WINTER had fairly set in at last, with what, in the uncertain English climate, they call “unusual severity.”
All around Cairns farm a coating of snow lay over the fields, whitening hedges and outhouse roofs, and making tree-trunks look darker by contrast. The snow was not deep, but it was accompanied by a hard frost and an icy wind. Robins hovered tamely about the back door, on the lookout for crumbs; and human beings kept as much as possible under shelter.
Close to the great kitchen fire, well muffled-up in wraps, sat Jervis, coughing and half breathless with one of his asthmatic attacks. He was entirely a prisoner in such weather as this. Hannah stood beside the table, peeling potatoes with quick and capable hands. Her movements were always capable, however ungraceful. The deeply lined, austere face did not wear a pleasant expression; but that was by no means an uncommon event. Hannah scarcely knew how to smile.
“Well, I call it unnatural,” she was saying in a harsh voice. “After more than twenty years away—why, it was nearer twenty-five—to come home, and then, after just an hour’s talk, to leave her own flesh and blood, and go and take up with strangers. I call it unnatural. Never been near us again, from that day to this. Can’t be spared? Oh, I know better! I know what it is to be in a house full of servants, all of them with pretty near nothing to do. Polly don’t want to be spared. She likes everything that makes her important—always did. Spending her time and strength for them that have got no sort of claim on her, as if we were never in want of a helping hand here? I’m sure I don’t know which way to turn sometimes, among you all. I call it a shame. But Polly never had any heart to spare for her own folks.”
“Polly’s not wanting in heart, only she’s too easily led,” protested Jervis, coughing as he spoke. “There’s warmth of heart enough. She never can forget Mr. Rutherford’s kindness to William.”
“It’s a pity she forgets so soon any sort of kindness from them that belong to her,” sourly observed Hannah. “But that’s the way of the world. If a stranger says a soft word, everybody’s dying with gratitude; while a woman that slaves night and day for her own people don’t get so much as a civil ‘thank you’ for it all.”
“I suppose the one comes naturally as a right, and the other doesn’t,” said Jervis. “But perhaps if there were more soft words spoken in our homes there’d be more ‘thank you’s’ too.”
The remark struck home with greater keenness than he had intended. Hannah tossed her head, and went on peeling with disdainful vigor.
Then the kitchen-door, standing ajar, was pushed quietly open; and Marian herself; in bonnet and shawl, stood before them.
She looked cold and wan and sorrowful; and the light of peace seemed to have died out of her gray eyes, which were full only of a nameless pain. Hannah said—“Well, here you are at last!” and Jervis gazed anxiously at the haggard face. Marian uttered not a word. She came forward slowly, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and sighed.
“Why, Polly my dear,” Jervis said, with a kind of protest—“Polly!”
Marian lifted her eyes to his.
“I’m come home, Jervis,” she said.
“To stay, Polly?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do.” The words were spoken drearily.
“If I’d been you, I’d have come sooner, or I’d have stayed away altogether,” said Hannah.
“I couldn’t come sooner, for I was wanted; and I can’t stay longer now, for they’ve done with me,” Marian answered.
“Well, you can get out of my way, I hope, for you’re just in it, sitting there. I’ve got to go to and fro.”
Marian dejectedly rose, and went to another seat.
“Hannah, don’t worry the poor thing,” said Jervis very low.
“Worry! What—asking her to get out of my way! It wouldn’t be so very surprising if I asked her to help me, instead of dawdling there idle,” Hannah said sharply.
Marian looked up again at her brother’s troubled face.
“It doesn’t matter, Jervis,” she said, with a faint smile. “Nothing matters now. Hannah’s words can’t touch me.”
Hannah whirled away out of the kitchen, giving vent to her feelings in an inarticulate growl, and leaving the other two alone together.
“Something’s wrong, Polly,” her brother said.
“You’re not like yourself. What is it, my dear? Are you over-tired?”
“It’s not bodily tiredness,” she answered listlessly. “I’m a stronger woman than you’d count me. But I don’t seem to have any spirit left in me. I thought nothing could ever shake my new hope in God; and now that’s gone too. There’s nothing left.”
Jervis gazed pityingly at her, and after a slight pause she went on—
“They are taking Mr. Rutherford home to-day. He has been at the Cross Arms till now. And I found yesterday—it was said to me—Mr. Ackroyd thought I had better leave. There were reasons—and after all it’s my own fault. Mr. Ackroyd is Mr. Rutherford’s nephew, and pretty much like his own son—wonderfully like him too in face. He’s pretty well managing everything now. Miss Rutherford and all of them turn to him. He would have sent me back in a fly to-day, only I settled to walk.”
“And your box, my dear—the things we had to send to you.”
“They’ll be sent. I didn’t ask how. I promised Mr. Ackroyd I’d leave before they arrived. That was all he asked.”
“They?” Jervis seemed puzzled.
“Mr. Rutherford and—” a quiver passed over Marian’s face—“and—” But she did not seem able to say more.
“And—?” repeated Jervis.
“And—the young lady.”
“His daughter?”
“Not really,” murmured Marian. “He calls her his.”
“Ah, yes!” assented Jervis. “The handsome young lady who rides about with Mr. Rutherford. That’s it, I suppose. How is Mr. Rutherford getting on, Polly?”
“I haven’t seen him. He don’t come round as he ought. There’s a sort of weakness of mind. But I haven’t seen him once.”
“And you’ve been happy there, Polly—kindly treated?”
“Kindly? Yes—Mrs. Rutherford’s been as good as possible. She didn’t like me coming away to-day, but it was settled so. She’s better now, and don’t really need me—only she gets low and hysterical still. They haven’t been able to let her go to her husband yet; but she’ll see him now.”
“And they wished you to leave?” Jervis said wonderingly.
“Yes; it’s right I should. It’s quite right,” repeated Marian. “I’m not wanted longer. If I would have taken money they would have given me plenty; but I couldn’t—couldn’t.”
Hannah had not yet returned. Jervis leaned a little forward, and said softly—
“Polly, you’ve not seen or heard anything of your own child all these weeks?”
Marian was taken by surprise. She breathed hard, staring at Jervis.
“My child—Joan!” she panted.
“Is the name Joan? You wouldn’t tell me that. Only you hoped to see her some time or other, now you’re in England. I thought perhaps you’d have had the chance.”
Marian passed one hand with a hasty nervous motion over her mouth, a curious sound—half sob, half laugh—escaping her lips.
“I’ve seen her. Yes, you’re guessing rightly. I told you I couldn’t wait much longer, didn’t I? But it was a queer meeting. She didn’t know me, or love me, or want me. And that’s all over!”
