PERPLEXITY.
GEORGE RUTHERFORD was going downhill steadily. Bodily and mental
powers seemed to be failing him together. As the long summer days
grew brighter and more warm he appeared to be held in the grasp of an
indescribable sadness, preventing all his wonted enjoyment of fair
sights and sounds in nature.
They could not arouse him to his old interest in things around. If Joan
coaxed him into the garden he soon asked to return indoors; and if she
read aloud he listened without comment, growing speedily weary.
Dulcibel did not think so much of this as did others. Like many people
who are greatly given to causeless and unreasoning fears, she was
often by no means the first to take alarm where real reason for alarm
existed. “George was languid with the spring,” she said. “He would be
stronger by-and-by. For her part, she really thought he wanted rousing.
It was getting to be quite a habit of depression—very bad for anybody.”
Mr. Forest viewed the matter differently.
“There is something pressing on Mr. Rutherford’s mind,” he said
seriously one day, after for a while holding his peace. “I find no
other cause sufficient to account for the change in Mr. Rutherford of
late.”
Mrs. Rutherford and Joan exchanged meaning looks. As yet no mention of
Joan’s newly-found relatives had been made beyond their own circle.
Even to Mr. Forest, old and tried friend that he was, not a word had
been said. Joan and her adopted mother were almost equally loath to
have the matter known, and speech had not yet become necessary. At
present George Rutherford seemed disposed to shirk the subject—to put
it aside. If Dulcibel brought it forward, he did not respond. If Joan
alluded to Mr. Brooke or Marian, he said only—“We shall see what to do
before long.”
And still he had gone downward; losing strength day by day; wearing
always a look of care and trouble and weariness on the broad brow and
in the brown eyes, never seen there in past days. Therefore when Mr.
Forest spoke of “something pressing on Mr. Rutherford’s mind,” an
involuntary glance passed between Dulcibel and Joan, noted at once by
the doctor.
“Ah!” Mr. Forest said quietly.
Dulcibel’s eyes went to Joan again.
“There have been—worries,” she said hesitatingly. “Yes; I think my
husband is worried, Mr. Forest—a good deal, perhaps.”
Mr. Forest waited, and Joan spoke impetuously.
“Mother, Mr. Forest ought to know all. He can’t judge rightly about
father without.”
Dulcibel began to cry, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; and Joan
took the matter into her own hands, flushing and paling alternately, as
was her fashion when this subject had to be touched upon.
“It will have to be told,” she said. “Things can’t be hidden long,
mother; and Mr. Forest will tell nobody else until we wish.”
A gesture of assent was his response.
“Yes, I know—yes, of course; we are quite sure,” Joan said, clasping
her hands over the back of a chair. “It is a great trouble, Mr. Forest;
and you will understand. You know all about me, and how it is that
I live here. Just lately we have found out who my—my—people are.”
She hesitated for a word. “One grandfather of mine, old Mr. Brooke,
has been staying lately at Mrs. St. John’s; and the other is old Mr.
Cairns, of Cairns farm. His daughter, Marian Brooke—the one who nursed
mother so long—is my real mother. Of course I don’t feel her so, but
she is. That is the trouble.”
Joan spoke fast, only half articulating her words. Mr. Forest would
not show how startled he was. There had always been a spice of romance
about Joan—a kind of princess-incognita flavor; and he had a sense of
sudden descent into prosaic lower levels. A vision of the sturdy old
farmer in his gaiters, and of the farmer’s angular daughter, Hannah, in
tucked-up skirts and ponderous boots, swept before the mind’s eye of
the doctor.
But Joan saw only a kind look of sympathy, heard only a
thoughtful—“Yes; this must be a trial for you all.”
“It weighs on my husband’s mind, I’m sure,” said Dulcibel, shedding
tears. “He is so fond of Joan. I often say she is more to him than
Nessie—not that Nessie feels jealous—she is so sweet-tempered, poor
dear! And it is no fault of Joan’s either. But he can’t bear her out of
his sight now, and he looks—I’m sure I don’t know how he looks—as if he
couldn’t hold up his head, or care for anything.”
Mr. Forest put two or three questions to Joan. How long had Mr.
Rutherford known these particulars? How had they first come to his
hearing? How had he received the tidings?
“Ah! That last severe attack—yes, I remember,” he said, passing one
hand thoughtfully over his chin. “A shock was the cause; you told me so
much. Yes, I understand now.” Then, after a pause for consideration,
during which he sat gazing on the ground—“This cannot be allowed to go
on. Something must be done.”
“What can be done?” Dulcibel asked helplessly.
“That is the question. Anything rather than leave Mr. Rutherford to
brood over it as he has done lately.”
“But I don’t see what to do,” repeated Dulcibel. “Are we to make my
husband talk?”
“Anything rather than to have things as they are now,” Mr. Forest said
again.
“I don’t believe talking will do any good. It can’t undo about Marian
and all the rest,” said Dulcibel.
“Mother, that isn’t all. I don’t think you understand,” Joan said
suddenly. “I know what really makes father so unhappy;” and her own
eyes were full to overflowing. “He has said something once or twice—not
much, but enough. He thinks I ought to leave him and you and go to
Mrs. Brooke—because she is my mother. To leave you and this dear home
altogether, and only come sometimes as a visitor to see you all!” cried
Joan. “I told him I couldn’t—couldn’t—I should be wretched. I said it
would break my heart, and I would rather die. And he hasn’t spoken
since; but I know he is always thinking—always.”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Forest. “It is wearing him out.”
