Chapter XXI: An Unlooked-For Visitor

THE wintry months were at an end, and all over England spring was breaking out into its ever-new beauty.

Banks of primroses and beds of violets might be found within easy distance of Woodleigh and the garden was gay with crocuses.

George Rutherford loved to pace the paths, leaning on Joan’s young arm, and inhaling the soft breezes. That was about as much as he was equal to now.

Through the winter months he had crept back slowly to a certain stage of half-recovery, and there he stood still. In some respects he seemed almost like his old self—not quite, even to strangers; and scarcely “almost,” to those who knew him best. A certain indefinable lack of mental power was apparent about all he said and did. He was kind and genial as ever: but he could not carry on sustained conversation, could not recollect what had been told him an hour before, could not fix his thoughts on any one subject. All business arrangements had passed into the hands of Dulcibel and Leo, and he seemed content to have things so. He was plainly aware of his own incapacity, and he accepted the same with a grave, sweet resignation, very touching to those around.

Nothing pleased him more than Joan’s reading aloud; but the books chosen had to be simple in kind. He could not grasp deep arguments, and mental efforts always brought suffering. He had to be guarded from strain and worry, almost like a child.

Yet he was very happy—placidly, calmly happy. Nobody could see him and question that fact. Bouts of depression were not infrequent, but they never lasted long.

Bodily strength had not come back, as was once hoped; and of late especially every exertion wearied him. The soft airs of spring seemed to take away all the little power he had; and often he would lie for hours on the study sofa, hardly caring to speak, only now and then looking to see if Joan were near.

Joan was his unwearied attendant. She never cared to leave him, never seemed to want rest or change. Dulcibel, shaken and unhinged by the railway accident, was in a state of semi-invalidism all the winter, easily upset, and able to do little for her husband; but Joan never failed him.

Leo proposed spending two years in England before returning to India, and Woodleigh Hall was always his home. Dulcibel indulged privately in many hopes that he might some day become her son in reality, and she did her best in a transparent fashion to throw the cousins Leo and Nessie, much together. It was no fault of Joan’s that Leo’s hopes became fixed elsewhere, for she had no thoughts to spare for him or any one except her father. Leo knew this, and he waited in patience and silence.

Marian had been to the Hall two or three times for an interview with Dulcibel; but Joan had not come across her. The very recollection of Marian had almost died out of Joan’s preoccupied mind.

One fair May afternoon, close to the end of the month, Joan was persuaded to go for a long walk with Leo and Nessie. She could seldom be enticed from George Rutherford’s side. She was looking pale, however, and he seemed unusually well. Dulcibel too appeared brighter than on most days, and professed herself quite capable of undertaking sole charge of the invalid during two or three hours.

“I shall sit in our favorite corner, near the violet-bank,” he said, smiling; “and mother will read poetry to me. You don’t mind poetry as you once did, Dulcie.”

“NO; perhaps I don’t,” Dulcibel answered uncertainly; and when the three pedestrians had departed she gave him her arm, as some little help to his languid steps.

The “favorite corner” was a shady and sheltered spot, scarcely out of view from the study window, and much frequented by George and Joan. A comfortable arm-chair was placed there for him on fine days; and Dulcibel soon had him in this chair, resting contentedly.

“Don’t feel bound to stay all the time, Dulcie,” he said.

“No; I shall just come and go,” responded Dulcibel, who was famous for never remaining long in one position. “By-and-by I can read to you, perhaps, but you had better keep quiet for a time. George dear, you really are looking so nicely to-day—positively like yourself again!”

George smiled in answer, and she moved away to the bank of violets, filling a small basket with the purple blossoms. Then the violets had to be taken indoors and arranged, which occupied some little time; and, just as Dulcibel was about to return to her husband, a caller claimed attention. Dulcibel had intended to deny herself to callers; but, as she had forgotten to give the order, this lady was admitted.

