Chapter XIII: Under the Yoke

_Same Evening, later._

OH, I wish Juliet were here! If only Juliet were here! How "shall" we manage?

I was called off from my writing by Addie. The child seemed scared, and she said I must go to Mother. And I ran downstairs, and found Mother looking like a ghost, begging and imploring my father not to go out for a walk in the dark and wet. It was just dark, and pouring with rain still, and very cold. He seemed as if he could not keep quiet or settle down to anything. He was not unkind to Mother, only persistent.

But when I tried to help her, and said: "O no, father; of course you must not go out. You must stay and tell us all about your voyage."—He "did" speak to me in such a tone! I have never been spoken to in such a way before.

I felt myself turn perfectly scarlet. And Mother put her hand on his arm, and said,—"O don't, dear!"

And then he ordered me off again,—exactly as he might have ordered a dog out of his way.

Of course I could not stand that. I gave Mother a look, and just walked straight out of the room into the next. My being there was no good. And after a minute, I heard the front door bang, and Mother came into the room where I was, and sat down, and burst into such an agony of crying,—as if her heart were almost broken. I never saw anything like it before!

And I did not know what to do, or what to say. I was angry at the way he had treated me; and I could not tell how to comfort her. If Juliet had been here, she would have known what to do; for somehow Juliet is never at a loss. I have never wanted Juliet so much in all my life before!

"Mother, what does it mean?" I asked at length. "Is he always like this? What makes him so angry?"

"Oh, no, no!" she gasped. "Oh, never! My poor dear! Never like this before!"

"But what does it mean? If he is going to say such things to me—"

Mother tried hard to smother her tears.

"Rhoda—listen—" she said in a very low voice, as if she could hardly get out the words, "listen! He cannot help it. It is not his fault. He does not know. It is illness. And we have to bear patiently, very very patiently! He isn't the least aware. Like this!—Oh, never—always the kindest and sweetest temper. But he is ill—he cannot help it!"

"Will he always be so?" I felt awfully dismayed.

"I hope not; I trust not." And she sobbed again. "Poor dear! So changed; so unlike himself."

"But what are we to do? How are we to manage?"

Mother sat up with such a brave smile.

"We shall manage," she said. "Things will be better in a day or two, when he is more at home, and when he has got over the fatigue of his journey. It seems so to have upset him, to get to Alverton, and to find none of us there. I must give up all my time to him now, until he is stronger. The great matter is to keep him quiet and soothed, to avoid whatever might excite him, or irritate him. So the doctors said out there."

"I really don't see that anything I said ought to have irritated him."

"Not if he were in good health!"

"But people are not always like that, Mother, when they are out of health."

Mother looked anxiously at me. "No," she said. "It depends on the kind of ill-health. It is not a question of ordinary ill-health. I do not think you quite understand yet."

"I don't think I do!" I said, shortly enough.

Mother got up and shut the door, as if she were afraid of being overheard. Then she began to explain. She said she had been fearing something of this kind; only things seem to be even worse than she had feared. She would not say anything to me earlier, because she so hoped that he might arrive a great deal better for the voyage. He has been very unlike himself for a long while; and she has noticed a difference in his letters, as well as hearing from friends about him. He has been for months so restless and nervous and irritable.

That would be nothing, Mother said, in a fidgety bad-tempered person, because it would be only natural. But in any one so sweet-tempered and placid as my father has always been, it is not natural; and everybody who knows him well has felt uneasy.

The doctors believe that he must have had something of a sunstroke, when he was travelling alone, just after my mother left him to come home. He was ill, and he only saw a very second-rate "up-country" doctor, and he had nobody to take care of him. And he has never been really well since, though for a long while Mother had not the least idea of how things were.

Mother says sunstroke often does leave mischief behind, especially in a case like this, when proper care has not been taken, and hard work has been begun again too soon. Whether it really is just the effect of a neglected sunstroke, or whether it is a breakdown from long overwork, nobody is quite sure. Only he is ordered to have perfect rest, and no worries, and no over-fatigue, and nothing to excite or irritate him. Mother repeated this two or three times, as if she thought I might be the one to excite him. But I am sure I do not know why I should. Of course, now I know that it is a matter of illness, that makes all the difference; and I intend to bear with his ways patiently.

Still, whatever is the cause, it does seem rather dreadful. I thought there would be a little peace at last; and this looks like anything but peace.

