WARFARE.
FOR nearly thirty hours Marian Brooke was in the thick of a conflict.
Nothing outside mattered much. She came and went listlessly, took her
share in housework, ran little errands for Hannah, mended, darned,
washed-up—did anything that had to be done. But her heart and her
thoughts were out of it all. When Hannah grumbled and scolded, she did
not even hear. If questions were asked, she forgot to answer.
Once more the light of peace had died out from Marian’s face. Once more
the battle was too strong for her.
She sought no earthly help in this fierce fight. From whom might she
seek it? Who of those around her could have understood the power of
a mother’s longing for her child? Jervis would have been sorry and
perplexed; but that was not what she wanted.
He was sorry and perplexed now; and Hannah was displeased. For all the
evening after Joan’s departure, and through the greater part of the
next day, Marian went about like one stunned by some great calamity,
wan and hollow-eyed, with the look of a sufferer who had forgotten how
to smile.
Jervis asked no questions, and would fain have had Marian left alone,
but the old farmer and Hannah showed no such forbearance. They were
brimful of curiosity, and put her through a long catechetical lecture
with respect to Joan. It seemed to make little difference to Marian.
She gave facts, with a dreamy and mechanical indifference; and when
they blamed her for her long silence, she did not show signs of hearing.
All through the long hours of night the strife continued; and when
morning came the victory was not won.
Must she give up her child again? If Mr. Rutherford were willing, must
hers be the hand to cast Joan from her anew? Was it needful? Could she
not lawfully once more claim her own?
Her own! But she had given Joan away! She had promised not to claim her!
How about Mr. Rutherford’s state of health?—and how about his love for
Joan? After all his goodness to her child, was this to be the return?
But how about herself? After all these years of separation, might she
never have her child for her own again?
So the fight went on; and one hour one side nearly won, and another
hour the other side had the best of it.
Marian was vanquished at last,—seemingly, and for a while. She
could not give up Joan. Let come what might, she would accept Mr.
Rutherford’s offer, and would claim her child. Somebody must suffer.
Why should her heart be torn, rather than the heart of another?
And for three hours or so Marian was calm in this decision. She was not
at first aware of a spirit-darkness which came with it. The thought of
Joan, and Joan alone, filled her whole horizon.
Towards sunset she had to go into the village of Woodleigh for some
slight purchase, and she took her way back through the churchyard. It
was a very quiet, lonely churchyard, quite fenced off by a thick rim of
trees and bushes, from the outer world.
Marian’s mother lay buried there—no, not her mother. Marian knew better
than that: but the clay remains had been laid in a shady corner, and
a flat stone spoke to her memory. The daughter who had broken that
mother’s heart often went and stood beside the grave, her own heart
aching keenly for the past, which could not be undone.
This afternoon, as on other days, Marian turned her steps to that quiet
spot; and stood there dreamily, thinking and listening.
The name and date came first on the stone; and below, one very-short
and simple text,—
“THE TIME IS SHORT.”
Nothing more than that. It had been the choice of Mrs. Cairns herself,
before she died.
“Caw! caw! caw!” came hoarsely through the air overhead; and “twitter,
twitter!” from the bushes close at hand.
“THE TIME IS SHORT.”
Those four words sounded more loudly in Marian’s ears than all the
cawing and the twittering.
Standing there, under the blue sky, she became suddenly conscious of a
darkness over her spiritual sky. When at this spot, it was her habit
always to pray for Joan. To-day Marian could not pray. Her soul seemed
to drop earthward, like a bird with broken wing.
“The time is short! The time is short!”
Yes, that was true indeed. Time was short. Years were passing away. A
little space, and then the great change. What mattered aught meanwhile,
except the one thing needful? What mattered even her great desire?
Ah! but it did matter. Marian could not so reason away the passion
of her heart’s longing. Gladly would she have given up all that she
possessed, once more to have her child’s arms clinging round her.
Little loving arms they had once been; and now Joan—her own Joan, her
only child—held coldly aloof. It did matter terribly to Marian. Years
might be short, and life only a brief span; but days, and hours, and
minutes were long, while she was in the grasp of this agony.
Give up Joan altogether! Oh, she could not—would not!
But the darkness of spirit that was upon her, the deadness of heart
in prayer! Marian drew herself up, frightened, to learn the cause.
Whatever else she might be willing to part with, for Joan’s sake—and
in that dire strife it did seem to Marian that she could gladly have
given up all she possessed or hoped for in life, to feel Joan once more
her own—one thing she could not face, and that was the loss of heavenly
peace.
This it was which brought Marian to her knees beside the grave, and to
tears of penitence. The battle was won at last.
Leonard Ackroyd had been away from the Hall lately. At once, after the
discovery of Joan’s relationship to the Cairns family, he had taken
himself off on a round of visits.
