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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3c7a1b2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69137 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69137) diff --git a/old/69137-0.txt b/old/69137-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3ca97c5..0000000 --- a/old/69137-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14207 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The unlit lamp, by Marguerite -Radclyffe-Hall - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The unlit lamp - -Author: Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall - -Release Date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69137] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by - Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNLIT LAMP *** - - - THE UNLIT LAMP - - - - - By - - RADCLYFFE HALL - - - - - _Author of - "Poems of the Past and Present," "Songs of Three Counties - and other Poems," "The Forgotten Island," - "The Forge._" - - - - - "And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost - Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin." - - "_The Statue and the Bust_" - (_Browning_). - - - - - CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD - - London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne - - First Published 1924 - - - - -CONTENTS -_BOOK I_ -CHAPTER ONE -CHAPTER TWO -CHAPTER THREE -CHAPTER FOUR -CHAPTER FIVE -CHAPTER SIX -CHAPTER SEVEN -CHAPTER EIGHT -CHAPTER NINE -_BOOK II_ -CHAPTER TEN -CHAPTER ELEVEN -CHAPTER TWELVE -CHAPTER THIRTEEN -CHAPTER FOURTEEN -CHAPTER FIFTEEN -CHAPTER SIXTEEN -CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -_BOOK III_ -CHAPTER NINETEEN -CHAPTER TWENTY -CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE -CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE -CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -_BOOK IV_ -CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE -CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX -CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN -CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT -CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE -CHAPTER THIRTY -CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE -CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO -CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE -CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR -CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE -CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX -CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN -CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT -CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE -CHAPTER FORTY -_BOOK V_ -CHAPTER FORTY-ONE -CHAPTER FORTY-TWO -CHAPTER FORTY-THREE -CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR -CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE -CHAPTER FORTY-SIX -CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN -CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT -CHAPTER FORTY-NINE -CHAPTER FIFTY - - - - -To - -MABEL VERONICA BATTEN -in deep affection, gratitude -and respect. - - - - -_All the Characters represented in -this book are purely imaginary._ - - - - -THE UNLIT LAMP - - - - -_BOOK I_ - - - - -CHAPTER ONE - - -1 - - -THE dining-room at Leaside was also Colonel Ogden's study. It contained, -in addition to the mahogany sideboard with ornamental brackets at the -back, the three-tier dumb waiter and the dining-table with chairs _en -suite_, a large roll-top desk much battered and ink-stained, and -bleached by the suns of many Indian summers. There was also a leather -arm-chair with a depression in the seat, a pipe-rack and some tins of -tobacco. All of which gave one to understand that the presence of the -master of the house brooded continually over the family meals and over -the room itself in the intervals between. And lest this should be -doubted, there was Colonel Ogden's photograph in uniform that hung over -the fireplace; an enlargement showing the colonel seated in a tent at -his writing-table, his native servant at his elbow. The colonel's face -looked sternly into the camera, his pen was poised for the final word, -authority personified. The smell of the colonel's pipes, past and -present, hung in the air, and together with the general suggestion of -food and newspapers, produced an odour that became the very spirit of -the room. In after years the children had only to close their eyes and -think of their father to recapture the smell of the dining-room at -Leaside. - -Colonel Ogden looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. He pushed back -his chair from the breakfast table, a signal for the family to have done -with eating. - -He sank into his arm-chair with a sigh; he was fifty-five and somewhat -stout. His small, twinkling eyes scanned the columns of _The Times_ as -if in search of something to pounce on. Presently he had it. - -"Mary." - -"Yes, dear." - -"Have you seen this advertisement of the Army and Navy?" - -"Which one, dear?" - -"The provision department. Surely we are paying more than this for -bacon?" - -He extended the paper towards his wife; his hand shook a little, his -face became very slightly suffused. Mrs. Ogden glanced at the paper; -then she lied quickly. - -"Oh, no, my love, ours is twopence cheaper." - -"Oh!" said Colonel Ogden. "Kindly ring the bell." - -Mrs. Ogden obeyed. She was a small woman, pale and pensive looking; her -neat hair, well netted, was touched with grey, her soft brown eyes were -large and appealing, but there were lines about her mouth that suggested -something different, irritable lines that drew the corners of the lips -down a little. The maid came in; Colonel Ogden smiled coldly. "The -grocer's book, please," he said. - -Mrs. Ogden quailed; it was unfortunately the one day of all the seven -when the grocer's book would be in the house. - -"What for, James?" she asked. - -Colonel Ogden caught the nervous tremor in her voice, and his smile -deepened. He did not answer, and presently the servant returned book in -hand. Colonel Ogden took it, and with the precision born of long -practice turned up the required entry. - -"Mary! Be good enough to examine this item." - -She did so and was silent. - -"If," said Colonel Ogden in a bitter voice, "if you took a little more -trouble, Mary, to consider my interests, if you took the trouble to -ascertain what we _are_ paying for things, there would be less for me to -worry about, less waste of money, less----" He gasped a little and -pressed his left side, glancing at his wife as he did so. - -"Don't get excited, James, I beg; do remember your heart." - -The colonel leant back in the chair. "I dislike unnecessary waste, -Mary." - -"Yes, dear, of course. I wonder I didn't see that notice; I shall write -for some of their bacon to-day and countermand the piece from -Goodridge's. I'll go and do it now--or would you like me to give you -your tabloids?" - -"Thanks, no," said the colonel briefly. - -"Do the children disturb you? Shall they go upstairs?" - -He got up heavily. "No, I'm going to the club." - -Something like a sigh of relief breathed through the room; the two -children eyed each other, and Milly, the younger, made a secret face. -She was a slim child with her mother's brown eyes. Her long yellow hair -hung in curls down her back; she looked fragile and elfish; some people -thought her pretty. Colonel Ogden did; she was her father's favourite. - -There were two years between the sisters; Milly was ten, Joan twelve. -They were poles apart in disposition as in appearance. Everything that -Milly felt she voiced instantly; almost everything that Joan felt she -did not voice. She was a silent, patient child as a rule, but could, -under great provocation, display a stubborn will that could not be coped -with, a reasoning power that paralysed her mother and infuriated Colonel -Ogden. It was not temper exactly; Joan was never tearful, never violent, -only coldly logical and self-assured and firm. You might lock her in her -bedroom and tell her to ask God to make her a good child, but as likely -as not she would refuse to say she was sorry in the end. Once she had -remarked that her prayers had gone unanswered, and after this she was -never again exhorted to pray for grace. - -It was what she considered injustice that roused the devil in Joan. When -the cat had been turned out to fend for itself during the summer -holidays, when a servant had been dismissed at a moment's notice for -some trifling misdemeanour, these and such-like incidents, which were -fortunately of rare occurrence, had been known to produce in Joan the -mood that her mother almost feared. Then it was that Joan had spoken her -mind, and had remained impenitent until finally accorded the forgiveness -she had not asked for. - -Joan was large-boned and tall for her age, lanky as a boy, with a pale -face and short black hair. Her grey eyes were not large and not at all -appealing, but they were set well apart; they were intelligent and -frank. She escaped being plain by the skin of her teeth; she would have -been plain had her face not been redeemed by a short, straight nose and -a beautiful mouth. Somehow her mouth reassured you. - -They had cut her thick hair during scarlet fever, and Joan refused to -allow it to grow again. She invariably found scissors and snipped and -snipped, and Mrs. Ogden's resistance broke down at the final act of -defiance, when she was discovered hacking at her hair with a pen-knife. - - - - -2 - - -As the front door slammed behind Colonel Ogden the sisters smiled at -each other. Mrs. Ogden had gone to countermand the local bacon, and they -were alone. - -"Rot!" said Joan firmly. - -"What is?" asked Milly. - -"The bacon row." - -"Oh, how dare you!" cried Milly in a voice of rapture. "Supposing you -were heard!" - -"There's no one to hear me--anyhow, it is rot!" - -Milly danced. "You'll catch it if mother hears you!" Her fair curls -bobbed as she skipped round the room. - -"Mind that cup," warned Joan. - -But it was too late; the cup fell crashing to the floor. Just then Mrs. -Ogden came in. - -"Who broke that cup?" - -There was silence. - -"Well?" she waited. - -Milly caught Joan's eye. Joan saw the appeal in that look. "I--I----" -Milly began. - -"It was my fault," said Joan calmly. - -"Then you ought to be more careful, especially when you know how your -father values this breakfast set. Really it's too bad; what will he say? -What possessed you, Joan?" - -Mrs. Ogden put her hand up to her head wearily, glancing at Joan as she -did so. Joan was so quick to respond to the appeal of illness. Mrs. -Ogden would not have admitted to herself how much she longed for this -quick response and sympathy. She, who for years had been the giver, she -who had ministered to a man with heart disease, she who had become a -veritable reservoir of soothing phrases, solicitous actions, tabloids, -hot stoups and general restoratives. There were times, growing more -frequent of late, when she longed, yes, longed to break down utterly, to -become bedridden, to be waited upon hand and foot, to have arresting -symptoms of her own, any number of them. - -India, the great vampire, had not wrecked her, for she was wiry; her -little frame could withstand what her husband's bulk had failed to -endure. Mrs. Ogden was a strong woman. She did not look robust, however; -this she knew and appreciated. Her pathetic eyes were sunken and -somewhat dim, her nose, short and straight like Joan's, looked pinched, -and her drooping mouth was pale. All this Mrs. Ogden knew, and she used -it as her stock-in-trade with her elder daughter. There were days when -the desire to produce an effect upon someone became a positive craving. -She would listen for Joan's footsteps on the stairs, and then assume an -attitude, head back against the couch, hand pressed to eyes. Sometimes -there were silent tears hastily hidden after Joan had seen, or the -short, dry cough so like her brother Henry's. Henry had died of -consumption. Then, as Joan's eyes would grow troubled, and the quick: -"Oh, Mother darling, aren't you well?" would burst from her lips, Mrs. -Ogden's conscience would smite her. But in spite of herself she would -invariably answer: "It's nothing, dearest; only my cough," or "It's only -my head, Joan; it's been very painful lately." - -Then Joan's strong, young arms would comfort and soothe, and her firm -lips grope until they found her mother's; and Mrs. Ogden would feel mean -and ashamed but guiltily happy, as if a lover held her. - -And so, when in addition to the fuss about the bacon, a cup of the -valued breakfast set lay shattered on the floor, Mrs. Ogden felt, on -this summer morning, that life had become overpowering and that a -headache, real or assumed, would be the relief she so badly needed. - -"It's very hard," she began tremulously. "I'm quite tired out; I don't -feel able to face things to-day. I do think, my dear, that you might -have been more careful!" Tears brimmed up in her soft brown eyes and she -went hastily to the window. - -"Oh, darling, don't cry." Joan was beside her in an instant. "I am -sorry, darling, look at me; I will be careful. How much will it cost? A -new one, I mean. I've still got half of Aunt Ann's birthday money; I'll -get a cup to match, only please don't cry." - -The slight gruffness that was characteristic of her voice grew more -pronounced in her emotion. - -Mrs. Ogden drew her daughter to her; the gesture was full of soft, -compelling strength. - -"It's a shame!" - -"What is, dear?" said Mrs. Ogden, suddenly attentive. - -"Father!" cried Joan defiantly. - -"Hush, hush, darling." - -"But it is; he bullies you." - -"No, dear, don't say such things; your father has a weak heart." - -"But you're ill, too, and Father's heart isn't always as bad as he makes -out. This morning----" - -"Hush, Joan, you mustn't. I know I'm not strong, but we must never let -him know that I sometimes feel ill." - -"He ought to know it!" - -"But, Joan, you were so frightened when he had that attack last -Christmas." - -"That was a real one," said Joan decidedly. - -"Oh well, dearest--but never mind, I'm all right again now--run away, my -lamb. Miss Rodney must have come; it's past lesson time." - -"Are you sure you're all right?" said Joan doubtfully. - -Mrs. Ogden leant back in the chair and gazed pensively out of the -window. "My little Joan," she murmured. - -Joan trembled, a great tenderness took hold of her. She stooped and -kissed her mother's hand lingeringly. - -But as the sisters stood in the hall outside, Joan looked even paler -than usual, her face was a little pinched, and there was a curious -expression in her eyes. - -"Oh, Joan, it was jolly of you," Milly began. - -Joan pushed her roughly. "You're a poor thing, Milly." - -"What's that?" - -"What you are, a selfish little pig!" - -"But----" - -"You haven't got any guts." - -"What are guts?" - -"What Alice's young man says a Marine ought to have." - -"I don't want them then," said Milly proudly. - -"Well, you ought to want them; you never _do_ own up You _are_ a poor -thing!" - - - - -CHAPTER TWO - - -1 - - -SEABOURNE-ON-SEA was small and select. The Ogdens' house in Seabourne -was small but not particularly select, for it had once been let out in -apartments. The landlord now accepted a reduced rent for the sake of -getting the colonel and his family as