“Marian Brooke, sir,” she answered.
“Yes, true. My Joan’s mother.”
A troubled look came over George’s face. He held out his hand again, took Joan’s, and placed in Marian’s.
That was the crucial moment, and none watched with more intense anxiety than Mr. Forest. He was resting his last faint hope of George Rutherford’s life upon this interview.
Joan visibly shuddered, and George sighed. But Marian lifted the little cold hand to her lips, kissed it fervently, and gave it back to George.
“No, sir,” she said, very distinctly. “There mustn’t be any mistake about that matter, please. Joan is your child now—now and always. I gave her up to you, and I can’t take her back.”
A strange look came over George Rutherford’s face—a look of doubt, of relief, of awakening, of renewed life. His eyes brightened and his voice grew stronger.
“You do not wish—” he said.
“It is not a matter of wishing, sir,” she answered, with resolute calmness. “Joan can’t be mine, as she would have been if I hadn’t given her up. If I had her with me ever so much, that couldn’t make her mine. Her heart is yours, and I couldn’t be so cruel as to take her from you—even if I had the right, which I haven’t. You’ve been a true father to Joan, and I do thank you. And she is yours now—yours for always. I pray God he may spare you both long to one another. I’ll ask to see her now and then, and may be one day she’ll learn to love me a little. That’s all I can hope for now, and I’ve none but myself to blame that things are as they are. I’ve no fit home to offer Joan, and I couldn’t make her happy. I’ll only ask to see her once in a while.”
“Not to have her always?” murmured George.