"Of all strange things in this strange new world
Most strange is this;
Ever my lips must speak and smile
Without your kiss.
Ever mine eyes must see, despite
Those eyes they miss."
F. HEASLIP LEE.
How Joan lived through the hours that followed she never knew. Heart and
brain seemed paralysed; things had lost their power to hurt. When Fanny
crept upstairs in the early morning and knocked timidly at the door,
Joan opened it to her. She had no wish to see Fanny; she did not want to
talk about yesterday, or explain what had happened; but vaguely through
her absolute misery she realized that life had still to be gone on with,
and that Fanny was one of the items of life which it was no use trying
to disregard. As a matter of fact, until she opened the door and caught
Fanny's look of dismay, she did not remember that she was still in her
black afternoon frock, nor the fact that she had spent most of the night
crouched against the door as Dick had left her.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" Fanny whispered; she came quickly into the room
and threw warm, loving arms round Joan. "You haven't been to bed at all;
why didn't you let me in last night? I'd have helped you somehow or
other."
Joan stood limply in the embrace, but she did not turn and cling to
Fanny, or weep as the other girl rather wished she would.
"How ridiculous of me," she answered. "I must look a strange sight this
morning."
Fanny became practical on the moment, since sympathy was evidently not
desired. "Well, you'll start right away now," she stated, "and get out
of your things. It's early yet, only about seven; I will brush your hair
for you, and you will slip into bed. You needn't get up until late
to-day, you know."
"I haven't the slightest desire to sleep," Joan told her; none the less
she was obeying the other's commands. "And I have got to catch an early
train."
"You are going away?" gasped Fanny.
"Back home," Joan answered. "They have sent for me; my aunt has been
ill. Oh, it's not for good, Fanny"--she almost laughed at the other's
amazed face--"I shall be back here before long."
"I hope not;" Fanny spoke, for her, fiercely. "I shall hate to lose you,
honey, but after all I don't stand for much, and you aren't meant for
this kind of world. You can't get the fun out of it I can, it only hurts
you." She was brushing out the soft brown hair. "What happened
yesterday?" she asked suddenly, her head on one side.
Joan moved from under the deft hands and stood up. "You want to know why
I am looking like a tragedy queen this morning," she said. "It isn't
strange you should be curious; I must seem quite mad. Yesterday"--she
caught her hands to her throat--"was what might be called a disastrous
failure. I tried to be very clever, and I was nothing but a most awful
fool. He knew, he had known all the time, the thing which I had been so
afraid to tell him. It had not made any difference to his loving me, but
yesterday I had that other man here, you remember him, don't you? You
might almost recognize his roses." Her eyes wandered round the room, her
hands came away slowly from her throat; she had seemed to be near tears,
but suddenly the outburst passed. "That's all," she said dryly, "Dick
drew his own conclusions from the man being here. I tried to explain, at
least I think I tried to explain. I know I wanted to hold him back, but
he threw aside my hands and went from the room. I shan't ever see him
again, Fanny, and the funny thing is that it doesn't really seem to
matter this morning."
"Oh, you poor thing," Fanny whispered again. She did not say much else,
because for the present words were useless. Otherwise her own mind was
full of consoling reflections. A man, after all, is not so easily turned
aside from what must have been a very big purpose in his life. Already
Fanny could look into the future and say "Bless you, my children," in
her heart. She had been afraid, drawing her conclusions from Dick's face
and Joan's silence, that things were very much worse. Joan might, for
instance, have told the truth, and Dick, man-like, might have resented
it.
She ran downstairs presently and came up again with the breakfast,
fussing round Joan till the other made an attempt to eat something,
pouring out her tea for her, buttering her toast. "I should very much
like to see you have a jolly good cry, honey," she confessed when the
pretence at breakfast had finished. "It would do you a world of good.
But since you don't seem able to, I shall pull the curtains and you must
try and sleep. I'll come and call you again at ten."
Joan lay quite still in the dim and curtained room, but she did not
either sleep or cry. She did not even think very much. She could just
see the pattern of the wall-paper, and her mind occupied itself in
counting the roses and in working out how the line in between made
squares or diamonds.
