“Joy,” she said “that terrible experience of Sunday has not told on you a bit. You are looking simply lovely.” Ordinarily Joy would have known it, and would not have shrunk from admitting it to herself, or possibly even to her aunt; but to-day she was full of self doubting. Her very flush of happy excitement when her aunt spoke6 would have betrayed her secret to a much less sympathetic or experienced person than Judy.
It is love more than any other cause or emotion or feeling which creates self-distrust with the young. And sometimes with the old, for the matter of that.
When she found that Aunt Judy did not “chaff” her or ask her questions, which she rather feared would happen, Joy beamed. Indeed it looked to Judy’s loving eyes as if she visibly blossomed. Judy spoke of her dress, remarking how well the dark full-coloured green silk became her slender figure; but she was careful not to overdo7 her praise, or to suggest any special cause for so elaborate a toilet.
But Judy was of a distinctly practical nature. She took care to send a message to the hall that if any visitors should come, though both Colonel and Mrs. Ogilvie were out, Miss Ogilvie and Miss Hayes were at home.
Athlyne found both ladies busily idle. Joy was reading a novel; which by the way she put down hurriedly without as Judy noticed, marking the place. Judy was knitting; that sort of heavy uninteresting knitting which is manifestly for the poor! She was used to say that such was the proper sort of occupation for an old maid. She, too, put down the cause of her occupation, but deliberately8; thereby9 giving time for the guest to salute10 her niece without the need of interruption. It did not matter, then, if Joy’s hand did remain an instant longer in his than formality demanded, nor if—when released—it was white in patches as when extra force is applied11 to delicate flesh. For a few minutes Judy joined in the conversation with her usual brilliancy. But to-day she was distinctly restless, sitting down and jumping up again; moving out of the room quietly and coming back noisily—the proper way as she said on an after occasion for all old maids to move. Whenever she came back she would join in the conversation in a sort of butterfly fashion till she flitted away again.
In one of these trios when Mr. Hardy happened to remark that he would like to know what the movements of the Ogilvies would be, and what address they gave for letters when they were away, Joy answered:
“Daddy always has our letters sent to Brown Shipleys in Pall12 Mall. But we shall be moving about a good deal I expect. Mother has to take baths at Ischia again, and one of us will stay with her; but Daddy wants to go about a bit and see something of England. He is set on seeing the Border counties this summer.”
“Then how am I to know where you are?” he asked impulsively13. With a bright smile Joy nodded over to Miss Hayes:
“You had better ask Aunt Judy. She might keep you advised. She’s the letter-writer of the family!”
When in her turn Joy had moved away on some little domestic duty he turned to Judy and said:
“Won’t you let me know the moves on the board, Miss Hayes. It would be very kind of you.” He looked so earnest over it that she felt her heart flutter. She said at once:
“Of course I shall, if you will let me have an address to write to.” He had evidently thought over this part of the matter, for he took from his pocketbook a card on which he had written below his printed name: care Jonathan Goldsworth, Solicitor14. 47B Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, W. C. “That will always find me. I may be away or travelling; but my letters are sent on every day.”
Judy thanked him, and seeing that Joy was out of earshot added on her own account:
“It is only right that you, who did so much for my dear niece—and so for us all—should know at least where she is.”
“Thank you very, very much!” said Athlyne impulsively. He had all an Irishman’s instinctive15 knowledge of woman’s character and felt that Judy was to be trusted, that she was heart-wholly devoted16 to her niece. On her part Judy knew that he could be trusted to the full, especially where Joy was concerned. And from that moment she began to take an interest in the love affair; an interest quite personal to herself and independent of her love for the girl. She felt that she was a participant in all schemes which were to be; and that, she came to the conclusion, was about all the real romance that an old maid could share in. “Thank God there’s that left at any rate!” was her prayer of gratitude17.
