“It may be wrong. It may be a mistake on my part. But—I don’t think I could.”
“Oh, no!” repeated Dulcibel. “I don’t really wish that. I only wish the wretched woman could have her due. But as to little Joan herself, you must just do exactly what you think best.”
“I should not think it best to go against my wife’s wishes.”
“It won’t be. I don’t mean to be selfish, and there’s room enough at the Hall, of course. I shouldn’t like her to be always hanging about, so that I never could have you to myself; but—”
“My dear Dulcie!”
“No; of course you wouldn’t like it either. But you don’t feel the same that I do—it isn’t likely you should. I want to have you always to myself, and I know that can’t be. I do feel very naughty sometimes about going home, because I know you will be busier, and so many people will expect to have a share of you. I believe I am jealous of Leo’s share now; and Joan will be another.”
“Leo is away at school, except in the holidays, Dulcie.”
“Oh, yes, I know, Georgie, dear! Of course I ought to be wise and reasonable, and mind nothing. But I never was wise or reasonable, and I always do mind things dreadfully. Only of course you must do exactly what you think right about Joan, and I’ll try to seem good whatever I feel,” added Dulcibel, sighing.
* * * * * * *
A sick woman, Marian Brooke by name, lay tossing restlessly that night in a cottage bedroom. It was small and poorly furnished, yet superior to the ordinary run of cottage rooms. The owner thereof, a stirring widow, had lately bethought herself of lodging—letting on a very small scale, as a means of turning an extra shilling, and her second lodger was this Mrs. Brooke.