“You are at liberty to disbelieve the fact, if you wish, Joan Brooke.”
A pause; and then—“Was it that which startled father so much? I don’t think it need. I could never leave him to go to anybody else. No relatives could be to me now what he is.”
“I, at least, assert no such claim,” said Mr. Brooke.
Joan did not seem to be making way. She lifted her soft, yet defiant, eyes, and said—“How am I to know?”
“To know that you are my granddaughter?”
A curious smile passed over Mr. Brooke’s face. He felt suddenly that he had Joan in his power. “There could be no possible difficulty in proving the fact. If my word is not sufficient, you have only to go to Marian Brooke, the widow of my unhappy son, and the daughter of old Cairns. She will supply you with all necessary information.”
“Marian—Brooke!” Joan was growing white as ashes.
“Marian Brooke—your mother.”
For a moment he thought Joan would have fainted dead away on the spot; but she did not. Every vestige of color left her lips, and a strong shudder of repulsion passed through her whole frame. But the next moment her dark eyes were looking him again steadily in the face.
“Marian is the name of the person from Cairns farm who nursed my mother in her illness last autumn—Mrs. Rutherford, I mean,” added Joan.