A DISCUSSION
On reflection Lord Athlyne was glad that circumstances had not
allowed him to travel on the _Graphic_ with his new friends. At first
he felt horribly disappointed; as if Fate had in a measure checkmated
him. Had he known that the Ogilvies were to travel on the White Star
boat he could have easily arranged his plans. The voyage would in some
ways--_one_ way--have been delightful. Well he knew that; but as he
should have to keep up his alias he would have been in a perpetual
state of anxiety and humiliation.
This feeling made it easier for him therefore to come to a definite
conclusion regarding his journey home: he would keep to himself, as
far as possible, during the journey and try to get at the earliest
possible moment out of his present humiliating position. Under any
ordinary circumstances he would have gone to Colonel Ogilvie and told
him frankly of the state of matters, relying on his good feeling to
understand and sympathise with his difficulty. Had there been
opportunity for reflection he would have done so; but all was so
hurried at the scene of the accident that there had not been time for
thought. He had accepted of necessity the invitation to dinner. Then,
or before going to the Holland House would have been his chance. But
again the Colonel meeting him and taking him at once to his family
made present explanation difficult. Dinner finished him. When first on
the Drive he had seen Joy he had thought her a beautiful girl. The act
of rescuing her had made her of the supremest interest to him. But it
was not till he had sat beside her and looked into her eyes that he
felt that love had come. No man could look into those beautiful eyes
and remain untouched. But this man, heart-hungry and naturally
susceptible after some years of campaigning, fell madly in love. His
very soul had gone down into the depths of those unfathomable eyes,
and come back purified and sweetened--like the smoke drawn through the
rosewater of a hookah. Every instant that he sat beside her the spell
grew upon him. Joy was a woman in whom the sex-instinct was very
strong. She was woman all over; type of woman who seems to draw man to
her as the magnet draws the steel. Athlyne was a very masculine person
and therefore peculiarly sensitive to the influence. That deep
thinking young madman who committed suicide at twenty-three, Otto
Weininger, was probably right in that wonderful guess of his as to the
probable solution of the problem of sex. All men and all women,
according to him, have in themselves the cells of both sexes; and the
accredited masculinity or femininity of the individual is determined
by the multiplication and development of these cells. Thus the ideal
man is entirely or almost entirely masculine, and the ideal woman is
entirely or almost entirely feminine. Each individual must have a
preponderance, be it ever so little, of the cells of its own sex; and
the attraction of each individual to the other sex depends upon its
place in the scale between the highest and the lowest grade of sex.
The most masculine man draws the most feminine woman, and _vice
versa_; and so down the scale till close to the border line is the
great mass of persons who, having only development of a few of the
qualities of sex, are easily satisfied to mate with any one. This is
the true principle of selection which is one of the most important of
Nature’s laws; one which holds in the lower as well as in the higher
orders of life, zoological and botanical as well as human. It accounts
for the way in which such a vast number of persons are content to make
marriages and even liaisons, which others, higher strung, are actually
unable to understand.
As yet, of course, Joy being a young woman had not her power
developed. Such an unconscious power takes in the course of its
development its own time. Instinct is a directing principle, and
obedience can be given to it in many different ways. With Joy its
course had been slow, the growth of time alone. Up to now there had
been no disturbing element in her life; most of her years had been
spent in a quiet house in a quiet neighbourhood where there were but
few inhabitants of her own class; and where, therefore, the percentage
of eligible men was small. There was even to her, as there must be to
any girl like her, certain protecting oppositions. She was at once
practical and sentimental, sensuous and dainty. Her taste was her
first line of defence to the attacks of the baser qualities of her own
nature. Nothing could appeal to her thoroughly which did not answer
widely divergent conditions. Aunt Judy had summed her up well in
saying that she would, if she ever fell in love, give herself
absolutely. But it must be the right man to whom she did so give
herself; one who must comply with all the conditions which she had
laid down for herself. A girl of her up-bringing--with a father and
mother who adored her each in special way; with an aunt who
represented impulsive youth all the more actively because she
professed the staidness of age which is without hope; and with no
intimate relationships or friendships of the male kind--had not only a
leaning to, but a conviction of romance as a prime factor of life.
“Life” was to her not that which is, but that which is to be. As the
world of the present, where such thoughts are, is not one which is lit
and coloured by love, the world of the future is the World of Love.