Athlyne felt a powerful impulse to make a confidante of her. This was the first chance he had of disclosing the reality of things, and he was just about to begin when Joy returned. Once again did that self-distrust, incidental to his state of mind, cramp18 him. He fancied that it might be premature19. Not knowing how deeply Joy cared for him already, he was unwilling20 to take any chance which might militate against his ultimate success. There was also another hampering21 feeling coincident with the self-distrust: he thought it might be possible that a confidence made to Judy might be embarrassing to her with her own folk. Already his devotion was deep enough and pure enough to prevent his doing intentionally22 anything which might cause her pain. Could Aunt Judy have looked into his heart, as she could and would have done had he been a woman, she would have been satisfied of the genuineness of his affection; and so she would have had no doubts at all as to the end of Joy’s love affair.
Joy’s return, however, brought somehow a sense of restraint. She had herself originated or initiated23 a mechanism24 of correspondence and she feared that Mr. Hardy might notice that she had done so. In her present state of feeling towards the man, the very idea of such a thing was fraught25 with humiliation26. It is extraordinary how much people take to heart the belief on the part of others of that they have intended. Truth, truly, is a bright weapon; even the flash of it has its own terrors!
Judy did not comprehend exactly what the trouble was. She could see that there was restraint on both sides, and was wondering whether it had been possible that he had been speaking too impulsively—“going too quick” was the way she put it to herself—and that Joy had resented or feared it. Not the fact but the rapidity. Well Judy knew that in her youth a woman most holds back when the wildest desire of her heart is to rush forward; that the instinct of woman being to draw man on, she will spend the last ounce of her strength in pushing him back. Judy had once said:
“A woman wants a man to be master, and specially5 to be her master. She wants to feel that when it comes to a struggle she hasn’t got a chance with him, either to fight or to run away. That’s why we like to make a man follow when in truth we are dying to run after him—and to catch him up!” Some of her circle to whom the heterodox saying had been repeated professed27 to be very indignant as well as horrified28. This was chiefly noticeable in such of the most elderly of the good ladies as had a lurid29 past or a large family, or both.
If, however, Judy had any doubts as to the cause she had none whatever of the fact. There was no mistaking the droop30 of Joy’s eyes, or the sudden lifting and quick dropping of the lids which makes the densest31 man’s heart flutter; no mistaking his eager look; the glowing eyes ranging over face and form when the windows of her soul were closed, and entranced in their light when they were open. Judy herself knew the power of those gray, deep eyes. Even when her niece had been a baby there seemed something hypnotic about them. They could disarm32 anger, or change the iron of theory into the water of fact. Often and often after some such episode when she had thought the matter over she had said to herself:
“Lord! if she’s like that as a baby with me, what will she be with a man when she’s a woman!” Judy who was a self-observer knew instinctively33 that in Joy was an inherent influence over men. There was some very subtle, delicate force which seemed to emanate34 from her; some force at once compelling and tranquillizing, for the explanation of which mere35 will-power was insufficient36. The power was now in active exercise; but it was turned inwards. Joy was in love! Judy knew it as well as if she had herself acknowledged it; indeed better, for the acknowledgment of such a secret, except to the man himself, is given with reserve. And so she made up her mind to further the affair; but to prevent Joy betraying herself unduly37 during such furtherance. By “unduly” Judy really meant “unwisely” as to ultimate and most complete efficacy.
She had an idea that Joy herself would approve, at present, of such discretion. It seemed a direct confirmation38 of such idea when presently the girl said to her in a faint whisper:
“Don’t go away again Aunt Judy!”
When, however, in the course of conversation as the three sat chatting together happily, Mr. Hardy mentioned that his ship sailed in the early morning and she saw the colour leave the girl’s cheeks for a moment, just as a white squall sweeps a sunlit sea, Judy’s heart softened39. She understood that retreating wave of colour. Nature has its own analogies to its own anomalies; there is a white blackbird, why not a white blush! So when the time drew near for the departure of the visitor Judy slipped away for a minute. When she had gone the two sat still. Athlyne’s eyes were on Joy, eager, burning. Her eyes were down, the black lashes40 curling against her cheeks. In a voice rather husky he said in a low tone:
“Won’t you think of me sometimes till we meet again?” Her answer was given in what she wished to be a matter-of-fact tone, but the slight quaver in it told another story:
“Of course I shall! How can I help it? You saved my life!” There was an entrancing demureness42 in the downcast eyes. But it was not enough for the man. He wanted to see the eyes, to gaze in them, to lose himself in them once again. There is for each individual nature some
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