Chapter XVI: Mother and Child

JOAN, not much more fit than Dulcibel to leave her bed, was a good deal more resolute in carrying out her own will. She would not permit any appeal to Leonard.

“But if you would only just wait till Mr. Forest has been!” pleaded Nessie.

“That is exactly what I don’t want to do,” Joan answered. “He might keep me prisoner, and I want to be free. It is no use talking, Nessie. I must go to father.”

She dressed herself with few words, accepting help from Nessie. A black ribbon tied over the plastered cut on her forehead gave her a somewhat nun-like appearance, not lessened by the white cheeks and heavy, sad eyes below. All sparkle had vanished from Joan’s face.

“I didn’t know I could look so uninteresting,” she said, turning away from the glass. “Well it doesn’t matter.”

“Joan, do you feel very ill?” asked Nessie, wistfully.

“I don’t know. If I find there isn’t much wrong with father, I shall be all right. I am only stupid. I can’t think why you did not find out more last night.”

Nessie attempted no direct answer.

“Leo said I should have breakfast with him at nine; and it is just nine now,” she said.

“Where? In the coffee-room?”

“Oh, no! He has taken the little private sitting-room. Leo seems to think of everything, and it is such a comfort to have him to arrange for us. Wasn’t it strange, his arriving when he did just in time to come and meet us at the station? You will let me send up a tray to you here, Joan?”

“No,” Joan said resolutely. “I am going down.”

She took the lead as usual, passing first through the door. Leo met them on the stairs, his vigorous frame and tawny beard showing even more marked resemblance to those of George Rutherford in full daylight than in the dimness of the evening before. Joan’s black eyes looked up into his brown ones defiantly, as she read there surprise and disapproval.

“Mr. Forest has not been in yet. You were wrong to get up, Joan,” he said, with a brotherly frankness which she resented.

“I didn’t choose to lie in bed,” she answered.

“Where is breakfast to be?”

Nessie pointed to a door just below the flight.

“And where is father?”

Leo drew a little aside, for Joan to pass him.

“Breakfast first,” he said.

“No; I must see father first.”

“Not till Mr. Forest has seen you both.”

Joan stood still, and almost stamped her foot, frowning at him, much as the dignified infant beside the bridge had frowned at the good-humored school-boy.

“I must go to father. I will go to him,” she said passionately. “No one has a right to keep me away.”

“You will not question Mr. Forest’s authority. He has forbidden it.”

“Then I shall speak to Mr. Forest! I am not going to be treated like a child.”

Joan reined up her head and marched before the other two into a shabby little sitting-room, where breakfast lay on the round table.

“Shall I pour out tea?” she asked stiffly.

“Nessie will do that. You must sit here,” Leonard said, drawing forward an easy-chair.

Joan rejected it immediately, and placed herself bolt upright on an ordinary cane-backed chair, trying to ignore certain hazy and floating sensations, akin to those experienced on board ship.

“I think the sooner Joan has a cup of tea the better,” said Leo.

“I am not going to touch anything till I know the truth about father.”

Leonard was silent for a few seconds, and he brought a cup to her side.

“Now, Joan, a little toast, and a scrap of chicken?” he asked kindly.

Joan was fighting against an overwhelming grasp of sickness and exhaustion. She sat bolt upright still, but her lips were the color of the white table-cloth.

“No,” she said—“nothing yet. I will hear about father first.”

“Joan, be reasonable,” urged Leo. “You are fit for nothing till you have taken some food. I promise to tell you presently; and you shall see him so soon as Mr. Forest consents.”

“You are to tell me now,” Joan retorted imperiously. “I don’t want to be reasonable. I only want to know about father.”

“Just a little tea first,” pleaded Nessie.

“No!”

Joan spoke with a sharp ungraciousness, and then she rose and walked to the window, which she flung open, as if in craving for air. The others could hear a gasp. Nessie looked at Leonard and whispered—

“Hadn’t you better give way?”

“You are wrong, Joan; but if you are determined, you shall have your will,” Leo said at length. “Come and sit down.”

“No; I can’t sit down! I can’t eat! Why will you torture me so?” Joan said, with a look of anguish. “Oh, I know it must be something so terribly bad, or you could not keep me waiting! And I don’t know how to wait—I don’t know how to bear it!”

