew? Was it needful? Could she not lawfully once more claim her own?
Her own! But she had given Joan away! She had promised not to claim her!
How about Mr. Rutherford’s state of health?—and how about his love for Joan? After all his goodness to her child, was this to be the return?
But how about herself? After all these years of separation, might she never have her child for her own again?
So the fight went on; and one hour one side nearly won, and another hour the other side had the best of it.
Marian was vanquished at last,—seemingly, and for a while. She could not give up Joan. Let come what might, she would accept Mr. Rutherford’s offer, and would claim her child. Somebody must suffer. Why should her heart be torn, rather than the heart of another?
And for three hours or so Marian was calm in this decision. She was not at first aware of a spirit-darkness which came with it. The thought of Joan, and Joan alone, filled her whole horizon.
Towards sunset she had to go into the village of Woodleigh for some slight purchase, and she took her way back through the churchyard. It was a very quiet, lonely churchyard, quite fenced off by a thick rim of trees and bushes, from the outer world.
Marian’s mother lay buried there—no, not her mother. Marian knew better than that: but the clay remains had been laid in a shady corner, and a flat stone spoke to her memory. The daughter who had broken that mother’s heart often went and stood beside the grave, her own heart aching keenly for the past, which could not be undone.
This afternoon, as on other days, Marian turned her steps to that quiet spot; and stood there dreamily, thinking and listening.
The name and date came first on the stone; and below, one very-short and simple text,—
“THE TIME IS SHORT.”
Nothing more than that. It had been the choice of Mrs. Cairns herself, before she died.
“Caw! caw! caw!” came hoarsely through the air overhead; and “twitter, twitter!” from the bushes close at hand.
“THE TIME IS SHORT.”
Those four words sounded more loudly in Marian’s ears than all the cawing and the twittering.
Standing there, under the blue sky, she became suddenly conscious of a darkness over her spiritual sky. When at this spot, it was her habit always to pray for Joan. To-day Marian could not pray. Her soul seemed to drop earthward, like a bird with broken wing.
“The time is short! The time is short!”
Yes, that was true indeed. Time was short. Years were passing away. A little space, and then the great change. What mattered aught meanwhile, except the one thing needful? What mattered even her great desire?
Ah! but it did matter. Marian could not so reason away the passion of her heart’s longing. Gladly would she have given up all that she possessed, once more to have her child’s arms clinging round her. Little loving arms they had once been; and now Joan—her own Joan, her only child—held coldly aloof. It did matter terribly to Marian. Years might be short, and life only a brief span; but days, and hours, and minutes were long, while she was in the grasp of this agony.
Give up Joan altogether! Oh, she could not—would not!
But the darkness of spirit that was upon her, the deadness of heart in prayer! Marian drew herself up, frightened, to learn the cause. Whatever else she might be willing to part with, for Joan’s sake—and in that dire strife it did seem to Marian that she could gladly have given up all she possessed or hoped for in life, to feel Joan once more her own—one thing she could not face, and that was the loss of heavenly peace.
This it was which brought Marian to her knees beside the grave, and to tears of penitence. The battle was won at last.
Leonard Ackroyd had been away from the Hall lately. At once, after the discovery of Joan’s relationship to the Cairns family, he had taken himself off on a round of visits.
How long he might have remained absent is uncertain, but for a wish to see him again expressed by George Rutherford. So soon as an echo of that wish reached Leo, he quitted the house where he was staying, and came homeward with all possible speed, arriving unexpectedly during Joan’s absence, when she was paying her visit to Marian Brooke at Cairns farm.
Dulcibel took Leo straight upstairs to see her husband, and he was very painfully impressed with the great change in George Rutherford’s appearance. Leo was in a mood to be easily rendered indignant, just because he was himself thoroughly unsettled and unhappy in mind. He felt indignant now that he had not been more fully informed as to the state of the invalid.
To Dulcibel herself, Leo said little. But when Joan came back from her unsuccessful expedition, Leo met her in the hall. She looked so sad and weary-hearted, that Leo’s own heart gave a great throb of pitying sympathy. He did not, however, wish her to know that, and his manner was brusque as he asked, after scant greeting—“Why was I not told about my uncle?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Joan said listlessly. She walked into the drawing-room, and stood there, waiting for his next words. Nobody else was present.
“About his being so much worse. Surely you have seen it, Joan!” as the dark eyes went up to his with a look of terror. “The difference seems to me so very marked. Where are you going?”
“To father. Oh Leo, don’t keep me.”
But Leo was at the door before her, and his warm strong hands grasped her cold shaking ones.
“No, Joan, no—forgive me, but you must wait. Indeed I did not mean to alarm you; and he must not be startled. But surely you have not thought him so well lately?”
“I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know. If you would only let me go!”
He looked so wonderfully like George Rutherford at that moment—grave and kind, and resolute—that Joan had no power to fight against his will. She stood still, drooping and trembling, yet conscious of a certain comfort in the very touch of those firm hands. But the next moment Leo had withdrawn himself a pace or two, and his manner was different.
