Chapter XXVI: Should She Give Her Up?

ALL these months Marian Brooke had lived quietly at the farm, making no effort to see her daughter.

Hardly “making no effort,” for she did occasionally allow herself one bitter-sweet pleasure. Now and then she would find her way to Woodleigh Church, and feast her eyes upon the dark-eyed girl in the squire’s pew. But on such occasions Marian found her own devotions to be almost pushed out of existence. She could see nothing, remember nothing, think of nothing, except Joan.

So she usually attended the little hamlet church which lay nearest to Cairns farm. It was only when the mother-thirst grew, through long starvation, to an intolerable pitch, that she indulged herself in one of these stolen Sunday studies of Joan. After all, there was more of pain than of satisfaction in such study.

For as time went on she felt only more and mom vividly that the giving away of her child had indeed been final—that she must yield up all hope of ever winning back the love of Joan in this life.

“You will never see or hear anything of me again from this day,” Marian had written to Mr. Rutherford, under the expectation of speedy death. She had no distinct recollection now of the actual phrases employed in her letter, but was disposed to magnify them into more positive promises than they really were.

Marian could not count herself free to make herself known to Joan without Mr. Rutherford’s consent. She believed that she had not promised that she would never divulge her name and relationship; but even on this point she had doubts. The letter had been hurriedly written, under strong excitement.

Had George Rutherford been in his usual health, Marian must have gone to him—must have told all—must have appealed to his pity and his judgment. But his present condition precluded this. She had heard that any severe shock or great trouble might tell upon him fatally; and she dared not come forward. His great love for her child Joan was known through all the neighborhood: her child—not his! That fact was not known.

So through, the past winter and spring there had been nothing for her but to wait; and as she waited, much of peace came back to Marian’s spirit.

Old Mr. Cairns began more and more to appreciate the presence of his long-lost elder daughter; and Jervis was happier than for many long years before.

The one family fret and trial was Hannah’s uncomfortable rasping temper. But this mattered less to Jervis now he had Marian’s companionship, and Marian herself did not seem to be easily ruffled. She was a good deal changed in that respect since early girlhood.

“Something’s wrong with Betsy,” Hannah announced as they rose from early dinner.

“Wrong—how?” inquired Jervis.

“I don’t know. She’s been sick all the morning, and she’s gone to bed, leaving everything on my hands—as if I hadn’t enough to do already—and Saturday too!”

“The poor thing can’t help being ill, I suppose,” said Jervis.

“Nobody said she could,” retorted Hannah. “Other folks can help being lazy, though.”

The cut at her sister was obvious; but Marian only asked, with a half-smile—

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Oh, I never count on you for anything!” Hannah responded, with an indignant whisk of her body towards the dresser. “You’ll be wanting to read your Bible all the afternoon, because of to-morrow’s Sunday-school. That’s about all you’re good for! I’ve got the bread to make, and a pie for to-morrow, and father wants a lot of bread-and-butter and tea taken out to the mowers in the front meadow—I can’t see on earth why! And Betsy wants looking after too. She’ll have to see to herself, for I’ve no time. And there’s no end of sheets to darn.”

“Well, I can darn the sheets and see to Betsy,” said Marian. “If you like, I’ll make the pie.”

“I dare say!” Hannah answered ungratefully, “I know what your pies are like.”

Marian allowed the question to drop. Discussion with Hannah was at all times useless. When once she had made an assertion, however recklessly, she would cling to it afterwards with a bull-dog tenacity. Marian had a light hand for pastry, but one batch of pies had proved a failure in the course of the winter; and Hannah never forgot it.

The old farmer vanished, and his son also. Marian helped to clear away the dinner-things; ran upstairs to attend to the prostrate Betsy; then settled herself near the window of the large kitchen for a prolonged darning of sheets. About an hour passed thus uninterruptedly. Hannah usually chose to perform bread-making in the airy back kitchen, so Marian was left to herself. She worked steadily for an hour, sometimes singing softly; and then pausing for a dreamy gaze out of the window, in the midst of which her sister entered.

“That’s the way to get work done!” Hannah remarked with a grim derisiveness.

“I am not wasting time, Hannah,” said Marian. “It’s only—”

“Oh, you’re not, ain’t you?” interrupted Hannah.

“No. My hand is tired, and I’m taking ten minutes’ rest. Two sheets are done.”

“Well, there’s plenty more that wants doing,” said Hannah.

Exit Hannah, and enter Jervis in her stead. His flushed face and audible breathing told their own tale.

“Jervis, you haven’t been in the hay-field?” said Marian.

“Yes. It wasn’t wise. Never mind.”

Jervis sat down, leaning forward, and not speaking. Marian gave him a glance or two of sympathy, but kept silence until he seemed more comfortable.

“I wish you could get rid of that tiresome asthma,” she said.

“Not likely. It seems tied to me—most likely for life,” Jervis answered cheerfully. “There, I’m better now. I’d no business to go near the hay.”

“Farming doesn’t suit you,” said Marian.

“I’d give it up gladly, and do anything else, if father was willing. But I don’t like to go against him now, after all the trouble he has had. And so long as he can see to everything it doesn’t much matter that I can’t. I don’t know how things will be by-and-by.”