“What is over, Polly?”
“Everything. I’m dead to her, and there’s nothing left.”
Marian rocked herself to and fro, the same strange sound breaking out once and again.
“It’s hard to give up one’s own child,” she moaned; “hard—hard to lose her altogether. I didn’t know I had before—not like this. But it’s my own doing. I’ve brought it on myself. She doesn’t want me—doesn’t want me! O, my Joan!”
Jervis drew his chair a pace or two nearer, and laid a hand on Marian’s arm.
“Polly, my dear, don’t give way like this,” he said. “Tell me what you mean. Tell me what’s gone wrong.”
Marian looked in his face with another sob.
“I’ve lost my child,” she said; “and nothing in the world is left to me!”
There was a short pause, broken only by Jervis’ audible breathing. Then he spoke—
“But, Polly, my dear sister, heaven is left. God loves you still.”
“Does he? But if I can’t believe it, after all I’ve done?” she said, with haggard eyes.
“He knows it all. There’s nothing new for him to learn about you. I can’t talk of such things, and I’m the last person in the world to be a help to anybody,” Jervis went on humbly. “But, my dear, didn’t the Lord Jesus Christ die for you long before you ever thought of him?”
“Yes, he did,” Marian answered.
“And you don’t think he’ll turn from you now, just when you’re needing him most?”
She looked up strangely.
“But I forsook my child! I left my Joan!” she said.
“Yes, you did, Polly,” Jervis answered, with a sorrowful intonation. “It’s one of the saddest things I ever heard—a thing I don’t know how to believe yet. But, my dear, God’s ways are not like man’s ways. He never forsakes any that put their trust in him.”
“And if I can’t trust?” she whispered.
“Then I’d go and tell him so, and confess again the past, and wait on him for new help.”
Marian stood up, drawing her shawl round her.
“Yes, you’re right,” she murmured. “Tell him! Of course; there’s nothing better to be done. And he’ll understand—no fear about that—and he’ll have pity. It’s been sore work, Jervis—sorer than any one knows—and I’ve got right down into darkness. But he’s sure to help me out again, isn’t he? I didn’t think before of just telling him all about it. I think I’ll go to my room for a while. Oh, no; I shan’t be cold! It’s better not to put off, Jervis.”
“Poor Polly,” murmured Jervis, as Marian disappeared. “I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to say that. I shouldn’t like Polly to think me a better man than I am. But she seemed so low; and the words came to me—so I don’t think I could have been wrong. I should like to help the poor dear.”
Hannah came suddenly back into the kitchen, walking with an extra heaviness of gait which showed ill-humor.
“Where’s Polly?”
“Gone upstairs.”
“What for?”
Jervis was silent.
“Well—she’ll find her room all upside down. And if she wants to sleep there to-night she’ll have to get it ready for herself.”
Jervis still offered no response. Hannah hauled a huge kettle off the fire with her muscular right hand, and then met her brother’s reproachful eyes.
“What now?” she demanded sharply.
“Hannah, if mother were here, she’d give Polly a different sort of welcome from what you do,” Jervis said in a sorrowful tone.
“I dare say!” Hannah answered, with curtness. “She always did follow the spoiling dodge with Polly.”
“It is not a question of spoiling now; but she does need a kind word or two,” said Jervis.
Hannah walked away, offering no further response.
* * * * * * *
About that same hour Joan stood in the Hall drawing-room—stood under the central chandelier, with clasped hands and bent head. Nobody else was present. Joan’s attitude seemed to be one of listening only. Her fixed eyes evidently saw nothing. She had thrown off her hat and furs on her first arrival, and they lay in a little heap on one of the chairs. A step outside made her start forward, and Leo came in.
“Well, Joan?” he said cheerfully.
“Mother and Nessie are with father still,” Joan said in a strained voice. “I thought I had better leave them alone, just for a few minutes.”
“Did Aunt Dulcibel wish that?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t say so—but I thought perhaps she might.”
“How did the first meeting go off? You were there then.”
“Just like everything else!” sighed Joan. “Father spoke to mother just as if he had seen her yesterday. I don’t think he has the least idea they have been apart. Mother talked of it, and tried to make him understand, and he smiled and patted her hand, but didn’t take it in—one could see that.”
“Poor Joan!” Leo said pityingly. “It has been a trying day for you.”
“The move is best over, I suppose,” said Joan, with an effort. “But I think I am disappointed. I think I hoped more from the old surroundings. He doesn’t seem the least bit roused, and he takes everything exactly in the same way. Don’t say anything to make me cry, please. I must go back to father in a few minutes, and he doesn’t like to see tears. We told mother she must be sure not to cry, and she was keeping up wonderfully when I came away. I didn’t know mother had so much self-command. But I must not leave her alone with him too long.”
“Isn’t Nessie there?”
“Yes. Oh, Nessie is no use!”
“And Marian has gone?”
“You told me she should,” said Joan. “Did mother mind?”
“Rather; but I managed it without reference to you. It would have been difficult, if Marian had not taken the matter into her own hands. She behaved exceedingly well. I was sorry to have to dismiss her, she seemed so grieved. I never came across a more perplexing individual.”
“I only hope I shall never see her again,” said Joan.
Another step approached, hasty and irregular. Dulcibel came into the room, with a scared look.
“I can’t stand it any longer,” she said, gazing from one to the other. “Somebody else must go. I can’t stand it. He is not himself, not the very least—so changed. Leo, I can’t understand—will he be always like this? It would be too terrible.”
“Mother, he was pleased to see you?” said Joan, as Dulcibel sank on a sofa.
“Pleased! He just knows me. Oh, it is much worse than I expected! Why was I never told more? Call Marian—quickly please.”
But Marian was gone. Leo began to question whether he had been in the right to yield to Joan’s strong wish, when he found how helpless she was to control Dulcibel in the fit of violent hysterics which followed. “Only Marian knew how,” Nessie said in reproachful accents. “It would not be possible to get on without Marian, if mother were often like this.”
THE wintry months were at an end, and all over England spring was breaking out into its ever-new beauty.
Banks of primroses and beds of violets might be found within easy distance of Woodleigh and the garden was gay with crocuses.
George Rutherford loved to pace the paths, leaning on Joan’s young arm, and inhaling the soft breezes. That was about as much as he was equal to now.
