JOAN’S MOTHER.
“NOW, Georgie, please,” Dulcibel said beseechingly, when her husband
stood before her, dry-clothed once more, Joan vigorously kissing one
of his hands. “Please tell me everything quickly. The dinner-bell will
sound in a few minutes.”
“We may as well sit down meantime,” George said. “That will do, Joan;
that’s enough. Hardly time to tell you everything now, I am afraid; but
the gist of the matter is that I have found—”
“Joan’s mother!” cried Dulcibel.
“Somebody who may be her mother. A sick woman—a lady—has been lodging
in a certain cottage for three weeks past, with a little child.”
“Joan, of course.”
“The child was there until yesterday—”
“Of course!” repeated Dulcibel.
“Not quite of course yet. The mother took the child away yesterday
morning, and was absent some hours. When she came back she was alone,
and so ill as to take to her bed. She had left the little one with
friends.”
“And you believe that tale?”
“There seems no doubt about the fact of her illness. The cottager, a
nice, sensible woman, spoke kindly of her, and with evident pity. She
said the lady seemed poor, and in much trouble.”
“Horrid wretch!”
“My dear!” and George directed her attention to Joan’s watchful eyes.
“Oh, that mite can’t understand anything!”
“I am not so sure. And remember, we don’t know yet with certainty
whether this person is the mother. And, if she is, we do not know why
she left the child, or what prevented her return.”
“It is all as plain as daylight to me,” said Dulcibel. “She is a cruel,
heartless woman, and wanted to get rid of the little darling, and
didn’t care whether she were drowned or not.”
“Women do occasionally jump by accident to a right conclusion,” said
George calmly. “But whether you have done so in this instance remains
to be proved.”
“Well, but go on. You haven’t told me half,” said Dulcibel. “What did
you do?”
“I had a long round of inquiries to make, before, lighting on the track
of this person. Her name is Brooke.”
“Joan Brooke! Well, it might be worse. I like people to have nice
names; but Jones or Smith would be uglier.”
“The woman in whose cottage she is staying speaks of the child as
handsome and affectionate, with black eyes, somewhere about three years
old.”
“And you can pretend to doubt still!”
“I am pretending nothing, my dear. It is well sometimes to reserve
judgement.”
“Did you see Mrs. Brooke?”
“No; she was in bed and ill—too ill for an interview. I must go again
to-morrow morning.”
“But didn’t you explain matters?”
“I asked first about Mrs. Brooke’s little girl, and then mentioned our
having found a child of that age in the valley. The woman seemed rather
bewildered, said it could not be Mrs. Brooke’s child, but advised me to
call again in the morning, if I wished to make further inquiries. She
said Mrs. Brooke was really in no state for an interview to-day. Things
being so, I thought it wise not to go further into particulars, and I
said little about Joan.”
“Ah, I see you suspect! And am I to be left alone all day to-morrow
again?”
“No; I hope it might be fine enough for you to come too. If I should be
denied admittance, you might get in.”
“Georgie, do you suppose that this woman is in league with Mrs. Brooke?
Don’t know?—of course you don’t, but one may guess. Is the cottage near
the valley?”
“Some distance off; but Mrs. Brooke seems to have gone there several
times with her little girl. Tourists are so plentiful at this time of
the year that the less attention has been drawn to them. I imagine also
that Mrs. Brooke has shrunk a good deal from observation. The woman
spoke of her loneliness, and said she had no friends.”
“What in the world can have brought her to this neighborhood?”
“I haven’t a notion. Mrs. Flint spoke also of Mrs. Brooke’s fondness
for her child.”
“Fondness!” Dulcibel uttered with scorn.
“It sounded incongruous with existing facts; but we do not understand
yet.”
“Quite impossible that anybody with feelings should understand such a
mother,” said Dulcibel.
George’s hand found its way to Joan’s dark head, and her eyes looked up
in rapturous response.
“Dulcie—” and his voice deepened in tone—“suppose things should really
turn out as you expect?”
“How?”
“Suppose we should fail to find the mother.”
“We can’t fail; because she is found. And if she doesn’t want to care
for the child, she must be made to do so.”
