“Yes,” assented Mr. Forest. “It is wearing him out.”
“He thinks of nothing else, night and day,” said Joan mournfully. “I am always seeing it in his look. He thinks he ought to give me up—ought to make me go. It is just the one thought of Mrs. Brooke being my mother, and a mother having the first right. He doesn’t think of the way she behaved—and he can’t look on the other side.”
“He is not able,” said Mr. Forest gravely. “The weakness of mind shows itself there. You cannot depend upon Mr. Rutherford’s judgment in this or any other matter. If once he is possessed of a certain view of a question, he cannot take any other view. But nothing could be worse for him than this continued strain.”
“I did ask him once if he would like to have Marian here to see Joan,” observed Dulcibel. “That was ten days ago, I think; and he only said ‘Not yet.’”
Joan turned pleading eyes upon the doctor.
“What ought I to do?” she asked. “If I only knew, I would bear anything for father’s sake—indeed I would.” She clenched her hands till the brown fingers grew white with pressure. Mr. Forest made no immediate answer; and Joan went on—“I could see Mrs. Brooke at the farm. Would that do?”
“Or send for her,” suggested Dulcibel.
“I hardly think the agitation of seeing Mrs. Brooke would be advisable for him at this moment,” Mr. Forest observed. “Remember, we do not know how she would act; and very little is needed in your husband’s present state to bring on another acute attack like the last. He has less strength now to cope with it. One thing is certain, the weight of decision ought not to rest with Mr. Rutherford. He should be made to feel that the whole responsibility is taken out of his hands—that the matter must rest with Joan’s conscience, not with his.”
“Conscience! As if I could ever think it right to leave father for anybody,” Joan said hurriedly. Then, sighing—“Yes, I see what you mean. It is conscience with father. He thinks it must be God’s will that I should go to live with Mrs. Brooke, and that he ought to make me go. And then he would break his heart at losing me—oh, I know he would! Mr. Forest, what ought I to do? How can I put things right?” cried the girl beseechingly. “Don’t you see how dreadfully difficult it is—if I see one thing to be right, and father thinks it wrong?”
“The question for you scarcely hinges there,” said Mr. Forest. “The judgment and conscience of a thoroughly weakened brain are not trustworthy. It is well for you to see that dearly. You feel it right to remain here, and certainly my own view of the matter is the same. But the fact that your father’s view of it arises from disease or weakness, does not lessen the ill effects upon himself. The mental struggle and strain which he is undergoing may have the worst possible results.”