Through the winter months he had crept back slowly to a certain stage of half-recovery, and there he stood still. In some respects he seemed almost like his old self—not quite, even to strangers; and scarcely “almost,” to those who knew him best. A certain indefinable lack of mental power was apparent about all he said and did. He was kind and genial as ever: but he could not carry on sustained conversation, could not recollect what had been told him an hour before, could not fix his thoughts on any one subject. All business arrangements had passed into the hands of Dulcibel and Leo, and he seemed content to have things so. He was plainly aware of his own incapacity, and he accepted the same with a grave, sweet resignation, very touching to those around.
Nothing pleased him more than Joan’s reading aloud; but the books chosen had to be simple in kind. He could not grasp deep arguments, and mental efforts always brought suffering. He had to be guarded from strain and worry, almost like a child.
Yet he was very happy—placidly, calmly happy. Nobody could see him and question that fact. Bouts of depression were not infrequent, but they never lasted long.
Bodily strength had not come back, as was once hoped; and of late especially every exertion wearied him. The soft airs of spring seemed to take away all the little power he had; and often he would lie for hours on the study sofa, hardly caring to speak, only now and then looking to see if Joan were near.
Joan was his unwearied attendant. She never cared to leave him, never seemed to want rest or change. Dulcibel, shaken and unhinged by the railway accident, was in a state of semi-invalidism all the winter, easily upset, and able to do little for her husband; but Joan never failed him.
Leo proposed spending two years in England before returning to India, and Woodleigh Hall was always his home. Dulcibel indulged privately in many hopes that he might some day become her son in reality, and she did her best in a transparent fashion to throw the cousins Leo and Nessie, much together. It was no fault of Joan’s that Leo’s hopes became fixed elsewhere, for she had no thoughts to spare for him or any one except her father. Leo knew this, and he waited in patience and silence.
Marian had been to the Hall two or three times for an interview with Dulcibel; but Joan had not come across her. The very recollection of Marian had almost died out of Joan’s preoccupied mind.
One fair May afternoon, close to the end of the month, Joan was persuaded to go for a long walk with Leo and Nessie. She could seldom be enticed from George Rutherford’s side. She was looking pale, however, and he seemed unusually well. Dulcibel too appeared brighter than on most days, and professed herself quite capable of undertaking sole charge of the invalid during two or three hours.
“I shall sit in our favorite corner, near the violet-bank,” he said, smiling; “and mother will read poetry to me. You don’t mind poetry as you once did, Dulcie.”
“NO; perhaps I don’t,” Dulcibel answered uncertainly; and when the three pedestrians had departed she gave him her arm, as some little help to his languid steps.
The “favorite corner” was a shady and sheltered spot, scarcely out of view from the study window, and much frequented by George and Joan. A comfortable arm-chair was placed there for him on fine days; and Dulcibel soon had him in this chair, resting contentedly.
“Don’t feel bound to stay all the time, Dulcie,” he said.
“No; I shall just come and go,” responded Dulcibel, who was famous for never remaining long in one position. “By-and-by I can read to you, perhaps, but you had better keep quiet for a time. George dear, you really are looking so nicely to-day—positively like yourself again!”
George smiled in answer, and she moved away to the bank of violets, filling a small basket with the purple blossoms. Then the violets had to be taken indoors and arranged, which occupied some little time; and, just as Dulcibel was about to return to her husband, a caller claimed attention. Dulcibel had intended to deny herself to callers; but, as she had forgotten to give the order, this lady was admitted.
Meanwhile George sat alone in his cosy nook, watching the movements of birch and lilac leaves, listening to the perpetual twitter of countless birds. The air was laden with violet scent. He could hardly have been in a sweeter spot for a reverie.
It brought back curiously to his mind a certain fair valley, and a little child seated solemnly beside a “shaking bridge.” George Rutherford’s memory served him far better for things which had happened many years earlier than for occurrences of a day or a week before. He could recall that scene most vividly, and he leant back, picturing it to himself, his brown eyes closed, a smile on his lips, and a gleam of sunshine falling through the boughs overhead upon his tawny gray-streaked hair and beard.
A movement near made him look up, expecting to see Dulcibel. But a stranger stood there—an old gentleman of dignified bearing, with snowy locks, full white eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. George rose at once, with his instinctive courtesy. The appearance of a stranger fluttered him slightly, for he had seen and spoken to few people since the railway accident, and he had grown into somewhat of helpless dependence upon others. His first glance round was for Joan, then for Dulcibel; but neither was at hand. The flutter did not show in George’s manner, nor would a stranger have supposed him to be in any sense an invalid.
“Mr. Rutherford, I believe?” the old gentleman said.
George signified assent.
“I trust you will pardon the liberty I have taken—indulging myself in a little ramble through your grounds. You have a pretty place. I was on my way to call at the Hall, and turned into a side path, not expecting to be so fortunate as to find you here.”
A bow responded.
“Will you allow me to give you my card, as I have not been able to send it through a servant. My name is Brooke—Hubert Brooke—” as George Rutherford received the card, only to lay it aside without a glance. His companion counted him absent, and repeated, “Hubert Brooke—a name not entirely strange to you. Thanks; I shall be glad to sit down. I have walked some distance, and I am growing old. No, not your chair. This will do. I believe you have been ill lately.”
George resumed his own seat mechanically. A troubled look had come into his face, and he seemed to be trying to recall something.
“Hubert Brooke!” he murmured. “Brooke—Brooke!”
“Joan Brooke is the name of the young lady you have been so good as to adopt. I believe she passes often as Miss Rutherford.”
George was gazing distressfully still, as if unable to grasp the idea. “Joan,” he said gently. “Yes. I beg your pardon. I do not quite understand.”
“You remember doubtless the name of Hubert Brooke,” said the old gentleman shortly.
George leant back with a wearied air, seeming to give up the struggle for comprehension. “I think it would be better for you to see my wife, or Joan,” he said. “No; Joan is out;” and he hesitated. “Perhaps you could kindly call another day. I am not allowed yet to enter into business matters!”
Mr. Brooke was not a man easily turned aside from his purpose. “No business details are involved—at this moment,” he said. “There is not much to tell, Mr. Rutherford. Your adopted child, Joan Brooke, is my granddaughter. Her father was my only son—Hubert Brooke.”
He waited to see the effect of his words. The impression produced was not apparently so great as he had anticipated. A flush came to George Rutherford’s brow, and an unseeing, suffering look to his eyes. These were signs which Mr. Brooke could not read. The silence with which his assertion was met amazed him.
