HALL AND FARM.
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.”
[Illustration: A call from Mr. Brooke.]