The slight displeasure in Leonard’s manner vanished, and he went to the window.

“You will take cold,” he said; “the air is so sharp. Joan, come and sit down, and you shall ask what you like.”

The look of those black eyes, with their dread and pain and gratitude, touched him keenly. She allowed him to lead her to the arm-chair, and leaning back in it, she shivered violently.

“Yes,” she said—“yes. Oh, go on, please!”

“He seems about the same this morning as last night—not conscious yet. Yes, very much hurt—” as the blanched lips moved questioningly,—“I cannot tell you how much. The scalds are terribly severe. There would be great suffering if he were conscious. The immediate danger is from them, but there are other injuries also. The insensibility arises from a very bad blow on the head. A good nurse is in attendance, and Mr. Forest was there a long while. You could do nothing, and he would not know you. Better that you should take care of yourself now, so as to be able to help when your help is needed, if—when—Yes, I was going to say, when he begins to come to himself. He will want you then.”

“If!” was the only word which passed Joan’s lips.

“Yes, surely we must say that—if it is God’s will that your dear father should recover. We must pray for him,” Leo said, earnestly.

A tap at the door, and Nessie answered—“Come in.” Marian opened it and entered.

“If you please, sir,” she said, “I cannot manage any longer to pacify—”

Marian came to a dead pause, and stood as if suddenly turned to stone, her hands wrung together, her gray eyes fixed on that white girl face in the arm-chair. Joan seemed to dislike the scrutiny. Her drooping eyes opened widely for an instant, and the brows above drew into a frown.

“Who is that woman? Take her away!” she said distinctly, with a touch of pettishness. “I want to hear more about father. Don’t let anybody come in.”

Nessie went to Marian’s side, and asked—

“Shall I come to my mother? Does she want me?”

But Marian did not seem to hear—certainly did not heed. Leo began to think there was something about her uncomfortably peculiar.

“Marian, you must not leave Mrs. Rutherford alone,” he said.

Marian seemed to wake up with a start.

“No—yes, sir,” she said. “I beg your pardon.” Instead of walking out of the room, she drew nearer to Joan, gazing earnestly still. “The—the young lady—looks faint,” she said, with a manifest effort for self-control. “Could I do anything?”

“Go away—I don’t want you here,” said Joan, impatiently. “I am asking about my father, and you interrupt us.”

Marian’s face fell like the face of one who has received a heavy blow. Joan, intent on other thoughts, did not notice this; but Leo did, and was perplexed. Nessie glided from the room, beckoning Marian to follow.

“Do you want anything? How is mother?”

Marian had difficulty in collecting herself, so as to answer rationally.

“Mrs. Rutherford was very anxious to get up,” she faltered—“very impatient to hear more about Mr. Rutherford. It might, perhaps, be best to—to—” and Marian came to a confused pause.

“I think you must be tired with sitting up all night,” Nessie said kindly. “You look quite pale. After breakfast you shall go for a walk. That will refresh you more than anything.”

Marian murmured a grateful response, but one voice rang incessantly in her ears—“Who is that woman? Take her away! Go away—I don’t want you!” And “that woman” was Joan’s own mother—the girl who did not want Marian was her own child!

Alone at last! Hurrying out of the village, away to the old churchyard, unseen by any human eye, alone in her grief, Marian sat upon a flat gravestone, heedless of cold or damp, rocking herself to and fro with smothered sobs.

“O Joan, Joan, my darling! And you do not know me—do not want me—do not love me! O, God, is there any comfort for such pain as this! Canst even thou help me? For I gave her away—my child—my only one! And I need not—ought not. If I had known thee! Thou wouldst have cared for us. If I had but known thee—trusted thee! Joan, my child—my baby—will God ever bring us together again—ever make me dear to you again? How can I hope it? I don’t deserve that he should. For it was my own doing—my own folly! And I dare not tell Joan who I am! I think it would kill me if she had no love to give! It is such heart-breaking work; and none to help—none to comfort! I thought some light had come, and now all is darkness again! Oh, the madness of having given her up; left her when she was mine—altogether mine; and now mine no longer! The madness—the sin! Does Joan see that—the wrong to her—and does she hate her mother for it? Wrong to Joan—wrong to others—how evil done comes home to one in later years! But, O Joan, your mother is bitterly punished!”