“He thinks of nothing else, night and day,” said Joan mournfully. “I am
always seeing it in his look. He thinks he ought to give me up—ought to
make me go. It is just the one thought of Mrs. Brooke being my mother,
and a mother having the first right. He doesn’t think of the way she
behaved—and he can’t look on the other side.”
“He is not able,” said Mr. Forest gravely. “The weakness of mind shows
itself there. You cannot depend upon Mr. Rutherford’s judgment in this
or any other matter. If once he is possessed of a certain view of a
question, he cannot take any other view. But nothing could be worse for
him than this continued strain.”
“I did ask him once if he would like to have Marian here to see Joan,”
observed Dulcibel. “That was ten days ago, I think; and he only said
‘Not yet.’”
Joan turned pleading eyes upon the doctor.
“What ought I to do?” she asked. “If I only knew, I would bear anything
for father’s sake—indeed I would.” She clenched her hands till the
brown fingers grew white with pressure. Mr. Forest made no immediate
answer; and Joan went on—“I could see Mrs. Brooke at the farm. Would
that do?”
“Or send for her,” suggested Dulcibel.
“I hardly think the agitation of seeing Mrs. Brooke would be advisable
for him at this moment,” Mr. Forest observed. “Remember, we do not
know how she would act; and very little is needed in your husband’s
present state to bring on another acute attack like the last. He has
less strength now to cope with it. One thing is certain, the weight of
decision ought not to rest with Mr. Rutherford. He should be made to
feel that the whole responsibility is taken out of his hands—that the
matter must rest with Joan’s conscience, not with his.”
“Conscience! As if I could ever think it right to leave father for
anybody,” Joan said hurriedly. Then, sighing—“Yes, I see what you mean.
It is conscience with father. He thinks it must be God’s will that I
should go to live with Mrs. Brooke, and that he ought to make me go.
And then he would break his heart at losing me—oh, I know he would! Mr.
Forest, what ought I to do? How can I put things right?” cried the girl
beseechingly. “Don’t you see how dreadfully difficult it is—if I see
one thing to be right, and father thinks it wrong?”
“The question for you scarcely hinges there,” said Mr. Forest. “The
judgment and conscience of a thoroughly weakened brain are not
trustworthy. It is well for you to see that dearly. You feel it right
to remain here, and certainly my own view of the matter is the same.
But the fact that your father’s view of it arises from disease or
weakness, does not lessen the ill effects upon himself. The mental
struggle and strain which he is undergoing may have the worst possible
results.”
Joan stood thinking, with drawn brows and troubled look. “Yes, I see,”
she said. “And anything that will take away the worry, anything that
will make him feel happy again—”
“If you were to see Mrs. Brooke,” suggested Mr. Forest, “and she were
to state plainly that she had no idea whatever of reclaiming you?”
Joan’s face flushed into sudden brightness. “You and I may count this
unnecessary; but for your father’s sake—”
“Oh, I do think that would be best—I do think it would put his mind at
rest,” Joan said earnestly. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’ll go
this afternoon—at once. And to-morrow I can tell you all about it.”
Ten minutes later Joan entered her father’s room, wearing hat and
gloves. It had not occurred to her to ask Mr. Forest’s advice about
informing her father where she was going, but he had evidently counted
open speech better than silent brooding. Joan felt disposed to speak
frankly.
“Are you going out, my dear?” George asked listlessly.
“Yes, father, to Cairns farm. I am going to see Mari—my—Mrs. Brooke, I
mean.”
“Your mother.” George did not appear to be startled. He was not
easily startled. That which tried and harassed him was having, with
his enfeebled brain, to decide a difficult question or to bear
responsibility.
“Yes, father. You wanted me to see her some day; and perhaps it will be
best over.”
She stood by his arm-chair, looking anxiously at the once fine
lion-like face, now thinned and weakened. Some strong wave of feeling
below could be dimly seen. Joan pressed his hand to her lips.
“I think it will comfort you to have me go, father dear.”
George drew Joan down into his arms, and held her tenderly—held her as
one might hold a precious possession before parting with it.
“My Joan—my child,” he murmured—“the comfort of my life. But I give you
up, my darling, if God so wills. It is right and just.”
“No, father,” Joan answered, growing white, “I do not believe that it
is God’s will. She gave me up to you, and she cannot ask for me again.”
“If she did not—” George said slowly. “But Joan, my child, if she does,
I consent. I dare not hold you back.”
“Father, I would not go,” said Joan gently. “I am not a little child
now, and I must decide for myself.”
“If it is right,—you will do what is right,” George said. “That must
come later. I cannot often think, or I would have seen her before this.
She may not claim you, my darling; but if she did—”
“And if she did not, father dear?”
He smiled at the thought—a smile of sudden sunshine.
“But we must be willing,” he murmured—“willing, whatever God calls us
to bear. The fight has been hard. I think I can consent now, from my
heart. You have been a dear girl to me all these years, dear, past
telling. Still, if we have to part, we can do it in obedience; and,
after all, a mother’s claim! Yes, she forfeited it, perhaps, and
yet—no, I cannot think clearly, my darling. I can only feel—only be
willing, and our God will guide us.”
Joan had no voice with which to answer. She kissed him passionately and
hastened away.