Joan put aside hat and gloves, then sat down to watch patiently beside the couch. George Rutherford presently opened his eyes, and gave a little smile, but he showed no inclination to speak. The look of harass and strain, which had been of late constantly stamped upon his fine features, seemed singularly to have vanished. An absolute peacefulness was resting there instead.
Had he forgotten about Marian Brooke, and about Joan’s visit to the farm? It might be so, in the present condition of his brain and memory.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
HIS CHILD.
THE drowsiness which had come on did not pass off quickly. When Mr. Forest called, he said little at first beyond an echo of Leo’s “I do not like it.” But he paid a second call that same evening, and was at the house again in the early morning. By that time he was able to speak with sorrowful decisiveness. A marked change for the worse had taken place.
George Rutherford was not unconscious, as in former attacks. He only seemed very weary, and indisposed to talk. Most of the morning he lay quietly, with closed eyes, noticing nothing that went on around him. It was singular how every trace of anxiety and distress had passed from his face, leaving only a complete repose. Sometimes a dim, calm smile gleamed slowly, like an irradiation from the other world.
After midday the drowsiness lessened and a certain restlessness took possession of him. He seemed to those around to be wandering, as he murmured broken half-sentences about “the valley,” and “the bridge,” and “hills round about.”
The Valley once more.
“The valley of the shadow of death,” Leo said, with lowest possible utterance to Joan. Mr. Forest still spoke of hope, but Leo could see none; and it seemed to him that Joan ought to understand the blow which was in all probability coming upon her.