The first time that Joan appeared at the night school, the men and
girls looked up from their tasks to stare at her, and whisper among
themselves; but she was, to all appearances, oblivious of their
scrutiny, and the flurry of curiosity and excitement soon died out.
After the first visit her place was never vacant. On the nights
appointed for the classes to meet, she came, did the work allotted to
her, and went her way again, pretty much as she did at the mines. When
in due time Anice began to work out her plan of co-operation with her,
she was not disappointed in the fulfilment of her hopes. Gradually it
became a natural thing for a slow and timid girl to turn to Joan Lowrie
for help.
As for Joan's own progress, it was not long before Miss Barholm began to
regard the girl with a new wonder. She was absolutely amazed to find
out how much she was learning, and how much she had learned, working
on silently and by herself. She applied herself to her tasks with a
determination which seemed at times almost feverish.
“I mun learn,” she said to Anice once. “I _will_,” and she closed her
hand with a sudden nervous strength.
Then again there were times when her courage seemed to fail her, though
she never slackened her efforts.
“Dost tha think,” she said, “dost tha think as I could ivver learn as
much as tha knows thysen? Does tha think a workin' lass ivver did learn
as much as a lady?”
“I think,” said Anice, “that _you_ can do anything you try to do.”
By very slow degrees she had arrived at a discovery which a less close
observer might have missed altogether, or at least only arrived at much
later in the day of experience. Anice's thoughts were moved in this
direction the night that Derrick slipped into that half soliloquy about
Joan. She might well be startled. This man and woman could scarcely have
been placed at a greater distance from each other, and yet those half
dozen words of Fergus Derrick's had suggested to his hearer that each,
through some undefined attraction, was veering toward the other. Neither
might be aware of this; but it was surely true. Little as social creeds
influenced Anice, she could not close her eyes to the incongruous--the
unpleasant features of this strange situation. And, besides, there was a
more intimate and personal consideration. Her own feeling toward Fergus
Derrick was friendship at first, and then she had suddenly awakened
and found it something more. That had startled her, too, but it had
not alarmed her till her eyes were opened by that accidental speech
of Derrick's. After that, she saw what both Derrick and Joan were
themselves blind to.
Setting her own pain aside, she stood apart, and pitied both. As for
herself, she was glad that she had made the discovery before it was too
late. She knew that there might have been a time when it would have been
too late. As it was, she drew back,--with a pang, to be sure; but still
she could draw back.
“I have made a mistake,” she said to herself in secret; but it did not
occur to her to visit the consequences of the mistake upon any other
than herself.
The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowrie only seemed to
increase in strength. Meeting oftener, they were knit more closely,
and drawn into deeper faith and friendship. With Joan, emotion was
invariably an undercurrent. She had trained herself to a stubborn
stoicism so long, and with such determination, that the habit of
complete self-control had become a second nature, and led her to hold
the world aloof. It was with something of secret wonder that she awoke
to the consciousness of the fact that she was not holding Anice Barholm
aloof, and that there was no necessity for doing so. She even found that
she was being attracted toward her, and was submitting to her influence
as to a spell. She did not understand at first, and wondered if it would
last; but the nearer she was drawn to the girl, the less doubting and
reluctant she became. There was no occasion for doubt, and her proud
suspiciousness melted like a cloud in the spring sunshine. Having
armed herself against patronage and curiosity, she encountered earnest
friendship and good faith. She was not patronized, she was not asked
questions, she was left to reveal as much of herself as she chose, and
allowed to retain her own secrets as if they were her own property.
So she went and came to and from the Rectory; and from spending a few
minutes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spending
hours there. In this little room the books, and pictures, and other
refinements appealed to senses unmoved before. She drew in some fresh
experience with almost every breath.
One evening, after a specially discouraging day, it occurred to Grace
that he would go and see Joan; and dropping in upon her on his way back
to town, after a visit to a parishioner who lived upon the high-road, he
found the girl sitting alone--sitting as she often did, with the child
asleep upon her knee; but this time with a book lying close to its hand
and her own. It was Anice's Bible.
“Will yo' set down?” she said in a voice whose sound was new to him.
“Theer's a chair as yo' con tak'. I conna move fur fear o' wakenin'
th' choild. I'm fain to see yo' toneet.”
He took the chair and thanked her, and waited for her next words. Only a
few moments she was silent, and then she looked up at him.
“I ha' been readin' th' Bible,” she said, as if in desperation. “I
dunnot know why, unless happen some un stronger nor me set me at it.
Happen it coom out o' settin here wi' th' choild. An'--well, queer enow,
I coom reet on summat about childer,--that little un as he tuk and
set i' th' midst o' them, an' then that theer when he said 'Suffer th'
little childer to coom unto me.' Do yo' say aw that's true? I nivver
thowt on it afore,--but somehow I should na loike to think it wur na.
Nay, I should na!” Then, after a moment's pause--“I nivver troubled
mysen wi' readin' th' Bible afore,” she went on, “I ha' na lived wi'
th' Bible soart; but now--well that theer has stirred me up. If he said
_that_--if he said it hissen--Ah! mester,”--and the words breaking from
her were an actual cry,--“Aye, mester, look at th' little un here! I
munnot go wrong--I munnot, if he said it hissen!”
He felt his heart beat quick, and his pulses throb. Here was the birth
of a soul; here in his hands perhaps lay the rescue of two immortal
beings. God help him! he cried inwardly. God help him to deal rightly
with this woman. He found words to utter, and uttered them with courage
and with faith. What words it matters not,--but he did not fail. Joan
listened wondering, and in a passion of fear and belief.
She clasped her arms about the child almost as if seeking help from it,
and wept.
“I munnot go wrong,” she said over and over again. “How could I hold th'
little un back, if he said hissen as she mun coom? If it's true as he
said that, I'll believe aw th' rest an' listen to yo'. 'Forbid them
not--'. Nay, but I wunnot--I could na ha' th' heart.”