“How DARE you?” he said, with terrible emphasis on the word DARE. “Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself in my apartment till I send for you.”
“And then,” said Judy, leaving the room, “I am not in the least likely to be otherwise engaged.”
“I am very sorry, uncle,” began Miss Oldcastle.
But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behind him. So Miss Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid the ruins.
She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled in return.
“I assure you,” she said, “uncle is not a bit like himself.”
“And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him no good,—only made him more irritable,” I said. “But he will be sorry when he comes to himself, and so we must take the reversion of his repentance now, and think nothing more of the matter than if he had already said he was sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not be too hard upon my unfortunate neighbour.”
“Thank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged to you for taking my uncle’s part. He has been very good to me; and that dear Judy is provoking sometimes. I am afraid I help to spoil her; but you would hardly believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she is to me—with all her waywardness.”
“I think I understand Judy,” I replied; “and I shall be more mistaken than I am willing to confess I have ever been before, if she does not turn out a very fine woman. The marvel to me is that with all the various influences amongst which she is placed here, she is not really, not seriously, spoiled after all. I assure you I have the greatest regard for, as well as confidence in, my friend Judy.”
Ethelwyn—Miss Oldcastle, I should say—gave me such a pleased look that I was well recompensed—if justice should ever talk of recompense—for my defence of her niece.