It was like that all day; little things came to her assistance and
interested her enormously. The collection of flowers which Fanny had got
on her new hat; the map on the wall of the railway carriage; the fact
that the station master at Wrotham seemed to have grown very thin, and
was brushing his hair a new way. Uncle John met her as once before at
the station, and almost without thinking Joan lifted her face. He
stooped very gravely to kiss it. "You are welcome home, Joan," he said.
"We have been lonely without you."
The sound of his voice brought back to her mind the last time he had
spoken to her, and she was suddenly nervous and tongue-tied. A fat Sally
still rubbed her sides against the shafts, nothing had been changed. It
was just about this time she had come home two years ago, only now
nervousness and a confused sense of memories that hurt intolerably swept
aside all thoughts of pleasure and relief.
Uncle John made no further remark after his greeting until they were
driving down the village street. Then he turned to her suddenly.
"There is going to be war between England and Germany," he said. "Did
you see any signs of excitement in London this morning?"
War! Joan realized on the instant that for the past four days she had
not even looked at a paper. Daddy Brown had mentioned some such
possibility in connection with his Spring tour, and the members of the
company had discussed the prospect with varying shades of excitement on
their way up to London. But for herself, her own interests, her own
griefs had so swamped her that she had not even noticed the greater
tragedy which loomed ahead. Yet what a curious thrill lay in the word;
it could rouse her to sudden interest as nothing else had been able to
do all day; she could feel the nerves in her body tighten, and she sat a
little more erect.
"War, with Germany!" she repeated. "I haven't read the papers, Uncle
John. Has it come as near as that?"
"They have invaded Belgium," he answered, "on their way through into
France. We couldn't stand aside now if we wanted to. To-night, I expect
war will be declared. That was why I asked you if you had seen any signs
of excitement in the streets; the papers say that the crowds have been
clamouring for war for the last three days."
She could not tell him that she had sat in the cab counting the daisies
in Fanny's hat. "What will it mean?" she asked.
"Something bigger than we have ever tackled before," he answered. "It
will mean millions of money and millions of men. I don't see much down
here, grubbing about among my plants and weeds, but I have kept an eye
on Germany." A most unusual excitement was shaking him. "In my young
days it was a myth, 'one day Germany will declare war on us.' It has
come true too late for me. I'd give everything I possess to get back
into the regiment, but they wouldn't have me. This will be a
world-shaking war, and I am too old to take part in it." The excitement
left his voice as they turned in at the gate. "Your aunt is very ill,"
he said. "I meant to have warned you before, but somehow I can't think
of anything but the one thing these days. You must not be shocked at her
appearance."
Miss Abercrombie was waiting to receive them where Aunt Janet had waited
for their other home-coming. "Did you bring any news from London?" she
asked quickly; the same light shone in her eyes as in Uncle John's. "Has
anything been settled yet?"
Joan shook her head. "I have been living this last week with my eyes
shut," she confessed; "till Uncle John told me, I did not even know that
anything was going to happen."
Miss Abercrombie looked beyond her; the blue eyes had narrowed, a
strange expression of intentness showed in her face. "I have always
tried not to," she said, "and yet I have always hated the Germans. I
wish I was a man." She turned abruptly. "But come upstairs, child, your
aunt had her couch moved close to the window this morning, she has lain
watching the drive all day. You will find her very changed," she added.
"Try not to show any signs of fear. She is very sensitive as to the
impression she creates. Every week it creeps a little higher, now she
cannot even move her hand. From the neck downwards she is like a log of
wood."
"And she is dying?" whispered Joan.
"Mercifully," the other answered. "My dear, we could not pray for
anything else."
She opened the door and motioned to Joan to go in. "I have brought her
to you, Janet," she said. "Now is your heart satisfied?"
Joan waited for a moment in the doorway. A long, low couch stood by the
window, the curtains were drawn back and the head of the couch had been
raised up, so that a full stream of light fell upon the figure lying on
it. But Aunt Janet's face itself was a little in the shadow, and for the
moment it looked very much like Joan's old memories. The straight,
braided hair, the little touch of white at the throat, the dark,
searching eyes. A nurse, a trim upheld figure in blue, stood a little
behind the couch out of sight of Aunt Janet's eyes, so that she could
frown and beckon to Joan to come forward unseen by the woman on the
couch. But Aunt Janet had noticed the slight hesitation, her face broke
into the most wistful smile that Joan had ever seen.
