HIS CHILD.
THE drowsiness which had come on did not pass off quickly. When Mr.
Forest called, he said little at first beyond an echo of Leo’s “I do
not like it.” But he paid a second call that same evening, and was at
the house again in the early morning. By that time he was able to speak
with sorrowful decisiveness. A marked change for the worse had taken
place.
George Rutherford was not unconscious, as in former attacks. He only
seemed very weary, and indisposed to talk. Most of the morning he lay
quietly, with closed eyes, noticing nothing that went on around him. It
was singular how every trace of anxiety and distress had passed from
his face, leaving only a complete repose. Sometimes a dim, calm smile
gleamed slowly, like an irradiation from the other world.
After midday the drowsiness lessened and a certain restlessness took
possession of him. He seemed to those around to be wandering, as he
murmured broken half-sentences about “the valley,” and “the bridge,”
and “hills round about.”
[Illustration: The Valley once more.]
“The valley of the shadow of death,” Leo said, with lowest possible
utterance to Joan. Mr. Forest still spoke of hope, but Leo could see
none; and it seemed to him that Joan ought to understand the blow which
was in all probability coming upon her.
“No, no, no,” Joan answered hurriedly and with anger. “No, no—not that,
but the valley in Wales!” She turned to the bed, and said fondly, “Yes,
father dear—that was where you found your little Joan, was it not?”
He evidently understood, and looked up, smiling, his hand clasping hers.
“My comfort! My child!” he said tenderly.
“Dear, dear father!” burst passionately from Joan’s lips.
“Hush, don’t agitate him,” Leo whispered. But George only smiled again,
seeming rather to be roused than agitated.
The thought of the valley haunted him for a while, mingled with
recollections of the anxiety which had weighed upon him recently.
“The bridge has to be crossed,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to his
wife. “Yes—come, my Dulcie, no need to fear. The Master’s hand is
strong enough. ‘O thou of little faith!’... Sometimes over a difficult
way—and flesh and flesh and heart may fail.... But he is our portion,
for ever and ever! So foolish ever to fear!... And all will be well—as
he wills. No need to choose. He has cared for the child. He will never
forsake—never fail her.... My little Joan, I have loved her very
tenderly.... But if the call has come—Father, thy will, not mine....
Yes—as thou willest.... A hard bridge to pass over—but as thou wilt.”
Joan found it difficult to restrain herself, listening to him.
A little later he was uttering other words, connected in his mind, with
memories of the fair Welsh valley:—
“Come thou must, and we must die,
Jesus, Saviour, stand thou by!”
No more than this, but over and over again the prayer came solemnly—
“‘Jesus, Saviour stand thou by!’”
“He is not far-away,” Leo said quietly.
“No, my dear Leo—very near—in death and in life—always near,” was the
reply, with calm emphasis.
Nessie, helplessly sobbing, had left the room, and Dulcibel at length
could bear up no longer. But Joan showed no signs of breaking down.
Pale as wax, she remained close beside her father, watching intensely
every movement, anticipating every need.
Drowsiness again usurped sway over him, and George seemed passing into
a heavy sleep. Would he ever wake from it again? Leo thought not. But
by Joan’s wish an urgent messenger was sent again for the doctor,
though not two hours had elapsed since his last call; and he came at
once.
Almost immediately after Mr. Forest’s arrival, some one desired to
speak to Leo outside the room. A few whispered words were exchanged
in the passage, and when Leo reappeared, it was to say to Joan in an
undertone—
“Mrs. Brooke wishes to see you.”
Joan shook her head.
“She is downstairs, and will not be denied.” Leo scarcely breathed the
utterance audibly, fearing to rouse George, whose calm face showed no
sign of consciousness. “Would it not be best for one minute?”
Again Joan shook her head.
Leo hardly knew whether to press the matter further.
“Joan, it is something about your interview—something that she wishes
to unsay or undo.”
No response came to this. Joan simply turned her head aside, with an
air of resolute refusal. A slight silence followed, broken by George
Rutherford. He had not seemed to hear what passed, but now his eyes
opened, looking towards Joan, and the faint voice uttered the words—
“Marian Brooke?”