tenants. He was old-fashioned and -clung to the gentry. - -In 1880 the Ogdens had left India hurriedly on account of Colonel -Ogden's health. When Milly was a baby and Joan three years old, the -family had turned their backs on the pleasant luxury of Indian life. -Home they had come to England and a pension, Colonel Ogden morose and -chafing at the useless years ahead; Mrs. Ogden a pretty woman, wide-eyed -and melancholy after all the partings, especially after one parting -which her virtue would have rendered inevitable in any case. - -They had gone to rooms somewhere in Bayswater; the cooking was -execrable, the house dirty. Mrs. Ogden, used to the easy Indian service -and her own comfortable bungalow, found it well-nigh impossible to make -the best of things; she fretted. That winter there had been bad fogs -which resulted in a severe heart attack for Colonel Ogden. The doctor -advised a house by the sea, and mentioned Seabourne as having a suitable -climate. The result was: Leaside, The Crescent, Seabourne. There they -had been for nearly nine years and there they were likely to remain, in -spite of Colonel Ogden's grumbling and Mrs. Ogden's nerves. For Leaside -was cheap and the air suited Colonel Ogden's heart; anyhow there was no -money to move, and nowhere in particular to go if they could move. - -Of course there was Blumfield. Mrs. Ogden's sister Ann had married the -now Bishop of Blumfield, but the Blanes were, or so the Ogdens thought, -never quite sincere when they urged them to move nearer to them. They -decided not to try crumb-gathering at the rich man's table in Blumfield. - -It was her children's education that now worried Mrs. Ogden most. Not -that she cared very much what they learnt; her fetish was how and where -they learnt it. She had been a Routledge before her marriage, a fact -which haunted her day and night. "Poor as rats, and silly proud as -peacocks," someone had once described them. "We Routledges"--"The -Routledges never do that"--"The Routledges never do this!" - -Round and round like squirrels in a cage, treading the wheel of their -useless tradition, living beyond their limited means, occasionally -stooping to accept a Government job, but usually finding all work _infra -dig_. Living on their friends, which somehow was not _infra dig._, -soothing their pride by recounting among themselves and to all who would -listen the deeds of valour of one Admiral Sir William Routledge, said to -have been Nelson's darling--hanging their admiral's picture with laurel -wreaths on the anniversary of some bygone battle and never failing to -ask their friends to tea on that occasion--such were the Routledges of -Chesham, and such, in spite of many reverses, had Mary Ogden remained. - -True, Chesham had been sold up, and the admiral's portrait by Romney -bought by the docile Bishop of Blumfield at the request of his wife Ann. -True, Ann and Mary had been left penniless when their father, Captain -Routledge, died of lung hæmorrhage in India. True, Ann had been glad -enough to marry her bishop, then a humble chaplain, while Mary followed -suit with Major Ogden of The Buffs. True, their brother Henry had failed -to distinguish himself in any way and had bequeathed nothing to his -family but heavy liabilities when his haemorrhage removed him in the -nick of time--true, all true, and more than true, but they were still -Routledges! And Admiral Sir William still got his laurel wreaths on the -anniversary of the battle. He had moved from the decaying walls of -Chesham to the substantial walls of the bishop's palace, and perhaps he -secretly liked the change--Ann his descendant did. In the humbler -drawing-room at Leaside he received like homage; for there, in a -conspicuous position, hung a print of the famous portrait, and every -year when the great day came round, Mary, his other descendant, -dutifully placed her smaller laurel wreath round the frame, and asked -her friends to tea as tradition demanded. - -"Once a Routledge always a Routledge," Mrs. Ogden was fond of saying on -such occasions. And if the colonel happened to feel in a good temper he -would murmur, "Fine old chap, Sir William; looks well in his laurels, -Mary. Who did you say was coming in this afternoon?" But if on the other -hand his heart had been troubling him, he might turn away with a -scornful grunt. Then Mary, the ever tactless, would query, "Doesn't it -look nice then, dear?" And once, only once, the colonel had said, "Oh, -hell!" - -The school at Seabourne was not for the Routledge clan, for to it went -the offspring of the local tradespeople. Colonel Ogden was inclined to -think that beggars couldn't be choosers, but Mary was firm. Weak in all -else, she was a flint when her family pride was involved, a -knight-errant bearing on high the somewhat tattered banner of Routledge. -The colonel gave way; he would always have given way before a direct -attack, but his wife had never guessed this. Even while she raised her -spiritual battle-cry she thought of his weak heart and her conscience -smote her, yet she risked even the colonel's heart on that occasion; -Joan and Milly must be educated at home. The Routledges never sent their -girls to school! - - - - -2 - - -In the end, it was Colonel Ogden who solved the difficulty. He -frequented the stiff little club house on the esplanade, and in this -most unlikely place he heard of a governess. - -Every weekday morning you could see him in the window. _The Times_ held -in front of him like a shield, his teeth clenched on his favourite pipe; -a truculent figure, an imperial figure, bristling with an authority that -there were now none to dispute. - -Into the club would presently saunter old Admiral Bourne who lived at -Glory Point, a lonely man with a passion for breeding fancy mice. He had -a trick of pulling up short in the middle of the room, and peering over -his spectacles with his pleasant blue eyes as if in search of someone. -He was in search of someone, of some tolerant fellow member who would -not be too obviously bored at the domestic vagaries of the mice, who -constantly disappointed their owner by coming into the world the wrong -colour. If Admiral Bourne could be said to have an ambition, then that -ambition was to breed a mouse that should eclipse all previous records. - -Other members would begin to collect, Sir Robert Loo of Moor Park, whose -shooting provided the only alternative to golf for the male population -of Seabourne. There was Major Boyle, languid and malarial, with a -doleful mind, especially in politics; and Mr. Pearson, the bank manager, -who had found his way into the club when its funds were alarmingly low, -and had been bitterly resented ever since. Then there was Mr. Rodney the -solicitor, and last but not least, General Brooke, Colonel Ogden's hated -rival. - -General Brooke looked like Colonel Ogden, that was the trouble; they -were often mistaken for each other in the street. They were both under -middle height, stout, with grey hair and small blue eyes, they both wore -their moustaches clipped very short, and they both had auxiliary -whiskers in their ears. Added to this they both wore red neckties and -loose, light home-spuns, and they both had wives who knitted their -waistcoats from wool bought at the local shop. They both wore brown -boots with rubber studded soles, and, worst of all, they both wore brown -Homburg hats, so that their backs looked exactly alike when they were -out walking. The situation was aggravated by the fact that neither could -accuse the other of imitation. To be sure General Brooke had lived in -Seabourne eighteen months longer than Colonel Ogden and had never been -seen in any other type of garments; but then, when Colonel Ogden had -arrived in his startling replicas, his clothes had been obviously old -and had certainly been worn quite as long as the general's. - -It was Mr. Rodney, the solicitor, who offered Colonel Ogden a solution -to his wife's educational difficulties. Mr. Rodney, it seemed, had a -sister just down from Cambridge. She had come to Seabourne to keep house -for him, but she wanted to get some work, and he thought she would -probably be glad to teach the Ogdens' little girls for a few hours every -day. The colonel engaged Elizabeth Rodney forthwith. - - - - -CHAPTER THREE - - -1 - - -THE schoolroom at Leaside was dreary. You came through the front door -into a narrow passage covered with brown linoleum and decorated with -trophies from Indian bazaars. On one side stood a black carved wood -table bearing a Benares tray used for visiting cards, beside the table -stood an elephant's foot, adapted to take umbrellas. To your right was -the drawing-room, to your left the dining-room, facing you were the -stairs carpeted in faded green Brussels. If you continued down the -passage and passed the kitchen door, you came to the schoolroom. Leaside -was a sunny house, so that the schoolroom took you by surprise; it was -an unpleasant room, always a little damp, as the walls testified. - -It was spring and the gloom of the room was somewhat dispelled by the -bright bunch of daffodils which Elizabeth had brought with her for the -table. At this table she sat with her two pupils; there was silence -except for the scratching of pens. Elizabeth Rodney leant back in her -chair; what light there was from the window slanted on to her strong -brown hair that waved persistently around her ears. Her eyes looked -inattentive, or rather as if their attention were riveted on something a -long way away; her fine, long hands were idly folded in her lap; she had -a trick of folding her hands in her lap. She was so neat that it made -you uncomfortable, so spotless that it made you feel dirty, yet there -was something in the set of her calm mouth that made you doubtful. Calm -it certainly was, and yet ... one could not help wondering.... - -Just now she looked discouraged; she sighed. - -"Finished!" said Joan, passing over her copy-book. Elizabeth examined -it. "That's all right." - -Milly toiled, the pen blotted, tears filled her eyes, one fell and made -the blot run. - -"Four and ten and fifteen and seven, that makes----" - -"Thirty-six," said Elizabeth. "Now we'll go out." - -They got up and put away the books. Outside, the March wind blew -briskly, the sea glared so that it hurt your eyes, and around the coast -the white cliffs curved low and distinct. - -"Let's go up there," said Elizabeth, pointing to the cliffs. - -"Joan, Joan!" called Mrs. Ogden from the drawing-room window, "where is -your hat?" - -"Oh, not to-day, Mother. I like the feel of the wind in my hair." - -"Nonsense, come in and get your hat." - -Joan sighed. "I suppose I must," she said. "You two go on, I'll catch -you up." She ran in and snatched a tam-o'-shanter from the hall table. - -"Don't forget my knitting wool, dear." - -"No, Mother, but we were going on to the downs." - -"The downs to-day? Why, you'll be blown away!" - -"Oh, no, Miss Rodney and I love wind." - -"Well, as you come home, then." - -"All right. Good-bye, Mother." - -"Good-bye, darling." - - - - -2 - - -Joan ran after the retreating figures. "Here I am," she said -breathlessly. "Is it Cone Head or the Golf Course?" - -"Cone Head to-day," replied Elizabeth. - -There was something in her voice that attracted Joan's attention, a -decision, a kind of defiance that seemed out of place. It was as if she -had said: "I _will_ go to Cone Head, I want to get out of this beastly -place, to get up above it and forget it." Joan eyed her curiously. To -Milly she was just the governess who gave you sums and always, except -when in such a mood as to-day, saw that you did them; but to Joan she -was a human being. To Milly she was "Miss Rodney," to Joan, privately at -all events, "Elizabeth." They walked on in silence. - -Milly began to lag. "I'm tired to-day, let's go into the arcade." - -"Why?" demanded Joan. - -"Because I like the shops." - -"We don't," said Joan. Milly lagged more obviously. - -"Come, Milly, walk properly, please," said Elizabeth. - -They had passed the High Street by now and were trudging up the long -white road to Cone Head. Over the point the wind raged furiously, it -snatched at their skirts and undid Milly's curls. - -"Oh! oh!" she gasped. - -Elizabeth laughed, but her laughter was caught up and blown away before -it could reach the children; Joan only knew that she was laughing by her -open mouth. - -"It's glorious!" shouted Joan. "I want to hit it back!" - -Elizabeth battled her way towards an overhanging rock. "Sit here," she -motioned; the rock sheltered them, and now they could hear themselves -speak. - -"This is hateful," said Milly. "When I'm famous I shall never do this -sort of thing." - -"Oh, Miss Rodney," exclaimed Joan, "look at that sail!" - -"I have been looking at it ever since we sat down--I think I should like -to be under it." - -"Yes, going, going, going, you don't know and you don't care where--just -anywhere, so long as it isn't here." - -"Already?" Elizabeth murmured. - -"Already what?" - -"Nothing. Did I say already?" - -"Yes." - -"Then I was thinking aloud." - -She looked at the child curiously; she had taught the girls now for -about two years, yet she was not even beginning to understand Joan. -Milly was reading made easy. Delicate, spoilt by her father and entirely -self-centred; yet she was a good enough child as children go, easier far -to manage than the elder girl. Milly was not stupid either. She played -the violin astonishingly well for a girl of ten. Elizabeth knew that the -little man who taught her thought that she had genius. Milly was easy -enough, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Elizabeth suspected that -she'd always get it. Milly wanted music and more music. When she played -her face ceased to look fretful, it became attentive, animated, almost -beautiful. This then was Milly's problem, solved already; music, -applause, admiration, Elizabeth could see it all, but Joan?