THE VALLEY ONCE MORE.
“OH no! I couldn’t think of it, George. I am quite too old for swinging
bridges now. I couldn’t, really,” said Dulcibel. Two years had gone by,
and once more they were in their old quarters—Dulcibel being seated
lazily in an arm-chair near the window of the hotel drawing-room, while
George and Joan stood in front of her. George Rutherford, though a good
deal aged by his long ill-health, now looked fairly strong again; and
Joan’s warm dark face was rippling over with happiness. Nobody else
happened to be present. They had come late in the season this year,
and the hotel was nearly empty. The trees in the hotel grounds showed
autumn tints and thinned foliage.
“I couldn’t possibly,” repeated Dulcibel. “You know I always had a
horror of that bridge, George, dear. Last time we were here, you made
me go over; but I can’t now—I really can’t. My nerves will not stand
that sort of thing any longer. You and Joan most go together.”
“But, my dear, what are you going to do with yourself?” asked George.
“I shall just take a little turn presently, or else sit here and work.
Besides, I want to write to Nessie.”
For Nessie was no longer with her mother. Men do not often follow such
advice as Joan had rashly given to Leo; but in this case it had been
followed. Finding Joan hopelessly out of his reach, Leo at length
actually contented himself with the gentle and impassive little Nessie.
Three months before this Welsh trip the wedding had taken place, and
Leo with his bride was now again in India.
Dulcibel felt the parting greatly, of course; still it had long been
her ardent wish that Leo should wed Nessie, and if grieved she was also
very much gratified. Her chief consolation was found in writing endless
chit-chat letters to Nessie. So soon as one was finished, she started
its successor.
And Joan now was the only home-daughter. She loved and exulted in
this position. George depended upon her companionship more entirely
than ever; and Dulcibel and Joan no longer rubbed and fretted each
the other. Dulcibel’s ways were perhaps not less teasing than in past
years, but Joan was more patient; and there existed also between the
two a greater heartiness of affection.
Joan’s “other mother” saw her often. George Rutherford took care of
this. Twice a year he sent Joan with Marian for ten days together to
some seaside place; and once a week regularly they spent an hour or two
in company. Marian neither asked nor expected more.
“Shall we put off the valley till another day?” asked George.
“No, indeed. Why should you?” asked Dulcibel. “I don’t in the least
care to go, and you and Joan have set your hearts on it. And it has
rained every day since we came, and very likely will rain every day
until we go. I suppose it means to keep fine this morning. You must
take waterproof wraps. I shall just stay in, and write to Nessie.”
“You are sure you can spare me, mother?” asked Joan.
“Yes, of course. Your father will never be happy till he has been
to that place. I can’t think what you are both wasting time for,”
responded Dulcibel, rather ungratefully.
Joan did not seem distressed. She gave Dulcibel a kiss, slipped her arm
in George Rutherford’s, and turned to leave.
“Mother really does like writing to Nessie more than anything else in
the world,” she remarked, outside the front door.
“Yes, I believe so. One is always afraid of her being lonely; but she
has suffered less acutely from the parting than I feared.”
“Isn’t that mother’s way?” asked Joan. “She always dreads and fears
everything, and yet somehow she always gets through trouble better than
one expects. And after all, she did wish this very much.”
George Rutherford could not quite attain to his old vigorous speed.
He would never be the strong man that he had once been, although more
fully restored than could have been expected two years earlier. Very
little of the head-weakness remained now. He was only a decidedly older
man, less able to endure than before his illness, and somewhat easily
fatigued.
So a longer time was occupied with the walk than would have been
three years before, had he gone then at his full speed. And when the
tremulous swinging bridge was reached, George seemed glad to lean
against a tree for a brief rest before crossing.
“We have come rather too fast, I am afraid,” Joan said, as he drew his
handkerchief across his brow.
“No; I shall be all right directly. Take a look at the old
surroundings, Joan.”
Joan obeyed, going slowly over, and giving herself up to the enjoyment
of wooded heights, and varied autumn tintings. The little river babbled
on still with its ceaseless soft chatter, and the old church stood
unchanged in the centre. Quick changes of light and shade came from the
passing of small cloudlets over the sun.