The Fairy Prince who is to bring so much happiness--when he comes--is
no mere casual visitor to feminine childhood. He is as real to the
child’s imagination as the things of her waking life, though his
nodding plume has little in common with the material things which
surround her. As she grows older so does he change form, coming more
into harmony with living fact; till at last in some lofty moment,
whose memory is a treasure for after life, the ideal and the real
merge in one.
To Joy the hour had come. The Prince Charming who had swept across her
path in such heroic fashion was all that she had ever longed for. He
was tall and strong and handsome and brave. He was a gentleman with
all a gentleman’s refined ways. He had taste and daintiness, though
they were expressed in masculine ways. He too had love and passion.
How could she not know it who had seen--had felt--his soul sink into
the deeps of her eyes, where mermaid-like her own soul peeping from
behind the foliage of the deep had smiled on him to lead him on. How
could she forget that strong arm which was thrown around her waist and
which tore her from her saddle just in time to save her from a
horrible death. How could she forget the seconds when she hung on to
him for life, her arms clasped around his neck.
Whilst he was beside her at dinner she was in an ecstasy. Every fibre
of her being quivered in response to his. And yet, such is the
influence of teaching and convention, all this did not detract from
her outward calm. When the ladies had left the table she had gone out
with her arm round Aunt Judy’s waist as was the convention of the
time, and her smile had not lost its frank geniality. But in very
truth she did not feel like smiling. She would have given anything to
have stolen away to her own room and have lain on her bed, face down,
and have thought, and thought, and thought. The whole thing had come
on her so suddenly. Even the little preparation which she had had at
the auction--the beautiful horse and the fine-looking masterful man
who had bought him--did not seem to count. As he had swept past her in
the Drive, man and horse seen singly seemed superb; but together a
dream. Still there was nothing to fix it in her mind. There needs some
personal quality to fix a dream; just as the painter requires a
mordant to hold his colours to the canvas. But such luxury of thought
would have to be postponed. It would come, of course--later in the
night when there would be loneliness and silence. So she had to
contain herself, and wait.
When “Mr. Hardy” came back to the drawing-room arm in arm with her
father her heart thrilled. It seemed like a promise of hope if not
hope itself. Aunt Judy, ever watchful, saw and understood. To her
seeing eyes and understanding nature there was no mistaking the
meaning of the girl’s unconscious pantomime--those impulsive
expressions of thought made through the nerves: the eager half turning
of the ear to catch the sound of the opening of the dining room door
and the passing of the feet in the passage way; the uplifting of the
head as the drawing-room door began to open; the glad look in the eyes
and the quick intake of the breath as she saw the attitude of the two
men, each to the other.
As he came in Athlyne looked at her; a look that seemed to lay any
ghost of a doubt in her mind. She was glad when he went straight
across the room and began to talk with her mother. She was content to
wait till when, having done his social duties, he would find his way
to her. Mrs. Ogilvie had much to say and detained him, Judy thought,
unduly; but Joy gave no possible sign of impatience. When in due
course he spoke a few words to Judy herself that estimable young lady
managed to find something to say to her sister.
When the guest was at last beside her in her corner of the room Joy
felt that all was right and becoming. No matter how willing a woman
may be to take steps to the accomplishment of her own wishes, it is an
added pleasure to her when she is the objective of man rather than his
pursuer. Even the placid pussy-cat when her thoughts tend to
flirtation runs--slowly--from her mate until she sees that he notices
her going. Then she stops and sings to him--in her own manner of
music--as he approaches.
The two young people did not use many words in their speech; such
seemed inadequate for what they had to say. Suffice it that what they
did say was thoroughly understood.
Athlyne did not prolong his stay, much as he would have enjoyed
staying. He felt that it would be better, in every way, if he did not
enforce his first opportunity. Mrs. Ogilvie very graciously hoped that
he would manage to make them a visit before sailing. Joy said
nothing--in words. He had a little conversation with Colonel Ogilvie
who was standing away from the rest and leaning on the chimney piece.
When he had gone Joy said good-night to them all; she felt that at
present she _could_ not talk the little commonplaces of affectionate
life; and she could not bear to hear “him” discussed. If that acute
reasoner on causes and effects in the female mind, Aunt Judy, had been
able to permeate her heart and brain she would at once have understood
that simple way of accepting a man’s personality--simulacrum. What
need is there to differentiate when there is but one. Names are given
as aids to memory; and at times memory ceases to be an important
matter.
