Chapter XXIX: His Child

THE drowsiness which had come on did not pass off quickly. When Mr. Forest called, he said little at first beyond an echo of Leo’s “I do not like it.” But he paid a second call that same evening, and was at the house again in the early morning. By that time he was able to speak with sorrowful decisiveness. A marked change for the worse had taken place.

George Rutherford was not unconscious, as in former attacks. He only seemed very weary, and indisposed to talk. Most of the morning he lay quietly, with closed eyes, noticing nothing that went on around him. It was singular how every trace of anxiety and distress had passed from his face, leaving only a complete repose. Sometimes a dim, calm smile gleamed slowly, like an irradiation from the other world.

After midday the drowsiness lessened and a certain restlessness took possession of him. He seemed to those around to be wandering, as he murmured broken half-sentences about “the valley,” and “the bridge,” and “hills round about.”

“The valley of the shadow of death,” Leo said, with lowest possible utterance to Joan. Mr. Forest still spoke of hope, but Leo could see none; and it seemed to him that Joan ought to understand the blow which was in all probability coming upon her.

“No, no, no,” Joan answered hurriedly and with anger. “No, no—not that, but the valley in Wales!” She turned to the bed, and said fondly, “Yes, father dear—that was where you found your little Joan, was it not?”

He evidently understood, and looked up, smiling, his hand clasping hers.

“My comfort! My child!” he said tenderly.

“Dear, dear father!” burst passionately from Joan’s lips.

“Hush, don’t agitate him,” Leo whispered. But George only smiled again, seeming rather to be roused than agitated.

The thought of the valley haunted him for a while, mingled with recollections of the anxiety which had weighed upon him recently.

“The bridge has to be crossed,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to his wife. “Yes—come, my Dulcie, no need to fear. The Master’s hand is strong enough. ‘O thou of little faith!’... Sometimes over a difficult way—and flesh and flesh and heart may fail.... But he is our portion, for ever and ever! So foolish ever to fear!... And all will be well—as he wills. No need to choose. He has cared for the child. He will never forsake—never fail her.... My little Joan, I have loved her very tenderly.... But if the call has come—Father, thy will, not mine.... Yes—as thou willest.... A hard bridge to pass over—but as thou wilt.”

Joan found it difficult to restrain herself, listening to him.

A little later he was uttering other words, connected in his mind, with memories of the fair Welsh valley:—

“Come thou must, and we must die,
Jesus, Saviour, stand thou by!”

No more than this, but over and over again the prayer came solemnly—

“‘Jesus, Saviour stand thou by!’”

“He is not far-away,” Leo said quietly.

“No, my dear Leo—very near—in death and in life—always near,” was the reply, with calm emphasis.

Nessie, helplessly sobbing, had left the room, and Dulcibel at length could bear up no longer. But Joan showed no signs of breaking down. Pale as wax, she remained close beside her father, watching intensely every movement, anticipating every need.

Drowsiness again usurped sway over him, and George seemed passing into a heavy sleep. Would he ever wake from it again? Leo thought not. But by Joan’s wish an urgent messenger was sent again for the doctor, though not two hours had elapsed since his last call; and he came at once.

Almost immediately after Mr. Forest’s arrival, some one desired to speak to Leo outside the room. A few whispered words were exchanged in the passage, and when Leo reappeared, it was to say to Joan in an undertone—

“Mrs. Brooke wishes to see you.”

Joan shook her head.

“She is downstairs, and will not be denied.” Leo scarcely breathed the utterance audibly, fearing to rouse George, whose calm face showed no sign of consciousness. “Would it not be best for one minute?”

Again Joan shook her head.

Leo hardly knew whether to press the matter further.

“Joan, it is something about your interview—something that she wishes to unsay or undo.”

No response came to this. Joan simply turned her head aside, with an air of resolute refusal. A slight silence followed, broken by George Rutherford. He had not seemed to hear what passed, but now his eyes opened, looking towards Joan, and the faint voice uttered the words—

“Marian Brooke?”