George’s hand was again stroking tenderly the dark head.
“Yes—if possible,” he said. “But there are cases—if she is entirely
unprincipled, entirely bent on eluding her duty, she may do so yet.”
“And you would encourage other mothers in the same wickedness by doing
her duty for her,” Dulcibel said with sharpness.
“‘When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take
me up,’” George murmured. “Joan may have to learn those words early.
Dulcie there are two sides to the affair. One is the mother’s
wrong-doing—folly—cruelty—call it by what terms you will. If she has
forsaken the child, no words of condemnation can be too strong. Still
there remains the other side of the matter. Little Joan is not to
blame,—and if she should be one of the Master’s foundlings, I suppose
he will wish some of his servants to give her food and shelter.”
“I knew you wanted to adopt her,” said Dulcibel resentfully. “I have
known it from the first. I think philanthropy is a craze with some
people. It is just encouraging wickedness. I believe you have been
hoping all along that the mother wouldn’t turn up! And if you adopt
this one, how do you know that half-a-dozen more stray infants won’t
be thrown upon your tender mercies? Any weak, silly woman, who finds a
difficulty in getting along, may toss her child over into your keeping.
I believe there are plenty in the world quite capable of it. And I
suppose you would accept any number, and be grateful. It’s perfectly
ridiculous.”
George was silent. Dulcibel suddenly took a seat by his side, looking
up with repentant eyes from under wet, fair lashes.
“How horrid I am! I can’t think how you can care for me! Georgie dear,
I don’t mean to be cross—I don’t really. Only—don’t you think—”
“I think there is a great deal of truth in what you say,” George
answered. “If I were advising somebody else, I should probably
feel constrained to advise non-adoption—as a matter of policy and
common-sense. The woman has acted—if it be as appears—in a manner
simply contemptible. She deserves no better than the workhouse for her
child. That would be strict justice. But—the workhouse, Dulcie, and
those little clinging arms—”
George could not continue.
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Dulcibel.
“It may be wrong. It may be a mistake on my part. But—I don’t think I
could.”
“Oh, no!” repeated Dulcibel. “I don’t really wish that. I only wish the
wretched woman could have her due. But as to little Joan herself, you
must just do exactly what you think best.”
“I should not think it best to go against my wife’s wishes.”
“It won’t be. I don’t mean to be selfish, and there’s room enough at
the Hall, of course. I shouldn’t like her to be always hanging about,
so that I never could have you to myself; but—”
“My dear Dulcie!”
“No; of course you wouldn’t like it either. But you don’t feel the
same that I do—it isn’t likely you should. I want to have you always
to myself, and I know that can’t be. I do feel very naughty sometimes
about going home, because I know you will be busier, and so many people
will expect to have a share of you. I believe I am jealous of Leo’s
share now; and Joan will be another.”
“Leo is away at school, except in the holidays, Dulcie.”
“Oh, yes, I know, Georgie, dear! Of course I ought to be wise and
reasonable, and mind nothing. But I never was wise or reasonable, and
I always do mind things dreadfully. Only of course you must do exactly
what you think right about Joan, and I’ll try to seem good whatever I
feel,” added Dulcibel, sighing.
* * * * * * *
A sick woman, Marian Brooke by name, lay tossing restlessly that night
in a cottage bedroom. It was small and poorly furnished, yet superior
to the ordinary run of cottage rooms. The owner thereof, a stirring
widow, had lately bethought herself of lodging—letting on a very small
scale, as a means of turning an extra shilling, and her second lodger
was this Mrs. Brooke.
The cottager, Mrs. Flint, knew nothing of Mrs. Brooke’s antecedents,
nor was it likely that she should. Mrs. Brooke paid regularly, lived
frugally, avoided all needless intercourse with other human beings,
showed a deep and growing melancholy, and spent all her time in
attendance on her one little girl. Few words passed her lips, and
nobody came to see her. There was indeed about Mrs. Brooke so marked
and unusual an air of reserve, and of shrinking from her fellow
creatures, that Mrs. Flint’s curiosity might well have been aroused.
