Chapter XXII: What Might Be

“SAY something to me, Joan.”

George Rutherford was in his study again—just able to creep down there once a day, for a few hours on the sofa. He did not rally from this attack, as from former attacks.

It was Sunday afternoon, and Joan sat by his side, a book open on her knee. She had not read much however.

“What shall I say, father dear?”

“Anything you like, my Joan.”

A pause followed. Joan did not seem able to think readily of “anything.”

“Say—‘There shall be no more death.’ I have had those words sounding in my mind to-day.”

“But that is so long, father. I don’t think your head will bear it all,” pleaded Joan, shrinking from the task. She had learnt the piece he referred to, for the purpose of giving him pleasure, in earlier and brighter days.

“A few verses then, my dear.”

Joan would not refuse. She began in a low, tremulous voice:—

“‘There shall be no more death!’ O, blessed words!
As summer winds, upon the wild harp stealing,
Draw forth sweet music from long voiceless chords,
They wake the heart to songs of holiest feeling.”

“Again I hear—‘There shall be no more death?’
What, shall the wearied eyes that now are keeping
Their anxious vigil o’er the failing health,
And watch life’s flickering lamp, know no more weeping?”

“Shall there be no more parting, no more pain,
No sorrow brooding o’er the human heart?
Shall grief’s low moan be never heard again,
No pang of suffering into utterance start?”

“Shall we no longer, when spring flowers have birth,
Go forth, with spirits bowed, in deep dejection,
And in the cold embraces of the earth
Lay the loved object of our best affection?”

Joan struggled on so far, and then came to a complete pause. George laid his hand on hers.

“My poor Joan! It was too much to ask of you. I did not think—no, don’t say any more.”

“Oh, yes, I’m going on,” said Joan resolutely. “It’s no use to be foolish;” and she started huskily with a later verse:—

“It is the Saviour’s sweet yet solemn voice—
That voice that triumphed in his dying breath—
And as he speaks the hosts of heaven rejoice,
And shout aloud—‘There shall be no more death!’”

“I hear those words re-echoed by the throng
Of white robed worshippers around the throne;
I hear familiar voices, silent long,
Singing the wondrous anthem, ‘It is done!’”

“I see among that cloud of witnesses
Loved forms, long faded from our earthly eyes,
Shining like stars—”

“Father I can’t!” sobbed Joan, breaking down in a sudden agony. “Oh, please don’t ask me—I can’t!”

George drew her nearer, saying only—“My poor little girl!” and for a minute or two neither spoke.

“What was it, Joan?” he asked at length, when she had grown calmer; and the words that burst from Joan were not what he had expected:

“O, father, if only your heaven were mine too!”

“If my Master is yours, my heaven is yours, Joan.”

Joan laid her face against his hand, and made no answer. She knew he must not be agitated, and blamed herself already for giving way.

“What keeps you back from him, my Joan?” George asked.

“I don’t know! Oh, I don’t know!” Joan answered, with a deep sigh. “Sometimes I do seem to come to him, and to love him; but it all goes again. Please don’t talk more now; you will be so tired.”

“There was something else that I had to say. I have not felt equal to it until now—about—” and he faltered—“about your grandfather, Mr. Brooke.”

“He hasn’t been to the house. I don’t want ever to see him again,” Joan said resentfully. “It was he that made you so ill.”

“Hush; you must not feel that!” George answered. “No; there was something else;” and his eyes had a strained look of perplexity. “I cannot think without confusion.”

“It is not right for you. Please don’t try to think, father.”

George closed his eyes, and she hoped he had given up the attempt at recollection; but suddenly he looked up, almost with eagerness.

“Yes, I know now. Joan, if it is God’s will for us to part—”

“Oh, no!” broke from Joan.

“If it is his will—”

“But it isn’t—it isn’t! Please—please don’t say that!”

“It may be; you do not know yet.”

She thought he was speaking of death, and she forced a brave smile.

“You are better now, father, indeed—really better. Please don’t talk so. It does make me so wretched, and there is no need.”

“God’s will is always right, always best, always loving.” George spoke slowly, as if repeating a message or a statement, learnt with difficulty. “Joan, we must not fight against it. If ever your duty becomes plain to go to your mother—”

She thought him wandering, and was frightened.

