Darby and Joan by Baring Maurice

Author:Baring Maurice
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

CHAPTER XI

When the tragedy of Travistacore and Chiaromonte’s death culminated in the further climax of Glencairn’s sudden and tragic end, Joan neither turned her face to the wall to say, “My life is over,” nor did she look forward with exultation into the future and say, “My life is now going to begin.”

Life had crashed about her like a huge temple overthrown by an earthquake; but after the shock had subsided she was conscious among the ruins and the desolation that she must not sit and mope, but build herself a hut. She knew that certain irreparable things had happened; that her soul had been scarred and seared in a particular way by Destiny, but she felt certain that this was not the end; that there were many other things in store for her; that though a vital branch had been lopped from her, others went on sprouting, and who knows, there might even be a certain amount of happiness in store for her. When she accepted Glencairn she had been attracted by him, she was ready to love him; and then had come the first crisis, ending in their virtual separation; but Joan had always felt that, in spite of everything, all might come well some day, that deep down in his heart Glencairn was capable of loving her, if once he could come-to from the intoxication of his passion for Dorzan. She had felt he understood her and that she had understood him. Then, after the Chiaromonte tragedy, she had been certain of this; and then the end had come. After her husband’s death she set herself to face the trivial duties and business of her daily life, and she lived from day to day. She lived alone, morally, that is to say. She saw quite a number of people, but there was no one in whom she could confide. Her father had been her only friend, and since his death she had not made another. She was fond of her uncle and aunt, but never in the least tempted to confide in either of them. She might possibly have opened her heart to Agatha had Agatha been in England, but she was in India. Joan was not a woman who felt an urgent need to confide in anyone, least of all in another woman. She found plenty to do and plenty of things to keep herself busy with. She was fond of her surroundings, fond of the people; she was an expert fisherwoman and threw a beautiful line; she was a good watercolourist; she understood building, architecture and carpentering; she was a practical gardener. She was busy; occupied all day; and she found by the evening that she was too sleepy for reading. She had ceased to take any interest in books when her father died. He was the only person with whom she cared to discuss old books, and as for modern literature, she had not discovered it. She had no one to discover it with. She preferred living in Scotland to Suffolk.

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