“My granddaughter,” he repeated emphatically “I have known this fact for many months; and you would have heard from me earlier, but for the fact of certain other relatives, with whom I preferred to have nothing in common. But circumstances have determined me to speak openly to you on the subject. My wife has been taken from me very suddenly.” A slight expression of sorrow crossed the speaker’s face. “Her dying request was that I would acknowledge my granddaughter. The dying wish of a good wife is not to be disregarded—even though my own inclinations may point in an opposite direction. I have come to carry out her will—to acknowledge Joan as my granddaughter. But I acknowledge also your right over her. I have no wish to steal your adopted child from you, after all these years.”
There was again no immediate response. George’s impassive manner had a somewhat irritating effect on the old gentleman.
“Sir, are you acquainted with these other relatives of Joan Brooke?” he demanded, raising his voice. “Are you aware that Cairns, the farmer, is her grandfather also—her other grandparent? Are you aware that her mother, Marian Brooke, my unhappy son’s widow, is now—now!—at Cairns farm, doubtless awaiting an opportunity to assert her rights? Yes, Joan’s mother, Mr. Rutherford! Joan’s mother, and Cairns’ daughter.”
He had produced impression enough at last. A strangely sunken, hollow look crept into George Rutherford’s face, and his brows drew together with an expression of bewilderment and pain. “Joan’s mother!” George repeated. “Joan’s mother! My Joan—my poor little girl!”
“Marian Brooke, the daughter of old Cairns, married my son Hubert,” said Mr. Brooke—“my only son! I leave you to judge what my feelings were. From that time my son was dead to me. I never exchanged a word with his wife, nor have I with his widow. Until lately I did not know her to be still alive. Until last autumn I never set eyes upon Hubert’s daughter.”
“Joan’s mother!” repeated George in a low, suffering voice. He seemed able to say nothing else.
“Joan’s mother has been for months within three miles of you, Mr. Rutherford. Why she has not yet spoken I cannot determine. Doubtless she has her own reasons. But I have fulfilled my duty in giving you warning; and I have also acknowledged my granddaughter, according to my wife’s dying request. I shall wish to see her one day. For the rest, I have only to thank you sincerely for your kindness to her through many years. Possibly, now that you are acquainted with her connections, you may be disposed to regret—”
George Rutherford so plainly neither heard nor heeded, that the old gentleman came to an abrupt pause; and Dulcibel suddenly appeared, in a state of some excitement.
“George dear, I hope you are all right. I could not possibly get away before. Who is this? You don’t mean to say—oh, you ought not to have had a visitor! It is quite wrong. I don’t know what Joan will say. George, you are looking quite ill again. I am sure it has been too much for your head.”
“If you will excuse me, madam—” began Mr. Brooke apologetically.
“How did you come here?” asked Dulcibel, turning upon him in anger and alarm, for the change in her husband’s look terrified her. “The servants had no business to bring you. My husband sees almost nobody yet.”
“Madam, I came alone. No one but myself is to blame. I am Joan Brooke’s grandfather.”
“I don’t care whose grandfather you are; you had no right to come here!” cried impetuous Dulcibel. “Please leave us directly. I must get my husband indoors.”
Mr. Brooke would have apologized, but Dulcibel would not hear him; and he was turning away in dudgeon, when Joan appeared, glowing with her walk.
“Leo is just behind,” she began, “and Nessie—”
One glance at Mr. Brooke, another at George Rutherford, and all light and color died out of Joan’s face. She brushed past the retreating caller, and rushed to her father’s side.
“Father, father dear, what has happened? Are you ill? What is it?”
George spoke faintly and with difficulty.
“I should like to go indoors, my darling. Leo will help me. I cannot talk—I have such pain and confusion.”
“Father, did that old man say anything to bring it on?” Joan asked in an undertone of smothered passion, dropping on her knees, and making him lean against her.
“Hush, hush, Joan! He is your grandfather.”
Joan shuddered, and clung closer.
“My darling, that is not all; but I cannot say more now. I cannot think. Only it is God’s will—God’s will for us. The worst is his will.”
“I don’t believe a word about that old man being your grandfather, Joan,” said Dulcibel, half crying. “It is all nonsense; I believe he is an old impostor.”
“Mother, don’t talk about it, please,” entreated Joan. “Father must not say another word.”
Then Leo came, and with his help George managed to walk to the house; but he had no sooner reached his room than unconsciousness set in. One of the worst head attacks that he had had since the autumn followed, and some symptoms were severe enough to cause very serious alarm.
During the full week the slightest mental exertion was absolutely forbidden, if not indeed absolutely impossible; and Joan had to wait longer still for a full detail of what had passed. Meantime, no more was seen of Mr. Brooke.
“SAY something to me, Joan.”
George Rutherford was in his study again—just able to creep down there once a day, for a few hours on the sofa. He did not rally from this attack, as from former attacks.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Joan sat by his side, a book open on her knee. She had not read much however.
“What shall I say, father dear?”
“Anything you like, my Joan.”
A pause followed. Joan did not seem able to think readily of “anything.”
“Say—‘There shall be no more death.’ I have had those words sounding in my mind to-day.”
“But that is so long, father. I don’t think your head will bear it all,” pleaded Joan, shrinking from the task. She had learnt the piece he referred to, for the purpose of giving him pleasure, in earlier and brighter days.
“A few verses then, my dear.”
Joan would not refuse. She began in a low, tremulous voice:—
“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keepingTheir anxious vigil o’er the failing health,And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,No pang of suffering into utterance start?”“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,And in the cold embraces of the earthLay the loved object of our best affection?”
“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keepingTheir anxious vigil o’er the failing health,And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,No pang of suffering into utterance start?”“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,And in the cold embraces of the earthLay the loved object of our best affection?”
“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keepingTheir anxious vigil o’er the failing health,And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,No pang of suffering into utterance start?”“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,And in the cold embraces of the earthLay the loved object of our best affection?”
“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!
As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,
Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,
They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”
“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’
What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keeping
Their anxious vigil o’er the failing health,
And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”
“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,
No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?
Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,
No pang of suffering into utterance start?”
“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,
Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,
And in the cold embraces of the earth
Lay the loved object of our best affection?”
Joan struggled on so far, and then came to a complete pause. George laid his hand on hers.
“My poor Joan! It was too much to ask of you. I did not think—no, don’t say any more.”