The next evening after dinner “Mr. Hardy” became the subject of
conversation, and Joy was not comfortable. She knew that there must be
divergent views regarding any one, and was content to let them all
have their own opinions. She had hers. Indeed she would not have been
wholly content to hear him praised even up to the perfection which she
allowed him. He was by far too personal a possession of her own to
share even community of feeling regarding him with any one.
In the night that had passed her own feeling had grown, multiplied;
the feelings of the others had changed too, but in a different way.
The glamour which had become for her intensified had for them been
lost in the exactness of perspective. Perhaps it was that Joy’s night
had been different from theirs. To her had come all the evils of
reaction. Now and again with wearing recurrency came the exciting
memories of the day; but always with that kaleidoscopic inconsistency
which is the condition of dreaming. The brains of most people are not
accustomed to self-analysis, else we should perhaps more widely
understand that this very inconsistency is mere reproduction. Whilst
we think we do not think that we are thinking, and memory does not
adjust our thoughts to comparison. But, all the time, our thoughts are
really errant; reflections of the night, which seem to be
exaggerations or caricatures, are but just surveys taken from an
altitude which is not our own. In the day time thought is too often
initiated by carnal or material considerations. Selfishness, and need,
and ambition, and anxiety are bases on which thought is built in
working and waking hours. But in the dark and freedom of the night the
mind borrows the wings of the soul and soars away from the body which
is held down by all its weighty restraints. It is perhaps in such
moments that we realise that passion, however earthly may be its
exciting cause, is in itself an attribute or emanation of the Soul.
Over and over again did Joy live through the mad moments of that ride
towards death. Over and over again did that heroic figure sweep up
beside her out of the great unknown. She began to understand now
whence came her calmness and quickness of apprehension as she realised
his presence--the presence of a man who dominated her--even whose
horse in the easiness of its calm intention outstripped the wildness
of her own maddened steed. Here again the abstract mind was working
truly; the horse had its own proper place in her memories of the
heroic deed. Over and over again did that strong hand and arm seize
her; and over and over again did her body sway to him and yield itself
to the clasp, so that at his command it went to him as though of its
own volition. And then, over and over again, came the remembrance of
the poor mad mare disappearing over the edge; of the sickening crash
from below and the wild scream of agony; of the confused rush and
whirl; of the crowding in of people; of the vista of moving carriages
and crowds down the curve of the road. And then all kept fading away
into a blind half consciousness of the strong arm supporting her and
her wearied head resting on his shoulder. …
This evening Mrs. Ogilvie was very quietly inclined to be tearful. She
too had had a bad night; constant wakings from vague apprehensions,
horrible imaginings of unknown dangers; dread that she could not
localise or specify. Altogether she was upset, something as one is in
the low stage following an attack of hysteria; nervous, weak,
apprehensive, inclined to misunderstand things on the melancholy side.
Colonel Ogilvie was in that state of mind following a high pressure,
which is a masculine reaction. He was very hard to please about
anything. His wife always thought of this nervous and intellectual
condition as “one of Lucius’s humours,” to others she said “the
Colonel is worried about something.” Judy called it: “one of his
tantrums.” This however did not affect his manner, outwardly. At such
times he was perhaps even more precise than usual in his observance of
the little etiquettes and courtesies of social life. It had perhaps
been unfortunate that his household was exclusively female, for want
of opposition rather encouraged the tendency. In his club or amongst
men such irritation or ill feeling as he had found more outward
expression; and the need to keep himself so that standard of personal
hearing which his own self esteem had set, perpetually recalled him to
himself. But at home, this, though it would not have been possible for
a stranger to find fault with any part of his manner or bearing, still
kept the rest of the family in a sort of hushed self-surrender. Even
Judy the daring kept her natural exuberance in control at such times
and was content to rest in unnoticed quiet. Joy knew well the storm
signals and effaced herself as far as possible; she loved her father
too well and respected him too much to do or say anything which might
cause him disquiet or tend to lower him in his own eyes.
Judy on this as on other occasions maintained a strictly neutral
position. But her wits were keener and her eyes more observant even
than usual on that very account. She did not know the cause of her
brother-in-law’s disturbance, but she understood it all the same. Few
things there are which lead so directly to the elucidation of truth as
a clever, unselfish woman on the watch.