“Please don’t say any more,” she begged anxiously. “Father, you have talked too much. Things will all come right by-and-by, only don’t talk about parting. You are going to get well now, and you know I could never leave you. Try to rest, father dear.”

“I think I must,” George said feebly; and he seemed soon to be asleep.

Joan sat by his side, thinking, in deep distress and dread. What had he meant? Was it only fancy? Had she indeed a mother? And if so, what then?

“She gave me up to father; she has no right over me now. I could never leave father for her or anybody—oh, never!” Joan murmured, almost saying the words aloud.

When George Rutherford awoke he did not again refer to the subject. It seemed indeed to have passed for the moment out of his mind. But the dread of what might be coming weighed upon Joan perpetually. She could not shake off or lay aside the fear. It was like a sword hanging always over her head.

A mother! Had she a mother? And if she had, what then? What duty did she, in her position, owe to such a mother? What would a mother expect from her?

Leo was absent from the Hall, paying visits in Scotland, or Joan would probably have gone with her trouble to him, as to a brother. But she could not resolve to write, and there was no one else whom she might consult. Nessie was the last person in the world to appeal to. Dulcibel was nervous, unhinged, easily upset. Moreover, Joan possessed no intimate personal friends in the neighborhood. She had never cared to make any. The Rector of Woodleigh, a kind and able man, might have helped Joan, but he had recently broken-down in health, and had been ordered away from home for a time. His temporary successor was a young man and a stranger.

Sometimes the feeling of suspense as to what might lie ahead, and the sense of loneliness in having none to whom she could appeal, were almost more than she knew how to endure.

The marvel was that this long strain of doubt and dread should not have driven Joan more readily to take refuge in prayer. For she had been brought up in a very atmosphere of prayer and of loving trust; yet still she held aloof.

It came over her suddenly one day that suspense might be ended by an interview with old Mr. Brooke.

She had not thought of such a thing before: but now the idea gained fast hold of her imagination. Mr. Brooke was probably staying at the red-brick house again. Why should she not see him there, and demand to know what he had said to trouble her father?

Why should she not, or why should she? Would the step be advisable, or would it not? Should she act, or should she wait patiently?

Joan was sorely troubled how to decide. She lay awake at night, thinking, and went about all day, thinking. It was hard to see her way. Sometimes the waiting seemed the wiser plan, but a certain wilful longing to know the worst was gaining ground upon her.

So strong was this desire that it led her into action. Joan felt almost as if she were being borne along by a strong current, irrespective of her own will.

She did not tell herself that she would see Mr. Brooke; but one day she spoke of taking a walk alone, and no difficulties arose. At starting she counted herself still undecided, yet without hesitation she bent her steps towards the red house of Mrs. St. John.

“I may as well walk in that direction. No need to go in,” murmured Joan.

But she did go in. Having moved so far under impulse, she was guided still by impulse when the house was reached. Joan rang, and asked for Mr. Brooke. He was staying there, was he not?

“Yes, Miss,” the girl answered.

“Tell him I wish to see him, please.”

She was admitted, the question being asked—“What name, please?”

A moment’s hesitation, and then “Miss Joan Brooke” came firmly.

The maid gave a surprised glance, showed Joan into a small sitting-room—a study or boudoir—and vanished.

Joan stood on the rug, trying to conquer the trembling which assailed every limb. No long time elapsed before the door opened, and a courtly, white-haired old gentleman entered.

A stranger could not have failed to be struck at that moment with the likeness between the two faces—both pale in tint, both mastering strong agitation, both with marked, full eyebrows drawn together over black eyes full of defiance.

“Good-morning, Miss Joan Brooke,” the old gentleman said distantly. He had the milk-cans of old Cairns, Joan’s other grandfather, very plainly before his mind’s eye. “I hope you are well. Very good of you to come and see me. I expressed a wish to Mr. Rutherford for one short interview. Will you be so good as to take a seat?”

“No; I would rather stand,” Joan answered, keenly aware of the condescension in his tone. “That was not my reason for coming. Father did not tell me you had said anything of the sort. He has been too ill. I have only come to ask a question.”

“Any question that Miss Joan Brooke desires to ask—” and he waved his hand. “But perhaps Miss Joan Brooke will consent to take a seat. I am old; and a gentleman cannot well sit while a—a—lady stands.” He very nearly said “a woman,”—remembering still the milk-cans.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Joan; and she went to the nearest chair.