AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.
THE wintry months were at an end, and all over England spring was
breaking out into its ever-new beauty.
Banks of primroses and beds of violets might be found within easy
distance of Woodleigh and the garden was gay with crocuses.
George Rutherford loved to pace the paths, leaning on Joan’s young arm,
and inhaling the soft breezes. That was about as much as he was equal
to now.
Through the winter months he had crept back slowly to a certain stage
of half-recovery, and there he stood still. In some respects he seemed
almost like his old self—not quite, even to strangers; and scarcely
“almost,” to those who knew him best. A certain indefinable lack of
mental power was apparent about all he said and did. He was kind and
genial as ever: but he could not carry on sustained conversation, could
not recollect what had been told him an hour before, could not fix his
thoughts on any one subject. All business arrangements had passed into
the hands of Dulcibel and Leo, and he seemed content to have things so.
He was plainly aware of his own incapacity, and he accepted the same
with a grave, sweet resignation, very touching to those around.
Nothing pleased him more than Joan’s reading aloud; but the books
chosen had to be simple in kind. He could not grasp deep arguments,
and mental efforts always brought suffering. He had to be guarded from
strain and worry, almost like a child.
Yet he was very happy—placidly, calmly happy. Nobody could see him and
question that fact. Bouts of depression were not infrequent, but they
never lasted long.
Bodily strength had not come back, as was once hoped; and of late
especially every exertion wearied him. The soft airs of spring seemed
to take away all the little power he had; and often he would lie for
hours on the study sofa, hardly caring to speak, only now and then
looking to see if Joan were near.
Joan was his unwearied attendant. She never cared to leave him, never
seemed to want rest or change. Dulcibel, shaken and unhinged by the
railway accident, was in a state of semi-invalidism all the winter,
easily upset, and able to do little for her husband; but Joan never
failed him.
Leo proposed spending two years in England before returning to India,
and Woodleigh Hall was always his home. Dulcibel indulged privately
in many hopes that he might some day become her son in reality, and
she did her best in a transparent fashion to throw the cousins Leo
and Nessie, much together. It was no fault of Joan’s that Leo’s hopes
became fixed elsewhere, for she had no thoughts to spare for him or any
one except her father. Leo knew this, and he waited in patience and
silence.
Marian had been to the Hall two or three times for an interview with
Dulcibel; but Joan had not come across her. The very recollection of
Marian had almost died out of Joan’s preoccupied mind.
One fair May afternoon, close to the end of the month, Joan was
persuaded to go for a long walk with Leo and Nessie. She could seldom
be enticed from George Rutherford’s side. She was looking pale,
however, and he seemed unusually well. Dulcibel too appeared brighter
than on most days, and professed herself quite capable of undertaking
sole charge of the invalid during two or three hours.
“I shall sit in our favorite corner, near the violet-bank,” he said,
smiling; “and mother will read poetry to me. You don’t mind poetry as
you once did, Dulcie.”
“NO; perhaps I don’t,” Dulcibel answered uncertainly; and when the
three pedestrians had departed she gave him her arm, as some little
help to his languid steps.
The “favorite corner” was a shady and sheltered spot, scarcely out of
view from the study window, and much frequented by George and Joan.
A comfortable arm-chair was placed there for him on fine days; and
Dulcibel soon had him in this chair, resting contentedly.
“Don’t feel bound to stay all the time, Dulcie,” he said.
“No; I shall just come and go,” responded Dulcibel, who was famous for
never remaining long in one position. “By-and-by I can read to you,
perhaps, but you had better keep quiet for a time. George dear, you
really are looking so nicely to-day—positively like yourself again!”
George smiled in answer, and she moved away to the bank of violets,
filling a small basket with the purple blossoms. Then the violets had
to be taken indoors and arranged, which occupied some little time; and,
just as Dulcibel was about to return to her husband, a caller claimed
attention. Dulcibel had intended to deny herself to callers; but, as
she had forgotten to give the order, this lady was admitted.