Leo only said, “Yes,” gently, and Joan gave him a most reproachful
glance.
George spoke distinctly, “I should like to see Marian Brooke.”
“Father dear, don’t trouble yourself about her; please don’t!”
entreated Joan. “Everything will come right by-and-by—indeed it will.”
“Yes, my darling,” and George smiled at her. But again he said, “I
should like to see Marian Brooke.”
“I think it might be as well,” Mr. Forest observed, after a very brief
low consultation with Leo.
“Oh don’t;” Joan said, with imploring voice and eyes.
Her wish was not regarded. George Rutherford seemed roused and
expectant, to a degree which no one would have thought possible ten
minutes earlier.
“Bring Marian Brooke here!” he reiterated, and Leo went.
Dulcibel, with reddened eyes and sobbing breath, now came back into the
room, taking up her station on the other side of her husband from that
occupied by Joan. Dulcibel believed him to be dying, as did Leo. Then
Marian entered slowly, and stood at the foot of the bed.
She looked very worn and haggard and sad, but the gray eyes were
full of a nameless peace, something like that which rested upon the
countenance of George Rutherford.
He had not seen her since her bright and pretty girlhood. It would
not have been surprising if he had failed to detect any likeness. But
unexpectedly he held out his hand, and said in his old kind manner—
“Why, Polly Cairns!”
Marian took the wasted hand, and burst into tears.
“No—I am forgetting. Not Polly Cairns now—but—” George hesitated.
“Marian Brooke, sir,” she answered.
“Yes, true. My Joan’s mother.”
A troubled look came over George’s face. He held out his hand again,
took Joan’s, and placed in Marian’s.
That was the crucial moment, and none watched with more intense
anxiety than Mr. Forest. He was resting his last faint hope of George
Rutherford’s life upon this interview.
Joan visibly shuddered, and George sighed. But Marian lifted the little
cold hand to her lips, kissed it fervently, and gave it back to George.
“No, sir,” she said, very distinctly. “There mustn’t be any mistake
about that matter, please. Joan is your child now—now and always. I
gave her up to you, and I can’t take her back.”
A strange look came over George Rutherford’s face—a look of doubt, of
relief, of awakening, of renewed life. His eyes brightened and his
voice grew stronger.
“You do not wish—” he said.
“It is not a matter of wishing, sir,” she answered, with resolute
calmness. “Joan can’t be mine, as she would have been if I hadn’t given
her up. If I had her with me ever so much, that couldn’t make her mine.
Her heart is yours, and I couldn’t be so cruel as to take her from
you—even if I had the right, which I haven’t. You’ve been a true father
to Joan, and I do thank you. And she is yours now—yours for always. I
pray God he may spare you both long to one another. I’ll ask to see
her now and then, and may be one day she’ll learn to love me a little.
That’s all I can hope for now, and I’ve none but myself to blame that
things are as they are. I’ve no fit home to offer Joan, and I couldn’t
make her happy. I’ll only ask to see her once in a while.”
“Not to have her always?” murmured George.
“No, sir.” said Marian firmly. “If you made me the offer now to take
her back altogether, I wouldn’t accept the offer, knowing it isn’t
really your wish to part with her. It would be only another wrong to
you both, and another sin on my part; and I’ve enough on my conscience
already. No, sir; Joan is yours.”
George could not speak. Tears filled his eyes, and in his utter
weakness a sob broke from him. Then his arm was round Joan, and her
dark head lay against his tawny beard, just as on that long-past day
when he had first taken the little forsaken one into his loving heart.
“My own little girl,” he whispered.
“You’ll get well now, father,” she said.
At a sign from the doctor Marian passed out of the room, Leo saying, as
she went—
“Wait in the dining-room, till one of us can come to you.”
Marian obeyed. She had done her utmost, and something of a reaction
followed. Not reaction in the way of resolution, but of strength. None
saw her in the next half hour of grief and loneliness, and perhaps it
was well. She had a full hour in which to recover herself.
Then a quick step approached, and Joan herself opened the door. Marian
had not expected this.
