'But I decline the honour, Joyce,' said Herring, laughing.
'Will you beat and break me and cast me away, like as did vaither?'
'I beat and hurt you! God forbid, my poor child.'
'Then till you does, I belongs to'y—that's sartain!'
She laid herself down on the cushions with the action and tone of voice that implied the matter was concluded past contradiction.
Here was a state of affairs! A state of affairs sufficiently startling. A few weeks ago John Herring had been his own master, with no one depending on him, and without responsibility. Now he was in a measure responsible for three girls. Mirelle, it is true, had asserted her independence, but she had nevertheless imposed on him obligations. Cicely made no scruple of declaring that she relied on him for direction, not to be got from a father never very dependable, and now enfeebled in mind and body. Joyce now informed him that she had transferred her allegiance to him from her father, and he had seen so far into her dark mind as to perceive that what she said she meant, and what she meant she acted on.
'Here,' said Joyce, 'you put your hand on my elbow.'
'Why on your elbow?'
'I can feel there what I want to feel. My hands be as hard as my feet, and they don't feel much. When I wants to know if the porridge be scalding, or whether I can eat 'n, I don't put a finger in, I put my elbow. Now do as I ax'y. Put your hand there.'
She made Herring place his hand above the splints on the elbow. Then she fixed her eyes on him and asked, 'Wot's her name?'