Meanwhile George sat alone in his cosy nook, watching the movements of
birch and lilac leaves, listening to the perpetual twitter of countless
birds. The air was laden with violet scent. He could hardly have been
in a sweeter spot for a reverie.
It brought back curiously to his mind a certain fair valley, and
a little child seated solemnly beside a “shaking bridge.” George
Rutherford’s memory served him far better for things which had happened
many years earlier than for occurrences of a day or a week before. He
could recall that scene most vividly, and he leant back, picturing
it to himself, his brown eyes closed, a smile on his lips, and a
gleam of sunshine falling through the boughs overhead upon his tawny
gray-streaked hair and beard.
A movement near made him look up, expecting to see Dulcibel. But a
stranger stood there—an old gentleman of dignified bearing, with snowy
locks, full white eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. George rose at
once, with his instinctive courtesy. The appearance of a stranger
fluttered him slightly, for he had seen and spoken to few people since
the railway accident, and he had grown into somewhat of helpless
dependence upon others. His first glance round was for Joan, then for
Dulcibel; but neither was at hand. The flutter did not show in George’s
manner, nor would a stranger have supposed him to be in any sense an
invalid.
“Mr. Rutherford, I believe?” the old gentleman said.
George signified assent.
“I trust you will pardon the liberty I have taken—indulging myself in a
little ramble through your grounds. You have a pretty place. I was on
my way to call at the Hall, and turned into a side path, not expecting
to be so fortunate as to find you here.”
A bow responded.
“Will you allow me to give you my card, as I have not been able to
send it through a servant. My name is Brooke—Hubert Brooke—” as George
Rutherford received the card, only to lay it aside without a glance.
His companion counted him absent, and repeated, “Hubert Brooke—a name
not entirely strange to you. Thanks; I shall be glad to sit down. I
have walked some distance, and I am growing old. No, not your chair.
This will do. I believe you have been ill lately.”
George resumed his own seat mechanically. A troubled look had come into
his face, and he seemed to be trying to recall something.
“Hubert Brooke!” he murmured. “Brooke—Brooke!”
“Joan Brooke is the name of the young lady you have been so good as to
adopt. I believe she passes often as Miss Rutherford.”
George was gazing distressfully still, as if unable to grasp the
idea. “Joan,” he said gently. “Yes. I beg your pardon. I do not quite
understand.”
“You remember doubtless the name of Hubert Brooke,” said the old
gentleman shortly.
George leant back with a wearied air, seeming to give up the struggle
for comprehension. “I think it would be better for you to see my wife,
or Joan,” he said. “No; Joan is out;” and he hesitated. “Perhaps you
could kindly call another day. I am not allowed yet to enter into
business matters!”
Mr. Brooke was not a man easily turned aside from his purpose. “No
business details are involved—at this moment,” he said. “There is not
much to tell, Mr. Rutherford. Your adopted child, Joan Brooke, is my
granddaughter. Her father was my only son—Hubert Brooke.”
He waited to see the effect of his words. The impression produced was
not apparently so great as he had anticipated. A flush came to George
Rutherford’s brow, and an unseeing, suffering look to his eyes. These
were signs which Mr. Brooke could not read. The silence with which his
assertion was met amazed him.
“My granddaughter,” he repeated emphatically “I have known this fact
for many months; and you would have heard from me earlier, but for the
fact of certain other relatives, with whom I preferred to have nothing
in common. But circumstances have determined me to speak openly to you
on the subject. My wife has been taken from me very suddenly.” A slight
expression of sorrow crossed the speaker’s face. “Her dying request
was that I would acknowledge my granddaughter. The dying wish of a
good wife is not to be disregarded—even though my own inclinations may
point in an opposite direction. I have come to carry out her will—to
acknowledge Joan as my granddaughter. But I acknowledge also your right
over her. I have no wish to steal your adopted child from you, after
all these years.”
There was again no immediate response. George’s impassive manner had a
somewhat irritating effect on the old gentleman.