--Joan -intrigued her. - -Joan was so quiet, so reserved, so strong. Strong, yes, that was the -right word, strong and protective. She loved stray cats and starving -dogs and fledgelings that had tumbled out of their nests, such things -made her cry; stray cats, starving dogs, fledgelings and Mrs. Ogden. -Elizabeth laughed inwardly. Mrs. Ogden was so exactly like a lost -fledgeling, with her hopeless look and her big eyes; she was also rather -like a starving dog. Elizabeth paused just here to consider. Starving, -what for? She shuddered. Had Mrs. Ogden always been so hungry? She was -positively ravenous, you could feel it about her, her hunger came at you -and made you feel embarrassed. Poor woman, poor woman, poor Joan--why -poor Joan? She was brilliant; Elizabeth sighed; she herself had never -been brilliant, only a very capable turner of sods. Joan was quietly, -persistently brilliant; no flash, no sparks, just a steady, glowing -light. Joan at twelve was a splendid pupil; she thought too. When you -could make her talk she said things that arrested. Joan would go--where -would she go? To Oxford or Cambridge probably; no matter where she went -she would made her mark--Elizabeth was proud of Joan. She glanced at her -pupil sideways and sighed again. Joan worried her, Mrs. Ogden worried -her, they worried her separately and collectively. They were so -different, so antagonistic, these two, and yet so curiously drawn -together. - -Elizabeth roused Joan sharply: "Come on, it's late! It's nearly tea -time." They hurried down the hill. - -"I must get that wool at Spink's," said Joan. - -"What wool?" - -"Mother's--for her knitting." - -"Won't to-morrow do?" - -"No." - -"But it's at the other end of the town." - -"Never mind, you and Milly go home. I'll just go on and fetch it." - -They parted at the front door. - -"Don't be long," Elizabeth called after her. - -Joan waved her hand. Half an hour later she was back with the wool. In -the hall Mrs. Ogden met her. - -"My darling!" - -"Here it is, Mother." - -"But, my darling, it's not the same thickness!" - -"Not the same----" Joan was tired. - -"It won't do at all, dearest, you must ask for double Berlin." - -"But I did!" - -"Then they must change it. Oh, dear; and I wanted to get that waistcoat -finished and put away to-night; it only requires such a little wee bit -of wool!" Mrs. Ogden sighed. - -Her face became suddenly very sad. Joan did not think that it could be -the wool that had saddened her. - -"What is it, Mother?" - -"Nothing, Joan----" - -"Oh, yes, you're unhappy, darling; I'll go and change the wool before -lessons to-morrow." - -"It's not the wool, dear, it's---- Never mind, run and get your tea." -They kissed. - -In the schoolroom Joan relapsed into silence; she looked almost morose. -Her short, thick hair fell angrily over her eyes--Elizabeth watched her -covertly. - - - - -CHAPTER FOUR - - -1 - - -THE five months between March and August passed uneventfully, as they -always did at Seabourne. Joan was a little taller, Milly a little -fatter, Mrs. Ogden a little more nervous and Colonel Ogden a little more -breathless; nearly everything that happened at Leaside happened -"little," so Joan thought. - -But on this particular August morning, the usual order was, or should -have been, reversed. One was expecting confusion, hurry and triumph, for -to-day was sacred to the memory of Admiral Sir William Routledge, -gallant officer and Nelson's darling. To-day was the day of days; it was -Mrs. Ogden's day; it was Joan's and Milly's day--a little of it might be -said to be Colonel Ogden's day, but very little. For upon this glorious -Anniversary Mrs. Ogden rose as a phoenix from its ashes. She rose, she -grew, she asserted herself, she dictated; she was Routledge. The colonel -might grunt, might sneer, might even swear; the over-worked servants -might give notice, Mrs. Ogden accepted it all with the calm indifference -befitting one whose ancestor had fought under Nelson. Oh, it was a -wonderful day! - -But this year a cloud, at first no larger than a man's hand, had floated -towards Mrs. Ogden before she got up. She woke with the feeling of -elation that properly belonged to the occasion, yet the elation was not -quite perfect. What was it that oppressed her, that somehow took the -edge off the delight? She sat up in bed and thought. Ah! She had it! -Assuredly this was the longed-for Anniversary, but--it was also Book -Day, Wednesday and Book Day! Could anything be more unjust, more -unbearable? Here she had waited a whole year for this, her one moment of -triumph, and it had come on Book Day. Ruined--spoilt--utterly spoilt and -ruined--the thing she dreaded most was upon her; the household books -would be waiting on her desk to be tackled directly after breakfast, to -be gone over and added up, and then met somehow out of an almost -vanished allowance; it was scandalous! We Routledges! She leapt out of -bed. - -"What the devil is it?" asked Colonel Ogden irritably. - -Mrs. Ogden began to hurry. She pattered round the room like a terrier on -a scent; garments fell from her nerveless fingers, the hair-brush -clattered on to the floor. She eyed her husband in a scared way; her -conscience smote her, she had felt too tired to use proper economy last -week. The books, the books, the books, what would they come to? She -began cleaning her teeth. Colonel Ogden watched her languidly from the -bed. His red, puffy face looked ridiculous against the pillow; a little -smile lifted his moustache. She turned and saw him, and stopped with the -tooth-brush half way to her mouth. She felt suddenly disgusted and -outraged and shy. In a flash her mind took in the room. There on the -chair lay his loose, shabby garments, some of them natural coloured -Jaeger. And then his cholera belt! It hung limply suspended over the arm -of the chair, like the wraith of a concertina. On the table by his side -of the bed lay a half-smoked pipe. His bath sponge was elbowing her as -she washed; his masculine personality pervaded everything; the room -reeked of it. - -She went on cleaning her teeth mechanically, taking great care to do as -her dentist bade her--up and down and then across and get the brush well -back in your mouth; that was the way to preserve your teeth. Up and down -and then across--disgusting! What she was doing was ugly and detestable. -Why should he lie in the bed and smile? Why should he be in the bed at -all--why should he be in the room at all? Why hadn't they taken a house -with an extra bedroom, or at least with a room large enough for two -beds? What was he doing there now? He ought not to be there _now_; that -sort of thing was all very well for the young--but for people of their -age! The repellent familiarities! - -She gathered her dressing-gown more tightly around her; she felt like a -virgin whose privacy has suffered a rude intrusion. Turning, she made to -leave the room. - -"Where are you going, Mary?" Colonel Ogden sat up. - -"To have my bath." - -"But I haven't shaved yet." - -"You can wait until I have had _my_ bath." - -She heard herself and marvelled. Would the heavens fall? Would the -ground open and swallow her up? She hurried away before her courage -failed. - -In the bath-room she slipped the bolt and turned the key, and sighed a -sigh of relief. Alone--she was alone. She turned on the water. A -reckless daring seized her; let the hot water run, let it run until the -bath was full to the brim; for once she would have an injuriously hot -bath; she would wallow in it, stay in it, take her time. She never got -enough hot water; now she would take it _all_--let his bath be tepid for -once, let him wait on her convenience, let him come thumping at the -door, coarse, overbearing, foolish creature! - -What a life--and this was marriage! She thought of Colonel Ogden, of his -stertorous breathing, his habits; he had a way of lunging over on to her -side of the bed in his sleep, and when he woke in the morning his face -was a mass of grey stubble. Why had she never thought of all these -things before? She _had_ thought of them, but somehow she had never let -the thoughts come out; now that she had ceased to sit on them they -sprang up like so many jacks-in-the-box. - -And yet, after all, her James was no worse than other men; better, she -supposed, in many respects. She believed he had been faithful to her; -there was something in that. Certainly he had loved her once--if that -sort of thing was love--but that was a long time ago. As she lay -luxuriously in the brimming bath her thoughts went back. Things had been -different in India. Joan had been born in India. Joan was thirteen now; -she would soon be growing up--there were signs already. Joan so quiet, -so reserved--Joan married, a year, five years of happiness perhaps and -then this, or something very like it. Never! Joan should never marry. -Milly, yes, but she could not tolerate the thought of it for Joan. Joan -would just go on loving her; it would be the perfect relationship, -Mother and Child. - -"Mary!" - -"What is it?" - -"Are you going to stay there all day?" The handle of the door was -rattled violently. - -"Please don't do that, James; I'm still in my bath." - -"The devil you are!" Colonel Ogden whistled softly. Then he remembered -the date and smiled. "Poor old Mary, such a damned snob, poor dear--oh -well! We Routledges!" - - - - -2 - - -Breakfast was late. How could it be otherwise? Had not Mrs. Ogden sat in -the bath for at least half an hour? There had been no hot water when at -last Colonel Ogden got into the bath-room, and a kettle had had to be -boiled. All this had taken time. Milly and Joan watched their mother -apprehensively. Joan scented a breakdown in the near offing, for Mrs. -Ogden's hands were trembling. - -"Your father's breakfast, Joan; for heaven's sake ring the bell!" - -Joan rang it. "The master's breakfast, Alice?" - -"The kidneys aren't done." - -"Why not, Alice?" - -"There 'asn't been time!" - -"Nonsense, make haste. The colonel will be down in a minute." - -Alice banged the door, and Mrs. Ogden's eyes filled. Her courage had all -run away with the bath water. She had been through hell, she told -herself melodramatically; she had at last seen things as they were. -Thump--thump and then thump--thump--that was James putting on -his boots! Oh, where was the breakfast! Where were James's special -dishes, the kidneys and the curried eggs; what _was_ Alice doing? -Thump--thump--there it was again! She clasped her hands in an agony. - -"Joan, Joan, do go and see about breakfast." - -"It's all right, Mother, here it is." - -"Put it on the hot plate quickly--now the toast. Children, -make your father's toast--don't burn it whatever you do!" -Thump--thump--thump--that was three thumps and there ought to be four; -would James never make the fourth thump? She thought she would go mad if -he left off at three. Ah! There it was, that was the fourth thump; now -surely he must be coming. The toast was made; it would get cold and -flabby. James hated it flabby. If they put it in the grate it would get -hard; James hated it hard. Where was James? - -"Children, put the toast in the grate; no, don't--wait a minute." - -Now there was another sound; that was James blowing his nose. He must be -coming down, then, for he always blew his nose on his soiled pocket -handkerchief with just that sound, before he took his clean one. What -was that--something broken! - -"Joan, go and see what Alice has smashed. Oh! I hope it's not the new -breakfast dish, the fire-proof one!" - -Thump, thump, on the stairs this time; James was coming down at last. - -"Joan, never mind about going to the kitchen; stay here and see to your -father's breakfast." - -The door opened and Colonel Ogden came in. He was very quiet, a bad -sign; there was blood from a scratch on his chin, to which a pellet of -cotton wool adhered. - -"Coffee, dear?" - -"Naturally. By the way, Mary, you'll oblige me by leaving a teacupful of -hot water for me to shave with another time." He felt his scratch -carefully. - -"Joan, get your father the kidneys. Will you begin with kidneys or -curried eggs?" - -"Kidneys. By the way, Mary, I don't pay a servant to smear my brown -boots with pea soup; I pay her to clean them--to clean them, do you -hear? To clean them properly." The calm with which he had entered the -room was fast disappearing; his voice rose. - -"James, dear, don't excite yourself." - -The colonel cut a kidney viciously; as he did so, tell-tale stains -appeared on the plate. - -"Damn it all, Mary! Do you think I'm a cannibal?" - -"Oh, James!" - -"Oh James, oh James! It's sickening, Mary. No hot water, not even to -shave with, and now raw kidneys; disgusting! You know how I hate my food -underdone. Damn it all, Mary, I don't run a household for this sort of -thing! Give me the eggs!" - -"Joan, fetch your father the eggs!" - -"What's the matter with the toast, Mary? It's stone cold!" - -"You came down so late, dear." - -"I didn't get into the bath-room until twenty minutes past eight. I -can't eat this toast." - -"Joan, make your father some fresh toast; be quick, dear, and Milly, -take the kidneys to Ellen and ask her to grill them a little more. Now, -James, here's some nice hot coffee." - -"Sit down!" thundered the colonel. - -Joan and Milly sat down hastily. "Keep quiet; you get on my nerves, -darting about all round the table. Upon my word, Mary, the children -haven't touched their breakfast!" - -"But, James----" - -"That's enough I say; eat your bacon, Milly. Joan, stop shuffling your -feet." - -Milly, her face blotched with nervousness, attempted to spear the cold -and stiffening bacon; it jumped off her fork on to the cloth as though -possessed of a malicious life energy. Colonel Ogden's eyes bulged with -irritation, and he thumped the table. - -"Upon my word, Mary, the children have the table manners of Hottentots." - -Now by all the laws of the Medes and Persians, Mrs. Ogden, on this Day -of Days, should have remained calm and disdainful. But to-day had begun -badly. There had been that little cloud which had grown and grown until -it became the household books; it was over her now, enveloping her. She -could not see through it, she could not collect her forces. "We -Routledges!" It didn't ring true, it was like a blast blown on a cracked -trumpet. She prayed fervently for self-control, but she knew that she -prayed in vain. Her throat ached, she was going fast, slipping through -her own fingers with surprising rapidity. - -Colonel Ogden began again: "Well, upon my----" - -"Don't, don't!" shrieked Mrs. Ogden hysterically. "Don't say it again, -James. I can't bear it!" - -"Well, upon my word----" - -"There! You've said it! Oh, Oh, Oh!" She suddenly covered her face with -her table napkin and burst into loud sobs. - -Colonel Ogden was speechless. Then he turned a little pale, his heart -thumped. - -"Mary, for heaven's sake!" - -"I can't help it, James! I can't, I can't!" - -"But, Mary, my dear!" - -"Don't touch me, leave me alone!" - -"Oh, all right; but I say, Mary, don't do this!" - -"I wish I were dead!" - -"Mary!" - -"Yes I do, I wish I were dead and out of it all!" - -"Nonsense--rubbish!" - -"You'll be sorry when I am dead!" - -He stretched out a plump hand and laid it on her shoulder. - -"Go away, James!" - -"Oh, all right! Joan, look after your mother, she don't seem well." He -left the room, and they heard the front door bang after him. - -Mrs. Ogden looked over the table napkin. "Has he gone, Joan?" - -"Yes, Mother. Oh, you poor darling!" They clung together. - -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes; then she poured out some coffee and drank it. - -"I'm better now, dear." She smiled cheerfully. - -And she was better. As she rose from the table the dark cloud lifted, -she saw clearly once more; saw the Routledge banner streaming in the -breeze. - -"And now for those tiresome books," she said almost gaily. She went away -to the drawing-room and Joan collapsed; she felt sick, scenes always -upset her. - -She thought: "I wish I could hide my head in a table napkin and cry like -Mother did." Then she thought: "I wonder how Mother manages it. I -wouldn't have cried, I'd have hit him!" - -She could not eat. In the drawing-room she heard her mother humming, -yes, actually humming over the books! - -"That's all right," thought Joan, "they must be nice and cheap this -week, that's a comfort anyhow." - -Presently Mrs. Ogden looked into the dining-room. - -"Joan!" - -"Yes, Mother?" - -"No lessons to-day, dear." - -"No, Mother." - -"Come and help me to place the wreath." - -They fetched it, carrying it between them; a laurel wreath large enough -to cover the frame of the admiral's picture. - -"Tell Alice to bring the steps, Joan. Now, dear, you hold them while I -get up. How does it look?" - -"Lovely, Mother." - -"Joan, never forget that half of you is Routledge. Never forget, my -dear, that the best blood in your veins comes from my side of the -family. Never forget who