LIFE AND DEATH.
TEN days of unshaded brightness followed. Joan ever after looked back
upon that time as one of the fairest seasons in her life. She could not
see then how dark a cloud was gathering over her sunshine.
Joan was full of glee, frolicsome as a kitten, with boundless enjoyment
of hill and dale, tree and flower. Each ramble or excursion proved more
delightful than the last; and even Nessie’s colorless serenity seemed
to catch a little glow and warmth from Joan’s exuberant happiness. At
home Dulcibel and Joan were apt to rub and fret one another a good
deal. Here however there seemed no place for petty jealousies and
irritations.
They made some pleasant acquaintances in the hotel; but generally the
four went out together, having no strangers with them. Occasionally
Joan had the supreme pleasure of a walk with her father, when Dulcibel
and Nessie were unequal to further exertions. George and Joan seemed
never to reach that condition. No further visits were paid to “George’s
Valley” until the afternoon of the last day.
A long morning ramble, and the necessity of packing up for an early
start next morning, decided Dulcibel to remain indoors after luncheon,
keeping Nessie with her. So George and Joan went off alone together,
and by mutual consent directed their steps towards the valley.
Clouds looked threatening on their way, and some fine effects of light
and shade were to be seen in crossing the moor. Then came a sharp
shower; but the two pressed on determinately, and by the time the
valley was reached there was sunshine again.
This time no Dulcibel was at hand to cause delay in bridge crossing,
yet they lingered—George scanning with interest the spot where Joan had
once sat in baby disdain of would-be comforters, and Joan as earnestly
scanning his face.
“Father, if ever my real mother came forward, I should be yours, not
hers,” Joan broke out.
“That is not likely, my dear. She was in broken-down health, and
believed herself dying, seventeen years ago.”
“But if she did?” Joan’s voice and restless brows said together.
“Time enough then for consideration of your duty.”
“I am very glad I am twenty-one,” said Joan. She slipped her arm
through George Rutherford’s, and looked up with loving eyes. “And you
know she gave me to you, father, to be your very own.”
“Yes. Even if she were living, which seems most improbable, she would
hardly demand you again as a right, until I grow tired of you.”
“And you’ll never, never do that, father!”
“Hardly,” George said, with a little smile.
“Only there was that old man—it frightened me seeing him. But he hasn’t
written or said anything, so perhaps, even if he does think we may
be related, he doesn’t want me. If he did I would not go to him. I
couldn’t live without you, father!”
George hardly knew whether to answer this lightly or seriously. He said
at length only—
“Until—”
“No, not ‘until’ anything, father. I shall never want to leave you; and
I shall never marry. I only want to live with you, and be your child
and friend always—always—always.”
“But, Joan, life does not last always.”
“But I don’t want to think of that,” Joan answered quickly. “Mother
often makes herself miserable, thinking how the years are going, and
how one’s happiness has to come to an end by-and-by. But I don’t see
the use. It only makes one wretched, like those beautiful sad lines you
read to us here, the other day. I wish you had not, for I can’t forget
them.”
“Ay,” George said—
“‘Come thou must, and we must die:
Jesus, Saviour, stand thou by
When that last sleep seals our eye.’”
“Still, one needn’t be always thinking about it,” said Joan. “What
must be, must, but I would rather enjoy things as they are. And I like
to feel that life will go on a long, long while yet. By-and-by, of
course—but when one gets old and tired, perhaps one wouldn’t mind so
much—”
“The call doesn’t always wait till we are very old and tired, my Joan,”
George said quietly, as they began to walk towards the old gray church.
“If one may have to take a sudden journey, at any hour or moment of
one’s life, it is well to have things in readiness.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Joan said, in a calm uninterested voice. “But
somehow it never seems as if one really might die at any time. I
suppose I know it, but I don’t believe it; I always do expect to live
long. People are very different in that way. Nessie often expects
something to happen to her; and if she is ill she thinks of danger
directly. I never do. And mother counts the years, and fancies coming
changes, and dreads losing every one that she loves. It is odd how
unlike we all are to one another—especially you and mother. I suppose
mother really loves God, doesn’t she?—but she does not at all want to
go to him. She has such a dread of life coming to end. And you never
seem to think of death as sad at all; and you don’t mind about little
fidgets and worries in this world, as most people do. Sometimes I feel
as if you had had a little peep into heaven, which had made you quite
different from everybody else for all the rest of your life.”
No disclaimer came, as Joan half expected, George only said—
“Would not you like such a peep, Joan?”
