Joan’s downcast eyes gave one startled look up.
“Didn’t they all know?” she gasped, rather than said.
“No, my dear, only me—nobody but me,” said Marian, taking one of Joan’s gloved hands, and fondling it between her own. “You won’t mind me doing that, will you, my dear? I’ve craved so for a touch! It seems to put new life into me. But I wouldn’t have told them yet, if you hadn’t. I didn’t mean to.”
Tears were slowly dropping from Marian’s eyes, as she went on caressing the little cold limp hand. Joan submitted only, making no response. Jervis said nothing after his first involuntary question. Hannah came to the other side of the table, rested her floury hands upon it, and scanned Joan all over.
“Well, I never!” she repeated. “You don’t mean to say it’s true? I never! And you not to say a word about it all these months! I never! What’s to be done next, I wonder?”
“Hannah, you’d better come away,” Jervis said in an undertone.
“Come away! What for?” demanded Hannah. “If this young woman is Polly’s daughter, she’s my niece, and I s’pose I’ve a right to speak to my own niece.”
“Not now. It’s not the time,” urged Jervis. “Not now, Hannah. Come away, and leave them quiet. Polly will tell us all by-and-by. Hannah—Hannah, come away.”
His whispered importunities prevailed. Very reluctantly Hannah permitted herself to be drawn aside, and the kitchen-door was shut. Mother and child stood alone, each facing the other.
For a minute neither spoke. The tall clock ticked on with loud, slow distinctness; and the afternoon sun streamed in through the lattice window, casting slender, diamond-shaped shadows on the red-brick floor. The purring even of the old cat lying beside the fender came to Joan’s ears, and the shrill chirp of a cricket in the hearth.