“Sir, are you acquainted with these other relatives of Joan Brooke?” he
demanded, raising his voice. “Are you aware that Cairns, the farmer,
is her grandfather also—her other grandparent? Are you aware that her
mother, Marian Brooke, my unhappy son’s widow, is now—now!—at Cairns
farm, doubtless awaiting an opportunity to assert her rights? Yes,
Joan’s mother, Mr. Rutherford! Joan’s mother, and Cairns’ daughter.”
He had produced impression enough at last. A strangely sunken, hollow
look crept into George Rutherford’s face, and his brows drew together
with an expression of bewilderment and pain. “Joan’s mother!” George
repeated. “Joan’s mother! My Joan—my poor little girl!”
“Marian Brooke, the daughter of old Cairns, married my son Hubert,”
said Mr. Brooke—“my only son! I leave you to judge what my feelings
were. From that time my son was dead to me. I never exchanged a word
with his wife, nor have I with his widow. Until lately I did not know
her to be still alive. Until last autumn I never set eyes upon Hubert’s
daughter.”
“Joan’s mother!” repeated George in a low, suffering voice. He seemed
able to say nothing else.
“Joan’s mother has been for months within three miles of you, Mr.
Rutherford. Why she has not yet spoken I cannot determine. Doubtless
she has her own reasons. But I have fulfilled my duty in giving you
warning; and I have also acknowledged my granddaughter, according to my
wife’s dying request. I shall wish to see her one day. For the rest, I
have only to thank you sincerely for your kindness to her through many
years. Possibly, now that you are acquainted with her connections, you
may be disposed to regret—”
George Rutherford so plainly neither heard nor heeded, that the old
gentleman came to an abrupt pause; and Dulcibel suddenly appeared, in a
state of some excitement.
“George dear, I hope you are all right. I could not possibly get away
before. Who is this? You don’t mean to say—oh, you ought not to have
had a visitor! It is quite wrong. I don’t know what Joan will say.
George, you are looking quite ill again. I am sure it has been too much
for your head.”
“If you will excuse me, madam—” began Mr. Brooke apologetically.
“How did you come here?” asked Dulcibel, turning upon him in anger
and alarm, for the change in her husband’s look terrified her. “The
servants had no business to bring you. My husband sees almost nobody
yet.”
“Madam, I came alone. No one but myself is to blame. I am Joan Brooke’s
grandfather.”
“I don’t care whose grandfather you are; you had no right to come
here!” cried impetuous Dulcibel. “Please leave us directly. I must get
my husband indoors.”
Mr. Brooke would have apologized, but Dulcibel would not hear him; and
he was turning away in dudgeon, when Joan appeared, glowing with her
walk.
“Leo is just behind,” she began, “and Nessie—”
One glance at Mr. Brooke, another at George Rutherford, and all light
and color died out of Joan’s face. She brushed past the retreating
caller, and rushed to her father’s side.
“Father, father dear, what has happened? Are you ill? What is it?”
George spoke faintly and with difficulty.
“I should like to go indoors, my darling. Leo will help me. I cannot
talk—I have such pain and confusion.”
“Father, did that old man say anything to bring it on?” Joan asked in
an undertone of smothered passion, dropping on her knees, and making
him lean against her.
“Hush, hush, Joan! He is your grandfather.”
Joan shuddered, and clung closer.
“My darling, that is not all; but I cannot say more now. I cannot
think. Only it is God’s will—God’s will for us. The worst is his will.”
“I don’t believe a word about that old man being your grandfather,
Joan,” said Dulcibel, half crying. “It is all nonsense; I believe he is
an old impostor.”
“Mother, don’t talk about it, please,” entreated Joan. “Father must not
say another word.”
Then Leo came, and with his help George managed to walk to the house;
but he had no sooner reached his room than unconsciousness set in. One
of the worst head attacks that he had had since the autumn followed,
and some symptoms were severe enough to cause very serious alarm.
During the full week the slightest mental exertion was absolutely
forbidden, if not indeed absolutely impossible; and Joan had to wait
longer still for a full detail of what had passed. Meantime, no more
was seen of Mr. Brooke.