“God’s will is always right, always best, always loving.” George spoke slowly, as if repeating a message or a statement, learnt with difficulty. “Joan, we must not fight against it. If ever your duty becomes plain to go to your mother—”
She thought him wandering, and was frightened.
“Please don’t say any more,” she begged anxiously. “Father, you have talked too much. Things will all come right by-and-by, only don’t talk about parting. You are going to get well now, and you know I could never leave you. Try to rest, father dear.”
“I think I must,” George said feebly; and he seemed soon to be asleep.
Joan sat by his side, thinking, in deep distress and dread. What had he meant? Was it only fancy? Had she indeed a mother? And if so, what then?
“She gave me up to father; she has no right over me now. I could never leave father for her or anybody—oh, never!” Joan murmured, almost saying the words aloud.
When George Rutherford awoke he did not again refer to the subject. It seemed indeed to have passed for the moment out of his mind. But the dread of what might be coming weighed upon Joan perpetually. She could not shake off or lay aside the fear. It was like a sword hanging always over her head.
A mother! Had she a mother? And if she had, what then? What duty did she, in her position, owe to such a mother? What would a mother expect from her?
Leo was absent from the Hall, paying visits in Scotland, or Joan would probably have gone with her trouble to him, as to a brother. But she could not resolve to write, and there was no one else whom she might consult. Nessie was the last person in the world to appeal to. Dulcibel was nervous, unhinged, easily upset. Moreover, Joan possessed no intimate personal friends in the neighborhood. She had never cared to make any. The Rector of Woodleigh, a kind and able man, might have helped Joan, but he had recently broken-down in health, and had been ordered away from home for a time. His temporary successor was a young man and a stranger.
Sometimes the feeling of suspense as to what might lie ahead, and the sense of loneliness in having none to whom she could appeal, were almost more than she knew how to endure.