[CHAPTER XXIII.]
A PRESENT HELP.
“WHAT did you say the other day to make my father ill?”
Joan put the question in abrupt point-blank fashion, with no sort of circumlocution. Mr. Brooke’s hauteur of manner increased, and so also did his aristocratic paleness. He was annoyed at her fearless manner. He would have liked to feel his own power over her, would have liked to suppress and tame her by look and word. Then too Joan’s resemblance to his long-lost son struck a chord within him, and set it vibrating painfully.
“I was not aware that Mr. Rutherford had been ill,” he said coldly.
“Might not comfort be found here?”
“Father was taken worse directly you left. Something you said did him harm. It was very wrong of you to force yourself upon him like that—very wrong,” repeated Joan, with troubled eyes and saddened lips. “He was just getting a little better, and now he is all thrown back again. He hasn’t been able to tell me yet what passed: and I want to know, if you please. I might be able to comfort him.”
Mr. Brooke was not accustomed to endure blame from another, and his face grew rigid. “Your opinion of my action can have very little weight,” he observed slowly. “But it would be as well that you should remember to whom you are speaking—if indeed you have yet been informed of the relationship.”
“I know that you call yourself my grandfather,” Joan answered. “I don’t know how you prove it.”