“Is Mrs. Brooke at home?” asked Joan. Rapid walking and suppressed agitation had brought a flush to her cheeks, and her dark eyes wore their look of mingled trouble and defiance. The black brows above were drawn into one straight line of rich pencilling, and she held herself upright with a resolute dignity which scarcely sufficed to conceal her inward trembling.
“My sister Marian?” Jervis was surprised to find Marian’s surname known. He was aware what pains she had taken to suppress it, both during her stay at the Hall, and during her stay at home.
“Yes—Marian Brooke. I wish to speak to her, if you please.”
Jervis privately thought that the young lady need not have assumed quite so haughty an air. He began to wonder whether perhaps “Polly” were to be called upon again to act the “nurse” to somebody at the Hall. That seemed on the whole more likely than a request for renewed supplies of milk or butter. Joan, meanwhile, never doubting that all the Cairns family must be fully aware of the relationship between herself and them, wondered a little at the unconsciousness of his manner. Marian, his sister! That meant that he was her uncle—Joan’s uncle! Joan was quite prepared to repel any advances made on the score of this relationship, but as yet there were no advances to repel.
“My sister Marian is just inside,” said Jervis. “If you would like to come in—”
“Yes, I want to speak to Mrs. Brooke,” repeated Joan, with a touch of impatience. Jervis was struck by the distressed alternations of flush and paleness, and by the nervous excitement which underlay her haughtiness.
“Certainly!” he said in his pleasantest manner. “Will you please step inside, and I will call Marian.”
“What’s it all about, Jervis?” demanded Hannah, from the kitchen-door.
“Miss Rutherford wishes to see Polly,” Jervis answered.
“Oh!” Hannah said, making her appearance. “Well—she’ll have to come in here then. The parlor’s all in a mess. I haven’t had time to get anything straight.”