“No—yes, sir,” she said. “I beg your pardon.” Instead of walking out of the room, she drew nearer to Joan, gazing earnestly still. “The—the young lady—looks faint,” she said, with a manifest effort for self-control. “Could I do anything?”
“Go away—I don’t want you here,” said Joan, impatiently. “I am asking about my father, and you interrupt us.”
Marian’s face fell like the face of one who has received a heavy blow. Joan, intent on other thoughts, did not notice this; but Leo did, and was perplexed. Nessie glided from the room, beckoning Marian to follow.
“Do you want anything? How is mother?”
Marian had difficulty in collecting herself, so as to answer rationally.
“Mrs. Rutherford was very anxious to get up,” she faltered—“very impatient to hear more about Mr. Rutherford. It might, perhaps, be best to—to—” and Marian came to a confused pause.
“I think you must be tired with sitting up all night,” Nessie said kindly. “You look quite pale. After breakfast you shall go for a walk. That will refresh you more than anything.”
Marian murmured a grateful response, but one voice rang incessantly in her ears—“Who is that woman? Take her away! Go away—I don’t want you!” And “that woman” was Joan’s own mother—the girl who did not want Marian was her own child!
Alone at last! Hurrying out of the village, away to the old churchyard, unseen by any human eye, alone in her grief, Marian sat upon a flat gravestone, heedless of cold or damp, rocking herself to and fro with smothered sobs.
“O Joan, Joan, my darling! And you do not know me—do not want me—do not love me! O, God, is there any comfort for such pain as this! Canst even thou help me? For I gave her away—my child—my only one! And I need not—ought not. If I had known thee! Thou wouldst have cared for us. If I had but known thee—trusted thee! Joan, my child—my baby—will God ever bring us together again—ever make me dear to you again? How can I hope it? I don’t deserve that he should. For it was my own doing—my own folly! And I dare not tell Joan who I am! I think it would kill me if she had no love to give! It is such heart-breaking work; and none to help—none to comfort! I thought some light had come, and now all is darkness again! Oh, the madness of having given her up; left her when she was mine—altogether mine; and now mine no longer! The madness—the sin! Does Joan see that—the wrong to her—and does she hate her mother for it? Wrong to Joan—wrong to others—how evil done comes home to one in later years! But, O Joan, your mother is bitterly punished!”