“Have you seen your mother, Joan?” he asked seriously, having heard from Dulcibel the object of her expedition.
Joan looked quickly up, with defiant eyes and fleshing cheeks. She dreaded lest Leo should read the pain which his change of manner gave, and she was angry with herself for feeling pain, about that or anything else at such a time—anything except her father’s state.
“Yes, I have seen my mother—if you mean Mrs. Brooke,” she answered recklessly. “And an uncle and aunt into the bargain. A very respectable uncle, not at all bad-mannered, and an aunt, all over flour. I didn’t come across the old grandfather. But perhaps the three were enough for one day. The aunt looks decidedly vixenish.”
“Joan!” Leo said sorrowfully. He could not help it; though he knew, or might have known, that he had himself caused the perverse mood.
“Well?” responded Joan. “You don’t expect me to fall in love with them all on the spot, do you? Everything was very clean—quite polished and shining. I paid my call in the kitchen, and I should think my worthy aunt must be quite an adept at scrubbing. They were so good as to leave me alone for a talk with Mrs. Brooke. It was not a very pleasant interview. She seems to think she has a sort of right over me still, which is absurd. Unless you have any more questions to ask, Leo, I should be glad to go. I want to tell my father all about it—my real father,” Joan added, her hard look suddenly softening into an intense tenderness.
“I must not keep you, of course,” Leo said gravely. “But, Joan, be careful. I do not think my uncle ought to be excited.”
“What did you mean just now—about his being worse?” Joan asked, in her most abrupt manner.
“He seems to me changed—thinner and weaker. And I did not like the drowsiness.”
Joan repeated the last word inquiringly.
“Aunt Dulcibel said it had come on almost immediately after you left him. He knew me, but seemed quite unable to talk. If Mr. Forest were not coming in presently, I should have advised his being sent for.”
Joan waited for no more, but hurried upstairs. Just outside George Rutherford’s room she was met by Dulcibel.
“I think he is nearly asleep,” the latter said softly. “He has been so, off and on, ever since you went. I must go to Leo now. Don’t try to rouse him, Joan.”
“No, mother.”
“Have you seen those people at the farm?”
“Yes,” and Joan sighed.
Dulcibel kissed her kindly.
“You shall tell me all about it by-and-by. But don’t say anything to your father, if he does not ask.”
Joan put aside hat and gloves, then sat down to watch patiently beside the couch. George Rutherford presently opened his eyes, and gave a little smile, but he showed no inclination to speak. The look of harass and strain, which had been of late constantly stamped upon his fine features, seemed singularly to have vanished. An absolute peacefulness was resting there instead.
Had he forgotten about Marian Brooke, and about Joan’s visit to the farm? It might be so, in the present condition of his brain and memory.
THE drowsiness which had come on did not pass off quickly. When Mr. Forest called, he said little at first beyond an echo of Leo’s “I do not like it.” But he paid a second call that same evening, and was at the house again in the early morning. By that time he was able to speak with sorrowful decisiveness. A marked change for the worse had taken place.
George Rutherford was not unconscious, as in former attacks. He only seemed very weary, and indisposed to talk. Most of the morning he lay quietly, with closed eyes, noticing nothing that went on around him. It was singular how every trace of anxiety and distress had passed from his face, leaving only a complete repose. Sometimes a dim, calm smile gleamed slowly, like an irradiation from the other world.
After midday the drowsiness lessened and a certain restlessness took possession of him. He seemed to those around to be wandering, as he murmured broken half-sentences about “the valley,” and “the bridge,” and “hills round about.”
“The valley of the shadow of death,” Leo said, with lowest possible utterance to Joan. Mr. Forest still spoke of hope, but Leo could see none; and it seemed to him that Joan ought to understand the blow which was in all probability coming upon her.
“No, no, no,” Joan answered hurriedly and with anger. “No, no—not that, but the valley in Wales!” She turned to the bed, and said fondly, “Yes, father dear—that was where you found your little Joan, was it not?”
He evidently understood, and looked up, smiling, his hand clasping hers.
“My comfort! My child!” he said tenderly.
“Dear, dear father!” burst passionately from Joan’s lips.
“Hush, don’t agitate him,” Leo whispered. But George only smiled again, seeming rather to be roused than agitated.
The thought of the valley haunted him for a while, mingled with recollections of the anxiety which had weighed upon him recently.
“The bridge has to be crossed,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to his wife. “Yes—come, my Dulcie, no need to fear. The Master’s hand is strong enough. ‘O thou of little faith!’... Sometimes over a difficult way—and flesh and flesh and heart may fail.... But he is our portion, for ever and ever! So foolish ever to fear!... And all will be well—as he wills. No need to choose. He has cared for the child. He will never forsake—never fail her.... My little Joan, I have loved her very tenderly.... But if the call has come—Father, thy will, not mine.... Yes—as thou willest.... A hard bridge to pass over—but as thou wilt.”
Joan found it difficult to restrain herself, listening to him.
A little later he was uttering other words, connected in his mind, with memories of the fair Welsh valley:—