“Indeed—singular, if she did! Marian Brooke!”
“No; she only called herself Marian! She seemed ashamed of her surname, and would not tell it.”
“H’m! A very singular person,” said Mr. Brooke. “However, that woman, Marian Brooke of Cairns farm, is, as I say, the widow of my unhappy son, Hubert Brooke. When my son married into the Cairns family, I gave up all connection with him and his. But for the dying wish of my wife, I should not now be in connection with—with—”
“His daughter—if I really am that,” said Joan. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks grew crimson, as she stood up, with a sudden haughtiness of manner equal to his own.
“You need not be afraid. I shall never trouble you!” she said briefly. “If I would ever leave my own dear father for anybody in the world, I would rather go to Cairns farm than live with you. But I shall not do either. Good-bye.”
Mr. Brooke had an uncomfortable sense of being worsted. He forced a smile, and said—“If my granddaughter should find herself ever in want of friends—”
“I would never come to you—never!” cried Joan, in her anger and pain. “If your story is true, you ought to have told it long ago, or else never have said anything at all.”
She went so resolutely towards the door that Mr. Brooke had no choice but to hold it open for her. Joan passed straight out, pressing her lips together, and gazing past the old gentleman with a studied indifference.
“Good-bye,” Mr. Brooke said. “Remember, if ever you should be in want—”
But Joan was gone.