"I can't hold out my arms to you, Joan," she said; "but my heart aches
for you, all the same."
Joan took a little step forward; "Aunt Janet," she whispered. Then all
that had been bitter between them vanished, and much as she had used to
do, when as a child she sought the shelter of those dear arms, she ran
forward, and, kneeling by the couch, pressed her warm cheek against the
lifelessness of the other's hand. "I have come home, Aunt Janet," she
said, "I have come home."
The nurse with one glance at her patient's face tiptoed from the room,
leaving them alone together, and for a little they stayed silent just
close touching like that. Presently Aunt Janet spoke, little whispered
words.
"I hardened my heart," she said, "I would not let you creep back; even
when God argued with me I would not listen. My life finished when I sent
you from me, Joan, but so long as I could hold myself upright and get
about, I would not listen. I am a hard, grim old woman, and I took it
upon myself to judge, which is after all a thing we should leave to God.
This is my punishment--you are so near to me, yet I cannot lift a hand
to touch you. I shall never feel your fingers clinging to mine again."
"Oh, hush, hush, Aunt Janet," Joan pleaded. "Why should you talk of
punishment?"
"When you were a child," the old voice went on again, "you would run to
me at the end of your day's playing. 'Read me a story,' you would say,
and then we would sit hand in hand while I read aloud to you something
you knew almost by heart. When I dream now I feel your little warm hands
in mine, but I can't feel your lips, Joan, not even when you lay them
against my hand as you do now. Nor your tears, dear, silly child, I have
made you cry with my grumbling. Joan, look up and see the happiness in
my eyes to have you back."
And Joan looked. "I never meant to hurt you as I did, Aunt Janet," she
said; "do you believe that?"
Just for a second the lids closed down over the dark eyes. "I hurt
myself," Aunt Janet answered, "far more than you hurt me. Put your face
down close, so that I can kiss you just once, and then you shall draw up
a chair and we will talk sensibly. Nurse will be severe to-night if I
excite myself."
Miss Abercrombie put her head in at the door presently and suggested
taking Joan downstairs to tea. "Nurse is just bringing up yours," she
said. "I know from the expression of her face that she thinks it is time
that you had a little rest."
"Very well," Aunt Janet agreed, "take her away, Ann, but bring her back
again before I go to bed. Has any news come through yet?"
Miss Abercrombie shook her head. "Colonel Rutherford has just gone over
to the station to find out," she added.
Uncle John came back with no further information. He was evidently in a
strong state of agitation, he confessed that the question which the
Government was settling was like a weight on his own conscience. "It is
a question of honour," he kept repeating, "England cannot stand aside."
"'Know we not well how seventy times seven
Wronging our mighty arms with rust,
We dared not do the will of Heaven,
Lest Heaven should hurl us in the dust.'"
Miss Abercrombie quoted to him.
He stared at her with puzzled old eyes. "I don't think that can apply to
England," he said. "And in this case the people won't let them. We must
have war."
A curious, restless spirit seemed to have invaded the household. Joan
sat with Aunt Janet for a little after dinner till the nurse said it was
time for bed, after that she and Miss Abercrombie, talking only in fits
and starts, waited up for Colonel Rutherford, who had once more tramped
down to the station in search of news.
"Nothing has come through," he had to admit on his return; "but I have
arranged with the people of the telegraph office to send on a message
should it come. We had better get off to bed meanwhile."
Tired as she was, Joan fell asleep almost at once, to dream of
Dick--Dick attired, through some connection of her thoughts, in shining
armour with a sword in his hand. The ringing of a bell woke her, and
then the sound of people whispering in the hall. She was out of bed in a
second, and with a dressing-gown half pulled about her, she ran to the
top of the stairs. The hall was lit up, the front door open. Uncle John
was at it, talking to a man outside; Miss Abercrombie stood a little
behind him, a telegram form in her hand. She looked up at the sound of
Joan's feet. "It's war," she called softly. "We declared war to-night."
From somewhere further along the passage there was the abrupt sound of a
door being thrown open. "Miss Abercrombie, Colonel Rutherford," the
nurse's voice called, "quick, quick! I am afraid Miss Rutherford is
dying! Someone must run for the doctor at once, please."