§ 21
That night some one tapped at the bedroom door of Aunt Phyllis. “Come in,” she cried, slipping into her dressing-gown, and Joan entered. She was still wearing the dress of spangled black in which she had danced with Huntley and Wilmington and Peter. She went to her aunt’s fire in silence and stood over it, thinking.
“You’re having a merry Christmas, little Joan?” said Aunt Phyllis, coming and standing beside her.
“Ever so merry, Auntie. We go it—don’t we?”
Aunt Phyllis looked quickly at the flushed young face beside her, opened her mouth to speak and said nothing. There was a silence, it seemed a long silence, between them. Then Joan asked in a voice that she tried to make offhand, “Auntie. Who was my father?”
Aunt Phyllis was deliberately matter-of-fact. “He was the brother of Dolly—Peter’s mother.”
“Where is he?”
“He was killed by an omnibus near the Elephant and Castle when you were two years old.”
“And my mother?”
“Died three weeks after you were born.”
Joan was wise in sociological literature. “The usual fever, I suppose,” she said.
“Yes,” said Aunt Phyllis.
“Do you know much about her?”
“Very little. Her name was Debenham. Fanny Debenham.”
“Was she pretty?”
“I never saw her. It was Dolly—Peter’s mother—who went to her....”
“So that’s what I am,” said Joan, after a long pause.
“Only we love you. What does it matter? Dear Joan of my heart,” and Aunt Phyllis slipped her arm about the girl’s shoulder.
But Joan stood stiff and intent, not answering her caress.
“I knew—in a way,” she said.
The thought that consumed her insisted upon utterance. “So I’m not Peter’s half-sister,” she said.
“But have you thought——?”
Joan remained purely intellectual. “I’ve thought dozens of things. And I thought at last it was that.... Why was I called Stubland? I’m not a Stubland.”
“It was more convenient. It grew up.”
“It put me out. It has sent me astray....”
She remained for a time taking in this new aspect of things so intently as to be regardless of the watcher beside her. Then she roused herself to mask her extravagant preoccupation. “You’re no relation then of mine?” she said.
“No.”
“You’ve been so kind to me. A mother....”
Aunt Phyllis was weeping facile tears. “Have I been kind, dear? Have I seemed kind? I’ve always wanted to be kind. And I’ve loved you, Joan, my dear. And love you.”
“And Nobby?”
“Nobby too.”
“You’ve been bricks to me, both of you. No end. Aunt Phœbe too. And Peter——? Does Peter know? Does he know what I am?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he knows, Joan.”
“If it hadn’t been for the same surname. Joan Debenham.... I’ve had fancies. I’ve thought Nobby, perhaps, was my father.... Queer!... Why did you people bother yourselves about me?”
“My dear, it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“I suppose it was—for you. You’ve been so decent——”
“Every woman wants a daughter,” said Aunt Phyllis in a whisper, and then almost inaudibly; “you are mine.”
“And the tempers I’ve shown. The trouble I’ve been. All these years. I wonder what Peter knows? He must suspect. He must have ideas.... Joan Debenham—from outside.”
She stood quite still with the red firelight leaping up to light her face, and caressing the graceful lines of her slender form. She stood for a time as still as stone. Had she, after all, a stony heart? Aunt Phyllis stood watching her with a pale, tear-wet, apprehensive face. Then abruptly the girl turned and held out her arms.
“Can I ever thank you?” she cried, with eyes that now glittered with big tears....
Presently Aunt Phyllis was sitting in her chair stroking Joan’s dark hair, and Joan was kneeling, staring intently at some strange vision in the fire. “Do you mind my staying for a time?” she asked. “I want to get used to it. It’s just as though there wasn’t anything—but just here. I’ve lost my aunt—and found a mother.”
“My Joan,” whispered Aunt Phyllis. “My own dear Joan.”
“Always I have thought Peter was my brother—always. My half brother. Until today.”