How long he might have remained absent is uncertain, but for a wish to
see him again expressed by George Rutherford. So soon as an echo of
that wish reached Leo, he quitted the house where he was staying, and
came homeward with all possible speed, arriving unexpectedly during
Joan’s absence, when she was paying her visit to Marian Brooke at
Cairns farm.
Dulcibel took Leo straight upstairs to see her husband, and he was
very painfully impressed with the great change in George Rutherford’s
appearance. Leo was in a mood to be easily rendered indignant, just
because he was himself thoroughly unsettled and unhappy in mind. He
felt indignant now that he had not been more fully informed as to the
state of the invalid.
To Dulcibel herself, Leo said little. But when Joan came back from her
unsuccessful expedition, Leo met her in the hall. She looked so sad
and weary-hearted, that Leo’s own heart gave a great throb of pitying
sympathy. He did not, however, wish her to know that, and his manner
was brusque as he asked, after scant greeting—“Why was I not told about
my uncle?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Joan said listlessly. She walked into the
drawing-room, and stood there, waiting for his next words. Nobody else
was present.
“About his being so much worse. Surely you have seen it, Joan!” as the
dark eyes went up to his with a look of terror. “The difference seems
to me so very marked. Where are you going?”
“To father. Oh Leo, don’t keep me.”
But Leo was at the door before her, and his warm strong hands grasped
her cold shaking ones.
“No, Joan, no—forgive me, but you must wait. Indeed I did not mean to
alarm you; and he must not be startled. But surely you have not thought
him so well lately?”
“I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know. If you would only let me go!”
He looked so wonderfully like George Rutherford at that moment—grave
and kind, and resolute—that Joan had no power to fight against his
will. She stood still, drooping and trembling, yet conscious of a
certain comfort in the very touch of those firm hands. But the next
moment Leo had withdrawn himself a pace or two, and his manner was
different.
“Have you seen your mother, Joan?” he asked seriously, having heard
from Dulcibel the object of her expedition.
Joan looked quickly up, with defiant eyes and fleshing cheeks. She
dreaded lest Leo should read the pain which his change of manner gave,
and she was angry with herself for feeling pain, about that or anything
else at such a time—anything except her father’s state.
“Yes, I have seen my mother—if you mean Mrs. Brooke,” she answered
recklessly. “And an uncle and aunt into the bargain. A very respectable
uncle, not at all bad-mannered, and an aunt, all over flour. I didn’t
come across the old grandfather. But perhaps the three were enough for
one day. The aunt looks decidedly vixenish.”
“Joan!” Leo said sorrowfully. He could not help it; though he knew, or
might have known, that he had himself caused the perverse mood.
“Well?” responded Joan. “You don’t expect me to fall in love with them
all on the spot, do you? Everything was very clean—quite polished and
shining. I paid my call in the kitchen, and I should think my worthy
aunt must be quite an adept at scrubbing. They were so good as to
leave me alone for a talk with Mrs. Brooke. It was not a very pleasant
interview. She seems to think she has a sort of right over me still,
which is absurd. Unless you have any more questions to ask, Leo, I
should be glad to go. I want to tell my father all about it—my real
father,” Joan added, her hard look suddenly softening into an intense
tenderness.
“I must not keep you, of course,” Leo said gravely. “But, Joan, be
careful. I do not think my uncle ought to be excited.”
“What did you mean just now—about his being worse?” Joan asked, in her
most abrupt manner.
“He seems to me changed—thinner and weaker. And I did not like the
drowsiness.”
Joan repeated the last word inquiringly.
“Aunt Dulcibel said it had come on almost immediately after you left
him. He knew me, but seemed quite unable to talk. If Mr. Forest were
not coming in presently, I should have advised his being sent for.”
Joan waited for no more, but hurried upstairs. Just outside George
Rutherford’s room she was met by Dulcibel.
“I think he is nearly asleep,” the latter said softly. “He has been so,
off and on, ever since you went. I must go to Leo now. Don’t try to
rouse him, Joan.”
“No, mother.”
“Have you seen those people at the farm?”
“Yes,” and Joan sighed.
Dulcibel kissed her kindly.
“You shall tell me all about it by-and-by. But don’t say anything to
your father, if he does not ask.”
Joan put aside hat and gloves, then sat down to watch patiently beside
the couch. George Rutherford presently opened his eyes, and gave a
little smile, but he showed no inclination to speak. The look of harass
and strain, which had been of late constantly stamped upon his fine
features, seemed singularly to have vanished. An absolute peacefulness
was resting there instead.
Had he forgotten about Marian Brooke, and about Joan’s visit to the
farm? It might be so, in the present condition of his brain and memory.