George Rutherford loved to pace the paths, leaning on Joan’s young arm, and inhaling the soft breezes. That was about as much as he was equal to now.
Through the winter months he had crept back slowly to a certain stage of half-recovery, and there he stood still. In some respects he seemed almost like his old self—not quite, even to strangers; and scarcely “almost,” to those who knew him best. A certain indefinable lack of mental power was apparent about all he said and did. He was kind and genial as ever: but he could not carry on sustained conversation, could not recollect what had been told him an hour before, could not fix his thoughts on any one subject. All business arrangements had passed into the hands of Dulcibel and Leo, and he seemed content to have things so. He was plainly aware of his own incapacity, and he accepted the same with a grave, sweet resignation, very touching to those around.
Nothing pleased him more than Joan’s reading aloud; but the books chosen had to be simple in kind. He could not grasp deep arguments, and mental efforts always brought suffering. He had to be guarded from strain and worry, almost like a child.
Yet he was very happy—placidly, calmly happy. Nobody could see him and question that fact. Bouts of depression were not infrequent, but they never lasted long.
Bodily strength had not come back, as was once hoped; and of late especially every exertion wearied him. The soft airs of spring seemed to take away all the little power he had; and often he would lie for hours on the study sofa, hardly caring to speak, only now and then looking to see if Joan were near.
Joan was his unwearied attendant. She never cared to leave him, never seemed to want rest or change. Dulcibel, shaken and unhinged by the railway accident, was in a state of semi-invalidism all the winter, easily upset, and able to do little for her husband; but Joan never failed him.
Leo proposed spending two years in England before returning to India, and Woodleigh Hall was always his home. Dulcibel indulged privately in many hopes that he might some day become her son in reality, and she did her best in a transparent fashion to throw the cousins Leo and Nessie, much together. It was no fault of Joan’s that Leo’s hopes became fixed elsewhere, for she had no thoughts to spare for him or any one except her father. Leo knew this, and he waited in patience and silence.
Marian had been to the Hall two or three times for an interview with Dulcibel; but Joan had not come across her. The very recollection of Marian had almost died out of Joan’s preoccupied mind.
One fair May afternoon, close to the end of the month, Joan was persuaded to go for a long walk with Leo and Nessie. She could seldom be enticed from George Rutherford’s side. She was looking pale, however, and he seemed unusually well. Dulcibel too appeared brighter than on most days, and professed herself quite capable of undertaking sole charge of the invalid during two or three hours.
“I shall sit in our favorite corner, near the violet-bank,” he said, smiling; “and mother will read poetry to me. You don’t mind poetry as you once did, Dulcie.”