Silence rather than speech was the order of the day, and the talking,
such as it was, began with Colonel Ogilvie. Men when they are carrying
out a settled intention or policy can be more silent than women; their
nerves are stronger and their nature more fixed. But in the casual
matters of life they are children in the hands of women. Here were
three women, all of them clever, all of them attached to the man and
all respecting him; but they had only to remain neutral, each in her
individual way, and let him overcome the _vis inertia_ as well as he
could. He could not but be aware that the subject of the guest of last
evening had been tacitly avoided. He had been conscious of such in his
own case, and with the egotism which was so marked a part of his own
character he took it for granted that the avoidance was with the
others due to the same cause as with himself. It was therefore with
something like complacency--if such a thing could be synchronous with
irritability, even if one of the two be in a latent condition--that he
began on the deferred subject:
“I am afraid that our guest last night did not enjoy himself!” There
was silence for a few seconds. Then each of the three listeners,
feeling that some remark must be made by some one, spoke suddenly and
simultaneously:
“Why, Lucius, what do you mean?”
“You surprise me, Colonel!”
“Is that so, Daddy!”
He waited deliberately before saying more; he had been thinking over
the subject and knew what he wanted to say. Then he spoke with an air
of settled conviction:
“Yes, my dear!” He spoke to Joy alone, and thus, to all three,
unconsciously gave away his purpose. “I thought so at the time, and
to-day, whenever I have considered the matter, the conviction has
increased.” Mrs. Ogilvie, seeing on her daughter’s face a certain
hardening of the muscles, took it for granted that it was some form of
chagrin; in a protective spirit she tried to make that matter right:
“My dear Lucius, I really cannot see how you arrive at such a
conclusion. It seemed to me that the young man was in rather an
exalted condition of happiness. I could not help noticing the way he
kept looking at Joy. And indeed no wonder after the gallant way he had
saved her life.” She added the last sentence as a subtle way of
reminding her husband that they were all under obligation to the young
gentleman. Moreover there was in her heart as a mother--and all
mothers are the same in this respect--that feeling of pride in her
daughter which demands that all men shall be attracted by her charms.
No matter how detrimental a man may be, nor how determined she is that
his suit shall not be finally successful, a mother considers it the
_duty_ of the young man to love her daughter and desire her.
Joy somehow felt humiliated. It was not merely that she should be the
centre of such a discussion--for, after all, it was through rescuing
her that he was there at all; but she was hurt and disappointed that
this particular man should be discussed in any way. She had seen no
fault in him; nothing to discuss in his conduct or his bearing or his
words or his person. She herself had admired him immensely. He was
somehow different from all the other men she had ever seen. … Then
pride came to her rescue. Not pride for herself, but for him. In her
heart he was her man, and she had to protect his honour; and she would
do so, if necessary. This idea at once schooled her to restraint, and
steeled her to endure. With an unconscious shrug she remained silent.
But Judy’s keen eyes had been on her, and both her natural sympathy
and the experience of her own heart allowed her to interpret pretty
well. She saw that for Joy’s sake--either now or hereafter--some
opposition to the Colonel’s idea was necessary. She had noticed the
settled look--it had not yet become a frown--which came over his face
when his wife spoke of his looking at Joy. In just such moments and on
subjects as this it is that a father’s and a mother’s ideas join
issue. Whilst the mother expects the singling out of the daughter for
devotion, the father’s first impulse is to resent it. Colonel
Ogilvie’s resentment had all his life been habitually expressed with
force and rapidity; even in a tender matter of this kind the habit
unconsciously worked.
“All the more reason, Sarah, for his being candid about himself. For
my own part I can understand one attitude or the other; but certainly
not both at once!”
Joy began to get seriously alarmed. The mere use of her mother’s
formal name was a danger-signal of rare use. By its light she could
realise that her father had what he considered in his own mind to be a
real cause of complaint. She did not like to speak herself; she feared
that just at present it might complicate matters. So she looked over
appealing at Judy, who understood and spoke:
“What two attitudes? I’m afraid I for one, don’t understand. You _are_
talking in riddles to-night!” She spoke in a gay debonair manner so
like her usual self that her brother-in-law was unsuspicious of any
underlying intent of opposition. This was just the opportunity for
which he was waiting. With a sardonic smile he went on, singling out
Joy as before:
“Your mother, my dear, has told us one of them. Perhaps the young man
did look at you. There’s little wonder in that. Were I a young man and
a stranger I should look at you myself; and I would also have looked
at any other man who dared to look at you too. If this is a man’s
attitude he should be more genial--more explicit--more open--less
constrained to her relatives. That my dear Judy,”--he turned to her as
he spoke “is the other attitude.” Mrs. Ogilvie answered--the
conversation to-night was decidedly oblique:
“Really, Colonel, I can’t agree with you. For my own part I thought
his attitude towards her relatives was all that was courteous and
respectful. Certainly to her mother!” She bridled, and Joy grew more
serious. Her mother calling her husband “Colonel” was another
danger-signal; and she knew that if once her father and mother got to
loggerheads over him--“him” was her way of thinking of Mr. Hardy--it
might keep him away from her. She summoned up her courage and said
with all the affectionate raillery which was usually so effective with
her father:
“Daddy dear do you remember Æsop’s fable about the Boy and the
Frogs?”