you are, Joan; it helps one a great deal in -life to have something like that to cling to, something to hold on to -when the dark days come." - - - - -3 - - -All day long the house hummed like a beehive. There was no luncheon; the -children snatched some bread and butter in the kitchen, and if Mrs. -Ogden ate at all, she was not observed to do so. Colonel Ogden, wise -man, had remained at the club. Alice, her mouth surreptitiously full, -hastened here and there with dust-brushes and buckets; Milly begged to -do the flowers, and cut her finger; Joan manfully polished the plate, -while Mrs. Ogden, authoritative and dignified, reviewed her household as -the colonel had once reviewed his regiment. - -Presently Alice was ordered to hasten away and dress. "And," said Mrs. -Ogden, "let me find your cap and apron spotless, if you please, Alice." - -At last Joan and Milly went upstairs to put on their white cashmere -smocks, and Mrs. Ogden, left to herself, took stock of the preparations. -Yes, it was all in order, the trestle table hired from Binnings', -together with the stout waiter, had both arrived, so had the coffee and -tea urns and the extra cups and saucers. On the sideboard stood an array -of silver. Cups won at polo by Colonel Ogden, a silver tray bearing the -arms of Routledge, salvage this from the family wreck, and numerous -articles in Indian silver, embossed with Buddhas and elephants' heads. -The table groaned with viands, the centre piece being a large sugar cake -crowned with a frigate in full sail. This speciality Binnings was able -to produce every year; the cake was fresh, of course, but not the -frigate. - -But the drawing-room--that was what counted most. The drawing-room on -what Mrs. Ogden called "Anniversary Day" was, in every sense of the -word, a shrine. Within its precincts dwelt the image of the god, the -trophies of his earthly career set out about him, and Mary, his -handmaiden, in attendance to wreathe his effigy with garlands. - -Poor old Admiral Sir William, a good fellow by all accounts, an honest -sailor and a loyal friend in his day. Possibly less Routledge than his -descendants, certainly, according to his biographer, a man of a retiring -disposition; one wonders what he would have thought of the Ancestor -Worship of which he had all unwittingly become the object. - -But Mary was satisfied. The drawing-room, which always appeared to her -to be a very charming room, was of a good size. The colour scheme was -pink and white, broken by just a splash of yellow here and there where -the white chrysanthemums had run out and had been supplemented by yellow -ones. The wall-paper was white with clusters of pink roses; the curtains -were pink, the furniture was upholstered in pink. The hearth, which was -tiled in turquoise blue, was lavish in brass. Mrs. Ogden drew the -curtains a little more closely together over the windows in order to -subdue the light; then she touched up the flowers, shook out the -cushions for the fifth time and stood in the door to gauge the effect. - -"Now," said Mrs. Ogden mentally, "I am Lady Loo, I am entering the -drawing-room, how does it strike me?" - -The first thing that naturally riveted the attention was the -laurel-wreathed print of Admiral Sir William. What a pity James had been -too poor to buy the painting--for a moment she felt dashed, but this -phase passed quickly, the room looked so nice. The colour, so clean and -dainty, just sufficiently relieved by the blue tiled grate and the -Oriental piano cover; this latter and the Benares vases certainly seemed -to stamp the room as belonging to people who had been in the Service. On -the whole she was glad she had married James and not the bishop. The -flowers too--really Milly had arranged them quite nicely. But what a -pity that it would be too light to light the lamp; still, the shade -certainly caught the eye, she was glad she had taken the plunge and -bought it at that sale. It was very effective, pleated silk with bunches -of artificial iris. Still, she was not sure that a plain shade would not -have looked better after all. When one has so unusually fine a stuffed -python for a standard lamp, one did not wish to detract from it in any -way. She considered the photographs next; there was a goodly assortment -of these in silver frames; she had carefully selected them with a view -to effect. The panel of herself in court dress, that showed up well; -then James in his full regimentals--James looked a trifle stout in his -tunic, still, it all showed that she had not married a nobody. Then that -nice picture of her brother Henry taken with his polo team--poor Henry! -Oh, yes, and the large photograph of the bishop--really rather imposing. -And Chesham--the prints of Chesham on the walls; how dignified the dear -old place looked, very much a gentleman's estate. - -But there was more to come; Mrs. Ogden had purposely left the best to -the last. She drew in her breath. There, on an occasional table, lay the -relics of Admiral Sir William Routledge, gallant officer and Nelson's -darling. In the middle of the table lay his coat and his gloves, across -the coat, his sword. To right and left hung the admiral's decorations -mounted on velvet plaques. In front of the coat lay the oak-framed -remnants of Nelson's letter to the admiral, and in front of this again -the treasured Nelson snuff-box bearing the inscription "From Nelson to -Routledge." - -She paused beside the table, touching the relics one by one with -reverent fingers, smiling as she did so. Then she crossed the room to -where a shabby leather covered arm-chair looked startlingly incongruous -amid its surroundings. Very carefully she lowered herself into the -chair; a small brass plate had been screwed on to the back, bearing the -inscription "Admiral Viscount Nelson of Trafalgar sat in this chair when -staying at Chesham Court with Admiral Sir William Routledge." Mrs. Ogden -spread her thin hands along the slippery arms, and allowed her head to -rest for a moment where supposedly Nelson's head had once rested. The -chair was her special pride and care; perhaps because its antecedents -were doubtful. Colonel Ogden had once reminded her that there never had -been any proof worth mentioning that Nelson had stayed at Chesham, much -less that he had sat in that infernally uncomfortable old chair, and -Mrs. Ogden had retorted hotly that Routledge tradition was good enough -for her. Nevertheless, from that moment the Nelson chair had, she felt, -a special claim upon her. She was like a mother defending the doubtful -legitimacy of a well-loved son; the Nelson chair had been threatened -with a bar sinister. - -She gave the arms a farewell stroke, and rising slowly left the room to -dress. She trod the stairs with dignity, the aloof dignity that belonged -to the occasion, which she would maintain during the rest of the day. -Her lapse from Routledge in the morning but added to her calm as -tea-time approached. - - - - -CHAPTER FIVE - - -1 - - -ADMIRAL BOURNE was the first to arrive. He liked the children, and Milly -sidled up and stood between his knees, certain of her welcome. - -"Pretty hair!" he remarked thoughtfully, stroking her curls, "and how is -Miss Joan getting on? You haven't let your hair grow yet, Miss Joan." - -Joan laughed. "It's more comfortable short," she said. - -"So it is," agreed the admiral. "Capital, capital!" - -"You must come and see my cream mice, dozens of them----" he began. But -at that moment Elizabeth and her brother were announced and Joan hurried -to meet them. She examined Mr. Rodney with a new interest, for now he -was not just father's friend at the club, but he was Elizabeth -Rodney's brother. She thought: "He looks old, old, old, and yet I don't -believe he is very old. His eyes are greenish like Elizabeth's, only -somehow his eyes look timid like Mother's, and Elizabeth's remind me of -the sea. I wonder what makes his back so humped, his coat goes all in -ridges----" Then she suddenly felt very sorry for him, he looked so -dreadfully humble. - -Elizabeth, tall and erect, was dressed in some soft green material; she -appeared a little unnatural to the children, who had grown accustomed to -her tailor-made blouses and skirts. Her strong brown hair was carefully -dressed as usual, but as usual a curl or two sprang away from the -hair-pins, straying over her ears and in the nape of her neck. Elizabeth -was always pale, but to-day she looked very vital; she was conscious of -looking her best, of creating an effect. Then she suddenly wondered -whether Joan liked her dress, but even as she wondered she remembered -that Joan was only thirteen. - -Joan was thinking: "She looks like a tree. Why haven't I noticed before -how exactly like a tree she is; it must be the green dress. But her eyes -are like water, all greeny and shadowy and deep looking--a tree near a -pool, that's what she's like, a tall tree. A beech tree? No, that's too -spready--a larch tree, that's Elizabeth; a larch tree just greening -over." - -The rooms began to fill, and people wandered in and out; it was really -quite like a reception. There was a pleasant babble of conversation. -James had come in; he had said to himself: "Must look in and share the -Mem-Sahib's little triumph--poor Mary!" He really looked quite -distinguished in his grey frock coat and black satin tie. Here were -General and Mrs. Brooke. By common consent the two old war horses buried -their feud on "Anniversary Day." It was: "How are you, Ogden?" - -"Glad to see you, General!" - -They would beam at each other across their black satin ties; after -all--the Service, you know! - -Sir Robert and Lady Loo were shown in; good, that they had arrived when -the rooms were at their fullest. Lady Loo came forward with her vague -toothy smile. She looked like a very old hunter, long in the face, long -in the leg and knobbly, distinctly knobbly. Her dress hung on her like -badly fitting horse-clothing. To her spare bosom a diamond and sapphire -crescent clung with a kind of desperation as if to an insufficient -foothold; you felt that somehow there was not enough to pin it to, that -there never would be enough to pin anything to on Lady Loo. But for all -this there was something nice about her; the kind of niceness that -belongs to old dogs and old horses, and that had never been entirely -absent from Lady Loo. - -As she sat down by Mrs. Ogden, her bright brown eyes looked -inquisitively round the room, resting for an instant on the admiral's -portrait, and then on the relics upon the occasional table. Mrs. Ogden -watched her, secretly triumphant. - -"Dear Lady Loo. How good of you to come to our little gathering. _My_ -Day I call it--very foolish of me--but after all---- Oh, yes, how very -kind of you---- But then, why rob your hothouses for poor little me? You -forgot to bring them? Oh, never mind, it's the thought that counts, is -it not? Your speaking of peaches makes me feel quite homesick for -Chesham--we had such acres of glass at Chesham!--Yes, that is Joan--come -here, Joan dear! Naughty child, she will insist on keeping her hair -short. You think it suits her? Really? Clever? Well--run away, Joan -darling--yes, frankly, very clever, so Miss Rodney thinks. Attractive? -You think so? Now fancy, my husband always thinks Milly is the pretty -one. Shall I ask Joan to recite or shall Milly play first? What do you -think? Joan first, oh, all right--Joan, dear!" - -The dreaded moment had arrived; Joan, shy and awkward, floundered -through her recitation. - -"Capital, capital!" cried Admiral Bourne, who had taken a fancy to her. - -Elizabeth felt hot; why in heaven's name make a fool of Joan like that? -Joan couldn't recite and never would be able to. And then the child's -dress--what possessed Mrs. Ogden to make her wear white? Joan was too -awful in white, it made her skin look yellow. Then the dress was too -short; Joan's dresses always were; and yet she was her mother's -favourite. Curious--perhaps Mrs. Ogden wanted to make her look young; -well, she couldn't keep her a baby for ever. When would Joan begin to -assert her individuality? When she was fifteen, seventeen, perhaps? -Elizabeth felt that she could dress Joan; she ought to wear dark -colours, she knew exactly what she ought to wear. At that moment Joan -came over to her, she was flushed and still looked shy. - -"Beastly rot, that poem!" - -Elizabeth surveyed her: "Oh, Joan, you're so like a colt." And she -laughed. - -Joan wanted to say: "You're like a larch tree that's just greening over, -a tree by the side of a pool." But she was silent. - -The noise of conversation broke out afresh. Milly, longing to be asked -to play, was pretending to adjust the clasp of her violin case. -Elizabeth looked from one child to the other and could not help smiling. -Then she said: "Joan, do you like my dress?" - -"Like it?" Joan stammered; "I think it's beautiful." - -Elizabeth wanted to say, "Do you think me at all beautiful, Joan?" But -something inside her began to laugh at this absurdity, while she said: -"I'm so glad you like it, it was new for to-day." - -"Now, Milly, play for us," came Mrs. Ogden's voice. "Miss Rodney will -accompany you, I'm sure." - -Milly did not blush, she remained cool and pale--small and cool and pale -she stood there in her white cashmere smock, making lovely sounds with -as much ease and confidence as if she had been playing by herself in an -empty room. - -Extraordinary child. She looked almost inspired, coldly inspired--it was -queer. When she had finished playing, her little violin master came out -of the corner in which he had been hidden. - -"Very good--excellent!" he said, patting her shoulder; and Milly smiled -quite placidly. Then she grew excited all of a sudden and skipped around -the room for praise. - -Joan sat beside her mother; very gently she squeezed her hand, looking -up into Mrs. Ogden's face. She saw that it was animated and young, and -the change thrilled her with pleasure. Mrs. Ogden looked down into her -daughter's eyes. She whispered: "Do you like my dress, darling; am I -looking nice?" - -"Lovely, Mother--so awfully pretty!" But Joan thought: "The same thing, -they both wanted to know if I liked their dresses, how funny! But Mother -doesn't look like a tree just greening over--what does Mother look -like?" She could not find a simile and this annoyed her. Mrs. Ogden's -dress was grey, it suited her admirably, falling about her still girlish -figure in long, soft folds. No one could say that Mary Ogden never -looked pretty these days, that was quite certain; for she looked pretty -this afternoon, with the delicate somewhat faded prettiness of a flower -that has been pressed between the pages of a book. Suddenly Joan -thought: "I know--I've got it, Elizabeth is like a tree and Mother's -like a dove, a dove that lights on a tree. No, that won't do, I don't -believe somehow that Mother would like to light on Elizabeth, and I -don't think Elizabeth would like to be lit on. What is she like then?" - -People began to go. "Good-bye, such a charming party." - -"So glad you could come." - -"Good-bye--don't forget that you and Colonel Ogden are lunching with us -next Saturday." - -"No, of course not, so many thanks." - -"Good-bye----" - -"Over at last!" Mrs. Ogden leant back in her chair with a sigh that -bespoke complete satisfaction. She beamed on her husband. - -He smiled. "Went off jolly well, Mary!" He was anxious to make up for -the morning. - -"Yes, it was