Chapter XX: Hall and Farm

WINTER had fairly set in at last, with what, in the uncertain English climate, they call “unusual severity.”

All around Cairns farm a coating of snow lay over the fields, whitening hedges and outhouse roofs, and making tree-trunks look darker by contrast. The snow was not deep, but it was accompanied by a hard frost and an icy wind. Robins hovered tamely about the back door, on the lookout for crumbs; and human beings kept as much as possible under shelter.

Close to the great kitchen fire, well muffled-up in wraps, sat Jervis, coughing and half breathless with one of his asthmatic attacks. He was entirely a prisoner in such weather as this. Hannah stood beside the table, peeling potatoes with quick and capable hands. Her movements were always capable, however ungraceful. The deeply lined, austere face did not wear a pleasant expression; but that was by no means an uncommon event. Hannah scarcely knew how to smile.

“Well, I call it unnatural,” she was saying in a harsh voice. “After more than twenty years away—why, it was nearer twenty-five—to come home, and then, after just an hour’s talk, to leave her own flesh and blood, and go and take up with strangers. I call it unnatural. Never been near us again, from that day to this. Can’t be spared? Oh, I know better! I know what it is to be in a house full of servants, all of them with pretty near nothing to do. Polly don’t want to be spared. She likes everything that makes her important—always did. Spending her time and strength for them that have got no sort of claim on her, as if we were never in want of a helping hand here? I’m sure I don’t know which way to turn sometimes, among you all. I call it a shame. But Polly never had any heart to spare for her own folks.”

“Polly’s not wanting in heart, only she’s too easily led,” protested Jervis, coughing as he spoke. “There’s warmth of heart enough. She never can forget Mr. Rutherford’s kindness to William.”

“It’s a pity she forgets so soon any sort of kindness from them that belong to her,” sourly observed Hannah. “But that’s the way of the world. If a stranger says a soft word, everybody’s dying with gratitude; while a woman that slaves night and day for her own people don’t get so much as a civil ‘thank you’ for it all.”

“I suppose the one comes naturally as a right, and the other doesn’t,” said Jervis. “But perhaps if there were more soft words spoken in our homes there’d be more ‘thank you’s’ too.”

The remark struck home with greater keenness than he had intended. Hannah tossed her head, and went on peeling with disdainful vigor.

Then the kitchen-door, standing ajar, was pushed quietly open; and Marian herself; in bonnet and shawl, stood before them.

She looked cold and wan and sorrowful; and the light of peace seemed to have died out of her gray eyes, which were full only of a nameless pain. Hannah said—“Well, here you are at last!” and Jervis gazed anxiously at the haggard face. Marian uttered not a word. She came forward slowly, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace, and sighed.

“Why, Polly my dear,” Jervis said, with a kind of protest—“Polly!”

Marian lifted her eyes to his.

“I’m come home, Jervis,” she said.

“To stay, Polly?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do.” The words were spoken drearily.

“If I’d been you, I’d have come sooner, or I’d have stayed away altogether,” said Hannah.

“I couldn’t come sooner, for I was wanted; and I can’t stay longer now, for they’ve done with me,” Marian answered.

“Well, you can get out of my way, I hope, for you’re just in it, sitting there. I’ve got to go to and fro.”

Marian dejectedly rose, and went to another seat.

“Hannah, don’t worry the poor thing,” said Jervis very low.

“Worry! What—asking her to get out of my way! It wouldn’t be so very surprising if I asked her to help me, instead of dawdling there idle,” Hannah said sharply.

Marian looked up again at her brother’s troubled face.

“It doesn’t matter, Jervis,” she said, with a faint smile. “Nothing matters now. Hannah’s words can’t touch me.”

Hannah whirled away out of the kitchen, giving vent to her feelings in an inarticulate growl, and leaving the other two alone together.

“Something’s wrong, Polly,” her brother said.

“You’re not like yourself. What is it, my dear? Are you over-tired?”

“It’s not bodily tiredness,” she answered listlessly. “I’m a stronger woman than you’d count me. But I don’t seem to have any spirit left in me. I thought nothing could ever shake my new hope in God; and now that’s gone too. There’s nothing left.”

