“I tell you my sister hypnotized her,” Jasper maintained.
As Judy listened to the explanation that her brother drew from Jasper Crosby, she found herself almost believing it. Sarah Glenn’s reaction to Irene’s sudden appearance had been similar to Emily Grimshaw’s, only more pronounced.
Jasper had been the one to open the door. Irene had inquired for her grandmother, but before he could speak the poet herself had rushed forward, almost smothering Irene in a tearful embrace.
“My Joy! My Joy! I knew you would come back.”
Then she had turned to Jasper with accusing eyes. “I told you the child wasn’t dead. Angels don’t die. My darling! Darling!”
Again Irene had submitted to her embrace.
No amount of reasoning could dissuade the old lady from her queer conviction. She had seen her daughter’s dead body, Jasper declared, but in spite of that she claimed this living girl as hers. Irene had answered to the name of Joy, pretended to remember touching little things out of the past, even fondled old playthings to please the poet. Like Golden Girl in the song she, too, had been a princess enthroned in her circular tower. There she had stayed. Jasper brought food, clothing, all the little things that a girl might need. He even moved a bed into the tower room so that she could sleep there. He called her Joy, too, to please his sister and pretended to think that she was the dead Joy Holiday returned.
“But the last few nights,” he continued his narrative, “she caused some trouble. My sister died, very peacefully, with Irene at her bedside. But after that the girl refused to go to her room. She had an obsession that the tower wasn’t safe and refused to sleep there.”
“Well, is it safe?” Peter charged.
“It’s been propped up ever since my sister tried to kill herself and set fire to the house. Sure, it’s safe!”