“It does not matter where,” observed Joan. Beforehand, she had pictured an interview alone with Marian; but now a despairing indifference to spectators seized upon her. These people of course all knew the facts of the case. And what did it matter? What did anything matter? What was aught in the world to Joan, except one aim—to bring rest and ease to her father’s troubled heart?
Marian Brooke forgot her own sensations as Joan came in. She rose again, and came forward, walking slowly, with her eyes fixed on the young girl’s face—the face of her long-lost child. Jervis looked on wonderingly. Hannah stood and stared with bare, floury arms, and pulled-up skirts. Only Marian and Joan moved, drawing nearer together.
Mother and daughter! And both knew it. Each knew also that the other knew it. But no brightness was in either face; for never till this moment had Joan felt the reality of the relationship, the tremendous force of that tie of nature which nothing could ever undo. She felt it, but only with a sense of bitter pain and shrinking. There had been a time when those dark eyes of Joan’s had looked lovingly into Marian’s with lisped words of tenderness to “Muvver, muvver!” Nothing of that kind now. The very memory of such days, ever fresh in Marian’s heart, had died out of Joan’s mind; and the sudden dread which showed itself in the girl’s whitening face, was reflected in the silent anguish of the mother’s passionate yearning.
Then Joan stood still, gazing down upon the red-brick floor. What was she to do or say next? What was she here for? And Marian broke the silence, speaking in the muffled tone of one half-choked.
“I think, perhaps, you’d like to see me in another room, wouldn’t you, Miss Rutherford, my dear?”
Joan laid one hand on the table for support, conscious of pallor and sickness.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said huskily. “Yes, I think I should like that best. But it doesn’t really matter. You all know, of course. I am not Miss Rutherford really. It is kind of you to be willing to call me so; but of course you know! I am Joan Brooke, your daughter; but much, much more Mr. Rutherford’s child!” added Joan, with a sob.
One moment’s dead pause, and then, “Well, I never!” broke from Hannah.
“Polly, my dear, is this your secret?” Jervis asked sorrowfully.
“Yes,” Marian said, coming closer to Joan. “It has been my secret, and I wish it was still. She shouldn’t have told. There wasn’t need. Why did you, my dear?” Marian asked of Joan, almost reproachfully.