Part 23 (1/2)

Joy declined to take any of Phyllis' much-needed time, and went off to fill her suitcase. It was not until she had put in almost everything she intended to take that she thought of the wis.h.i.+ng ring again. She looked down at the heavy Oriental carving with what was almost terror. She had wished for something on it, and once more her wish had come true. She was going over to be in the house with John, to see him whenever he was there, to have him--yes, he would have to pretend, at least, that they were lovers, because of his mother. She had as nearly what she had wished for as it was possible for a ring to manage.

”I almost feel as if I had made that poor old lady have the rheumatism,” she thought with a thrill of fear. Then she pulled herself up--that was nonsense.

”But anyway,” Joy told the ring severely, ”I won't touch you when I make wishes after this. I might wish for something in a hurry, and be terribly sorry afterwards.”

But one thing she did wish then, deliberately. She sat back on her heels and clasped her fingers over the heavy carving of it. ”Please, dear wis.h.i.+ng ring, let John be in love with me!” she begged. The next moment she was scarlet at her own foolishness. The ring couldn't do that, if it had belonged to Aladdin himself.

So she went on packing. She was a little afraid and excited, going off to live in the very house with John, but she couldn't help being a little glad. She would see him for hours and hours every day.

”And oh, dear ring,” she whispered, forgetting that she had promised not to wish any more, ”don't let him get tired of having me around!”

She was not quite done when she heard the impatient wail of Mrs.

Hewitt's horn. She stuffed the last things into the heavy suitcase and ran down, dragging it after her.

Phyllis went out to the car with her, kissing her good-by.

”Now mind, this is only a loan,” she told Mrs. Hewitt.

”Nothing of the sort,” retorted Mrs. Hewitt with an air of certainty. ”Good-by, my dear. Give my love to Mrs. De Guenther.

Perhaps when you get back I may give an afternoon tea and allow you to see Joy for a few minutes.”

Phyllis laughed, and patted Mrs. Hewitt's gloved hand where it lay on the steering-wheel.

”Use our place all you like, as usual,” she said in sole reply, ”and don't forget to miss me.”

”That's one of the loveliest girls that ever lived,” said Mrs. Hewitt as they sped away. ”Anybody but Phyllis I _would_ begrudge you to.

Oh, my dear, we're going to have the best time!”

Joy squeezed the hand that should have been, but wasn't, helping the other hand steer. Mrs. Hewitt was so adorably a young girl inside her white-haired stateliness!

”We're going to the next village to buy materials,” she told Joy blithely, ”and then we're going home to make them up, or I am. It won't hurt to get a bit of the trousseau under way, and you know I haven't sewed a thing for my daughter for thirty-four years--not since the wretched child turned out to be John, and I had to take all the pink ribbons out and put in blue!”

Mrs. Hewitt's inconsequent good spirits, somehow, took away some of the dread with which Joy had been looking forward to her sojourn in John's house. She allowed herself to be motored over to the next town, where there was fairly good shopping, and went obediently into the stores. It was not until she saw the lady ordering down for inspection bolts of crepe de Chine and wash satin and glove silk in whites and pinks and flesh-colors, that the full inwardness of the thing dawned on her. For evidently Mrs. Hewitt had every intention of paying for all this opulence, and Joy didn't quite see what to do about it. Nor did the pocket-money her grandfather had given her when she left him warrant her paying for the things herself, even if she used it all.

”Please don't get these things,” she whispered when she found a chance. ”I--I think I oughtn't to.”

”Oughtn't to, indeed,” replied Mrs. Hewitt coolly. ”'n.o.body asked you, sir, she said!' I'm getting them myself. I may be intending to make up a set of wash-satin blankets for the Harrington bulldog for all you know. I don't think he'd be surprised--they treat him like a long-lost relative now. Now be sensible, darling. Do you think valenciennes or filet would be better to trim the blankets? Or do you like these lace and organdy motifs? They'd look charming on a black bulldog.”

Joy laughed in spite of herself.

”There's no doing anything with you,” she said.

”Not a thing!” said the triumphant spoiled child whom the world took for an elderly lady. ”Now we'll get down to business. Would you rather have crepe or satin for camisoles? Half of each would be a good plan, I think, if you have no choice.”

There _wasn't_ any doing anything with Mrs. Hewitt. She was having a gorgeous time, and she carried Joy along with her till the girl was choosing pink and white silks and satins, and patterns to make them by, with as much enthusiasm as if no day of reckoning loomed up, three and a half weeks away.

There was no way out. Of course, she would leave the things behind.

The thought gave her a pang already, for Joy had been dressed by her grandfather's ideas only as far as frocks went. Her grandmother had seen to everything else, and was devoted to a durable material known as longcloth, which one buys by the bolt and uses forever.