a great success, I think. Don't you think it went off very -well, James?" - -The colonel twitched; he longed to say: "Damn it all, Mary, haven't I -just told you that I think it went off well!" But he restrained himself. - -Mary continued: "Well, dear, the Routledges always did have a talent for -entertaining. I can remember at Chesham when I was Joan's age----" - - - - -2 - - -Sir Robert and Lady Loo were driving swiftly towards Moor Park behind -their grey cobs. "Talent that youngster has for fiddle playing, Emma!" - -"Yes, I suppose so. The mother's a silly fool of a woman, no more brains -than a chicken, and what a snob!" - -"Ugly monkey, the elder daughter." - -"Joan? Oh, do you think so?" - -"Awful!" - -"Wait and see!" said Lady Loo with a thoughtful smile. - -Elizabeth walked home between her brother and the little violin master; -she was depressed without exactly knowing why. The little violin master -waved his hands. - -"Milly is a genius; I have got a real pupil at last, at last! You wait -and see, she will go far. What tone, what composure for so young a -child?" - -"Joan is like a young colt!" said Elizabeth to herself. "Like a young -colt that somehow isn't playful--Joan is a solemn young colt, a -thoughtful colt, a colt wise beyond its months." And she sighed. - - - - -CHAPTER SIX - - -1 - - -ELIZABETH sat alone in her brother's study. Books lined the walls from -floor to ceiling; Ralph's books and some of her own that she had brought -with her from Cambridge. - -This was Sunday. Ralph had gone to church. "Such a good little man," -thought Elizabeth to herself; but she had not gone to church, she had -pleaded a fictitious cold. Ralph Rodney was still youngish, not more -than forty-five, and doing fairly well in the practice which he had -inherited from his uncle. But there was nothing beyond Seabourne--just -Seabourne, nothing beyond. Ralph would probably live and die neither -richer nor poorer than he was at present; it was a drab outlook. Yet it -was Ralph's own fault, he might have done better, there had been a time -when people thought him clever; he might have started his career in -London. But no, he had thought it his duty to keep on the business at -Seabourne. Elizabeth mused that it must either be that Ralph was very -stupid or very good, she wondered if the terms were synonymous. - -Their life history was quite simple. They had been left orphans when she -was a year old and he was twenty. She had been too young to know -anything about it, and Ralph had never lived much with his parents in -any case. He had been adopted by their father's elder brother when he -was still only a child. After the death of her parents, Elizabeth had -been carried off by a cousin of their mother's, a kind, pleasant woman -who divided her time between Elizabeth and Rescue Work. - -They had been very happy together, and when Elizabeth was twenty and her -cousin had died suddenly, she had felt real regret. Her cousin's death -left her with enough money to go up to Cambridge, and very little to -spare, for the bulk of Miss Wharton's fortune had gone to found -Recreation Homes for Prostitutes, and not having qualified to benefit by -the charity, Elizabeth was obliged to study to earn her living. - -Her brother Ralph she had scarcely seen, he had gone so completely away. -This was only natural; and the arrangement must have suited their -parents very well, for their father had not been an earner and their -mother had never been strong. - -Elizabeth was now twenty-six. The uncle had died eighteen months ago, -leaving Ralph his small fortune and the business. Ralph was a confirmed -bachelor; he had felt lonely after the old man's death, had thought of -his sister and had besought her to take pity on him; there it had begun -and there so far, it had ended. - -Yet it need not have ended as it had done for Ralph, but Ralph was a -sentimentalist. He had loved the old uncle like a son, and had always -made excuses for not cutting adrift from Seabourne. Uncle John was -growing old and needed him in the business; Uncle John was failing--he -had been failing for years, thought Elizabeth bitterly, a selfish, -cranky old man--Uncle John begged Ralph not to leave him, he had a -presentiment that he would not last much longer. Ralph must keep an eye -on the poor old chap. After all, he'd been very decent to him. Ralph -wanted to know where he'd have been without Uncle John. - -Always the same excuses. Had Ralph never wanted a change; had he never -known ambition? Perhaps, but such longings die, they cannot live on a -law practice in Seabourne and an ailing Uncle John; they may prick and -stab for a little while, may even constitute a real torment, but -withstand them long enough and you will have peace, the peace of the -book whose leaves are never turned; the peace of dust and cobwebs. Ralph -was like that now, a book that no one cared to open; he was covered with -dust and cobwebs. - -At forty-five he was old and contented, or if not exactly contented, -then resigned. And he had grown timid, perhaps Uncle John had made him -timid. Uncle John was said to have had a will of his own--no, Elizabeth -was not sure that it was all Uncle John, though he might have -contributed. It was Seabourne that had made Ralph timid; Seabourne that -had nothing beyond. Seabourne was so secure, how could it be otherwise -when it had nothing beyond; whence could any danger menace it? Ralph -clung to Seabourne; he was afraid to go too far lest he should step off -into space, for he too must feel that Seabourne had nothing beyond. -Seabourne had him and Uncle John had him. It was all of a piece with -Uncle John to leave a letter behind him, begging Ralph to keep the old -firm together after he was dead. Sentiment, selfish sentiment. Who cared -what happened to Rodney and Rodney! Even Seabourne wouldn't care much, -there were other solicitors. But Ralph had thought otherwise; the old -man had begged him to stick by the firm, Ralph couldn't go back on him -now. Ralph was humbly grateful; Ralph felt bound. Ralph was resigned -too, that was the worst of it. And yet he had been clever, Elizabeth had -heard it at Cambridge; but Cambridge that should have emancipated him -had only been an episode. Back he had come to Seabourne and Uncle John, -Uncle John much aged by then, and needing him more than ever. - -When they had met at Seabourne, her brother had been a shock to her. His -hair had greyed and so had his skin, and his mind--that had greyed too. -Then why had she stayed? She didn't know. There was something about the -comfortable house that chained you, held you fast. They were velvet -chains, they were plush chains, but they held. - -Then there was Uncle John. Uncle John's portrait looked down from the -dining-room wall--Uncle John young, with white stock and keen eyes. That -Uncle John seemed to point to himself and say: "I was young too, and yet -I never strayed; what was good enough for my father was good enough for -me and ought to be good enough for my nephew and for you, Elizabeth." -Then there was Uncle John's later portrait on the wall of the -study--Uncle John, old, wearing a corded black tie, his eyes rather dim -and appealing, like the eyes of a good old dog. That Uncle John was the -worse of the two; you felt that you could throw a plate at the youthful, -smug, self-assertive Uncle John in the dining-room, but you couldn't -hurt this Uncle John because he seemed to expect you to hurt him. This -Uncle John didn't point to himself, he had nothing to say, but you knew -what he wanted. He wanted to see you living in the old house among the -old things; he wanted to see Ralph at the old desk in the old office. He -needed you; he depended on you, he clung to you softly, persistently; -you couldn't shake him off. He had clung to Ralph like that, softly, -persistently; for latterly the strong will had broken and he had become -very gentle. And now Ralph clung to Elizabeth, and Uncle John clung too, -through Ralph. - -Elizabeth got up. She flung open the window--let the air come in, let -the sea come in! Oh! If a tidal wave would come and wash it all away, -sweep it away; the house, Uncle John and Elizabeth to whom he clung -through Ralph! Tradition! She clenched her hands; damn their tradition; -another name for slavery, an excuse for keeping slaves! What was she -doing with her life? Nothing. Uncle John saw to that. Yes, she was doing -something, she was allowing it to be slowly and surely strangled to -death, soon it would be gone, like a drop squeezed into the reservoir of -Eternity; soon it would be lost for ever and she would still be -alive--and she was so young! A lump rose in her throat; her hopes had -been high--not brilliant, perhaps--still she had done well at Cambridge, -there were posts open to her. - -She might have written, but not at Seabourne. People didn't write at -Seabourne, they borrowed the books that other people had written, from -Mr. Besant of the Circulating Library, and talked foolishly about them -at their afternoon teas, wagging their heads and getting the foreign -names all wrong, if there were any. Oh! She had heard them! And Ralph -would get like that. Get? He was like that already; Ralph had -prejudices, timid ones, but there was strength in their numbers. Ralph -approved and disapproved. Ralph shook his head over Elizabeth's smoking -and nodded it over her needlework. Ralph liked womanly women; well, -Elizabeth liked manly men. If she wasn't a womanly woman, Ralph wasn't a -manly man. Oh, poor little Ralph, what a beast she was! - -What did she want? She had the Ogden children, they were an interest and -they represented her pocket money--if only Joan were older! After all, -better a home with a kind brother at Seabourne than life on a pittance -in London. But something in her strove and rent: "Not better, not -better!" it shouted. "I want to get out, it's I, I, I! I want to live, -I want to get out, let me out I tell you, I want to come out!" - - - - -2 - - -"Elizabeth, dear, how are you?" Her brother had come in quietly behind -her. - -"Better, thank you. You're not wet, are you, Ralph? It's been raining." - -"No, not a bit. I wish you'd been there, Elizabeth. Such a fine sermon." - -"What was the text," she inquired. One always inquired what the text had -been; the question sprang to her lips mechanically. - -"'Cast thy bread upon the waters for thou shalt find it after many -days!' A beautiful text, I think." - -"Yes, very beautiful," Elizabeth agreed. "Curious that being the text -to-day." - -"Why?" he asked her, but his voice lacked interest; he didn't really -want to know. - -She thought: "I suppose I've cast my bread upon the waters, it must be a -long way out at sea by now." Then she began to visualize the bread and -that made her want to laugh. A crust of bread? A fat slice? A thin -slice? Or had she cast away a loaf? Perhaps there were shoals of sprats -standing upright on their tails in the water under the loaf and nibbling -at it, or darting round and round in a circle, snatching and quarrelling -while the loaf bobbed up and down--there were plenty of sprats just off -the coast. Anyhow, her bread must be dreadfully soggy if it had been in -the water for more than two years. "For thou shalt find it after many -days!" Yes, but how many days? And if you did find it, if the sprats -left even a crumb to be washed up on the beach, how would it taste, she -wondered. How many days, how many days, how many Seabourne days, how -many Ralph and Uncle John days; so secure, so decent, so colourless! The -text said, "Many days;" it warned you not to grow impatient, it was like -young Uncle John in the dining-room, taking it for granted that time -didn't count--Uncle John had never been in a hurry. And yet they were -beautiful words; she knew quite well what they meant, she was only -pretending to misunderstand, it was her misplaced sense of humour. - -Ralph had cast his bread upon the waters, and no doubt he expected to -retrieve it on the shores of a better land; if he went hungry meanwhile, -she supposed that was his affair. But perhaps he was expecting a more -speedy return, perhaps when Ralph looked like old Uncle John his bread -would be washed back to him; perhaps that was how it was done. She -paused to consider. Perhaps your bread was returned to you in kind; you -gave of your spirit and body, and you got back spirit and body in your -turn. Not yours, but someone else's. When Ralph was sixty she would be -forty-one; there was still a little sustenance left in you when you were -forty-one, she supposed, though not much. Perhaps she was going to be -Ralph's return for the loaf that had floated away. - -It was all so pigeon-holed and so tidy. She was tidy, she had a tidy -mind, but the mind that had thought out this bread scheme was even more -tidy than hers. The scheme worked in grooves like a cogwheel, clip, -clip, clip, each cog in its appointed place and round and round, always -in a circle. Uncle John and his forbears before him had cast away their -loaves turn by turn; it was the obvious thing to do; it was the -Seabourne thing to do. Father to son, uncle to nephew, brother to -sister; a slight difference in consanguinity but none in spirit. Uncle -John's bread had gone for his father and the firm; Ralph's bread had -gone for Uncle John and the firm, and she supposed that her bread had -gone for Ralph and the firm. But where was her return to come from? In -what manner would she find it, "after many days?" Would the spell be -broken with her? She wondered. - - - - -CHAPTER SEVEN - - -1 - - -IT was a blazing July, nearly a year later. Seabourne, finding at first -a new topic for conversation in the heat wave, very soon wearied of this -rare phenomenon, abandoning itself to exhaustion. - -Colonel Ogden wilted perceptibly but Mrs. Ogden throve. The heat agreed -with her, it made her expand. She looked younger and she felt younger -and said so constantly, and her family tried to feel pleased. Lessons -were a torment in the airless schoolroom; Joan flagged, Milly wept, and -Elizabeth grew desperate. There was nowhere to walk except in the glare. -The turf on the cliffs was as slippery as glass; on the sea-front the -asphalt stuck to your shoes, and the beach was a wilderness peopled by -wilting parents and irritable, mosquito-bitten children. Then, when -things were at their worst at Leaside, there came from out the blue a -very pleasant happening; old Admiral Bourne met the Ogden children out -walking and asked them to tea. - - - - -2 - - -The admiral's house was unique. He had built it after his wife's death; -it had been a hobby and a distraction. Glory Point lay back from the -road that led up to Cone Head, out beyond the town. To the casual -observer the house said little. From the front it looked much as other -houses, a little stronger, a little whiter perhaps, but on the whole not -at all distinctive except for its round windows; and as only the upper -windows could be seen from the road they might easily have been mistaken -for an imitation of the Georgian period. It was not until the house was -skirted to the left and the shrubbery passed that the character of Glory -Point became apparent. - -A narrow path with tall bushes on either side wound zigzag for a little -distance. With every step the sound of the sea came nearer and nearer, -until, at an abrupt angle, the path ceased, and shot you out on to a -cobbled court-yard, and the wide Atlantic lay