If Juliet were with us, I should not have such a horrid feeling of nobody to turn to, when things go wrong. I mean if mother wants help.

My father did not come home for a good two hours. Then he was much less excited, and soaked through, and awfully tired. And Mother has been in such a state of anxiety, looking out for him. If this sort of thing goes on, she will soon breakdown herself; and then what "shall" I do?

_September 23rd, Monday._

In a kind of way, my father has settled down and is more quiet than he was on the first evening. But he is still fearfully restless and excitable. The least thing makes him angry; and he never can be happy for one single minute when he is indoors, unless Mother is by his side. He does not care to have me; it is always Mother that he wants. He goes out for long long walks alone, and will not have anybody with him;—at least, I suppose he would have Mother, if she could walk any distance, which she cannot. But since he cannot have her, he goes alone.

Mother does as she said she meant to do; she just devotes herself to him. How she stands it, I cannot imagine, for she has not a moment's respite, except when he is out walking, and hardly even then; for if he is out of sight she seems to live in terror, lest something should happen to him before he gets back.

I have enough to do in looking after the twins, and the house; for my father is desperately particular, and he spies out in a moment if a single thing is forgotten, and is down upon me, ten times as sharply as ever the girls were. And if I say one word in self-defence, he is so angry that the whole household hears of it.

As for helping my mother with him, even if I had time, which I have not, I could not do it. He positively frightens me; and besides, I do not think he takes to me at all. It seems an odd thing to say of one's father, but he positively sometimes seems to have a dislike to me. It is not "my" fault. I have really done my best to take things patiently. He never shows the least sign of affection, and is so awfully vexed with every single thing that I do or don't do. Often I do not know how to bear it: and if it were not for Mother, I could not bear it much longer. But if I do anything to make him angry, Mother is the one to suffer: and I live in fear of her breaking down under all she has to do. And so I try, as hard as I can, not to vex him.

Sometimes he will play with the twins for a short time and look almost happy, but it never lasts. The restlessness is sure to come on again, in a few minutes; and only Mother can manage him then,—not always even she!

Yesterday I asked her if Juliet knew how things were. She said, "No, not entirely. Your father does not like his health to be discussed."

"If she knew, perhaps she would come!" I could not resist saying.

"To pay us a visit! Not so soon."

"To live with us, Mother."

Mother looked surprised at the idea. "O, no, never again! That is an understood thing. The girls always said that if once they left me after my return, and began a home with aunt Jessie, it would be a permanent arrangement. Juliet could not possibly throw her over now, merely for our convenience. All that is at an end."

"But Juliet is so fond of you. And if she knew that you wanted her—really—"

"She would not come. It is out of the question."

"Not even for a few weeks?"

"Some day, perhaps. Not now, certainly. And even if I would ask it, and if she were willing, your father would not consent."

"I thought he was so fond of Clarissa and Juliet."

"Very fond of them as nieces. If he had come home, and had found Juliet in the house, he would have looked upon her as one of us; and I dare say she could have done a good deal with him. But now he looks upon her as an outsider, and he shrinks from outsiders. Do you not see it for yourself?"

"I don't see why he should."

"There may be no particular reason why, but he does. I suppose he is conscious of not being fully himself—" Mother caught herself up in a kind of frightened way; "I mean—conscious of not being in his usual condition. He cannot control his moods, and he feels ill, and he does not like to be watched. If I wished ever so much to send now for Juliet, he would not let me."

"Don't you wish it?"

"For my own sake, yes. It would be the greatest possible comfort. But for other reasons, no."

"For what reasons?"

"After all that has passed, I could not." And she blushed faintly. "Could 'you,' Rhoda?"

"I don't know. I don't see how we are to manage."

"We must manage, and you must be very brave and patient, and help me."

There was not one word of blame to me, though all the time it is my fault that she has not Juliet with her now. It is all my fault, and she has to bear the punishment as well as I. That seems so unfair. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, and how I would give anything to undo the past. But somehow I could not say the words. I seemed to be tongue-tied.

How long can things go on like this?

All through these worries I keep thinking about those happy peaceful weeks at Wayatford. Such a contrast! And oh, how I long to hear something from somebody about them all, about especially—oh, I suppose I ought not to write what I was going to say!

That happy happy wonderful Thursday! Shall I ever spend such a day again in all my life?

Shall I ever see him, or hear of him again? And does he ever think of me, ever so much as remember that I exist? Oh, I think—I do think—

Well, I must not go on like this. What is the use?

