ABOUT THE FUTURE.
JOAN did not go upstairs to see Dulcibel. Nessie and Leonard would fain
have persuaded her, but entreaties were thrown away. Joan seemed to be
in the overmastering grasp of one desire—to get away from the Hall and
back to George Rutherford with all possible expedition.
“No, no, no—not to-day,” she said impatiently, when Leo suggested
Dulcibel’s disappointment. “Mother will not really care; and I can’t—I
can’t. I might come across that woman again. Some other time I can see
mother—not now—not to-day. Do let me go.”
She was so tremulous and unlike herself that Leo ventured on no further
opposition. Once more in the open carriage, with only the cloudless sky
overhead, a sigh of relief escaped Joan. “Dear, dear father!” Leonard
heard her murmur; and the black eyes were soft with unshed tears.
“I am afraid our little outing has not done you as much good as I had
hoped it would,” said Leo kindly.
“It doesn’t matter! I shall be all right now; and I don’t mean to leave
father again. Leo the man is going the longer way round. Tell him not,
please.”
“No; I want time for a few words with you.”
“About father—yes, you were going to tell me—I have not forgotten
that,” she said.
“And about Marian, Joan. Would you mind telling me what she said or did
that upset you so much?”
“She was rude,” Joan answered, a crimson flush mounting in her pale
cheeks. “I could not allow that, of course; and when I spoke to her she
cried, and seemed quite absurd. It was very foolish of me to care; but
I am always so inclined to fancy that things mean more than they really
do. I would rather not talk about it now, if you don’t mind. I would
rather try to forget.”
“I think I ought to know all,” said Leonard. “There is the question
whether she should be allowed still to wait on your mother?”
“You must settle that; I don’t know anything about it,” said Joan
dejectedly. “Only I can’t see her again. If I go to see mother, Marian
will have to be out of the way. I should not like to meet her a second
time. I don’t think she meant any harm, only she was so queer and
excited; and when she was rude it made me angry.”
“Marian told me she had behaved with what Miss Brooke counted too much
freedom,” said Leo.
“What I counted!” Joan turned towards Leo, with a flash of her eyes.
“She called me by my name—‘Joan’ outright, and said ‘dear’ and
‘darling.’ Was that only what I counted freedom? The impertinence of
the woman!”
Joan’s drawn brows were for a moment furious, and Leo seemed startled.
“Not really?” he said.
“Yes—really and truly. You don’t think I am making up?”
“No, no; but it is extraordinary,” remarked Leo. “She has always been
so singularly quiet and respectful in manner! I cannot understand the
sudden change, except—Yes, she spoke of your likeness to some one.”
“Everybody is like everybody. I hate likenesses, and I am always being
bothered about them,” said Joan pettishly. “I wish I had not told you
so much. Please don’t tell mother, or I shall never hear the end of
it. I don’t want to say another word about Marian’s absurdities. You
promised to tell me exactly what the doctors think of father, and I am
sure I have waited long enough.”
Leo said “Yes” thoughtfully.
“Go on. ‘Yes’?” said Joan. “Make haste, please.”
“It is not easy to know exactly what to say,” Leo answered. “Their
opinion at the last consultation was not very favorable.”
She forced herself to speak composedly.
“Not favorable—how?”
“As to entire recovery. The injury to the head seems to be of a more
serious nature than was at first thought. We all hoped that the long
unconsciousness was due, at least in a measure, to the shock of the
accident and the burns, and that when he once began to rally the mind
would be clear. But it is not so.”
“He is so weak,” murmured Joan.
“Still it is something beyond mere weakness. Have you not noticed?”
Joan’s face was turned away, and Leo kept silence. She looked round at
length with a sudden impatience and distress.
“Go on—oh, go on!” she said. “It is no use putting off. The worst
can’t be worse than I often think. You have promised to tell me
all—everything—not to hide a single word. I want to know the very
worst;” and she clenched one hand over the carriage door. “Quick,
please. It is dreadful having to wait like this.”
But Leo was unable to go on. Strong man that he was, not easily
overcome at any time, the sight of that pleading girl face, with its
quivering lips and dark, troubled eyes, proved too much even for
him. His own bronzed cheeks lost coloring with the intensity of pity
within—not pity alone, though that at the moment was the main feeling;
for George Rutherford was very dear to his heart—and his frank, brown
eyes were absolutely full of tears. When he would have answered, his
voice failed.
“Leo, I am so sorry.” Joan spoke suddenly in a soft, low tone, more
changed in one instant than he would have thought possible. “I am so
very sorry. I forgot that dear father is your father as well as mine—as
much, I suppose; I don’t know—it seems to me always that nobody can
love him as I do. But that must be absurd. I’m afraid I have been
selfish, thinking only of my own part in the trouble. But of course it
is your trouble too. Would you rather not tell me any more? I’ll try to
bear on a little longer.”
Leo was already recovering himself.
“No, no,” he said, huskily; “you have a right to know all.” They were
approaching the hotel, and he leant forward to say to the driver—“Go
straight on till I tell you to turn.”
“I did not mean to be unkind,” Joan repeated then wistfully. “I quite
forgot, Leo.”
Leonard made no attempt to explain the nature of his own feelings. He
said only—“Any questions you like.”
“Is there any hope that father will ever—ever be quite the same
again—quite the same that he has been?”
“I am afraid—very little hope.”
“Will he recover, Leo?”
A pause, and then—
“We cannot be sure yet. He does not get on as he should. Still on the
whole—”
“And if he does—if—if—Leo, I don’t know how to get it out!” cried Joan,
with extreme bitterness. “Will—will there—will there be a change in
him always? Will this go on? Don’t you understand? Will he—will he—his
dear, dear mind—Oh, can’t you answer?”
“Dear Joan, that is the fear,” Leo answered very low.
Joan had no more to say. She looked like one crushed.
“I don’t mean that we can speak with any certainty yet, but that is the
fear,” repeated Leo.
“Can nothing be done—nothing?” asked Joan, despairingly.
Leo’s answer was in two words only.
“Yes—prayer.”
“Prayer doesn’t always bring the thing one wants,” murmured Joan.
“It—or something better.”
“There can’t be anything better. There could not be. Oh, you don’t know
what he is!” half-sobbed Joan. “There is nobody like him in all the
world. Please tell the man to turn. I want to go back to father.”
Leo obeyed, and she sat leaning forward, with a look of eager longing
and sorrow.
“Remember, Joan, things are not hopeless,” he said.
Joan was silent till they had almost reached the hotel. Then she said,
with downcast eyes—“Thank you very much. You have been very good to me.
And I think it is just a little comfort to know how much you feel it
all too. Leo, please do pray that father may soon be perfectly well.”
Leo said only—“Yes.”
“I want you to pray hard—hard,” she reiterated. “I know there is the
sort of prayer that must bring an answer. Couldn’t you pray that kind
of prayer for father? I would if I knew how; but all seems stony and
cold. If only I had asked father when I could! Nobody else can help me.
And my prayers wouldn’t bring an answer; but perhaps yours, will.”
“Why not yours, Joan?”
“Because I love father more than Christ,” she answered very low.
“Father is everything to me. But I want other people to pray—hard—hard!”
The hotel was reached, and no more could be said. Leo thought of the
“effectual fervent prayer” which “availeth much.” But also he knew
that Joan was leaving out of sight the one great condition on which
all answers to prayer must hang, the—“if it be according to his will.”
No petition which runs counter to God can be ever that kind of prayer
which does avail much and which brings a full reply.
[Illustration: “I’ve got right down into darkness.”]