before you. The path had -been contrived to appear longer than it was in reality, the twists and -turns assisting the illusion; the last thing you expected to find at the -end was what you found; it was very ingenious. - -To the left and in front this court-yard appeared to end in space, and -between you and the void stood apparently nothing but some white painted -posts and chains. But even as you wondered what really lay below, a -sharp spray would come hurtling over the chains and land with a splash -almost at your feet, trickling in and out of the cobbles. Then you -realized that the court-yard was built on a rock that ran sheer down to -the sea. - -At the side of this court-yard stood a fully rigged flagstaff with an -old figure-head nailed to its base. The figure-head gazed out across the -Atlantic, it looked wistful and rather lonely; there was something -pathetic about the thing. It had a grotesque kind of dignity in spite of -its faded and weather-stained paint. The ample female bosoms bulged -beneath the stiff drapery, the painted eyes seemed to be straining to -see some distant object; where the figure ended below the waist was a -roughly carved scroll showing traces of gilt, on which could be -deciphered the word "Glory." - -From this side the house looked bigger, and one saw that all the windows -were round and that a veranda ran the length of the ground floor. This -veranda was the admiral's particular pride, it was boarded with narrow -planks scrubbed white and caulked like the deck of a ship; the admiral -called it his "quarter-deck," and here, in fine weather or foul, he -would pace up and down, his hands in his pockets, his cigar set firmly -between his teeth, his rakish white beard pointing out in front. - -Inside the house the walls of the passages were boarded and enamelled -white, the rooms white panelled, and the steep narrow stairs covered -with corrugated rubber, bound with brass treads. Instead of banisters a -piece of pipe-clayed rope ran through brass stanchions on either side; -and over the whole place there brooded a spirit of the most intense -cleanliness. Never off a man-of-war did brass shine and twinkle like the -brass at Glory Point; never was white paint as white and glossy, never -was there such a fascinating smell of paint and tar and brass polish. It -was an astonishing house; you expected it to roll and could hardly -believe your good fortune when it kept still. Everyone in Seabourne made -fun of Glory Point; the admiral knew this but cared not at all, it -suited him and that was enough. If they thought him odd, he thought most -of them incredibly foolish. Glory Point was his darling and his pride; -he and his mice lived there in perfect contentment. The brass shone, the -decks were as the driven snow, the white walls smelt of fresh paint, and -away beyond the posts and chains of the cobbled court-yard stretched the -Atlantic, as big and deep and wholesome as the admiral's kind heart. - - - - -3 - - -Through the blazing sunshine of the afternoon, Joan and Milly toiled up -the hill that led to Glory Point. Now, however, they did not wilt, their -eyes were bright with expectation, and they quickened their steps as the -gate came in sight. They pushed it open and walked down the pebbled -path. - -"It's all white!" Joan exclaimed. She looked at the round white stones -with the white posts on either side and then at the white door. They -rang; the fierce sun was producing little sham flames on the brass -bell-pull and knocker. The door was opened by a manservant in white -drill and beyond him the walls of the hall showed white. "More white," -thought Joan. "It's like--it looks--is honest the word? No, truthful." - -They were shown into a very happy room, all bright chintz and mahogany. -In one of the little round windows a Hartz Mountain Roller ruffled the -feathers on his throat as he trilled. The admiral came forward to meet -them, shaking hands gravely as if they were grown up. He, too, was in -white, and his eyes looked absurdly blue. Joan thought he matched the -Delft plates on the mantelpiece at his back. - -"This is capital; I'm so glad you could come." He seemed to be genuinely -pleased to see them. They waited for him to speak again, their eyes -astray for objects of interest. - -"This is my after cabin," said the admiral, smiling. "What do you think -of it?" - -"It's the drawing-room," said Milly promptly. Joan kicked her. - -"We call it a cabin on a ship," corrected the admiral. - -"Oh, I see," said Milly. "But this isn't a ship!" - -"It's the only ship I've got now," he laughed. - -Joan thought: "I wish she wouldn't behave like this, what can it matter -what he calls the room? I wish Milly were shy!" - -But Milly, quite unconscious of having transgressed, went up and nestled -beside him. He put his arm round her and patted her shoulder. - -"It's a very nice ship," she conceded. - -Above the mantelpiece hung an oval portrait of a girl. Joan liked her -pleasant, honest eyes, blue like the admiral's, only larger; her face -looked wide open like a hedge rose. - -Joan had to ask. She thought, "It's cheek, I suppose, but I do want to -know." Aloud she said: "Please, who is that?" - -The admiral followed the direction of her gaze. "Olivia," he answered, -in a voice that took it for granted that he had no need to say more. - -"Olivia?" - -"My wife." - -"Oh!" breathed Joan, feeling horribly embarrassed. She wished that she -had not asked. Poor admiral, people said that he had loved her a great -deal! - -"Where is she?" inquired Milly. - -Joan thought: "Of all the idiotic questions! Has she forgotten that he's -a widower?" She was on tenterhooks. - -The admiral gave a little sigh. "She died a long time ago," he said, and -stared fixedly at the portrait. - -Joan pulled Milly round. "Oh, look, what a pet of a canary!" she said -foolishly. She and Milly went over to the cage; the bird hopped twice -and put his head on one side. He examined them out of one black bead. - -The admiral came up behind them. "That's Julius Cæsar," he volunteered. - -Joan turned with relief; he was smiling. He opened the door of the cage -and thrust in a finger, whistling softly; the canary bobbed, then it -jumped on to the back of his hand, ignoring the finger. Very slowly and -gently he with drew his hand and lifted the bird up to his face. It put -its beak between his lips and kissed him, then its mood changed and it -nipped his thumb. He laughed, and replaced it in the cage. - -"Shall we go over the ship?" he inquired. - -The children agreed eagerly. He stalked along in front of them, hands in -jacket pockets. He took them into the neat dining-room, opening and -shutting the port-holes to show how they worked, then into the -smoking-room, large, long, and book-lined with the volumes of his naval -library. Then up the rubber-covered stairs and along the narrow white -passage with small doors in a row on either side. A man in more white -drill was polishing the brass handles, there was the clean acrid smell -of brass polish; Joan wondered if they polished brass all day at Glory -Point, this was such a queer time to be doing it, at four in the -afternoon. The admiral threw open one of the doors while the children -peered over his shoulder. - -"This is my sleeping cabin," he said contentedly. - -The little room was neat as a new pin; through the open port-holes came -the sound and smell of the sea--thud, splash, thud, splash, and the -mournful tolling of a bell buoy. The admiral's bunk was narrow and -white, Joan thought that it looked too small for a man, like the bed of -a little child, with its high polished mahogany side. Above it the -porthole stood wide open--thud, splash, there was the sea again; the -sound came with rhythmical precision at short intervals. Milly had found -the washstand, it was an entrancing washstand! There was a stationary -basin cased in mahogany with fascinating buttons that you pressed -against to make the water flow; Milly had never seen buttons like this -before, all the taps at Leaside turned on in a most uninteresting way. -Above the washstand was a rack for the water bottle and glass, and the -bottle and glass had each its own hole into which it fitted with the -neatest precision. The walls of the cabin were white like all the others -in this house of surprises, white and glossy. Thud, splash, thud, -splash, and a sudden whiff of seaweed that came in with a breath of air. - -Joan thought, "Oh it is a truthful house, it would never deceive you!" -Aloud she said, "I like it!" - -The admiral beamed. "So do I," he agreed. - -"I like it all," said Joan, "the noises and the smell and the whiteness. -I wish we lived in a ship-house like this, it's so reassuring." - -"Reassuring?" he queried; he didn't understand what she meant, he -thought her a queer old-fashioned child, but his heart went out to her. - -"Yes, reassuring; safe you know; you could trust it; I mean, it wouldn't -be untruthful." - -"Oh, I see," he laughed. "I built it," he told her with a touch of -pride; "it was entirely my own idea. The people round here think I'm a -little mad, I believe; they call me 'Commodore Trunnion'; but then, dear -me, everyone's a little mad on one subject or another--I'm mad on the -sea. Listen, Miss Joan! Isn't that fine music? I lie here and listen to -it every night, it's almost as good as being on it!" - -Milly interrupted. "Tell us about your battles!" she pleaded. - -"My _what_?" said the admiral, taken aback. - -"The ones you fought in," said Milly coaxingly. - -"Bless the child! I've never been in a battle in my life; what battles -have there been in my time, I'd like to know!" - -Milly looked crestfallen. "But you were on a battleship," she protested. - -The admiral opened his mouth and guffawed. "God bless my soul, what's -that got to do with it?" - -They had made their way downstairs again now and were walking towards -the garden door. Milly clung to her point. - -"It ought to have something to do with it, I should suppose," she said -rather pompously. - -The admiral looked suddenly grave. "It will, some day," he said. - -"When will it be?" asked Joan; she felt interested. - -"When the great war comes," he replied; "though God grant it won't be in -your time." - -No one spoke for a minute; the children felt subdued, a little cloud -seemed to have descended among them. Then the admiral cheered up, and -quickened his steps. "Tea!" he remarked briskly. - - - - -4 - - -Over the immaculate lawn that stretched to the right of the house, came -the white-clad manservant carrying a tray; the tea-table was laid under -a big walnut tree. This was the sheltered side of the house, where, as -the admiral would say, you could grow something besides seaweed. The old -clipped yews were trim and cared for; peacocks and roosters and stately -spirals. Between them the borders were bright with homely flowers. The -admiral had found this garden when he bought the place; he had pulled -down the old house to build his ship, but the garden he had taken upon -himself as a sacred trust. In it he worked to kill the green fly and the -caterpillar, and dreamed to keep memory alive. They sat down to tea; -from the other side of a battlemented hedge came the whirring, sleepy -sound of a mowing machine, someone was mowing the bowling green. They -grew silent. A wasp tumbled into the milk jug; with great care the -admiral pulled it out and let it crawl up his hand. - -"Silly," he said reprovingly, "silly creature!" - -It paused in its painful milk-logged walk to stroke its bedraggled wings -with its back legs, then it washed its face ducking its jointed head. -The old man watched it placidly presently it flew away. - -"It never said 'Thank you,' did it?" he laughed. - -"No, but it didn't sting," said Joan. - -"They never sting when you do them a good turn, and that's more than you -can say of some people, Miss Joan." - -Tea over, they strolled through the garden; at the far end was a small -low building designed to correspond with the house. - -"What's that?" they asked him. - -"We're coming to that," he answered. "That's where the mice live." - -"Oh, may we see them, please let us see them all!" Joan implored. - -"Of course you shall see them, that's what I brought you here for; there -are dozens and dozens," he said proudly. - -Inside the Mousery the smell was overpowering, but it is doubtful if any -of the three noticed it. Down the centre of the single long room ran a -brick path on either side of which were shelves three deep, divided into -roomy sections. - -The admiral stopped before one of them. "Golden Agouti," he remarked. - -He took hold of a rectangular box, the front of which was wired; very -slyly he lifted a lid set into the top panel, and lowered the cage so -that the children might look in. Inside, midway between floor and lid -was a smaller box five inches long; a little hole at one end of this -inner box gave access to the interior of the cage, and from it a -miniature ladder slanted down to the sawdust strewn floor. In this box -were a number of little heaving pink lumps, by the side of which -crouched a brownish mouse. Her beady eyes peered up anxiously, while the -whiskers on her muzzle trembled. - -The admiral touched her gently with the tip of his little finger. "She's -a splendid doe," he said affectionately; "a remarkably careful mother -and not at all fussy!" He shut the door and replaced the cage. "There's -a fine pair here," he remarked, passing to a new section; "what about -that for colour!" - -He put his hand into another cage and caught one of the occupants deftly -by the tail. Holding the tail between his finger and thumb he let the -mouse sprawl across the back of his other hand, slightly jerking the -feet into position. - -The children gazed. "What colour is that?" they inquired. - -"Chocolate," replied the admiral. "I rather fancy the Self varieties, -there's something so well-bred looking about them; for my part I don't -think a mouse can show his figure if he's got a pied pelt on him, it -detracts. Now this buck for instance, look at his great size, graceful -too, very gracefully built, legs a little coarse perhaps, but an -excellent tail, a perfect whipcord, no knots, no kinks, a lovely taper -to the point!" - -The mouse began to scramble. "Gently, gently!" murmured the admiral, -shaking it back into position. - -He eyed it with approbation, then dropped it back into its cage, where -it scurried up the ladder and vanished into its bedroom. They passed -from cage to cage; into some he would only let them peep lest the does -with young should get irritable; from others he withdrew the inmates, -displaying them on his hand. - -"Now this," he told them, catching a grey-blue mouse. "This is worth -your looking at carefully. Here we have a champion, Champion Blue -Pippin. I won the Colour Cup with this fellow last year. Of course I -grant you he's a good colour; very pure and rich, good deep tone too, -and even, perfectly even, you notice." He turned the mouse over deftly -for a moment so that they might see for themselves that its stomach -matched its back. "But so clumsy," he continued. "Did you ever see such -a clumsy fellow? Then his ears are too small, though their texture is -all right; and I always said he lacked boldness of eye; I never really -cared for his eyes, there's something timid about them, not to be -compared with Cocoa Nibs, that first buck you saw. But there it is, this -fellow won his championship; of