“Oh, yes, I’m going on,” said Joan resolutely. “It’s no use to be foolish;” and she started huskily with a later verse:—
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”“I hear those words re-echoed by the throngOf white robed worshippers around the throne;I hear familiar voices, silent long,Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”“I see among that cloud of witnessesLoved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,Shining like stars—”
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”“I hear those words re-echoed by the throngOf white robed worshippers around the throne;I hear familiar voices, silent long,Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”“I see among that cloud of witnessesLoved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,Shining like stars—”
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”“I hear those words re-echoed by the throngOf white robed worshippers around the throne;I hear familiar voices, silent long,Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”“I see among that cloud of witnessesLoved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,Shining like stars—”
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—
That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—
And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,
And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”
“I hear those words re-echoed by the throng
Of white robed worshippers around the throne;
I hear familiar voices, silent long,
Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”
“I see among that cloud of witnesses
Loved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,
Shining like stars—”
“Father I can’t!” sobbed Joan, breaking down in a sudden agony. “Oh, please don’t ask me—I can’t!”
George drew her nearer, saying only—“My poor little girl!” and for a minute or two neither spoke.
“What was it, Joan?” he asked at length, when she had grown calmer; and the words that burst from Joan were not what he had expected:
“O, father, if only your heaven were mine too!”
“If my Master is yours, my heaven is yours, Joan.”
Joan laid her face against his hand, and made no answer. She knew he must not be agitated, and blamed herself already for giving way.
“What keeps you back from him, my Joan?” George asked.
“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know!” Joan answered, with a deep sigh. “Sometimes I do seem to come to him, and to love him; but it all goes again. Please don’t talk more now; you will be so tired.”
“There was something else that I had to say. I have not felt equal to it until now—about—” and he faltered—“about your grandfather, Mr. Brooke.”
“He hasn’t been to the house. I don’t want ever to see him again,” Joan said resentfully. “It was he that made you so ill.”
“Hush; you must not feel that!” George answered. “No; there was something else;” and his eyes had a strained look of perplexity. “I cannot think without confusion.”
“It is not right for you. Please don’t try to think, father.”
George closed his eyes, and she hoped he had given up the attempt at recollection; but suddenly he looked up, almost with eagerness.
“Yes, I know now. Joan, if it is God’s will for us to part—”
“Oh, no!” broke from Joan.
“If it is his will—”
“But it isn’t—it isn’t! Please—please don’t say that!”
“It may be; you do not know yet.”
She thought he was speaking of death, and she forced a brave smile.
“You are better now, father, indeed—really better. Please don’t talk so. It does make me so wretched, and there is no need.”
“God’s will is always right, always best, always loving.” George spoke slowly, as if repeating a message or a statement, learnt with difficulty. “Joan, we must not fight against it. If ever your duty becomes plain to go to your mother—”
She thought him wandering, and was frightened.
“Please don’t say any more,” she begged anxiously. “Father, you have talked too much. Things will all come right by-and-by, only don’t talk about parting. You are going to get well now, and you know I could never leave you. Try to rest, father dear.”
“I think I must,” George said feebly; and he seemed soon to be asleep.
Joan sat by his side, thinking, in deep distress and dread. What had he meant? Was it only fancy? Had she indeed a mother? And if so, what then?
“She gave me up to father; she has no right over me now. I could never leave father for her or anybody—oh, never!” Joan murmured, almost saying the words aloud.
When George Rutherford awoke he did not again refer to the subject. It seemed indeed to have passed for the moment out of his mind. But the dread of what might be coming weighed upon Joan perpetually. She could not shake off or lay aside the fear. It was like a sword hanging always over her head.
A mother! Had she a mother? And if she had, what then? What duty did she, in her position, owe to such a mother? What would a mother expect from her?
Leo was absent from the Hall, paying visits in Scotland, or Joan would probably have gone with her trouble to him, as to a brother. But she could not resolve to write, and there was no one else whom she might consult. Nessie was the last person in the world to appeal to. Dulcibel was nervous, unhinged, easily upset. Moreover, Joan possessed no intimate personal friends in the neighborhood. She had never cared to make any. The Rector of Woodleigh, a kind and able man, might have helped Joan, but he had recently broken-down in health, and had been ordered away from home for a time. His temporary successor was a young man and a stranger.
Sometimes the feeling of suspense as to what might lie ahead, and the sense of loneliness in having none to whom she could appeal, were almost more than she knew how to endure.
The marvel was that this long strain of doubt and dread should not have driven Joan more readily to take refuge in prayer. For she had been brought up in a very atmosphere of prayer and of loving trust; yet still she held aloof.
It came over her suddenly one day that suspense might be ended by an interview with old Mr. Brooke.
She had not thought of such a thing before: but now the idea gained fast hold of her imagination. Mr. Brooke was probably staying at the red-brick house again. Why should she not see him there, and demand to know what he had said to trouble her father?
Why should she not, or why should she? Would the step be advisable, or would it not? Should she act, or should she wait patiently?
Joan was sorely troubled how to decide. She lay awake at night, thinking, and went about all day, thinking. It was hard to see her way. Sometimes the waiting seemed the wiser plan, but a certain wilful longing to know the worst was gaining ground upon her.
So strong was this desire that it led her into action. Joan felt almost as if she were being borne along by a strong current, irrespective of her own will.
She did not tell herself that she would see Mr. Brooke; but one day she spoke of taking a walk alone, and no difficulties arose. At starting she counted herself still undecided, yet without hesitation she bent her steps towards the red house of Mrs. St. John.
“I may as well walk in that direction. No need to go in,” murmured Joan.
But she did go in. Having moved so far under impulse, she was guided still by impulse when the house was reached. Joan rang, and asked for Mr. Brooke. He was staying there, was he not?
“Yes, Miss,” the girl answered.
“Tell him I wish to see him, please.”
She was admitted, the question being asked—“What name, please?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then “Miss Joan Brooke” came firmly.
The maid gave a surprised glance, showed Joan into a small sitting-room—a study or boudoir—and vanished.
Joan stood on the rug, trying to conquer the trembling which assailed every limb. No long time elapsed before the door opened, and a courtly, white-haired old gentleman entered.
A stranger could not have failed to be struck at that moment with the likeness between the two faces—both pale in tint, both mastering strong agitation, both with marked, full eyebrows drawn together over black eyes full of defiance.
“Good-morning, Miss Joan Brooke,” the old gentleman said distantly. He had the milk-cans of old Cairns, Joan’s other grandfather, very plainly before his mind’s eye. “I hope you are well. Very good of you to come and see me. I expressed a wish to Mr. Rutherford for one short interview. Will you be so good as to take a seat?”
“No; I would rather stand,” Joan answered, keenly aware of the condescension in his tone. “That was not my reason for coming. Father did not tell me you had said anything of the sort. He has been too ill. I have only come to ask a question.”
“Any question that Miss Joan Brooke desires to ask—” and he waved his hand. “But perhaps Miss Joan Brooke will consent to take a seat. I am old; and a gentleman cannot well sit while a—a—lady stands.” He very nearly said “a woman,”—remembering still the milk-cans.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Joan; and she went to the nearest chair.
