The Wishing-Ring Man | Page 6

to her. Grandmother, nearly reassured,
patted Joy's little slim hand with her own little wrinkled one, and
trotted downstairs to tell Grandfather happily that Joy would soon be
down.
Joy, left alone, pulled off the amber robe, and stood before the
wardrobe in her silk slip, pushing along the hangers to try and find
something practical. It was pretty hard. All her gowns were lovely
loose or draped or girdled things: you could have costumed the whole

cast of two Maeterlinck plays from just those hangers. She was very
tired, suddenly, of all of them. At last she found a green dress that was
the delight of her life, even if it was picturesque, because it was such a
nice, cheerful color, put it on, and went down. She had tried to fasten
her hair up as the lover-girl's had been fastened, but hers was so curly
and heavy and alive and long that it couldn't be done. She strapped it in
desperation around her head, wished she had some powder, and dashed
down the long flights of stairs just in time to save herself from a second
summons. She wasn't quite satisfied with her own general effect, but it
would do for a beginning.
So, dreamer as she still was, nevertheless the only thing alight and alive
in the old house, she ran down the staircases, past the statues that stood
severely in the niches at the head of each flight, down finally to the
basement dining-room where the three old people, her grandfather and
grandmother and old Elizabeth, were waiting for her.
They sat at either end of the old mahogany table--that had been Lucilla
Havenith's, too--with supper, plus the sandwiches left over from the tea,
waiting untouched till Joy should come. By the way all three stopped
short when she came in, Joy was sure they had been wondering what
was the matter with her. She sank into her own chair, and took one of
the walnut sandwiches which had been spared by the reception people.
She was still hungry, and proceeded to eat it, at which Mrs. and Mr.
Havenith looked happier.
"You see, Alton, she has an appetite," said Grandmother thankfully.
"Yes, I am glad to see she has," answered Grandfather, as if the
circumstance was gratifying to him also. "I am very much relieved."
Joy felt guilty. When your grandparents were as fond as all that of you,
you really hadn't any right to feel as if you wanted anything else. She
straightened up and smiled gallantly at them, and took another
sandwich by way of proving her health.
"I think I'm all right," she said.

"You were overtired," said Grandmother solicitously--Grandmother,
who had cut all the sandwiches, which Joy had only buttered! "The
day's been oppressive."
So she passed Joy some more of the walnut sandwiches, and smiled to
see that they were being eaten.
"But I am not satisfied, yet," said Grandfather. If Grandfather had only
let well enough--and young girls' whimsies--alone, Joy wouldn't have
been tempted. "What made you rush out that way, Joy--just as I was
finishing the last stanza of the lyric, 'To Joy in Amber Satin,' too? You
couldn't have chosen a worse possible moment. You nearly spoiled the
effect."
Joy threw her head back defiantly. She knew that if Grandmother didn't
understand her appeal, certainly Grandfather wouldn't.
"Grandfather," she said, "do you remember the anecdote you always
tell to small groups of people, the one about the farmer who used to
meet your friend, James Russell Lowell, on his afternoon walk every
day, and say, 'Waal, Mr. Lowell, had a poem yet today?' I had a poem!"
It was a most amazing fish story. Joy hadn't had any such thing as a
poem: nothing at all but a fit of rebellion. But if she wanted to check
her grandfather's inquiries she had taken the most perfect way known to
civilization. He couldn't possibly blame her for bolting if the poem had
to be put down. Nor even for being impolite to Mrs.
Harmsworth-Jones.
"You always say, 'The Muse must out,'" continued Joy defiantly. "Or
would you rather I didn't have any Muse?"
There was only one thing for Grandfather to say, and he said it.
"My dear, if you are really intending to do serious work along that line
nothing should prevent you. I quite understand."
Grandmother looked over at her little girl with a new respect--and

perhaps a new apprehension. One poet in a family is supposed to be
enough, as a rule. And Joy had always been such a good, dear child to
manage.
So no more was said. But Joy wondered if she hadn't let herself in for
something dreadful. Grandfather would certainly expect to see that
poem some day!
Nothing more was said about it for