Dulcibel’s first “My dear Joan!” was expressive only of bewilderment. She evidently thought Joan to be rambling. Nessie and Leo said nothing.
“It is true, I suppose,” said Joan, sighing. “He seemed quite sure. And he said she—Marian—could tell me all about it. He calls her ‘Marian Brooke.’ She is the widow of his son, Hubert Brooke, and I am their child. Perhaps that is why Marian was so strange to me—if she knew it then. I suppose I ought not to speak of her as ‘Marian’ at all,” added Joan dreamily; “but I don’t know what else to say. It all seems so strange—like a story, and not at all to do with me.”
“What does she mean? Joan, are you ill?” asked Dulcibel. “Such an extraordinary tale! One can’t really suppose—”
“The docketing of the lock of hair is explained,” said Leo slowly. He spoke as if lost in his own thoughts.
Joan looked up at him for a moment in sad protest, and then turned to Dulcibel.
“What am I to do?” she asked. “I am yours and father’s still, not hers. I have nothing to do with Marian Brooke. Must I leave off calling you ‘mother’?”
“Joan, how can you!” Nessie exclaimed, quite indignantly, while Dulcibel sat down and burst into tears.
“Of course I am ‘mother’ to you,” she said sobbing. “I should be very much hurt if you did leave off after all these years. Of course you are our child, and always will be. Do you mean to say it was Marian who left you at the bridge?—that horrid, heartless creature!—poor dear little mite that you were! I always say she ought to have died of remorse for her cruelty. How did she know she hadn’t killed you by exposure? How could she tell that George would adopt you? Oh, I have no patience with her, and I never had! The very thought of that woman always gave me a feeling of horror. I do feel so upset! But Nurse Marian! You actually mean to say she is the same person? Well, she must be very much changed, or else she isn’t half so nice as she seems. Joan, don’t stand there apart from us all. Come here.”
Joan drew nearer, saying—“But I am old Mr. Cairns’ grandchild. You won’t like that by-and-by, mother.”
“I don’t like the thought of it now, but it can’t be helped, and you belong to us all the same,” Dulcibel answered, folding Joan in an unwontedly loving embrace. “There—you poor child! It’s a most horrid thing to happen to you. But of course it doesn’t make a grain of difference, really. Marian gave you up in a shameful way, and she must take the consequences. She hasn’t a shadow of claim on you now. I can’t think what your father will say to it all.”