“WHAT did you say the other day to make my father ill?”
Joan put the question in abrupt point-blank fashion, with no sort of circumlocution. Mr. Brooke’s hauteur of manner increased, and so also did his aristocratic paleness. He was annoyed at her fearless manner. He would have liked to feel his own power over her, would have liked to suppress and tame her by look and word. Then too Joan’s resemblance to his long-lost son struck a chord within him, and set it vibrating painfully.
“I was not aware that Mr. Rutherford had been ill,” he said coldly.
“Father was taken worse directly you left. Something you said did him harm. It was very wrong of you to force yourself upon him like that—very wrong,” repeated Joan, with troubled eyes and saddened lips. “He was just getting a little better, and now he is all thrown back again. He hasn’t been able to tell me yet what passed: and I want to know, if you please. I might be able to comfort him.”
Mr. Brooke was not accustomed to endure blame from another, and his face grew rigid. “Your opinion of my action can have very little weight,” he observed slowly. “But it would be as well that you should remember to whom you are speaking—if indeed you have yet been informed of the relationship.”
“I know that you call yourself my grandfather,” Joan answered. “I don’t know how you prove it.”
“You are at liberty to disbelieve the fact, if you wish, Joan Brooke.”
A pause; and then—“Was it that which startled father so much? I don’t think it need. I could never leave him to go to anybody else. No relatives could be to me now what he is.”
“I, at least, assert no such claim,” said Mr. Brooke.
Joan did not seem to be making way. She lifted her soft, yet defiant, eyes, and said—“How am I to know?”
“To know that you are my granddaughter?”
A curious smile passed over Mr. Brooke’s face. He felt suddenly that he had Joan in his power. “There could be no possible difficulty in proving the fact. If my word is not sufficient, you have only to go to Marian Brooke, the widow of my unhappy son, and the daughter of old Cairns. She will supply you with all necessary information.”
“Marian—Brooke!” Joan was growing white as ashes.
“Marian Brooke—your mother.”
For a moment he thought Joan would have fainted dead away on the spot; but she did not. Every vestige of color left her lips, and a strong shudder of repulsion passed through her whole frame. But the next moment her dark eyes were looking him again steadily in the face.
“Marian is the name of the person from Cairns farm who nursed my mother in her illness last autumn—Mrs. Rutherford, I mean,” added Joan.
“Indeed—singular, if she did! Marian Brooke!”
“No; she only called herself Marian! She seemed ashamed of her surname, and would not tell it.”
“H’m! A very singular person,” said Mr. Brooke. “However, that woman, Marian Brooke of Cairns farm, is, as I say, the widow of my unhappy son, Hubert Brooke. When my son married into the Cairns family, I gave up all connection with him and his. But for the dying wish of my wife, I should not now be in connection with—with—”
“His daughter—if I really am that,” said Joan. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew crimson, as she stood up, with a sudden haughtiness of manner equal to his own.
“You need not be afraid. I shall never trouble you!” she said briefly. “If I would ever leave my own dear father for anybody in the world, I would rather go to Cairns farm than live with you. But I shall not do either. Good-bye.”
Mr. Brooke had an uncomfortable sense of being worsted. He forced a smile, and said—“If my granddaughter should find herself ever in want of friends—”
“I would never come to you—never!” cried Joan, in her anger and pain. “If your story is true, you ought to have told it long ago, or else never have said anything at all.”
She went so resolutely towards the door that Mr. Brooke had no choice but to hold it open for her. Joan passed straight out, pressing her lips together, and gazing past the old gentleman with a studied indifference.
“Good-bye,” Mr. Brooke said. “Remember, if ever you should be in want—”
But Joan was gone.
Once in the road, she hurried homewards—passionately, vehemently—allowing herself no time for thought. A great blow had fallen upon her; but she crushed aside all recollections of Marian. Only to get back to the Hall, back to her beloved father, this was her one desire. Ah, if he were but still as he once had been, she would have taken her trouble to him, and half the burden would be gone. Now she might not venture to speak; now it must be borne alone, with no human helper.
Everything looked dark and hopeless to Joan, through that long way between Mrs. St. John’s and the Hall. She had never found any distance so great before. Would it ever come to an end? She grew so utterly weary that it became almost impossible to drag one foot before the other. When home was at last in sight, the garden appeared interminable; and when Joan reached the Hall, she stood within the front door, leaning on the balustrade at the foot of the staircase, unable to ascend.
“Joan, is anything wrong?” asked Dulcibel, coming up. “Why—Joan!”
Joan burst into tears. “I am so dreadfully tired, mother.” She spoke the last words with an unwonted tenderness. Who could tell how much longer Dulcibel Rutherford would be “mother” to Joan?
“Tired! You poor child, I should think you were!” said Dulcibel. “Come upstairs to your own room and rest. What made you go so far?”
Joan attempted no explanation, and obeyed with difficulty, dragging herself from step to step, with that same feeling of leaden-weighted hopelessness. Once in the room, she dropped down, not on the bed but on the floor.
“Please let me—please let me lie still, mother dear!” she pleaded, in answer to Dulcibel’s alarmed remonstrance. “I’m not faint—only so very, very tired. Nothing rests like the floor. Please!”
Dulcibel submitted wonderingly. She brought a pillow for Joan’s head, and threw a shawl over her; then stood looking down at the pale cheeks and dark brows.
“I can’t think what is the matter, Joan,” she said. “I hope you are not going to be ill.”
“Oh no!” Joan said, with a long breath. “I shall be rested soon. Please kiss me, mother—one kiss, and then I’ll be alone. Don’t tell father.”
Dulcibel stooped to comply, and afterwards took herself softly off, to enter into a troubled consultation with Nessie as to the probable cause of Joan’s “odd state.”
Joan lay meantime in a kind of crushed silence and languor, not stirring, not even thinking, only conscious of a black cloud over her life. She dared not let herself look the matter fully in the face. She was capable at first of nothing but endurance. For nearly an hour this pause of body and mind lasted, and then the vigor of her young strong nature began to assert itself. Joan slowly sat up, pushed back the hair from her brow, and sighed deeply.
“I shall have to tell mother,” were the first words that passed her lips. “She and Nessie must know—and Leo.” Joan was surprised at the sudden shrinking which assailed her there. “Leo—must Leo be told? Yes, of course; he is one of us. Why not? I can’t deceive any of them. The sooner I speak, the better. And father—oh, dear, dear father!” sobbed Joan—“it would never make any difference to him. Perhaps to others, not to him. But doesn’t he know already?”