course I always say that Cary can't -judge a mouse!" - -Champion Blue Pippin was replaced in his cage; the admiral shook his -finger at him where he sat grooming his whiskers against the bars. - -"A good mouse," he told Joan confidentially. "Very tame and affectionate -as you see, but a champion, no never! As I told them at the National -Mouse Club." - -They turned to the shelves on the other side. Here were the Pied and -Dutch varieties. - -"I don't care for them, as you know," said Admiral Bourne. "Still I keep -a few for luck, and they are rather pretty." - -He showed them the queer Dutch mice, half white, half coloured. Then the -Variegated mice, their pelts white with minute streaks or dots of colour -evenly distributed over body and head. There were black and tan mice and -a bewildering assortment of the Pied variety which the admiral declared -he disliked. Last of all, in a little cubicle by itself, was a larger -cage than any of the others, a kind of Mouse Palace. This cage contained -a number of neat boxes, each with its ladder, and in addition to the -ordinary outer compartment was a big bright wheel. Up and down the -ladders ran the common little red-eyed white mice; while they watched -them a couple sprang into the wheel and began turning it. - -"Oh! The white mice that you buy at the Army and Navy!" said Milly in a -disappointed voice. - -"That's all," the admiral admitted. "I just have this cage of them, you -know, nice little chaps." And then, as the children remained silent, -"You see, Olivia liked them; she used to say they were such friendly -people." - -He spoke as though they had known Olivia intimately, as though he -expected the children to say: "Yes, of course, Olivia was so fond of -animals!" - -Reluctantly they left the Mousery and strolled towards the gates; three -tired children, one of eleven, one of thirteen and one of sixty-eight. -The sun was setting over the sea, it was very cool in the garden after -the mousery. - -The admiral turned to Joan. "Come again," he said simply. "Come very -often, there may be some more young ones to show you soon." - -And so they parted on the road outside the gates. The children turned -once to look back as they walked down the hill; Admiral Bourne was still -standing in the road, looking after them. - - - - -CHAPTER EIGHT - - -1 - - -A NEW family had come to Conway House under Cone Head. The place had -stood vacant for years; now, at length, it was sold, and Elizabeth knew -who the new people were. When Elizabeth, meaning to be amiable, had -remarked one afternoon that the Bensons had been old friends of her -cousin in London, and that she herself had known them all her life, Mrs. -Ogden had drawn in her lips, very slightly raised an eyebrow and -remarked: "Oh, really!" in what Joan had grown to recognize as "the -Routledge voice." It was true that Mrs. Ogden was annoyed; there was no -valid reason to produce against Elizabeth having known the Bensons, yet -she felt aggrieved. Elizabeth appeared to Mrs. Ogden to be--well--not -quite "governessy" enough. She had been thinking this for the last few -months. You did not expect your governess to be an old friend of people -who had just bought one of the largest places in your neighbourhood, it -was almost unseemly. Elizabeth, when closely questioned, had said that -the family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Benson, a son of twenty-two, -another of seventeen, and one little girl of fourteen. And just at the -very end, mark you at the end, and then only after a pressing -cross-examination as to who they were, Elizabeth had said quite vaguely -that Mr. Benson was a banker, but that his mother had been Lady Sarah -Totteridge before her marriage, and that the present Mrs. Benson was a -daughter of Lord Down. - -Mrs. Ogden had made it clear that she could not quite understand how -Elizabeth's cousin had come to know the Bensons, and Elizabeth had said -in a casual voice that her cousin and Mrs. Benson had had a great mutual -interest; and when Mrs. Ogden had inquired what this interest had been, -Elizabeth had replied, "Prostitutes," and had laughed! Of course the -children had not been in the room--still, "Prostitutes." Such a coarse -way to put it. Mrs. Ogden had spoken to Colonel Ogden about it -afterwards and had found him unsympathetic. All he had said was, "Well, -what else would you have her call them? Don't be such a damn fool, -Mary!" - -However, there it was; Elizabeth did know the Bensons and would, Mrs. -Ogden supposed, contrive to continue knowing them now that they had come -to Conway House. She could not understand Elizabeth; it was "Elizabeth" -now at Elizabeth's own request; she had said that Rodney sounded so like -Ralph and not at all like her. Did anyone ever hear such nonsense! -However, the children had hailed the change with delight and so far it -did not appear to have undermined discipline, so that Mrs. Ogden -supposed it must be all right. She had to confess that it was a most -unexpected advantage for Milly and Joan to have such a woman to teach -them. Cambridge women did not grow on gooseberry bushes in Seabourne. - - - - -2 - - -Her criticisms of Elizabeth afforded Mrs. Ogden a rather tepid -satisfaction for a time, but they never quite convinced her, and one day -her thoughts stopped short in the very middle of them. She had a moment -of clear inward vision; and in that moment she realized the exact and -precise reason why, in the last few months, she had grown irritated with -Elizabeth. So irritated in fact that nothing that Elizabeth said or did -could possibly be right. It was not Elizabeth's familiarity, not the -fact that Elizabeth knew the Bensons, not Elizabeth's rather frank -English, it was none of these things--it was Joan. - -Joan was fourteen now, she was growing--growing mentally out of Mrs. -Ogden. There was so much these days that they could not discuss -together. Joan was a student, a tremendously hard worker; Mrs. Ogden had -never been that sort of girl. Even James could help Joan better than she -could--James was rather well up in history, for example. But she was not -well up in anything; this fact had never struck her before. "Don't be -such a damn fool, Mary!" James had said that for so many years that it -had ceased to mean anything to her, but now it seemed fraught -with dreadful, new possibilities. Would Joan ever come to think -her a fool? Would she ever come to think Elizabeth a fool? No, not -Elizabeth--wait--there was the menace. Elizabeth had goods for sale that -Joan could buy; how was she buying them, that was the question? Was she -paying in the copper coin of mere hard work, content if she did -Elizabeth credit? Or would she, being Joan, slip in a golden coin of -love and admiration, a coin stolen from her almost bankrupt mother? - -Elizabeth, that happy, clever young creature, with her self-assurance -and her interest in Joan, what was she doing with Joan--what did she -mean to do with Joan's mother? How much did she want Joan--the real -Joan? And if she wanted her, could she get her? Mean, oh, mean! When -Elizabeth had everything on her side--when she had youth so obviously on -her side--surely she had enough without Joan, surely she need not grow -fond of Joan? - -She had fancied lately that Elizabeth had become ever so slightly -possessive, that she took it for granted that she would have a say in -Joan's future, would be consulted. Then there was the question of a -university--who had put that idea into Joan's head? Who, but Elizabeth! -Where would it end if Joan went to Cambridge--certainly not in -Seabourne. But James would never consent, he was certain to draw the -line at that; besides, there was no money--but there were scholarships; -suppose Elizabeth was secretly working to enable Joan to win a -scholarship? How dare she! How dare either of them have any secrets from -Joan's mother! She would speak to Elizabeth--she would assert herself at -once. Joan should never be allowed to waste her youth on dry bones. -Elizabeth might think that women could fill men's posts, but she knew -better. Yet, after all, Joan was so like a boy--one felt that she was a -son sometimes. Hopeless, hopeless, she was afraid of Elizabeth! She -would never be able to speak her mind to her; she was too calm, too -difficult to arouse, too thick-skinned. And Joan--Joan was moving away, -not very far, only a little away. Joan was becoming a spectator, and -Joan as an audience might be dangerous. - -Mrs. Ogden trembled; she strove desperately to scourge her mentality -into some semblance of adequacy. She tried, sincerely tried, to face the -situation calmly and wisely and with understanding. But her efforts -failed pathetically; through the maze of her struggling thoughts nothing -took shape but the desperate longing, the desperate need that was Joan. -She thought wildly: "I'll tell her how I want her, I'll tell her what my -life has been. I'll tell her the truth, that I can't, simply can't, live -without her, and then I shall keep her, because I can make her pity me." -Then she thought: "I must be mad--a child of fourteen--I must be quite -mad!" But she knew that in her tormenting jealousy she might lose Joan -altogether. Joan loved the little mother, the miserable, put upon, -bullied mother, the mother of headaches and secret tears; she would not -love the self-assertive, unjust mother--she never had. No, she must -appeal to Joan, that was the only way. Joan was as responsive as ever; -then of what was she afraid? Oh, Joan, Joan, so young and awkward and -adorable! Did she find her mother too old? After all, she was only -forty-two, not too old surely to keep Joan's love. She would try to -enter into things more, she would go for walks, she would bathe, -anything, anything--where should she begin? But supposing Joan -suspected, supposing she saw through her, supposing she laughed at -her--she must be careful, dreadfully careful. Joan was excited because -Conway House was sold, and had implored her to go and call on Mrs. -Benson; very well then, she would go, and take Elizabeth with her,--yes, -that would be gracious, that would please Joan. And she would try not to -hate Elizabeth, she would try with all the will-power she had in her to -see Elizabeth justly, to be grateful for the interest she took in the -child. She would try not to _fear_ Elizabeth. - - - - -CHAPTER NINE - - -1 - - -THE windows of Conway House glowed, and the winter twilight was creeping -in and out among the elms in the avenue. The air was cold and dry, the -clanking of the skates that Joan and Elizabeth were carrying made a -pleasant, musical sound as they walked. A boy joined them; he was tall -and lanky and his blunt freckled face was flushed. - -"Here I am. I've caught you up!" he said. - -They turned; he was a jolly boy and they liked him. Richard Benson, the -younger son of the Bensons now of Conway House, was enjoying his -Christmas holidays immensely; for one thing he had been delighted to -find Elizabeth established at Seabourne; they were old friends, and now -there was the nice Ogden girl. Then the skating was the greatest luck, -so rare as to be positively exciting. Elizabeth and Joan were very good -sorts. Elizabeth skated very well, and Joan was learning--he hoped the -ice would hold. He was the most friendly of creatures, rather like a -lolloping puppy; you expected him to jump up and put his paws on your -shoulders. They walked on together towards the house, where tea would be -waiting; they all felt happily tired--it was good to be young. - -The house had been thoroughly restored, and was now a perfect specimen -of its period. The drawing-room was long and lofty, and panelled in pale -grey, the curtains of orange brocade, the furniture Chippendale--a -gracious room. Beside the fire a group of people sat round the -tea-table, over which their hostess presided. Mrs. Benson was an ample -woman; her pleasant face, blunt and honest like that of her younger son, -made you feel welcome even before she spoke, and when she spoke her -voice was loud but agreeable. Joan thought: "She has the happiest voice -I've ever heard." The three skaters having discarded their wraps had -entered the drawing-room together. Mrs. Benson looked up. - -"Elizabeth dear!" Elizabeth went to her impulsively and kissed her. - -Joan wondered; Elizabeth was not given to kissing, she felt that she too -would rather like to know Mrs. Benson well enough to kiss her. As they -shook hands Mrs. Benson smiled. - -"How did the skating go to-day, Joan?" - -"Oh, not badly, only one tumble." - -"She got on splendidly!" said Richard with enthusiasm. - -"Elizabeth should be a good teacher," his mother replied. "She used to -skate like an angel. Elizabeth, do you remember that hard winter we had -when the Serpentine froze?" - -Mrs. Benson laughed as though the memory amused her; she and Elizabeth -exchanged a comprehending glance. - -"They know each other very well," thought Joan. "They have secrets -together." - -She felt suddenly jealous, and wondered whether she was jealous because -of Mrs. Benson or because of Elizabeth; she decided that it was because -of Elizabeth; she did not want anyone to know Elizabeth better than she -did. This discovery startled her. The impulse came to her to creep up to -Elizabeth and take her hand, but she could visualize almost exactly what -would probably happen. Very gently, oh, very gently indeed, Elizabeth -would disengage her hand, she would look slightly surprised, a little -amused perhaps, and would then move away on some pretext or another. -Joan could see it all. No, assuredly one did not go clinging to -Elizabeth's hand, she never encouraged clinging. - -The group round the tea-table chattered and ate. Mrs. Ogden was among -them, but Joan had not noticed her, for she was sitting in the shadow. - -"Joan!" - -"Oh, Mother, I didn't see you." She moved across and sat by her mother's -side, but her eyes followed Elizabeth. - -Mrs. Ogden watched her. She wanted to say something appropriate, -something jolly, but she felt tongue-tied. There was the skating, why -not discuss Joan's tumble--but Elizabeth skated "like an angel." Joan -would naturally not expect her mother to be interested in skating, since -she must know that she had never skated in her life. Lawrence, the -eldest Benson boy, came towards them. He looked like his father, dark -and romantic, and like his father he was the dullest of dull good men. -He liked Mrs. Ogden, she had managed to impress him somehow and to make -him feel sorry for her. He thought she looked lonely in spite of her -overgrown daughter. - -He pulled up a chair and made conversation. "It's ripping finding you -all down here, Mrs. Ogden. I never thought that Elizabeth would settle -at Seabourne." - -Elizabeth, always Elizabeth! Mrs. Ogden forced herself to speak -cordially. "It was the greatest good fortune for us that she did." - -"Yes--I suppose so. Elizabeth's too clever for me; I always tell her so, -I always chaff her." - -"Do you? Do you know, I never feel that I dare chaff Elizabeth, no--I -should never dare." - -"Not dare--why not? I used to tease the life out of her." - -"Well, you are different perhaps; you knew her before she was--well--so -clever. You see I'm not clever, not in that way. I'm very ignorant -really." - -"I don't believe it; anyhow, I like that kind of ignorance. I mean I -hate clever women. No, I don't mean I hate Elizabeth, she's a dear, but -I'd like