He waited to see the effect of his words. The impression produced was not apparently so great as he had anticipated. A flush came to George Rutherford’s brow, and an unseeing, suffering look to his eyes. These were signs which Mr. Brooke could not read. The silence with which his assertion was met amazed him.
“My granddaughter,” he repeated emphatically “I have known this fact for many months; and you would have heard from me earlier, but for the fact of certain other relatives, with whom I preferred to have nothing in common. But circumstances have determined me to speak openly to you on the subject. My wife has been taken from me very suddenly.” A slight expression of sorrow crossed the speaker’s face. “Her dying request was that I would acknowledge my granddaughter. The dying wish of a good wife is not to be disregarded—even though my own inclinations may point in an opposite direction. I have come to carry out her will—to acknowledge Joan as my granddaughter. But I acknowledge also your right over her. I have no wish to steal your adopted child from you, after all these years.”
There was again no immediate response. George’s impassive manner had a somewhat irritating effect on the old gentleman.
“Sir, are you acquainted with these other relatives of Joan Brooke?” he demanded, raising his voice. “Are you aware that Cairns, the farmer, is her grandfather also—her other grandparent? Are you aware that her mother, Marian Brooke, my unhappy son’s widow, is now—now!—at Cairns farm, doubtless awaiting an opportunity to assert her rights? Yes, Joan’s mother, Mr. Rutherford! Joan’s mother, and Cairns’ daughter.”
He had produced impression enough at last. A strangely sunken, hollow look crept into George Rutherford’s face, and his brows drew together with an expression of bewilderment and pain. “Joan’s mother!” George repeated. “Joan’s mother! My Joan—my poor little girl!”
“Marian Brooke, the daughter of old Cairns, married my son Hubert,” said Mr. Brooke—“my only son! I leave you to judge what my feelings were. From that time my son was dead to me. I never exchanged a word with his wife, nor have I with his widow. Until lately I did not know her to be still alive. Until last autumn I never set eyes upon Hubert’s daughter.”
“Joan’s mother!” repeated George in a low, suffering voice. He seemed able to say nothing else.
“Joan’s mother has been for months within three miles of you, Mr. Rutherford. Why she has not yet spoken I cannot determine. Doubtless she has her own reasons. But I have fulfilled my duty in giving you warning; and I have also acknowledged my granddaughter, according to my wife’s dying request. I shall wish to see her one day. For the rest, I have only to thank you sincerely for your kindness to her through many years. Possibly, now that you are acquainted with her connections, you may be disposed to regret—”
George Rutherford so plainly neither heard nor heeded, that the old gentleman came to an abrupt pause; and Dulcibel suddenly appeared, in a state of some excitement.
“George dear, I hope you are all right. I could not possibly get away before. Who is this? You don’t mean to say—oh, you ought not to have had a visitor! It is quite wrong. I don’t know what Joan will say. George, you are looking quite ill again. I am sure it has been too much for your head.”