Jervis gazed pityingly at her, and after a slight pause she went on—

“They are taking Mr. Rutherford home to-day. He has been at the Cross Arms till now. And I found yesterday—it was said to me—Mr. Ackroyd thought I had better leave. There were reasons—and after all it’s my own fault. Mr. Ackroyd is Mr. Rutherford’s nephew, and pretty much like his own son—wonderfully like him too in face. He’s pretty well managing everything now. Miss Rutherford and all of them turn to him. He would have sent me back in a fly to-day, only I settled to walk.”

“And your box, my dear—the things we had to send to you.”

“They’ll be sent. I didn’t ask how. I promised Mr. Ackroyd I’d leave before they arrived. That was all he asked.”

“They?” Jervis seemed puzzled.

“Mr. Rutherford and—” a quiver passed over Marian’s face—“and—” But she did not seem able to say more.

“And—?” repeated Jervis.

“And—the young lady.”

“His daughter?”

“Not really,” murmured Marian. “He calls her his.”

“Ah, yes!” assented Jervis. “The handsome young lady who rides about with Mr. Rutherford. That’s it, I suppose. How is Mr. Rutherford getting on, Polly?”

“I haven’t seen him. He don’t come round as he ought. There’s a sort of weakness of mind. But I haven’t seen him once.”

“And you’ve been happy there, Polly—kindly treated?”

“Kindly? Yes—Mrs. Rutherford’s been as good as possible. She didn’t like me coming away to-day, but it was settled so. She’s better now, and don’t really need me—only she gets low and hysterical still. They haven’t been able to let her go to her husband yet; but she’ll see him now.”

“And they wished you to leave?” Jervis said wonderingly.

“Yes; it’s right I should. It’s quite right,” repeated Marian. “I’m not wanted longer. If I would have taken money they would have given me plenty; but I couldn’t—couldn’t.”

Hannah had not yet returned. Jervis leaned a little forward, and said softly—

“Polly, you’ve not seen or heard anything of your own child all these weeks?”

Marian was taken by surprise. She breathed hard, staring at Jervis.

“My child—Joan!” she panted.

“Is the name Joan? You wouldn’t tell me that. Only you hoped to see her some time or other, now you’re in England. I thought perhaps you’d have had the chance.”

Marian passed one hand with a hasty nervous motion over her mouth, a curious sound—half sob, half laugh—escaping her lips.

“I’ve seen her. Yes, you’re guessing rightly. I told you I couldn’t wait much longer, didn’t I? But it was a queer meeting. She didn’t know me, or love me, or want me. And that’s all over!”

“What is over, Polly?”

“Everything. I’m dead to her, and there’s nothing left.”

Marian rocked herself to and fro, the same strange sound breaking out once and again.

“It’s hard to give up one’s own child,” she moaned; “hard—hard to lose her altogether. I didn’t know I had before—not like this. But it’s my own doing. I’ve brought it on myself. She doesn’t want me—doesn’t want me! O, my Joan!”

Jervis drew his chair a pace or two nearer, and laid a hand on Marian’s arm.

“Polly, my dear, don’t give way like this,” he said. “Tell me what you mean. Tell me what’s gone wrong.”

Marian looked in his face with another sob.

“I’ve lost my child,” she said; “and nothing in the world is left to me!”

There was a short pause, broken only by Jervis’ audible breathing. Then he spoke—

“But, Polly, my dear sister, heaven is left. God loves you still.”

“Does he? But if I can’t believe it, after all I’ve done?” she said, with haggard eyes.

“He knows it all. There’s nothing new for him to learn about you. I can’t talk of such things, and I’m the last person in the world to be a help to anybody,” Jervis went on humbly. “But, my dear, didn’t the Lord Jesus Christ die for you long before you ever thought of him?”

“Yes, he did,” Marian answered.

“And you don’t think he’ll turn from you now, just when you’re needing him most?”

She looked up strangely.

“But I forsook my child! I left my Joan!” she said.

“Yes, you did, Polly,” Jervis answered, with a sorrowful intonation. “It’s one of the saddest things I ever heard—a thing I don’t know how to believe yet. But, my dear, God’s ways are not like man’s ways. He never forsakes any that put their trust in him.”

“And if I can’t trust?” she whispered.

“Then I’d go and tell him so, and confess again the past, and wait on him for new help.”