“It is very lovely, father,” Joan said, when he joined her. “I don’t
know any dearer place than this valley, because it is where you first
found me.”
“There might be a dearer spot, Joan,” he said, as they passed on slowly.
“What—home, father?”
“No, my dear. I meant the spot where Another found you.”
Joan was silent for a minute or more.
“Do you think he really has found me?” she asked at length.
George looked down into those dark eyes, full of earnest appeal for his
decision.
“Yes!” he said.
“I can’t be sure always,” said Joan thoughtfully. “Sometimes—yes,
sometimes I do feel sure. Things have never been the same since that
dreadful time when you were so ill. I did learn to pray then. And I
think—I think I do love Christ now. But still—”
“But still, temptations come. Is that it?”
“Father, I am afraid I do love you too much still, and I love God too
little.”
“He alone can cure that evil, dear.”
“If I knew what to do!” said Joan.
“There is only one thing to be done. Take it all to Jesus.”
Joan gave him one quick smile of response. She could respond now.
“Yes,” George said presently, as if carrying on or answering some
thought of his own, “if the illness and trouble of that year brought my
Joan to his feet, I can be thankful for the whole.”
“I think it did,” Joan said softly.
They were finding their way to the river brink—the spot where once
Dulcibel the bride had dabbled her hands in water, and where twice over
George had read aloud, first to one hearer, and then to three hearers.
Joan said smilingly, when this place was reached—
“Trench’s Poems.”
“It seems quite the correct thing now to have Trench with us here,”
remarked George smiling too. “But unfortunately I forgot him to-day. My
memory is uncertain.”
“Ah, but I am your memory, father!” —and Joan triumphantly held aloft a
green volume.
“Well done, Joan!” He took it from her, but gave it back. “No, you
shall read something to me for a change. No need for us to run in a
groove.”
“I shall turn to my favorite ‘Century of Couplets,’” Joan answered.
She seemed, however, to find choice difficult. George watched for some
time her fixed gaze at a certain page, and then caught a stealthy
glance from eyes soft with unshed tears.
“What is it, my dear?”
“Something I came on here,” said Joan, with the least possible break in
her voice. “It is only—only this—
“‘Some are resigned to go: might we such grace attain,
That we should need our resignation to remain.’”
“Well?” George Rutherford said.
“I think this is like you, father. I am afraid you do need your
resignation to remain.”
If she expected denial, she was disappointed, for none came.
“And here is another,” added Joan—
“‘Ill fares the child of heaven who will not entertain,
On earth the stranger’s grief—the exile’s sense of pain.’”
“Yes; that is an old favourite of mine. Well, Joan?”
“Of course, it is quite right—and one ought,” murmured Joan. “But I
can’t help feeling it rather dreadful that you would be so pleased to
leave us.”
“No; you are wrong there. I could never be pleased to leave those I
love.”
“Only—to go to—”
“That is another side of the question. I am an exile on earth—and a
citizen of heaven. The true exile doesn’t grieve to go home. And no joy
could be greater than to meet my Master face to face. But, Joan, that
means no possibility of gladness in leaving you. Cannot you understand
the existence of joy and sorrow side by side?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Joan said slowly.
“Only—what?” he asked, watching her.
“Father, if you could have seen your own face in that illness, the day
you were at your worst—” Joan said, and came to a pause.
“I had some fair glimpses of the light on the other side, my dear,” he
said, quietly. “And if the call had come, I could have gone rejoicing.
The call did not come,—and I could turn back to wait, rejoicing. Joan,
do you believe it was no pain to me at that time to think of parting
with my child?”
Joan looked up with sudden comprehension.
“Oh, I know—I know it was,” she said.
An hour later as they crossed the moor, one or two sharp showers
overtook them; and some fine effects in the way of contrasted
brightness and shadow were to be seen. A close phalanx of low black
clouds with fringed edges swept over the hills, and following
persistently in their wake was one broad belt of sunshine.
“Like life,” George said musingly, as they stood to gaze. “Remember,
Joan, if the clouds return after the rain, as return they often do,
the sunlight comes after the clouds again. But one must have the
commingling. Pure joy and pure sorrow are scarcely known to us in this
life.”