“No, Joan, no—forgive me, but you must wait. Indeed I did not mean to alarm you; and he must not be startled. But surely you have not thought him so well lately?”
“I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know. If you would only let me go!”
He looked so wonderfully like George Rutherford at that moment—grave and kind, and resolute—that Joan had no power to fight against his will. She stood still, drooping and trembling, yet conscious of a certain comfort in the very touch of those firm hands. But the next moment Leo had withdrawn himself a pace or two, and his manner was different.
“Have you seen your mother, Joan?” he asked seriously, having heard from Dulcibel the object of her expedition.
Joan looked quickly up, with defiant eyes and fleshing cheeks. She dreaded lest Leo should read the pain which his change of manner gave, and she was angry with herself for feeling pain, about that or anything else at such a time—anything except her father’s state.
“Yes, I have seen my mother—if you mean Mrs. Brooke,” she answered recklessly. “And an uncle and aunt into the bargain. A very respectable uncle, not at all bad-mannered, and an aunt, all over flour. I didn’t come across the old grandfather. But perhaps the three were enough for one day. The aunt looks decidedly vixenish.”
“Joan!” Leo said sorrowfully. He could not help it; though he knew, or might have known, that he had himself caused the perverse mood.
“Well?” responded Joan. “You don’t expect me to fall in love with them all on the spot, do you? Everything was very clean—quite polished and shining. I paid my call in the kitchen, and I should think my worthy aunt must be quite an adept at scrubbing. They were so good as to leave me alone for a talk with Mrs. Brooke. It was not a very pleasant interview. She seems to think she has a sort of right over me still, which is absurd. Unless you have any more questions to ask, Leo, I should be glad to go. I want to tell my father all about it—my real father,” Joan added, her hard look suddenly softening into an intense tenderness.
“I must not keep you, of course,” Leo said gravely. “But, Joan, be careful. I do not think my uncle ought to be excited.”
“What did you mean just now—about his being worse?” Joan asked, in her most abrupt manner.