Meanwhile George sat alone in his cosy nook, watching the movements of birch and lilac leaves, listening to the perpetual twitter of countless birds. The air was laden with violet scent. He could hardly have been in a sweeter spot for a reverie.

It brought back curiously to his mind a certain fair valley, and a little child seated solemnly beside a “shaking bridge.” George Rutherford’s memory served him far better for things which had happened many years earlier than for occurrences of a day or a week before. He could recall that scene most vividly, and he leant back, picturing it to himself, his brown eyes closed, a smile on his lips, and a gleam of sunshine falling through the boughs overhead upon his tawny gray-streaked hair and beard.

A movement near made him look up, expecting to see Dulcibel. But a stranger stood there—an old gentleman of dignified bearing, with snowy locks, full white eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. George rose at once, with his instinctive courtesy. The appearance of a stranger fluttered him slightly, for he had seen and spoken to few people since the railway accident, and he had grown into somewhat of helpless dependence upon others. His first glance round was for Joan, then for Dulcibel; but neither was at hand. The flutter did not show in George’s manner, nor would a stranger have supposed him to be in any sense an invalid.

“Mr. Rutherford, I believe?” the old gentleman said.

George signified assent.

“I trust you will pardon the liberty I have taken—indulging myself in a little ramble through your grounds. You have a pretty place. I was on my way to call at the Hall, and turned into a side path, not expecting to be so fortunate as to find you here.”

A bow responded.

“Will you allow me to give you my card, as I have not been able to send it through a servant. My name is Brooke—Hubert Brooke—” as George Rutherford received the card, only to lay it aside without a glance. His companion counted him absent, and repeated, “Hubert Brooke—a name not entirely strange to you. Thanks; I shall be glad to sit down. I have walked some distance, and I am growing old. No, not your chair. This will do. I believe you have been ill lately.”

George resumed his own seat mechanically. A troubled look had come into his face, and he seemed to be trying to recall something.

“Hubert Brooke!” he murmured. “Brooke—Brooke!”

“Joan Brooke is the name of the young lady you have been so good as to adopt. I believe she passes often as Miss Rutherford.”

George was gazing distressfully still, as if unable to grasp the idea. “Joan,” he said gently. “Yes. I beg your pardon. I do not quite understand.”

“You remember doubtless the name of Hubert Brooke,” said the old gentleman shortly.

George leant back with a wearied air, seeming to give up the struggle for comprehension. “I think it would be better for you to see my wife, or Joan,” he said. “No; Joan is out;” and he hesitated. “Perhaps you could kindly call another day. I am not allowed yet to enter into business matters!”

Mr. Brooke was not a man easily turned aside from his purpose. “No business details are involved—at this moment,” he said. “There is not much to tell, Mr. Rutherford. Your adopted child, Joan Brooke, is my granddaughter. Her father was my only son—Hubert Brooke.”

He waited to see the effect of his words. The impression produced was not apparently so great as he had anticipated. A flush came to George Rutherford’s brow, and an unseeing, suffering look to his eyes. These were signs which Mr. Brooke could not read. The silence with which his assertion was met amazed him.

“My granddaughter,” he repeated emphatically “I have known this fact for many months; and you would have heard from me earlier, but for the fact of certain other relatives, with whom I preferred to have nothing in common. But circumstances have determined me to speak openly to you on the subject. My wife has been taken from me very suddenly.” A slight expression of sorrow crossed the speaker’s face. “Her dying request was that I would acknowledge my granddaughter. The dying wish of a good wife is not to be disregarded—even though my own inclinations may point in an opposite direction. I have come to carry out her will—to acknowledge Joan as my granddaughter. But I acknowledge also your right over her. I have no wish to steal your adopted child from you, after all these years.”

There was again no immediate response. George’s impassive manner had a somewhat irritating effect on the old gentleman.