_September 25th, Wednesday._

I have written a long letter to Millicent. I did not know how to wait any longer, feeling so cut off from them all. Will she write in answer? I have begged her to do so, and to tell me everything about "everybody!" But will she?

Now that I am away from Millicent, I know how really and truly fond of her I have grown. It seems so silly that I should ever have doubted it: or that I should have been so often vexed with her about such utterly foolish things. As if she were obliged to talk to me in just exactly the way that I wanted, and to tell me what she thought and felt! It was too absurd of me. I wish I could live those few weeks over again. Dear Millicent! If only "I" could go instead of my letter!

_October 8th, Tuesday._

A letter at last from Millicent! I do think she might have written sooner. I have been looking out for it, oh, so anxiously! And now it has come, it tells me nothing; that is to say, nothing that I particularly want to know. She goes on chit-chatting through four pages all about themselves, and uncle and aunt, and the Parish,—in fact, every single thing that I do not care to know, and not one word about what I long to hear. But I might have expected this beforehand.

_October 16th, Wednesday._

It seems as if I had been years and years in Bath, and it feels as if we had been living this sort of life for months and months.

I get utterly out of heart with it often. It is such endless work and worry, and yet nothing is ever right. Whatever I do, my father is never by any chance pleased. Mother says that is a part of his illness; yet he does not seem precisely "ill," only so fidgety and restless. Besides he is not the same with Mother. He may and does speak sharply sometimes, even to her; but he is so affectionate, and never quite happy unless she is by his side, while to me he is not affectionate. It seems as if the very sight of my face worried him.

If it were not for my mother,—but she is getting so thin and pale; yet she never gives in, never complains. She just slaves for him. And he never sees if she is not well. He is perfectly absorbed in himself; at least, he seems to be so.

I suppose he is just a little better in health lately in some ways, not so easily tired as when he first came home. But Mother does not think him better, and certainly he is quite as irritable. Things are all but unbearable on some days.

Yesterday I told Mother so, when he had flown out at me about nothing at all. And she said,—

"But, dear Rhoda, things have to be borne."

"I'm pretty well at the end of my patience," I said. "It is perfectly miserable."

Mother sighed. "Yet you have your wish. The girls are not here."

"But if I had known 'this' was coming—"

"Yes; you would have acted differently. Only we never do know. You and I do not know now. The only thing is to do just that which God gives us to do,—not that which we ourselves would like best. And then there will not be self-reproaches, whatever may come."

Then my mother has seen that I do reproach myself.

"Of course one ought always to do one's duty," I said. "Everybody is always telling one that. I do not see that it makes things any easier. It is just the duty part which is so hard."

"Yes, if there is not love!" A curious soft look came into her eyes,—such tired eyes lately.

"I suppose I love him, of course, because he is my father. Only it is not as if I had always really known him."

"I did not mean love to him. I was thinking about that word duty? One has to remember one's duty, and to do it. But I think when the love to our dear Lord takes its right place, one does not dwell so much upon mere dry duty, as duty. It 'is' duty; but it looks so different—so much more beautiful and attractive—when it is just the doing whatever He wishes us to do. That cannot be so very hard when one really loves Him."

I did not know what to say, for I am quite sure I have not the sort of love she meant—not the sort of love which makes hard things easy. I want to do right, and I am sorry when I have done wrong, but it is in a different sort of way from that. I wish I cared more, and felt more, as Mother does. But I cannot make myself do it. How can I?

It seems to me now as if the only thing I really care for is to hear something more from Wayatford. Not about Millicent, or about my uncle and aunt, but about—

Shall I ever hear anything again?

And of course I care also about saving my mother trouble. I am so terribly afraid of her breaking down, afraid for her sake, and also for the sake of everybody. What should we do?

Life seems awfully hard to live just now. Aunt Marian was right enough. Things are not easier than they were. They are infinitely harder. When I look back to those months, and to getting so vexed with the girls, it does look to me now as if I had made a very great fuss about nothing. If I had guessed what was coming, I would—oh, I would have borne or done anything, to have kept Juliet with us. If she were here, she would be able to manage my father, and to have everything different.

I can do nothing with him. He will often hardly let me say a word. Mother says my manner is irritating, because I am always ready to argue. But how can I help it? One must defend oneself sometimes! He is so fearfully unjust to me,—often I do not know how to endure it.