“I suppose I ought to, little girl; but I’m afraid I have forgotten.
What was it about?”
“The Boys were throwing stones at the Frogs, and when the Frogs
remonstrated the Boys said they were doing it for fun. So the Frogs
answered: ‘It may be fun to you; but it is death to us!’” Colonel
Ogilvie puckered up his eyebrows:
“I remember, now, my dear; but for the life of me I don’t see its
application here.” Joy said with a preternatural demureness:
“It means Daddy, that you are the Boy and I am the Frog!” Her father’s
gravity became intensified:
“That does not help me much, daughter!”
“Well, you see, Daddy, here are you and mother commenting on how a man
looked at me--and--so forth. But you don’t take into consideration the
sensitiveness of a woman’s heart--let alone her vanity. I think you’ve
forgotten that I am not now ‘merely a child emerging into
womanhood’--don’t you remember on the _Cryptic_--but a staid woman to
whose waning attractions everything relating to a man is sacred. One
who looks on man, her possible rescuer from the terrors of old
maidhood with the desperation of accomplished years.” As she had
spoken unthinkingly the word “rescuer” a hot tide of blood had rushed
to her face, but she went bravely on to the end of her sentence. There
was not one of the three who did not understand the meaning. Her
mother and aunt were concerned at the self-betrayal. Her father’s face
grew fixed, now to sternness. With a faint heart Joy felt that she had
made a terrible mistake, and inwardly condemned herself for its
foolishness. Colonel Ogilvie now went on with grave deliberateness, he
was determined that there should be no error regarding his
disapprobation. All the time he was inwardly fuming against Mr. Hardy
whom he held responsible:
“As I was saying, that fellow’s attitude, as it appeared to me, was
wanting in both openness and that confidence which underlies respect.”
Here Joy quivered. Judy, watching her, noticed it and for a moment was
scared. But the girl at once forced herself into calm, and Judy’s
anxiety quite disappeared. She knew that Joy was now quite master of
herself, and would remain so. The Colonel, accepting the dejected
silence as a request to continue, went on:
“Of course there is no need for me to say that he is a very gallant
fellow and a superb horseman, and that his manners are those of a
polished gentleman. Nor, further still, that I and mine are under a
deep debt of gratitude to him. But there are some things which a man
can do, or what is worse which he can leave undone, that show
distrust.”
“What things, for instance?” It was Judy who asked the question
falteringly; but it was to Joy that the answer was directed:
“Well, my dear, I shall illustrate. When I, wishing to show that we
all took an interest in him and his surroundings, mentioned Airlville
and spoke of clubs and such matters he did not proffer me any
information. Still, thinking that his reserve might be that usually
attributed to the stand-off-ness of the English as often accepted
here--that it was due to habit rather than intent--I asked him where
he lived in London. He wrote an address on one of his cards--which by
the way has no address graven on it--and handed it to me, saying:
‘That is only a lodging. I have not got a house yet.’ Then I asked
what clubs he belonged to; and he simply said ‘Several’ and began to
ask me questions about what sport we usually have in Kentucky. Now my
dear, I am not usually inquisitive; and as this man was my guest I
could not proceed in face of such a--a snub.” He winced at the word.
“But as I was really anxious that we should see more of one who had
rendered us so signal a service, I expressed a hope that when we were
in England in the summer we might have the pleasure of seeing him. I
am bound to say that he reciprocated the wish very eagerly. He asked
me a host of questions as to our plans; and I told him what we had
arranged about the Lake Country and the Border of which we have such
traditions in our family. He certainly has a very winning way with
him, and I quite forgot at the time his want of trust about his
residence and his clubs!”
“Perhaps he may have no home; he may be a poor man,” suggested Aunt
Judy. The Colonel answered her, this time directly:
“He may not be a rich man, but he is certainly not a poor one. You and
I” this to Joy “saw him pay three thousand for that horse. And he is
free with his money too in other ways. That police sergeant who was
with me this morning--and who, my dear, asked me to convey his
gratitude to you; I gave it for you--told me that the gentleman had
given him on the Viaduct a hundred dollars for himself, and then
another hundred for the officer who was run down.”
