Leonard Ackroyd had taken up his abode in Woodleigh, though it would be hard to say whether the Hall or the hotel was more strictly his headquarters; he was constantly backwards and forwards between the two. Indeed, had he been George Rutherford’s own son he could not possibly have acted with more kind thought and helpfulness.
Two London trained nurses undertook the actual care of George Rutherford, but Joan was constantly present also. From the first there had been no withholding her.
She did not look well, though the cut on her forehead was healed. The long and terrible anxiety about her adopted father had told upon her severely. Even Mr. Forest’s authority did not suffice to make her take enough sleep and exercise. Appetite and energy were alike gone, and she seemed to care for nothing but to sit hour after hour, day after day, in the semi-darkness of the sick-room, gazing on the loved features, for the first time in her life irresponsive to her voice.
“Joan, you cannot go on like this,” Leo said one day.
He had called at the hotel, as usual, for news of his uncle, and Joan came downstairs to see him. He was struck with the change in her appearance, the fixed pallor, and the spiritless, sad droop of the black eyes. She shook hands, saying, “Good-morning,” and then sat down in an easy-chair, leaning back with a worn-out, strengthless air.
“Joan, you cannot go on like this. We must make a change. It is too much for you to be constantly in the room.”
“Oh, no—I could not be anywhere else,” said Joan. She raised her eyes to meet his, with a mournful smile. “It is nothing,” she said. “If only father were himself again I should be all right: I can’t be well while he is ill.”
“He is better,” Leo began, and then paused. “But—”
“Yes, I know,” Joan responded. “Mr. Forest says ‘But’ so often. I suppose it isn’t cruel of you both. I suppose one ought to understand.”
Leonard was silent, his eyes bent pityingly upon Joan from beneath the full brows; and he passed the fingers of one hand slowly through his tawny beard with a puzzled gesture. Joan looked up, and an expression of sharp pain crossed her face.