Her own! But she had given Joan away! She had promised not to claim her!
How about Mr. Rutherford’s state of health?—and how about his love for Joan? After all his goodness to her child, was this to be the return?
But how about herself? After all these years of separation, might she never have her child for her own again?
So the fight went on; and one hour one side nearly won, and another hour the other side had the best of it.
Marian was vanquished at last,—seemingly, and for a while. She could not give up Joan. Let come what might, she would accept Mr. Rutherford’s offer, and would claim her child. Somebody must suffer. Why should her heart be torn, rather than the heart of another?
And for three hours or so Marian was calm in this decision. She was not at first aware of a spirit-darkness which came with it. The thought of Joan, and Joan alone, filled her whole horizon.
Towards sunset she had to go into the village of Woodleigh for some slight purchase, and she took her way back through the churchyard. It was a very quiet, lonely churchyard, quite fenced off by a thick rim of trees and bushes, from the outer world.
Marian’s mother lay buried there—no, not her mother. Marian knew better than that: but the clay remains had been laid in a shady corner, and a flat stone spoke to her memory. The daughter who had broken that mother’s heart often went and stood beside the grave, her own heart aching keenly for the past, which could not be undone.
This afternoon, as on other days, Marian turned her steps to that quiet spot; and stood there dreamily, thinking and listening.
The name and date came first on the stone; and below, one very-short and simple text,—