But Joan saw only a kind look of sympathy, heard only a thoughtful—“Yes; this must be a trial for you all.”
“It weighs on my husband’s mind, I’m sure,” said Dulcibel, shedding tears. “He is so fond of Joan. I often say she is more to him than Nessie—not that Nessie feels jealous—she is so sweet-tempered, poor dear! And it is no fault of Joan’s either. But he can’t bear her out of his sight now, and he looks—I’m sure I don’t know how he looks—as if he couldn’t hold up his head, or care for anything.”
Mr. Forest put two or three questions to Joan. How long had Mr. Rutherford known these particulars? How had they first come to his hearing? How had he received the tidings?
“Ah! That last severe attack—yes, I remember,” he said, passing one hand thoughtfully over his chin. “A shock was the cause; you told me so much. Yes, I understand now.” Then, after a pause for consideration, during which he sat gazing on the ground—“This cannot be allowed to go on. Something must be done.”
“What can be done?” Dulcibel asked helplessly.
“That is the question. Anything rather than leave Mr. Rutherford to brood over it as he has done lately.”
“But I don’t see what to do,” repeated Dulcibel. “Are we to make my husband talk?”
“Anything rather than to have things as they are now,” Mr. Forest said again.
“I don’t believe talking will do any good. It can’t undo about Marian and all the rest,” said Dulcibel.
“Mother, that isn’t all. I don’t think you understand,” Joan said suddenly. “I know what really makes father so unhappy;” and her own eyes were full to overflowing. “He has said something once or twice—not much, but enough. He thinks I ought to leave him and you and go to Mrs. Brooke—because she is my mother. To leave you and this dear home altogether, and only come sometimes as a visitor to see you all!” cried Joan. “I told him I couldn’t—couldn’t—I should be wretched. I said it would break my heart, and I would rather die. And he hasn’t spoken since; but I know he is always thinking—always.”