Joan came close, took both her hands, and looked into her face with
eyes no longer defiant, only full of soft gratitude.
“Mother!” Joan said.
“My dear!” faltered Marian.
“He has dropped asleep—such a sound, quiet sleep,” said Joan. “And Mr.
Forest thinks he will be better when he wakes. Mr. Forest thinks the
worst is over now. And he says you will have saved his life! I can
never, never thank you enough! Mother, I shall always love you for
this!”
Joan’s lips were pressed against Marian’s cheeks.
“Oh, my dear, it’s too much—too much!” sobbed Marian. “I didn’t think I
was to have such comfort. It’s more than I deserve.”
* * * * * * *
The worst was over at last; not only the worst of this one attack, but
the worst of George Rutherford’s long ill-health. The tide had reached
its lowest ebb, and steady improvement began to set in.
Day by day strength came back to body and mind, as it had never yet
come back since the railway accident which made an invalid of the
strong and vigorous man.
“I think you have taken out a new lease of life,” Mr. Forest said
one day. “We shall soon have you almost your old self again, Mr.
Rutherford, thank God!”
“Yes, thank God!” echoed George.
“But you must get away for a change soon. Where will you go? Scotland?”
“Or Wales,” said George.
“What—your favorite valley? No, not this summer. Some other year,
perhaps. I should like a fresh scene for you now.”
George made no objection, and Dulcibel fully concurred in Dr. Forest’s
decision. Two days later Joan asked Leo—
“Are you going to Scotland with us?”
“I am not sure—yet,” said Leo.
“We don’t start for a fortnight, so you need not make up your mind at
once,” said Joan carelessly. For a sudden change of expression in Leo’s
face made her regret having put the question.
“What do you wish about it yourself, Joan?”
“I? Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t make very much difference either way,”
said Joan, “except that of course we all like to have you—especially
father.”
Leo spoke rather coldly, after a pause—
“Joan, do you care for any one in the world except uncle?”
“Yes, of course I do,” Joan answered rather hurriedly. “What an odd
question. I love mother and Nessie, and I am trying to care for my
other mother as I ought; she is so good and self-denying. And my uncle
Jervis is really nice, too. Of course, I don’t love anybody else in the
world as I love father.”
“And I suppose you never will,” said Leo.
“Never,” Joan answered decidedly. “Oh no, never! If I didn’t know that
before his illness, I know it now.”
“But, Joan, after all, that is all nonsense,” Leo asserted. “Girls
often say such things, and it means nothing.”
“It means a great deal with me,” said Joan. “I will never leave father,
Leo, for anybody. After all that I owe to him, how could I? Even if
I could wish it, I could not do it. And I never shall have such a
wish—never. I love him much too dearly.”
“That is mere infatuation,” Leo declared. “Daughters leave their own
fathers to be married;—every day it happens.”
“Yes, their own fathers! But this is different,” replied Joan. “If
father were my own father, things would have come to me as a right
which are only a gift. That would make all the difference. Nessie will
marry some day, and then father and mother will need me all the more to
take care of them.”
Leo did not seem convinced. He began to say something in a low,
agitated voice, and Joan only caught two or three words. She would not
hear more.
“No, Leo, no! Please stop,” she cried. “Oh, don’t go on! Don’t say it,
and make everything uncomfortable. That can never be—never. I can never
leave father. My work in life must be to look after father. He will
never be strong, as he used to be, and he does depend on me so. And
though I like you very much—very much indeed—it isn’t that. It couldn’t
be. Father is always first with me, and he always will be. And even
if I could feel just exactly as you wish, still the thing could not
possibly be. You know how you feel about my relations at the farm.”
“But out in India, Joan!” entreated Leo.
“You won’t spend your whole life in India, and I am not going to cast
off my relations. Nothing of that sort can ever be. I am only sorry you
did not keep from saying a word. We will forget about it as fast as
possible. You are my brother, and that is all. The best thing you can
do is to fall in love with dear good little Nessie. But please don’t
think about me any more, and don’t say one word to father. My path in
life is quite plainly cut out for me. I will never leave dear father,
by my own choice.”