Marian stood up, drawing her shawl round her.

“Yes, you’re right,” she murmured. “Tell him! Of course; there’s nothing better to be done. And he’ll understand—no fear about that—and he’ll have pity. It’s been sore work, Jervis—sorer than any one knows—and I’ve got right down into darkness. But he’s sure to help me out again, isn’t he? I didn’t think before of just telling him all about it. I think I’ll go to my room for a while. Oh, no; I shan’t be cold! It’s better not to put off, Jervis.”

“Poor Polly,” murmured Jervis, as Marian disappeared. “I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to say that. I shouldn’t like Polly to think me a better man than I am. But she seemed so low; and the words came to me—so I don’t think I could have been wrong. I should like to help the poor dear.”

Hannah came suddenly back into the kitchen, walking with an extra heaviness of gait which showed ill-humor.

“Where’s Polly?”

“Gone upstairs.”

“What for?”

Jervis was silent.

“Well—she’ll find her room all upside down. And if she wants to sleep there to-night she’ll have to get it ready for herself.”

Jervis still offered no response. Hannah hauled a huge kettle off the fire with her muscular right hand, and then met her brother’s reproachful eyes.

“What now?” she demanded sharply.

“Hannah, if mother were here, she’d give Polly a different sort of welcome from what you do,” Jervis said in a sorrowful tone.

“I dare say!” Hannah answered, with curtness. “She always did follow the spoiling dodge with Polly.”

“It is not a question of spoiling now; but she does need a kind word or two,” said Jervis.

Hannah walked away, offering no further response.

* * * * * * *

About that same hour Joan stood in the Hall drawing-room—stood under the central chandelier, with clasped hands and bent head. Nobody else was present. Joan’s attitude seemed to be one of listening only. Her fixed eyes evidently saw nothing. She had thrown off her hat and furs on her first arrival, and they lay in a little heap on one of the chairs. A step outside made her start forward, and Leo came in.

“Well, Joan?” he said cheerfully.

“Mother and Nessie are with father still,” Joan said in a strained voice. “I thought I had better leave them alone, just for a few minutes.”

“Did Aunt Dulcibel wish that?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t say so—but I thought perhaps she might.”

“How did the first meeting go off? You were there then.”

“Just like everything else!” sighed Joan. “Father spoke to mother just as if he had seen her yesterday. I don’t think he has the least idea they have been apart. Mother talked of it, and tried to make him understand, and he smiled and patted her hand, but didn’t take it in—one could see that.”

“Poor Joan!” Leo said pityingly. “It has been a trying day for you.”

“The move is best over, I suppose,” said Joan, with an effort. “But I think I am disappointed. I think I hoped more from the old surroundings. He doesn’t seem the least bit roused, and he takes everything exactly in the same way. Don’t say anything to make me cry, please. I must go back to father in a few minutes, and he doesn’t like to see tears. We told mother she must be sure not to cry, and she was keeping up wonderfully when I came away. I didn’t know mother had so much self-command. But I must not leave her alone with him too long.”

“Isn’t Nessie there?”

“Yes. Oh, Nessie is no use!”

“And Marian has gone?”

“You told me she should,” said Joan. “Did mother mind?”

“Rather; but I managed it without reference to you. It would have been difficult, if Marian had not taken the matter into her own hands. She behaved exceedingly well. I was sorry to have to dismiss her, she seemed so grieved. I never came across a more perplexing individual.”

“I only hope I shall never see her again,” said Joan.

Another step approached, hasty and irregular. Dulcibel came into the room, with a scared look.

“I can’t stand it any longer,” she said, gazing from one to the other. “Somebody else must go. I can’t stand it. He is not himself, not the very least—so changed. Leo, I can’t understand—will he be always like this? It would be too terrible.”

“Mother, he was pleased to see you?” said Joan, as Dulcibel sank on a sofa.

“Pleased! He just knows me. Oh, it is much worse than I expected! Why was I never told more? Call Marian—quickly please.”

But Marian was gone. Leo began to question whether he had been in the right to yield to Joan’s strong wish, when he found how helpless she was to control Dulcibel in the fit of violent hysterics which followed. “Only Marian knew how,” Nessie said in reproachful accents. “It would not be possible to get on without Marian, if mother were often like this.”