But Mrs. Flint, a north countrywoman by birth, though now the widow
of a Welshman, living in a lonely cottage near a lonely moor, was by
nature singularly devoid of the spirit of inquisitiveness. She accepted
her lodger’s peculiarities calmly, asking no questions; and at least
her trust was not abused.
To and fro, from side to side moved Marian Brooke, incessantly, through
the hours of that long night. She moaned often, as if in pain or
distress, and tried every position in turn, vainly seeking rest: sleep
had fled to a hopeless distance. When dawn at length appeared through
the small blindless window, she sat up, with haggard, grey eyes looking
towards the lattice panes.
“O, Joan, Joan, Joan, shall I ever see you again? Is it good-bye
forever—forever?”
The words seemed wrung from her, breaking out in a long, low wail. No
tears rose to the hot eyes. She only laid her head upon her raised
knees, moaning afresh.
“O, Joan, Joan—my little Joan—my darling! But what could I do—what else
could I do? Joan, you will never know how your mother loved you—never,
Joan!” A tearless sob sounded, and she went on—“I didn’t know what else
to do, Joan; and I have no friends. He will take care of you—I am sure
he will. He is no man to turn from any in want. Am I wrong to give him
no choice? Oh, how can one tell—all is so dark, and I have no hope?”
But she might have known. Marian Brooke was no stranger to right and
wrong. Conscience spoke clearly, and she would not listen. She murmured
on, to drown thought—
“No hope, Joan—none! I chose my way; and broke mother’s heart. Mother,
if you were living and could forgive me, I think I might believe in
God’s forgiveness! But not now—there is nobody now—no hope—no pardon.
Better she should be away from me, or perhaps she would turn cold
and hard, and break my heart, as I broke mother’s. Would mother have
forgiven me, if she had lived?”
The light grew, and Marian looked mournfully towards it.
“Morning is almost come, and Mr. Rutherford will soon be here—perhaps
Joan too! But I must not stay to see them. I cannot face Mr.
Rutherford—he would ask to know all—he would say I must write to
my father. And I promised Hubert! Oh, I cannot; I am tied on every
side—bound, ashamed, wretched. And I couldn’t leave you in better
hands, my Joan. You would thank me if you understood all. And he will
teach you to do right—to be different from your poor mother. O Joan,
what it is to have lived without God, and to know that death is near!”
Marian Brooke pressed both hands over her face, then crept out of bed,
and slowly dressed; after which she found a pencil and some paper, and
sat down to write.
The making of her letter seemed to be no easy task. Once, twice,
thrice, she tore up a half-finished sheet into tiny fragments, and
began anew. But at length it was finished and folded. Outside she wrote
simply, “For Mr. George Rutherford.”
Then she went about the little room, putting her things together,
packing the greater part into a large carpet-bag, and making a roll of
the rest within her waterproof cloak.
This work completed, she threw herself down once more on the bed, and
lay there for half an hour or more, perhaps only half-conscious. Mrs.
Flint found her thus, and brought a cup of tea. Mrs. Brooke sat up to
drink it, and said briefly—
“I have to go away to-day.”
Some slight sound of astonishment escaped Mrs. Flint.
“Yes; I am afraid it takes you by surprise. Something I heard—something
that happened yesterday,” Mrs. Brooke said, her eyes roving unsteadily
and avoiding the other’s face. “I have had to come to a sudden
decision. Please have a boy here in less than an hour, to carry my bag.
I must catch an early train. And let me know all that is owing. I told
you when I came that I might have to leave at short notice, and you
agreed. But I will pay what you think right. If Mr. Rutherford should
come again—”
“Mr.—” Mrs. Flint hesitated.
“Mr. Rutherford—the gentleman who called yesterday about a lost child.”
Mrs. Brooke’s face contracted for a moment, almost convulsively. “If he
comes again, give him the letter on the table, it will explain all that
he wants to know; and I should have nothing more to say. That is all.
Please leave me now; and get a boy soon.”
Mrs. Brooke lay back on the bed once more, and shut her eyes. Mrs.
Flint withdrew obediently, making no protest.