The cottager, Mrs. Flint, knew nothing of Mrs. Brooke’s antecedents, nor was it likely that she should. Mrs. Brooke paid regularly, lived frugally, avoided all needless intercourse with other human beings, showed a deep and growing melancholy, and spent all her time in attendance on her one little girl. Few words passed her lips, and nobody came to see her. There was indeed about Mrs. Brooke so marked and unusual an air of reserve, and of shrinking from her fellow creatures, that Mrs. Flint’s curiosity might well have been aroused.
But Mrs. Flint, a north countrywoman by birth, though now the widow of a Welshman, living in a lonely cottage near a lonely moor, was by nature singularly devoid of the spirit of inquisitiveness. She accepted her lodger’s peculiarities calmly, asking no questions; and at least her trust was not abused.
To and fro, from side to side moved Marian Brooke, incessantly, through the hours of that long night. She moaned often, as if in pain or distress, and tried every position in turn, vainly seeking rest: sleep had fled to a hopeless distance. When dawn at length appeared through the small blindless window, she sat up, with haggard, grey eyes looking towards the lattice panes.
“O, Joan, Joan, Joan, shall I ever see you again? Is it good-bye forever—forever?”
The words seemed wrung from her, breaking out in a long, low wail. No tears rose to the hot eyes. She only laid her head upon her raised knees, moaning afresh.
“O, Joan, Joan—my little Joan—my darling! But what could I do—what else could I do? Joan, you will never know how your mother loved you—never, Joan!” A tearless sob sounded, and she went on—“I didn’t know what else to do, Joan; and I have no friends. He will take care of you—I am sure he will. He is no man to turn from any in want. Am I wrong to give him no choice? Oh, how can one tell—all is so dark, and I have no hope?”
But she might have known. Marian Brooke was no stranger to right and wrong. Conscience spoke clearly, and she would not listen. She murmured on, to drown thought—
“No hope, Joan—none! I chose my way; and broke mother’s heart. Mother, if you were living and could forgive me, I think I might believe in God’s forgiveness! But not now—there is nobody now—no hope—no pardon. Better she should be away from me, or perhaps she would turn cold and hard, and break my heart, as I broke mother’s. Would mother have forgiven me, if she had lived?”
The light grew, and Marian looked mournfully towards it.
“Morning is almost come, and Mr. Rutherford will soon be here—perhaps Joan too! But I must not stay to see them. I cannot face Mr. Rutherford—he would ask to know all—he would say I must write to my father. And I promised Hubert! Oh, I cannot; I am tied on every side—bound, ashamed, wretched. And I couldn’t leave you in better hands, my Joan. You would thank me if you understood all. And he will teach you to do right—to be different from your poor mother. O Joan, what it is to have lived without God, and to know that death is near!”