Leo only said, “Yes,” gently, and Joan gave him a most reproachful glance.

George spoke distinctly, “I should like to see Marian Brooke.”

“Father dear, don’t trouble yourself about her; please don’t!” entreated Joan. “Everything will come right by-and-by—indeed it will.”

“Yes, my darling,” and George smiled at her. But again he said, “I should like to see Marian Brooke.”

“I think it might be as well,” Mr. Forest observed, after a very brief low consultation with Leo.

“Oh don’t;” Joan said, with imploring voice and eyes.

Her wish was not regarded. George Rutherford seemed roused and expectant, to a degree which no one would have thought possible ten minutes earlier.

“Bring Marian Brooke here!” he reiterated, and Leo went.

Dulcibel, with reddened eyes and sobbing breath, now came back into the room, taking up her station on the other side of her husband from that occupied by Joan. Dulcibel believed him to be dying, as did Leo. Then Marian entered slowly, and stood at the foot of the bed.

She looked very worn and haggard and sad, but the gray eyes were full of a nameless peace, something like that which rested upon the countenance of George Rutherford.

He had not seen her since her bright and pretty girlhood. It would not have been surprising if he had failed to detect any likeness. But unexpectedly he held out his hand, and said in his old kind manner—

“Why, Polly Cairns!”

Marian took the wasted hand, and burst into tears.

“No—I am forgetting. Not Polly Cairns now—but—” George hesitated.

“Marian Brooke, sir,” she answered.

“Yes, true. My Joan’s mother.”

A troubled look came over George’s face. He held out his hand again, took Joan’s, and placed in Marian’s.

That was the crucial moment, and none watched with more intense anxiety than Mr. Forest. He was resting his last faint hope of George Rutherford’s life upon this interview.

Joan visibly shuddered, and George sighed. But Marian lifted the little cold hand to her lips, kissed it fervently, and gave it back to George.

“No, sir,” she said, very distinctly. “There mustn’t be any mistake about that matter, please. Joan is your child now—now and always. I gave her up to you, and I can’t take her back.”

A strange look came over George Rutherford’s face—a look of doubt, of relief, of awakening, of renewed life. His eyes brightened and his voice grew stronger.

“You do not wish—” he said.

“It is not a matter of wishing, sir,” she answered, with resolute calmness. “Joan can’t be mine, as she would have been if I hadn’t given her up. If I had her with me ever so much, that couldn’t make her mine. Her heart is yours, and I couldn’t be so cruel as to take her from you—even if I had the right, which I haven’t. You’ve been a true father to Joan, and I do thank you. And she is yours now—yours for always. I pray God he may spare you both long to one another. I’ll ask to see her now and then, and may be one day she’ll learn to love me a little. That’s all I can hope for now, and I’ve none but myself to blame that things are as they are. I’ve no fit home to offer Joan, and I couldn’t make her happy. I’ll only ask to see her once in a while.”

“Not to have her always?” murmured George.

“No, sir.” said Marian firmly. “If you made me the offer now to take her back altogether, I wouldn’t accept the offer, knowing it isn’t really your wish to part with her. It would be only another wrong to you both, and another sin on my part; and I’ve enough on my conscience already. No, sir; Joan is yours.”

George could not speak. Tears filled his eyes, and in his utter weakness a sob broke from him. Then his arm was round Joan, and her dark head lay against his tawny beard, just as on that long-past day when he had first taken the little forsaken one into his loving heart.

“My own little girl,” he whispered.

“You’ll get well now, father,” she said.

At a sign from the doctor Marian passed out of the room, Leo saying, as she went—

“Wait in the dining-room, till one of us can come to you.”

Marian obeyed. She had done her utmost, and something of a reaction followed. Not reaction in the way of resolution, but of strength. None saw her in the next half hour of grief and loneliness, and perhaps it was well. She had a full hour in which to recover herself.

Then a quick step approached, and Joan herself opened the door. Marian had not expected this.