Joan stood up and went to the bow-window, where her little writing-table stood. How often she had sat there, looking out on the fair expanse of lawn and flower-beds, trees, and shrubs, and distant meadows! Everything was just the same as always, only Joan’s own condition seemed so changed.
“Cairns farm! Cairns farm, my real mother’s home! And that old man my grandfather!” Joan shivered. “I don’t believe it—I can’t believe it. And Marian— Oh, I never, never could think of her as mother! It can’t be true—it can’t be true!” moaned the poor girl, in a low-voiced anguish. “Father would never turn me away—never, never! But what will mother say? I don’t know how to tell her! And Leo? If only I could hide my head, and never see anybody again, except my own dear, dear father!”
Joan leant her forehead against the windowpane, sighing heavily again.
“If mother should turn against me—mother thinks so much of family and position. And father—now he is weak—if she should persuade him! No, that would be too terrible! I could not leave father. But when mother knows who really is my mother and my grandfather—that old farmer and her nurse—and my other grandfather too proud to have to do with me! I don’t care about him; but this—this; it does seem so strange. Father is not proud; but still—the Cairns living so near; and if mother—oh, if I could be sure they would not mind, I could bear anything—but if mother and Nessie turn against me—and Leo—”
Grief and distress were rising, to an over-powering pitch. Joan left the window, and walked to and fro with hasty, uncertain steps.
“How can I bear it? What can I do? If there were any help for me! If there were any help!”
As the words left Joan’s lips, her eyes fell upon the Bible which always lay on her writing-table, a well bound, handsome volume, one of George Rutherford’s numberless gifts to his adopted child.
And a sudden longing came over Joan. Might not comfort be found here?
She turned over a few pages slowly. Here and there a light pencil-mark drew attention to a particular passage—George’s doing again.
“A VERY PRESENT HELP IN TROUBLE.”
Joan did not see the words, but they came into her mind. She turned at once to the 46th Psalm.
“‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.’”
Was not that enough?
At all events, Joan went no farther. She sat looking at the words, which seemed to grow in strength and beauty as she gazed, and once more the dark eyes filled and overflowed. Joan closed the book, and knelt down just where she had been standing.
“O God, I am in such trouble; please, please help me, for Jesus Christ’s sake,” she sobbed.
No simpler prayer could well have been uttered; but more was not needed. Again and again she repeated the pleading words; and a strange sweet sense of coming help crept over her.
“Will he help me? I think he will. I do think he will,” murmured Joan, kneeling still, but looking up.
“Joan may I come in?” asked Nessie’s voice at the door, and Joan rose at once, going to meet her.
“Mother didn’t like me to disturb you; but she thought I ought. Father seems so surprised not to see you. We think it worries him. Are you more rested, Joan?”
“Yes, quite,” Joan answered. “I’ll go to father directly. Do I look as if I had been crying, Nessie?”
Nessie made a sound of assent. “But the blinds are half down in the study,” she said; “so father may not see.”
Joan had not much hope. Altered as George Rutherford might be in many respects, he was keenly observant still, and no change of expression in the faces of those he loved ever passed unnoticed by him. Joan had not been five minutes in the study before he was asking—
“What is the matter, my dear?”
Dulcibel, just in the act of quitting the room, turned back to say—
“She went too far, George, and tired herself. It was a great pity. But she looks better now.”
“Was that the case?” asked George, as Dulcibel vanished. “Nothing but that?”
“I was tired, father.”
George Rutherford examined her narrowly, and a look of care came into his own face.
“Tell me all about it, Joan,” he said gravely.
“Another day, please, father. It is over now.”
“My dear, it will worry me more not to know. I can see that you have been unhappy. Perhaps if we both speak openly, each may be some help to the other.”
Joan turned her head away.
“I went to see old Mr. Brooke,” she said. “And he told me what he had said to you—about himself—and about—”
“Marian?” asked George cautiously. If Joan did not yet know this thing, he was in no haste to tell her. There were times still when George, if not flurried or excited, had much of his old presence of mind: and it was so now.
“Yes, father.”
“My poor little girl!” was his response.
“Mother doesn’t know yet,” Joan said, drawing a long breath. “But she must, of course.”
“I should have told her, if I had felt equal to speaking!”
“Father, you must not try. I will tell her and Nessie.”
Then a deep silence, broken at length by Joan.
“Father, you would never give me up—even if others wished it? Mrs. Brooke has no right over me—and I don’t think mother will wish me to go, even when she knows. You would never give me up.”
Not the answer she expected came, but only a clasping hand and continued silence.
“Say you would not,” entreated Joan.
George spoke slowly, as if he had a difficulty in utterance. “If it were right—if it should be our duty—” and Joan looked up, to see the signs of suffering which she too well knew.
“I cannot weigh the matter yet. It is all confusion,” he said.
“No, not a word more. I have been wrong to let you talk,” Joan said calmly. “Lie still, dear father, and try not even to think.”
TWO days later, towards the close of the afternoon, Joan passed swiftly from her father’s room downstairs, on her way to the drawing-room. She did not wish to allow herself time for thought.
George Rutherford had something of a relapse, and Joan had scarcely left him all that day or the day before. Now he was sleeping, and she could venture away for half an hour.
Dulcibel and Nessie must be told what she knew. The sense of this “must” had grown upon Joan, till she felt that there could be no further delay. Joan dreaded the telling unspeakably, and doubted much her own courage when it should come to the point; but perhaps she dreaded putting off even more. For Leo was expected home late that same evening, and Joan knew that after his return speech would be tenfold harder.
So when she found her father quietly resting, and knew that Dulcibel and Nessie would be alone in the drawing-room, Joan rose under one of her sudden impulses, and hastened with rapid steps downstairs.
The drawing-room door stood ajar. Joan pushed it open, shut it behind her, crossed the wide room, and took her position on the thick rug, with clasped hands and downcast eyes, a deep flush on either cheek.
“Mother,” she began, “there is something I want to say to you, please—to you and Nessie.”
“Is it something that Leo may not hear?” asked Dulcibel. For Leo actually stood there, in the large bow-window, making one step forward to meet Joan, and pausing as he noticed the girl’s utter absorption.
“Leo! Oh yes, Leo may hear, of course, when he comes home,” said Joan hurriedly. “We have no secrets from Leo. And I suppose all the world must hear. But I don’t care about that—only about you and father and Nessie.”
“And Leo,” suggested Nessie.