“Sir, are you acquainted with these other relatives of Joan Brooke?” he demanded, raising his voice. “Are you aware that Cairns, the farmer, is her grandfather also—her other grandparent? Are you aware that her mother, Marian Brooke, my unhappy son’s widow, is now—now!—at Cairns farm, doubtless awaiting an opportunity to assert her rights? Yes, Joan’s mother, Mr. Rutherford! Joan’s mother, and Cairns’ daughter.”

He had produced impression enough at last. A strangely sunken, hollow look crept into George Rutherford’s face, and his brows drew together with an expression of bewilderment and pain. “Joan’s mother!” George repeated. “Joan’s mother! My Joan—my poor little girl!”

“Marian Brooke, the daughter of old Cairns, married my son Hubert,” said Mr. Brooke—“my only son! I leave you to judge what my feelings were. From that time my son was dead to me. I never exchanged a word with his wife, nor have I with his widow. Until lately I did not know her to be still alive. Until last autumn I never set eyes upon Hubert’s daughter.”

“Joan’s mother!” repeated George in a low, suffering voice. He seemed able to say nothing else.

“Joan’s mother has been for months within three miles of you, Mr. Rutherford. Why she has not yet spoken I cannot determine. Doubtless she has her own reasons. But I have fulfilled my duty in giving you warning; and I have also acknowledged my granddaughter, according to my wife’s dying request. I shall wish to see her one day. For the rest, I have only to thank you sincerely for your kindness to her through many years. Possibly, now that you are acquainted with her connections, you may be disposed to regret—”

George Rutherford so plainly neither heard nor heeded, that the old gentleman came to an abrupt pause; and Dulcibel suddenly appeared, in a state of some excitement.

“George dear, I hope you are all right. I could not possibly get away before. Who is this? You don’t mean to say—oh, you ought not to have had a visitor! It is quite wrong. I don’t know what Joan will say. George, you are looking quite ill again. I am sure it has been too much for your head.”

“If you will excuse me, madam—” began Mr. Brooke apologetically.

“How did you come here?” asked Dulcibel, turning upon him in anger and alarm, for the change in her husband’s look terrified her. “The servants had no business to bring you. My husband sees almost nobody yet.”

“Madam, I came alone. No one but myself is to blame. I am Joan Brooke’s grandfather.”

“I don’t care whose grandfather you are; you had no right to come here!” cried impetuous Dulcibel. “Please leave us directly. I must get my husband indoors.”

Mr. Brooke would have apologized, but Dulcibel would not hear him; and he was turning away in dudgeon, when Joan appeared, glowing with her walk.

“Leo is just behind,” she began, “and Nessie—”

One glance at Mr. Brooke, another at George Rutherford, and all light and color died out of Joan’s face. She brushed past the retreating caller, and rushed to her father’s side.

“Father, father dear, what has happened? Are you ill? What is it?”

George spoke faintly and with difficulty.

“I should like to go indoors, my darling. Leo will help me. I cannot talk—I have such pain and confusion.”

“Father, did that old man say anything to bring it on?” Joan asked in an undertone of smothered passion, dropping on her knees, and making him lean against her.

“Hush, hush, Joan! He is your grandfather.”

Joan shuddered, and clung closer.

“My darling, that is not all; but I cannot say more now. I cannot think. Only it is God’s will—God’s will for us. The worst is his will.”

“I don’t believe a word about that old man being your grandfather, Joan,” said Dulcibel, half crying. “It is all nonsense; I believe he is an old impostor.”

“Mother, don’t talk about it, please,” entreated Joan. “Father must not say another word.”

Then Leo came, and with his help George managed to walk to the house; but he had no sooner reached his room than unconsciousness set in. One of the worst head attacks that he had had since the autumn followed, and some symptoms were severe enough to cause very serious alarm.

During the full week the slightest mental exertion was absolutely forbidden, if not indeed absolutely impossible; and Joan had to wait longer still for a full detail of what had passed. Meantime, no more was seen of Mr. Brooke.