Joan came close, took both her hands, and looked into her face with eyes no longer defiant, only full of soft gratitude.

“Mother!” Joan said.

“My dear!” faltered Marian.

“He has dropped asleep—such a sound, quiet sleep,” said Joan. “And Mr. Forest thinks he will be better when he wakes. Mr. Forest thinks the worst is over now. And he says you will have saved his life! I can never, never thank you enough! Mother, I shall always love you for this!”

Joan’s lips were pressed against Marian’s cheeks.

“Oh, my dear, it’s too much—too much!” sobbed Marian. “I didn’t think I was to have such comfort. It’s more than I deserve.”

* * * * * * *

The worst was over at last; not only the worst of this one attack, but the worst of George Rutherford’s long ill-health. The tide had reached its lowest ebb, and steady improvement began to set in.

Day by day strength came back to body and mind, as it had never yet come back since the railway accident which made an invalid of the strong and vigorous man.

“I think you have taken out a new lease of life,” Mr. Forest said one day. “We shall soon have you almost your old self again, Mr. Rutherford, thank God!”

“Yes, thank God!” echoed George.

“But you must get away for a change soon. Where will you go? Scotland?”

“Or Wales,” said George.

“What—your favorite valley? No, not this summer. Some other year, perhaps. I should like a fresh scene for you now.”

George made no objection, and Dulcibel fully concurred in Dr. Forest’s decision. Two days later Joan asked Leo—

“Are you going to Scotland with us?”

“I am not sure—yet,” said Leo.

“We don’t start for a fortnight, so you need not make up your mind at once,” said Joan carelessly. For a sudden change of expression in Leo’s face made her regret having put the question.

“What do you wish about it yourself, Joan?”

“I? Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t make very much difference either way,” said Joan, “except that of course we all like to have you—especially father.”

Leo spoke rather coldly, after a pause—

“Joan, do you care for any one in the world except uncle?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Joan answered rather hurriedly. “What an odd question. I love mother and Nessie, and I am trying to care for my other mother as I ought; she is so good and self-denying. And my uncle Jervis is really nice, too. Of course, I don’t love anybody else in the world as I love father.”

“And I suppose you never will,” said Leo.

“Never,” Joan answered decidedly. “Oh no, never! If I didn’t know that before his illness, I know it now.”

“But, Joan, after all, that is all nonsense,” Leo asserted. “Girls often say such things, and it means nothing.”

“It means a great deal with me,” said Joan. “I will never leave father, Leo, for anybody. After all that I owe to him, how could I? Even if I could wish it, I could not do it. And I never shall have such a wish—never. I love him much too dearly.”

“That is mere infatuation,” Leo declared. “Daughters leave their own fathers to be married;—every day it happens.”

“Yes, their own fathers! But this is different,” replied Joan. “If father were my own father, things would have come to me as a right which are only a gift. That would make all the difference. Nessie will marry some day, and then father and mother will need me all the more to take care of them.”

Leo did not seem convinced. He began to say something in a low, agitated voice, and Joan only caught two or three words. She would not hear more.

“No, Leo, no! Please stop,” she cried. “Oh, don’t go on! Don’t say it, and make everything uncomfortable. That can never be—never. I can never leave father. My work in life must be to look after father. He will never be strong, as he used to be, and he does depend on me so. And though I like you very much—very much indeed—it isn’t that. It couldn’t be. Father is always first with me, and he always will be. And even if I could feel just exactly as you wish, still the thing could not possibly be. You know how you feel about my relations at the farm.”

“But out in India, Joan!” entreated Leo.

“You won’t spend your whole life in India, and I am not going to cast off my relations. Nothing of that sort can ever be. I am only sorry you did not keep from saying a word. We will forget about it as fast as possible. You are my brother, and that is all. The best thing you can do is to fall in love with dear good little Nessie. But please don’t think about me any more, and don’t say one word to father. My path in life is quite plainly cut out for me. I will never leave dear father, by my own choice.”