“How generous!” said Judy. Joy said nothing; but she leaned forward,
gladness in her eyes. There is some chord in a woman’s heart which
sounds to any touch of generosity or even of liberality. It is some
survival of conditions of primitive life, and a permanent female
attribute. Judy, anxious to propitiate her brother-in-law, and to
preserve the absent man’s character, said as though it were the
conclusion of some process of reasoning:
“He must be some important person who is here on private business.”
Ogilvie smiled genially:
“Our dear Judy will find a romance in everything--even in a man’s
distrust!” Judy, somewhat nettled, felt like defending her own
position. This had nothing to do with Joy so she felt she could argue
freely about it:
“It needn’t be a romance, Lucius, only fact!”
“My dear Judy, I don’t see why a man should give so extravagantly
merely because he is on private business. Why, it is the very way to
attract attention.” Judy was made more obstinate by the apparent
appositeness of the remark and by the tolerant tone of the speaker.
“I don’t mean that he gives _because_ he is on private business,
surely you know that; but that he may be an important man who gives
handsomely as a habit. He may be keeping his identity concealed.”
“How do you mean exactly. How keep his identity concealed? He never
told me; and he has been my guest!” Colonel Ogilvie had a puzzled look
on his face.
“Well, for instance by taking another name for the occasion.
Perhaps--” Here she caught sight of the look of positive horror on
Joy’s face and stopped short. Joy had seen in what direction the
conversation was drifting, but was afraid to interfere lest she should
bring on the very catastrophe which she dreaded. She had never
forgotten her father’s expressions regarding an alias; and she had
reason to fear that should his suspicions be in any way directed
towards the new friend whose accidental acquaintanceship already
promised so much, some evil or hindrance must ensue. But her
hypothetical concern was lost in a real one. As Judy spoke, the
Colonel started to his feet, his manner full of suppressed fury. He
was bristling all over, preliminary of his most dangerous mood.
Joy rose to the occasion. It was now or never. It was apparent that
her father had taken that form of offence which is generally expressed
in idiom or slang. Cornishmen call it a “scunner,” Cockneys “the
hump,” Irishmen “an edge,” Americans “shirty.” It is a condition
antecedent to active offence; a habitat of the germ of
misunderstanding; a searchlight for cause of quarrel. Joy felt cold,
into the very marrow of her bones; well she knew that her father would
never forgive any such offence to him as was implied in an assumed
name. His remarks on the subject flamed before her like fiery
handwriting on the walls of her memory. Moreover Judy’s incautious
remark had but echoed her own thought. All day she had been dreaming
of this man who had plunged so gallantly into her life. Naturally
enough to a young woman, she had been weaving romances in various
forms round that very identity which, even to her, had been
unexpressed if not hidden. Naturally her dreams had in them some
element of concealment; romances always have. She had in her secret
heart taken it for granted that this man must be distinguished--how
could he be otherwise; and now her father’s suspicion might result in
some breach which might result in her never seeing him again. … It
was a possible tragedy! To her, grim and real from her knowledge of
her own heart; and none the less a real tragedy or less potent because
its bounds were lost in the vagueness of mist and fear. … She was
pale and inwardly trembling; but, all the same, her light laugh rang
true; she was desperate and fighting for her man, and so was strung up
to nature’s pitch:
“Why, Daddy, if you’re going to kill anyone it will have to be dear
Aunt Judy. She’s the one who has made the alias. The poor man
himself--who by the way is not here to answer for himself and
explain--hasn’t done any conceivable thing wrong that we know of--even
you Daddy know that; except not having a house and not bragging of his
clubs!”
This seemed to strike her father; it touched him on the point of
Justice. The lightness of his daughter’s laugh reassured him.
“True!” he said. “That is quite true. I was too hasty. And he saved my
little girl’s life!” He rose from the table and putting his arm round
her shoulders kissed her. Then they went into the drawing-room.
Joy bore up bravely for the rest of the evening. But when she was in
bed and assured that she was alone, the reaction came. She was as cold
as a stone and trembled all over. Putting her face down into her
pillow she pulled the sheet over her head and wept her very heart out.
“Oh what it might have been if all went well. But what might be if
Daddy took some queer idea … and quarrelled …!”