“Yes, of course. Mother, I don’t know what you will say,” pursued Joan, raising sad, soft eyes to Dulcibel’s face, but seeing nothing beyond. The flush in her cheeks faded, and Dulcibel, who had already risen, drew nearer anxiously. “I went yesterday—no, not yesterday, but a day or two before—to see old Mr. Brooke. And he—Oh, I don’t know how to tell you,” Joan said bitterly.
Dulcibel was becoming alarmed.
“Is anything really the matter, Joan?” she asked. “I wish you would say quickly what it is. You flutter me so. Mr. Brooke! Isn’t he that unpleasant old man who called himself your grandfather?”
“Yes, and he says the same still,” said Joan sorrowfully. “He does not want to have anything to do with me, and I don’t suppose I shall ever see him again. It is not that, but something worse—much worse. Mother, he says—”
“Joan, please make haste, and don’t startle mother,” said Nessie, foreseeing hysterics. “Leo, make her speak out.”
Joan turned with a slight start towards Leo, and he came forward.
“Leo!” she uttered.
“Yes; I came home by an earlier train. Perhaps you would rather not have me for a listener,” he said, taking Joan’s cold hand into his own. “Shall I go away, or may I hear what you have to tell?”
“Oh, I suppose you may as well stay. It doesn’t matter,” said Joan hoarsely, drawing her fingers from his grasp. “You will have to know. It will not be a secret. If I don’t say it, father must, and that is so bad for him! It is only—I know who my grandfathers are now. Mr. Brooke is one, and the other is old Mr. Cairns the farmer. And his daughter Marian is my mother—the one who nursed mother so nicely last autumn. I don’t think I believe it all, but he says it is true.”
Joan spoke in quick, broken sentences as if breath were failing her.
Dulcibel’s first “My dear Joan!” was expressive only of bewilderment. She evidently thought Joan to be rambling. Nessie and Leo said nothing.
“It is true, I suppose,” said Joan, sighing. “He seemed quite sure. And he said she—Marian—could tell me all about it. He calls her ‘Marian Brooke.’ She is the widow of his son, Hubert Brooke, and I am their child. Perhaps that is why Marian was so strange to me—if she knew it then. I suppose I ought not to speak of her as ‘Marian’ at all,” added Joan dreamily; “but I don’t know what else to say. It all seems so strange—like a story, and not at all to do with me.”
“What does she mean? Joan, are you ill?” asked Dulcibel. “Such an extraordinary tale! One can’t really suppose—”
“The docketing of the lock of hair is explained,” said Leo slowly. He spoke as if lost in his own thoughts.
Joan looked up at him for a moment in sad protest, and then turned to Dulcibel.
“What am I to do?” she asked. “I am yours and father’s still, not hers. I have nothing to do with Marian Brooke. Must I leave off calling you ‘mother’?”
“Joan, how can you!” Nessie exclaimed, quite indignantly, while Dulcibel sat down and burst into tears.
“Of course I am ‘mother’ to you,” she said sobbing. “I should be very much hurt if you did leave off after all these years. Of course you are our child, and always will be. Do you mean to say it was Marian who left you at the bridge?—that horrid, heartless creature!—poor dear little mite that you were! I always say she ought to have died of remorse for her cruelty. How did she know she hadn’t killed you by exposure? How could she tell that George would adopt you? Oh, I have no patience with her, and I never had! The very thought of that woman always gave me a feeling of horror. I do feel so upset! But Nurse Marian! You actually mean to say she is the same person? Well, she must be very much changed, or else she isn’t half so nice as she seems. Joan, don’t stand there apart from us all. Come here.”
Joan drew nearer, saying—“But I am old Mr. Cairns’ grandchild. You won’t like that by-and-by, mother.”
“I don’t like the thought of it now, but it can’t be helped, and you belong to us all the same,” Dulcibel answered, folding Joan in an unwontedly loving embrace. “There—you poor child! It’s a most horrid thing to happen to you. But of course it doesn’t make a grain of difference, really. Marian gave you up in a shameful way, and she must take the consequences. She hasn’t a shadow of claim on you now. I can’t think what your father will say to it all.”
“Mother, he knows. It was bearing this that made him so much worse.”
“That dreadful old Mr. Brooke! Yes, of course, it was all his doing. I hope we shall never see anything of him again. If he comes to call, I shall say I am engaged. You needn’t worry yourself, Joan. It doesn’t matter what any of them say or do. Marian has no sort of right over you now.”
Joan murmured some grateful words, as her adopted mother continued to inveigh against Mr. Brooke, Marian and the Cairns in general. Dulcibel’s reception of the news was a great comfort to Joan, but she was keenly conscious of Leo’s silence. “I think I ought to go back to father,” she said presently, and she did not look towards Leo as she rose. Outside the drawing-room door, however, she found him by her side.
“Joan, this does not make any real difference,” he said, with some effort. “You are one of us still.”
“And Mr. Cairns’ grandchild, Leo!”
“It makes no difference,” he repeated. “That has to be put aside. Marian Brooke alone is to blame; and she has acted in such a manner as to forfeit every claim upon you. She must be well aware of this herself, and you see she has not come forward.”
“Please let me go,” was Joan’s response.
“But you and I are still—still—” Leo made a marked pause, a hesitating gasp—“still—brother and sister.”
“Certainly,” Joan replied rather coldly. “I am only afraid that in a little while things will look more disagreeable to you all than now. But we will be brother and sister as long as you wish.”
Joan walked upstairs, a curious half-smile on her face, which had grown paler the last two minutes. “Leo did not like me to call myself his ‘sister’ two months ago,” she thought. “Now—yes, of course I know what he means. Well, perhaps it will save trouble. I could never leave dear father for anybody. And this will make just a little difference with Leo, if with nobody else. He is so like father in some things—but not in that. Leo is proud, and father never had any pride.”
She found George Rutherford sleeping still, and sat down by his side to think over what had passed, only putting studiously aside any further recollections of Leo’s chilled manner. On the whole she was conscious of much relief and thankfulness. When her father awoke, asking the not unusual question, “What is my Joan thinking about?” she answered involuntarily, out of a full heart—
“Only those words, father—‘A present help in trouble!’”
“Have you began to learn their meaning, my dear?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said.
“That is well. Sometimes he sends the help in readiness for coming trouble,” George murmured.
“But I think the worst of my trouble is over now,” said Joan, speaking cheerfully. “Mother knows about the Cairns family, and about Marian—what ought I to call her?—and she says it doesn’t matter at all. She says I belong only to you and her, and not at all to Marian. I did feel afraid of what mother might say.”