“I should like to go anywhere with you, father. Even to—” and a pause.
“Even to heaven? Was that it?”
“Father, I don’t think of heaven as you do,” said Joan, tears springing
to her eyes.
“Loving me will not take you to heaven, my child,” said George, very
tenderly.
“No, father; but—”
“If I were called away, would you come after me?”
No answer came to this, and the ungloved brown hand, lying within his
arm, trembled uneasily. Joan’s face was turned away.
“Joan.”
“Yes, father,” came in smothered tones.
“If I were called away to the land of my hopes, would you come after
me, darling?”
“Father, I do think you needn’t make me so miserable the very last day
here,” sobbed Joan.
“I did not mean to make you cry. But, Joan, my dear—there, don’t sob.
Sit down here for a moment. What has grieved you so? Did you think me
unkind?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Joan, with a kind of indignant energy. “Only,
please, please don’t talk of that. Anything but that, please.”
“What—of my having to leave you some day?”
“Yes;” and another flow of tears.
George’s strong hand came over hers.
“And yet it has to be,” he said—“it has to be. One or the other may go
first, but the good-bye will have to be spoken—unless indeed the King
comes first to earth in his glory. Joan, would that be good-bye between
you and me? Or if the good-bye is spoken in death, must it be for ever?”
Joan shook with sobs, and George bent towards her pityingly.
“Think it over, dear one, and pray it over. Don’t let there be any
doubt on that matter. Now we are not going to talk any longer about sad
subjects. I am sure you will not forget. Have I been very cruel?”
Joan murmured something about “Never are.”
“That’s right. You and I always understand each other, don’t we?
Come—we take a quick walk up to the top of Castle Hill, before going
home.”
Tears were hastily dried, and Joan seemed very glad to put aside an
unwelcome subject. She was soon talking and laughing with her usual
freedom, almost—but not quite. An undercurrent of grave thought showed
now and then; and George Rutherford would not have had it otherwise.
He did not wish to depress her spirits, and a brisk hill-climbing,
followed by a rapid walk back to the hotel, brought her into good tune
for the evening.
But Joan was not a girl to thrust lightly aside the words he had
spoken, more especially as such words of personal appeal were very rare
from him. There was nothing morbid about George Rutherford; indeed
his equable cheeriness of temperament was something remarkable. Not
less remarkable, however, were his calm trust in God, and his happy
realization of things unseen. While using and enjoying the good gifts
of this world, his heart did not rest upon them. Joan’s heart did.
An early start had to be made next morning, and Dulcibel was in one of
her usual agonies of unreadiness. Some people never are in time for
anything, no matter how early they begin to prepare; and Dulcibel’s
supremest efforts after punctuality came always to the same impotent
conclusion.
“Nessie, do make haste! Put those things into the portmanteau—no,
not there—the other pile. Oh, dear, you have upset them all! Never
mind—stuff them in. Where’s Joan? Not gone down stairs yet! She might
have come to help me first.”
“Mother, here is Joan,” said Nessie, as the door opened two inches.
“Father wants you to come down to breakfast, mother.”
“I thought so!” responded Dulcibel, in despair. “Well, he must wait,
that’s all. Do help Nessie lock the portmanteau, Joan. She is so slow,
she will never get things done. Is your packing finished?”
“Quite,” said Joan.
“I’ve just found three great holes in my gloves; the wrong pair left
out, of course. You haven’t a needle and thread, have you, Joan—or
Nessie? Thanks, Joan—what a handy girl you are! When the portmanteau
is locked you had better both go down, and begin breakfast with your
father.”
“Let me mend the holes,” said Joan, when a vehement struggle had
brought together the bulging sides of the portmanteau, and Nessie sat
upon the floor, panting rather dolefully.
“Oh, well, I don’t mind—thank you, Joan! I must pin up the braid on
my skirt. It ought to have been mended last night, and I forgot it.
Nessie, you are quite tired. Really, I think we must bring a maid with
us next time we go out. I don’t feel as if I could eat a morsel of
breakfast. You had better both go down without me.”
“Father said he should not begin till you came,” observed Joan,
stitching diligently.
“Well—if I must. But it’s of no use. I can’t eat in a bustle; and we
haven’t a moment to spare. There he comes. I knew he would.”
“Breakfast, my dear,” said George, looking in.
“But we shall be late. We shall miss our train,” gasped Dulcibel.
“No harm if we do; but I don’t think we shall,” said George calmly.
And they did not, though he allowed no more flurrying haste, and
breakfast was eaten in quietness.