WHAT MIGHT BE.
“SAY something to me, Joan.”
George Rutherford was in his study again—just able to creep down there
once a day, for a few hours on the sofa. He did not rally from this
attack, as from former attacks.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Joan sat by his side, a book open on her
knee. She had not read much however.
“What shall I say, father dear?”
“Anything you like, my Joan.”
A pause followed. Joan did not seem able to think readily of “anything.”
“Say—‘There shall be no more death.’ I have had those words sounding in
my mind to-day.”
“But that is so long, father. I don’t think your head will bear it
all,” pleaded Joan, shrinking from the task. She had learnt the piece
he referred to, for the purpose of giving him pleasure, in earlier and
brighter days.
“A few verses then, my dear.”
Joan would not refuse. She began in a low, tremulous voice:—
“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!
As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,
Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,
They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”
“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’
What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keeping
Their anxious vigil o’er the failing health,
And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”
“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,
No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?
Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,
No pang of suffering into utterance start?”
“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,
Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,
And in the cold embraces of the earth
Lay the loved object of our best affection?”
Joan struggled on so far, and then came to a complete pause. George
laid his hand on hers.
“My poor Joan! It was too much to ask of you. I did not think—no, don’t
say any more.”
“Oh, yes, I’m going on,” said Joan resolutely. “It’s no use to be
foolish;” and she started huskily with a later verse:—
“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—
That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—
And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,
And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”
“I hear those words re-echoed by the throng
Of white robed worshippers around the throne;
I hear familiar voices, silent long,
Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”
“I see among that cloud of witnesses
Loved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,
Shining like stars—”
“Father I can’t!” sobbed Joan, breaking down in a sudden agony. “Oh,
please don’t ask me—I can’t!”
George drew her nearer, saying only—“My poor little girl!” and for a
minute or two neither spoke.
“What was it, Joan?” he asked at length, when she had grown calmer; and
the words that burst from Joan were not what he had expected:
“O, father, if only your heaven were mine too!”
“If my Master is yours, my heaven is yours, Joan.”
Joan laid her face against his hand, and made no answer. She knew he
must not be agitated, and blamed herself already for giving way.
“What keeps you back from him, my Joan?” George asked.
“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know!” Joan answered, with a deep sigh.
“Sometimes I do seem to come to him, and to love him; but it all goes
again. Please don’t talk more now; you will be so tired.”
“There was something else that I had to say. I have not felt equal
to it until now—about—” and he faltered—“about your grandfather, Mr.
Brooke.”
“He hasn’t been to the house. I don’t want ever to see him again,” Joan
said resentfully. “It was he that made you so ill.”
“Hush; you must not feel that!” George answered. “No; there was
something else;” and his eyes had a strained look of perplexity. “I
cannot think without confusion.”
“It is not right for you. Please don’t try to think, father.”
George closed his eyes, and she hoped he had given up the attempt at
recollection; but suddenly he looked up, almost with eagerness.
“Yes, I know now. Joan, if it is God’s will for us to part—”
“Oh, no!” broke from Joan.
“If it is his will—”
“But it isn’t—it isn’t! Please—please don’t say that!”
“It may be; you do not know yet.”
She thought he was speaking of death, and she forced a brave smile.
“You are better now, father, indeed—really better. Please don’t talk
so. It does make me so wretched, and there is no need.”
“God’s will is always right, always best, always loving.” George
spoke slowly, as if repeating a message or a statement, learnt with
difficulty. “Joan, we must not fight against it. If ever your duty
becomes plain to go to your mother—”
She thought him wandering, and was frightened.
“Please don’t say any more,” she begged anxiously. “Father, you have
talked too much. Things will all come right by-and-by, only don’t talk
about parting. You are going to get well now, and you know I could
never leave you. Try to rest, father dear.”
“I think I must,” George said feebly; and he seemed soon to be asleep.
Joan sat by his side, thinking, in deep distress and dread. What had he
meant? Was it only fancy? Had she indeed a mother? And if so, what then?
