Chapter XIX: About the Future

JOAN did not go upstairs to see Dulcibel. Nessie and Leonard would fain have persuaded her, but entreaties were thrown away. Joan seemed to be in the overmastering grasp of one desire—to get away from the Hall and back to George Rutherford with all possible expedition.

“No, no, no—not to-day,” she said impatiently, when Leo suggested Dulcibel’s disappointment. “Mother will not really care; and I can’t—I can’t. I might come across that woman again. Some other time I can see mother—not now—not to-day. Do let me go.”

She was so tremulous and unlike herself that Leo ventured on no further opposition. Once more in the open carriage, with only the cloudless sky overhead, a sigh of relief escaped Joan. “Dear, dear father!” Leonard heard her murmur; and the black eyes were soft with unshed tears.

“I am afraid our little outing has not done you as much good as I had hoped it would,” said Leo kindly.

“It doesn’t matter! I shall be all right now; and I don’t mean to leave father again. Leo the man is going the longer way round. Tell him not, please.”

“No; I want time for a few words with you.”

“About father—yes, you were going to tell me—I have not forgotten that,” she said.

“And about Marian, Joan. Would you mind telling me what she said or did that upset you so much?”

“She was rude,” Joan answered, a crimson flush mounting in her pale cheeks. “I could not allow that, of course; and when I spoke to her she cried, and seemed quite absurd. It was very foolish of me to care; but I am always so inclined to fancy that things mean more than they really do. I would rather not talk about it now, if you don’t mind. I would rather try to forget.”

“I think I ought to know all,” said Leonard. “There is the question whether she should be allowed still to wait on your mother?”

“You must settle that; I don’t know anything about it,” said Joan dejectedly. “Only I can’t see her again. If I go to see mother, Marian will have to be out of the way. I should not like to meet her a second time. I don’t think she meant any harm, only she was so queer and excited; and when she was rude it made me angry.”

“Marian told me she had behaved with what Miss Brooke counted too much freedom,” said Leo.

“What I counted!” Joan turned towards Leo, with a flash of her eyes. “She called me by my name—‘Joan’ outright, and said ‘dear’ and ‘darling.’ Was that only what I counted freedom? The impertinence of the woman!”

Joan’s drawn brows were for a moment furious, and Leo seemed startled.

“Not really?” he said.

“Yes—really and truly. You don’t think I am making up?”

“No, no; but it is extraordinary,” remarked Leo. “She has always been so singularly quiet and respectful in manner! I cannot understand the sudden change, except—Yes, she spoke of your likeness to some one.”

“Everybody is like everybody. I hate likenesses, and I am always being bothered about them,” said Joan pettishly. “I wish I had not told you so much. Please don’t tell mother, or I shall never hear the end of it. I don’t want to say another word about Marian’s absurdities. You promised to tell me exactly what the doctors think of father, and I am sure I have waited long enough.”

Leo said “Yes” thoughtfully.

“Go on. ‘Yes’?” said Joan. “Make haste, please.”

“It is not easy to know exactly what to say,” Leo answered. “Their opinion at the last consultation was not very favorable.”

She forced herself to speak composedly.

“Not favorable—how?”

“As to entire recovery. The injury to the head seems to be of a more serious nature than was at first thought. We all hoped that the long unconsciousness was due, at least in a measure, to the shock of the accident and the burns, and that when he once began to rally the mind would be clear. But it is not so.”

“He is so weak,” murmured Joan.

“Still it is something beyond mere weakness. Have you not noticed?”

Joan’s face was turned away, and Leo kept silence. She looked round at length with a sudden impatience and distress.

“Go on—oh, go on!” she said. “It is no use putting off. The worst can’t be worse than I often think. You have promised to tell me all—everything—not to hide a single word. I want to know the very worst;” and she clenched one hand over the carriage door. “Quick, please. It is dreadful having to wait like this.”

But Leo was unable to go on. Strong man that he was, not easily overcome at any time, the sight of that pleading girl face, with its quivering lips and dark, troubled eyes, proved too much even for him. His own bronzed cheeks lost coloring with the intensity of pity within—not pity alone, though that at the moment was the main feeling; for George Rutherford was very dear to his heart—and his frank, brown eyes were absolutely full of tears. When he would have answered, his voice failed.

“Leo, I am so sorry.” Joan spoke suddenly in a soft, low tone, more changed in one instant than he would have thought possible. “I am so very sorry. I forgot that dear father is your father as well as mine—as much, I suppose; I don’t know—it seems to me always that nobody can love him as I do. But that must be absurd. I’m afraid I have been selfish, thinking only of my own part in the trouble. But of course it is your trouble too. Would you rather not tell me any more? I’ll try to bear on a little longer.”

Leo was already recovering himself.

“No, no,” he said, huskily; “you have a right to know all.” They were approaching the hotel, and he leant forward to say to the driver—“Go straight on till I tell you to turn.”

“I did not mean to be unkind,” Joan repeated then wistfully. “I quite forgot, Leo.”

Leonard made no attempt to explain the nature of his own feelings. He said only—“Any questions you like.”

“Is there any hope that father will ever—ever be quite the same again—quite the same that he has been?”

“I am afraid—very little hope.”

“Will he recover, Leo?”

A pause, and then—

“We cannot be sure yet. He does not get on as he should. Still on the whole—”

“And if he does—if—if—Leo, I don’t know how to get it out!” cried Joan, with extreme bitterness. “Will—will there—will there be a change in him always? Will this go on? Don’t you understand? Will he—will he—his dear, dear mind—Oh, can’t you answer?”

“Dear Joan, that is the fear,” Leo answered very low.

Joan had no more to say. She looked like one crushed.

“I don’t mean that we can speak with any certainty yet, but that is the fear,” repeated Leo.

“Can nothing be done—nothing?” asked Joan, despairingly.

Leo’s answer was in two words only.

“Yes—prayer.”

“Prayer doesn’t always bring the thing one wants,” murmured Joan.

“It—or something better.”

“There can’t be anything better. There could not be. Oh, you don’t know what he is!” half-sobbed Joan. “There is nobody like him in all the world. Please tell the man to turn. I want to go back to father.”

Leo obeyed, and she sat leaning forward, with a look of eager longing and sorrow.

“Remember, Joan, things are not hopeless,” he said.

Joan was silent till they had almost reached the hotel. Then she said, with downcast eyes—“Thank you very much. You have been very good to me. And I think it is just a little comfort to know how much you feel it all too. Leo, please do pray that father may soon be perfectly well.”

Leo said only—“Yes.”

“I want you to pray hard—hard,” she reiterated. “I know there is the sort of prayer that must bring an answer. Couldn’t you pray that kind of prayer for father? I would if I knew how; but all seems stony and cold. If only I had asked father when I could! Nobody else can help me. And my prayers wouldn’t bring an answer; but perhaps yours, will.”

“Why not yours, Joan?”

“Because I love father more than Christ,” she answered very low. “Father is everything to me. But I want other people to pray—hard—hard!”

The hotel was reached, and no more could be said. Leo thought of the “effectual fervent prayer” which “availeth much.” But also he knew that Joan was leaving out of sight the one great condition on which all answers to prayer must hang, the—“if it be according to his will.” No petition which runs counter to God can be ever that kind of prayer which does avail much and which brings a full reply.