Joan stood thinking, with drawn brows and troubled look. “Yes, I see,” she said. “And anything that will take away the worry, anything that will make him feel happy again—”
“If you were to see Mrs. Brooke,” suggested Mr. Forest, “and she were to state plainly that she had no idea whatever of reclaiming you?” Joan’s face flushed into sudden brightness. “You and I may count this unnecessary; but for your father’s sake—”
“Oh, I do think that would be best—I do think it would put his mind at rest,” Joan said earnestly. “Thank you so much for helping me. I’ll go this afternoon—at once. And to-morrow I can tell you all about it.”
Ten minutes later Joan entered her father’s room, wearing hat and gloves. It had not occurred to her to ask Mr. Forest’s advice about informing her father where she was going, but he had evidently counted open speech better than silent brooding. Joan felt disposed to speak frankly.
“Are you going out, my dear?” George asked listlessly.
“Yes, father, to Cairns farm. I am going to see Mari—my—Mrs. Brooke, I mean.”
“Your mother.” George did not appear to be startled. He was not easily startled. That which tried and harassed him was having, with his enfeebled brain, to decide a difficult question or to bear responsibility.
“Yes, father. You wanted me to see her some day; and perhaps it will be best over.”
She stood by his arm-chair, looking anxiously at the once fine lion-like face, now thinned and weakened. Some strong wave of feeling below could be dimly seen. Joan pressed his hand to her lips.
“I think it will comfort you to have me go, father dear.”