“She gave me up to father; she has no right over me now. I could never
leave father for her or anybody—oh, never!” Joan murmured, almost
saying the words aloud.
When George Rutherford awoke he did not again refer to the subject. It
seemed indeed to have passed for the moment out of his mind. But the
dread of what might be coming weighed upon Joan perpetually. She could
not shake off or lay aside the fear. It was like a sword hanging always
over her head.
A mother! Had she a mother? And if she had, what then? What duty did
she, in her position, owe to such a mother? What would a mother expect
from her?
Leo was absent from the Hall, paying visits in Scotland, or Joan would
probably have gone with her trouble to him, as to a brother. But
she could not resolve to write, and there was no one else whom she
might consult. Nessie was the last person in the world to appeal to.
Dulcibel was nervous, unhinged, easily upset. Moreover, Joan possessed
no intimate personal friends in the neighborhood. She had never cared
to make any. The Rector of Woodleigh, a kind and able man, might have
helped Joan, but he had recently broken-down in health, and had been
ordered away from home for a time. His temporary successor was a young
man and a stranger.
Sometimes the feeling of suspense as to what might lie ahead, and the
sense of loneliness in having none to whom she could appeal, were
almost more than she knew how to endure.
The marvel was that this long strain of doubt and dread should not have
driven Joan more readily to take refuge in prayer. For she had been
brought up in a very atmosphere of prayer and of loving trust; yet
still she held aloof.
It came over her suddenly one day that suspense might be ended by an
interview with old Mr. Brooke.
She had not thought of such a thing before: but now the idea gained
fast hold of her imagination. Mr. Brooke was probably staying at the
red-brick house again. Why should she not see him there, and demand to
know what he had said to trouble her father?
Why should she not, or why should she? Would the step be advisable, or
would it not? Should she act, or should she wait patiently?
Joan was sorely troubled how to decide. She lay awake at night,
thinking, and went about all day, thinking. It was hard to see her
way. Sometimes the waiting seemed the wiser plan, but a certain wilful
longing to know the worst was gaining ground upon her.
So strong was this desire that it led her into action. Joan felt almost
as if she were being borne along by a strong current, irrespective of
her own will.
She did not tell herself that she would see Mr. Brooke; but one day she
spoke of taking a walk alone, and no difficulties arose. At starting
she counted herself still undecided, yet without hesitation she bent
her steps towards the red house of Mrs. St. John.
“I may as well walk in that direction. No need to go in,” murmured Joan.
But she did go in. Having moved so far under impulse, she was guided
still by impulse when the house was reached. Joan rang, and asked for
Mr. Brooke. He was staying there, was he not?
“Yes, Miss,” the girl answered.
“Tell him I wish to see him, please.”
She was admitted, the question being asked—“What name, please?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then “Miss Joan Brooke” came firmly.
The maid gave a surprised glance, showed Joan into a small
sitting-room—a study or boudoir—and vanished.
Joan stood on the rug, trying to conquer the trembling which assailed
every limb. No long time elapsed before the door opened, and a courtly,
white-haired old gentleman entered.
A stranger could not have failed to be struck at that moment with the
likeness between the two faces—both pale in tint, both mastering strong
agitation, both with marked, full eyebrows drawn together over black
eyes full of defiance.
“Good-morning, Miss Joan Brooke,” the old gentleman said distantly.
He had the milk-cans of old Cairns, Joan’s other grandfather, very
plainly before his mind’s eye. “I hope you are well. Very good of you
to come and see me. I expressed a wish to Mr. Rutherford for one short
interview. Will you be so good as to take a seat?”
“No; I would rather stand,” Joan answered, keenly aware of the
condescension in his tone. “That was not my reason for coming. Father
did not tell me you had said anything of the sort. He has been too ill.
I have only come to ask a question.”
“Any question that Miss Joan Brooke desires to ask—” and he waved his
hand. “But perhaps Miss Joan Brooke will consent to take a seat. I am
old; and a gentleman cannot well sit while a—a—lady stands.” He very
nearly said “a woman,”—remembering still the milk-cans.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Joan; and she went to the nearest chair.