“We haven’t got to settle now for by-and-by,” Marian observed placidly.

She darned on for a while, saying no more, and too much wrapped up in her own thoughts to be conscious of her brother’s steady observation.

“Polly, are you thinking about your child?” he asked.

Marian started; his words brought her back so suddenly to a forgotten present.

“Yes—” and she sighed—“I was seeing her dear little face just then as clear as daylight, just like what she was when I gave her away.”

“You’ve never told me yet who you gave her to.”

“No,” Marian answered.

“And you’d rather not? You can’t trust me? Sometimes I do think a second ought to know it beside yourself. Suppose you should be ill—too ill to speak—and should want your child sent for?”

“I’ve thought of that. But I don’t see my way to telling yet. Yes, I trust you—more than anybody else in the world. It’s myself I can’t trust. Just now I’m feeling stronger and not so troubled; but how can I tell that it’ll last? And if your persuadings should pull the same way as my own heart, I think it would be too much for me.”

“And you don’t think it would be right to try to get your child back?”

“No, I don’t—I can’t; I wish I could. She’s in a happy home, and doesn’t want me. And they that have kept her all these years have the right to her now. It wasn’t as if I’d given them any choice. I threw my child into their arms, so to speak, and took myself off, and they couldn’t give her back to me, if they wished. Yes, it was a mad thing to do—mad and foolish and wrong. Anybody else would have sent her off to the workhouse—anybody but one who is all kindness; and it was his kindness that I trusted. But I sometimes wish now that my trust had proved false; for if my child were poor and unhappy she’d be glad to welcome me—glad to see her own mother. She wouldn’t be glad now. And yet if he had cast her off, she might have been brought up in wicked ways. Sometimes I don’t know what to wish—what to think. I feel it was the maddest deed a mother ever ventured on, almost—a mother who loved her little one, as I loved Joan. Worry must have driven me pretty nearly out of my mind, before I could have done it.”

Jervis said “Yes” to this. “But you’ve looked happier of late,” he added kindly.

“I’m getting more used to waiting. It was dreadfully hard at first—hard to know I’d put my child away from me with my own hand, and mightn’t try to take her back. It’s been easier lately, or else I’ve grown stronger. There’s help for those who pray and trust; and if God lets us bear the punishment brought by our own doings, he’s willing to forgive. Yes; I think I must be stronger.”

A half-smile flickered round her mouth as she spoke.

“Things do seem to get better as one goes on. Sometimes earth grows less and hopes of heaven get brighter, and then troubles don’t matter so much. Perhaps my child will learn to love me yet—by-and-by. God knows how I thirst and pray for that! But it don’t do to snatch at what one wants before the right time.”

“No, my dear,” Jervis answered, in a grave voice.

The window looked out upon a large yard which opened by means of two heavy wooden doors upon a muddy lane. At the present moment nobody was in the yard, and the wooden doors were shut.

As Marian gazed dreamily, one of the doors began to stir in a slow and uncertain fashion, as if moved by unaccustomed fingers. It was pushed gradually open, and a girlish figure entered—a slender, well-dressed figure, stepping with a somewhat gingerly and reluctant air, as if not particularly gratified to be there.

Marian’s loosely folded hands became locked with a tight clasp, and her absent gaze changed into a fixed stare.

“Why, Polly, what’s the matter? Do you know that young lady?” asked her brother.

Marian showed no signs of having heard the question. She seemed almost to have lost consciousness of her whereabouts.

“I wonder who it is, and what she wants,” Jervis said again, just as Hannah came bustling into the kitchen, with tucked-up sleeves, pinned-up skirts, and floury hands. “She looks puzzled where to turn. Perhaps I’d better go—”

“Go where?” demanded Hannah shortly. “Somebody in the yard? Oh, I see! Why, it’s Mr. Rutherford’s daughter. What on earth does she want here, I should like to know? We don’t supply the Hall with milk now—more shame that we don’t. I never did like that Mrs. Rutherford, coming and turning everything upside down, with her fussy ways, as soon as ever she was married. I’m not going to begin sending again now, after all these years, so she needn’t think it. Shouldn’t wonder if Miss Rutherford has come for that, and I shall just say no. Well, she is finding her way to the door at last. One would think she’d got no eyes. Polly’ll have to go and answer the bell, for Betsy’s upstairs.”

But Marian still remained seated in that strange trance, with fixed eyes and locked hands, as if seeing and hearing nothing.

“What on earth’s up with her now?” uttered the amazed Hannah.

“I don’t think she’s well,” said Jervis uneasily. “Polly, my dear—Polly,” and he grasped her shoulder gently, giving a slight shake. “Polly, wake up; are you asleep? That’s right—” as Marian rose.

“Will you answer the bell, or shall I? Come, my dear, we must be quick. Miss Rutherford is waiting.”

Marian resumed her seat.

“I can’t stand,” she said. “I think—I think I’m taken dizzy. My head’s all of a maze.” She looked up at her brother entreatingly. “You go, Jervis, please,” she whispered. “And let me have a word with her before she leaves.”

“Yes, to be sure, if she doesn’t mind,” replied Jervis cheerfully. “You’d like to ask all about Mr. Rutherford, wouldn’t you?”