When the two women had left, I pulled down the curtains, seated myself in the armchair, lighted my pipe and began to think it over.
I had seen Edna but twice, but, from what had happened, I was able to form a fair idea of her character. She was, in the first place, by no means the equal of Joy's true self. Mentally she was less developed; in some respects, as Joy had said, a mere child. She was inclined to be untidy, full of animal spirits, and constructive, in a mechanical way. She was not fond of animals; not, at least, of the dogs, and the same strain showed itself, I thought, in her prejudice against Leah, as a colored woman. There was something of that lack of charity, also, in the fun she had made of Uncle Jerdon, something of which Joy herself would be incapable. Edna was inclined to be bromic; Joy was indubitably a sulphite. Lastly, there was, I remembered, that hint of—what would I call it?—indiscretion? forwardness?—in the way she had "made up" to me that last evening I spent with her.
Here, perhaps, was a suggestion as to how I might manage her. It was not pleasant; the less so because I must necessarily keep it from both Joy and Leah. From Joy for obvious reasons—I could not think of permitting her to suspect that, even in this other phase, she was in the least lacking in delicacy—from Leah because she was, in her way, finer even than Joy. It would cause her, in fact, the keener suffering to know that any such thing was going on in the house. And yet I could not quite bear to act, even in these circumstances, secretly. The matter had been left to my judgment; but I could not yet make up my mind what was right. It was a choice of two evils, perhaps, but the thought of permitting even the lesser one to obtain troubled me. In a few words, Edna was apparently fond of me. I didn't care to put it any more strongly than that at present, nor to say that I would admit this basis of friendship as a condition in which I could manage her. But the thought was affording. While I was turning over in my mind this phase of the problem Leah came down.
"She fell asleep while I was undressing her," she said, taking a chair drearily. "I have never seen her so absolutely exhausted. She'll sleep late to-morrow; and," she added with a shudder, "she'll not wake up herself."
"Well, then, we'll have to be prepared for Edna," I replied.
"I'm so afraid of to-morrow!" said Leah. "Not for myself, you know, Mr. Castle. I'm willing to endure anything. But if she insists upon my leaving here again, what shall I do? I simply can't leave Miss Joy! What would she ever do without me?"
"I think I can manage it," I said, though, indeed, I was far from being confident. And then, to draw her out more, I added: "What I'm wondering is, if we hadn't better send for Doctor Copin."
"Oh, don't!" she pleaded. "You must take hold of this alone, Mr. Castle. He's been down here several times since you left, and I'm more afraid of him than ever. More, even, than I am of her."
"Why, what has happened?"
"Oh," she cried, "that's just what I don't know. She sent me away usually, and often they were alone together all day. Sometimes they went off on long walks, too."