her even more if she knew less. Oh, you know what I mean!" - -"But Elizabeth is so splendid, isn't she? Cambridge, and I don't know -what not; still, perhaps----" - -"But surely a woman doesn't need to go to Cambridge to be charming? -Personally I think it's a great mistake, this education craze; I don't -believe men really care for such things in women; do you, Mrs. Ogden?" - -Mrs. Ogden smiled. "That depends on the man, I suppose. Perhaps a really -manly man prefers the purely feminine woman----" - -He was very young. At twenty-two it is gratifying to be thought a manly -man; yes, decidedly he liked Mrs. Ogden. - -"Oh, I don't think that----" It was Richard who spoke, he had strolled -up unperceived. His brother looked annoyed. - -"Don't you?" queried Mrs. Ogden. She caught Lawrence's eye and smiled. - -Richard blushed to his ears, but he went on doggedly: "No, I don't, -because I think it's a shame that women should be shut out of things, -bottled up, cramped. Oh, I can't explain, only I think if they've got -the brains to go to college, we ought not to mind their going." - -"Perhaps when you're older you'll feel quite differently, most _men_ -do." Mrs. Ogden's voice was provoking. - -Richard felt hot and subsided suddenly, but before he did so his eyes -turned to Joan where she sat silent at her mother's side. She wondered -whether he thought that the conversation could have any possible bearing -on her personally, whether perhaps it had such a bearing. She glanced -shyly at her mother; Mrs. Ogden looked decidedly cross. - -"I hope," she said emphatically, "that neither of _my_ girls will want -to go to a university; they would never do so with my approval." - -"Oh, but----" Richard began, then stopped, for he had caught the warning -in Joan's eye. "I came to say," he stammered, "that if you'll come into -the library, Joan, I'll show you those prints of Father's, the sporting -ones I told you about." He stood looking awkward for a moment, then -turned as if expecting her to follow him. - -"May I go, Mother?" - -But Joan was already on her feet, what was the good of saying "No" since -she so obviously wanted to go? Mrs. Ogden sighed, she looked at Lawrence -appealingly. "They are so much in advance of me," she said as Joan -hurried away. - -Sympathy welled up in him; he let it appear in his eyes, together with a -look of admiration; as he did so he was thinking that the touch of grey -in her hair became Mrs. Ogden. - -She thought: "How funny, the boy's getting sentimental!" A little -flutter of pleasure stirred her for a moment. After all she was not so -immensely old and not so _passée_ either, and it was not unpleasant to -have a young male creature sympathizing with you and looking at you as -though he admired and pitied you--in fact it was rather soothing. Then -she thought: "I wonder where Joan is," and suddenly she felt tired of -Lawrence Benson; she wished that he would go away so that she might have -an excuse for moving; she felt restless. - - - - -2 - - -In the library Joan was listening to Richard. He stood before her with -his hair ruffled, his face flushed and eager. - -"Joan! I don't know you awfully well, and of course you're only a kid as -yet, but Elizabeth says you're clever--and don't you let yourself be -bottled." - -"Bottled?" she queried. - -"Don't you get all cramped up and fuggy, like one does when one sits -over a fire all day. I know what I mean, it sounds all rot, only it -isn't rot. You look out! I have a presentiment that they mean to bottle -you." - -Joan laughed. - -"It's no laughing matter," he said in an impressive voice. "It's no -laughing matter to be bottled; they want to bottle me, only I don't mean -to let them." - -"Why, what do you want to do that makes them want to bottle you?" - -"I'm going in for medicine--Father hates it; he hopes I'll get sick of -it, but it's my line, I know it; I'm studying to be a doctor." - -"Well, why not? It's rather jolly to be a doctor, I should think; -someone's got to look after people when they're ill." - -"That's just it. I'm keen as mustard on it, and I shan't let anyone stop -me." - -"But what's that got to do with me?" - -"Nothing, not the doctor part, but the other part has; if you're clever, -you ought to do something." - -"But I'm not a boy!" - -"That doesn't matter a straw. Look at Elizabeth; she's not a boy, but -she didn't let her brain get fuggy; though," he added reflectively, "I'm -not so sure of her now as I was before she came here." - -"Why not?" said Joan; she liked talking about Elizabeth. - -"Oh, just Seabourne, it's a bottling place. If Elizabeth don't look out -she'll be bottled next!" - -At that moment Elizabeth came in. "We were talking about you," said -Joan, but Elizabeth was dreadfully incurious. - -"Your mother is waiting; it's time to go," was all she said. - - - - -3 - - -In the fly on the way home the silence was oppressive. Mrs. Ogden seemed -to be suffering, she looked wilted. "What is it, darling?" Joan -inquired. She had enjoyed herself, and now somehow it was spoilt. She -had hoped that her mother was enjoying herself too. - -Mrs. Ogden leant towards her and took her hand. "My dear little girl," -she murmured, "have you been happy, Joan?" - -"Yes, very; haven't you, Mother?" - -There was a pause. "I'm not as young as you are, dearest." - -Elizabeth, sitting beside Mrs. Ogden, smiled bitterly in the dark. "Wait -a while," she said to herself. "Wait a while!" Her own emotions -surprised her, she was conscious of a feeling of acute anger. As if by a -simultaneous impulse the two women suddenly drew as far apart as the -narrow confines of the cab permitted. To Elizabeth it seemed as if -something so intense as to be almost tangible leapt out between them--a -naked sword. - -Sitting with her back to the driver, Joan was lost in thought; she was -thinking of the utter hopelessness of making her mother really happy. -But with another part of her mind she was pondering Richard's sudden -outburst in the library. She liked him, she thought what a satisfactory -brother he would be. Why was he so afraid of being caught and bottled? -Lawrence, she felt, must be bottled already; he liked it, she was sure -that Lawrence would think it the right thing to be. She wondered how -Richard would manage to escape--if he did escape. A picture of him rose -before her eyes; he made her laugh, he was so emphatic. She resolved to -talk him over with Elizabeth. Of course it was all nonsense--still, he -seemed dreadfully afraid. What was it really that he was afraid of, and -why was he so afraid for her? - -The cab jolted abruptly, Joan's thoughts jolting with it. The driver had -pulled up to drop Elizabeth at her brother's house. - - - - -_BOOK II_ - - - - -CHAPTER TEN - - -1 - - -THE summer in which Joan's fifteenth birthday occurred was particularly -anxious and depressing because of Colonel Ogden's health. - -One morning in July he had woken up with a headache and a cough; -bronchitis followed, and the strain on his already flagging heart made -the doctor uneasy. Undoubtedly Colonel Ogden was very ill. Joan, working -hard for her Junior Local, was put to it to know what to do; whether to -throw up the examination for the sake of helping her mother or to -continue to cram for the sake of not disappointing Elizabeth. In the end -the doctor solved this difficulty by sending in an experienced nurse. - -Just about this time a deep depression settled on Joan, a kind of heavy -melancholy. She wondered what the origin of this might be; she was too -honest to pretend to herself that it was caused by anxiety about her -father. She wanted to grieve over him. She thought: "Poor thing, he -can't breathe; he's lying in a kind of lump of pillows upstairs in bed; -his face looks dreadfully ugly and he can't help it." But the picture -that she drew left her cold. Then a hundred little repulsive details of -the illness crowded in on her imagination; when she was with her father -she would watch for them with apprehension. She forced herself to show -him an exaggerated tenderness, which he, poor man, did not want; it was -Milly he was always asking for--but Milly was frightened of illness. - -Mrs. Ogden, who was sharing the duties of the nurse, looked worn out, an -added anxiety to Joan. They would meet at meals, kiss silently and part -again, Mrs. Ogden to relieve the nurse, Joan to go back to her books. -She thought: "How _can_ I sit here grinding away while she does all the -beastly things upstairs? But I can't go up and help her, I simply -_can't_!" And one day, almost imperceptibly, a new misery reared its -head; she began to analyse her feelings for her mother. - -She tried to be logical; she argued that because she wanted to work for -an exam, there was no reason to suppose that she loved her mother less; -she thought that she looked the thing squarely in the eyes, turned it -round and surveyed it from all sides and then dismissed it. But a few -moments later the thought would come again, this time a little more -insistent, requiring a somewhat longer effort of reasoning to argue it -away. - - - - -2 - - -One evening during this period, Joan heard her own Doubt voiced by her -mother. They had been sitting side by side on the little veranda at the -back of the house; the night was warm and from a neighbouring garden -something was smelling sweet. Neither of them had spoken for a long -time; Mrs. Ogden was the first to break the silence. Quite suddenly she -turned her face to Joan; the movement was almost lover-like. - -"Joan, do you love me, dearest?" It had come. This was the thing Joan -had been dreading for weeks, perhaps it was all her life that she had -been dreading it. She felt that time had ceased to exist, there were no -clear demarcations; past, present and future were all one, welded -together in the furnace of her horrible doubt. Did she love her mother, -did she--did she? Her mother was waiting; she had always been waiting -just like this, and she always would wait, a little breathlessly, a -little afraid. She stared out desperately into the darkness--the answer; -it must be found quickly, but where--how? - -"Joan, do you love me, dearest?" The answer must be somewhere, only it -was not in her tired brain--it was somewhere else, then. In her mother's -brain? Was that why her mother was a little breathless, a little afraid? -She pressed her cold cheek against Mrs. Ogden's, rubbing it gently up -and down, then suddenly she folded her in her arms, kissing her lips, -seeking desperately to awaken her dulled emotions to the response that -she knew was so painfully desired. - -When at last they released each other, they sat for a long time hand in -hand. To Joan there was an actual physical distaste for the hand-clasp, -yet she dared not, could not let go. She was conscious in a vague way -that her mother's hand felt different. Mechanically she began to finger -it, slipping a ring up and down; the ring came off unexpectedly, it was -loose, for the hand had grown thinner. Her mind seized on this with -avidity; here was the motive she needed for love: her mother's hand, -small and white, was thinner than it had been before, it was now -terribly thin. There was pathos in this, there was something in this to -make her feel sorry; she stooped and fondled the hand. But did she love -her? No, assuredly not, for this was not love, this was a stupendous and -exhausting effort of the will. When you loved you just loved, and all -the rest followed as a matter of course--and yet, if she did not love -her, why did she trouble to exert this effort of will at all, why did -she feel so strongly the necessity for protecting her mother from the -hurt of discovery? Deception; was it ever justifiable to deceive, was it -justifiable now? And yet, even if she were sure that she did not love -her, could she find the courage to push her away? To say: "I don't love -you, I don't want to touch you, I dislike the feel of you--I dislike -above all else the _feel_ of you!" How terrible to say such a thing to -any living creature, and how more than terrible to say it to her mother! -The hydra had grown another head; what would her mother do if she knew -that Joan loved her less? - -Away out in the darkness a bell chimed ten o'clock; Mrs. Ogden got up -wearily. "I must see to nurse's supper." Inside Joan's brain a voice -said: "Go and help her, she's tired; go and get the supper yourself." -But another and more insistent voice arose to drown it: "Do I love her, -do I, do I?" Mrs. Ogden went into the house, but Joan remained sitting -on the veranda. - - - - -CHAPTER ELEVEN - - -1 - - -THE weeks dragged on; Colonel Ogden might recover, but his illness would -of necessity be a long one, for his heart, already weak, was now -disposed to stop beating on the least provocation. - -Joan worked with furious energy. Elizabeth, confident of her pupil, -protested that this cramming was unnecessary, but Joan, stubborn as -always, took her own line. She felt that work was her only refuge, the -only drug that, temporarily at all events, brought relief. - -It was now the veriest torture to her to be in her mother's presence, to -be forced to see the tired body going on its daily rounds, to hear the -repeated appeals for sympathy, to see the reproach in the watchful eyes. - -But if the days were unendurable, how much worse were the nights, the -nights when she would wake with a sudden start in a cold sweat of -terror. Why was she terrified? She was terrified because she feared that -she did not love her mother, and one night she knew that she was -terrified because, if she could not love her mother, she might grow to -love someone else instead--Elizabeth for instance. The hydra grew -another head that night. - -Elizabeth, the ever watchful, became alarmed at her condition. Joan, -haggard and pale, distressed her; she could not get at the bottom of the -thing, for now Joan seemed to avoid her. Yet she felt instinctively that -this avoidance did not ring true; there was something very like dumb -appeal in the girl's eyes as they followed her about. What was it she -wanted? There was something unnatural about Joan these days--when she -talked now, she always seemed to have a motive for what she said, she -seemed to hope for something from Elizabeth, from Milly even; to hang on -their words. Elizabeth got the impression that she was for ever skirting -some subject of which she never came to the point. She felt that -something was being demanded of her, she did not know what. - -There were good days sometimes, when Joan would get up in the morning -feeling restored after a peaceful night. Her troubles would seem vague -like a ship on a far horizon. Then the reaction would be exaggerated. -Elizabeth was not reassured by a boisterously happy Joan, and was never -surprised when a few hours would exhaust this blissful condition. -Something, usually a mere trifle, would crop up to suggest the old -Horror. Very quietly, as a rule, Joan's torments would begin, a -thought--flimsy as a bit of thistledown, would light for an instant in -her brain to be quickly brushed aside, but like thistledown it would -alight again and cling. Gradually it would become more concrete; now it -was not thistledown, it was a little stone, very cold and hard, that -pressed and was not so easy to brush aside. And the stone would grow -until it seemed to Joan to become a physical burden, crushing her under -an unendurable load, more horrible than ever now because of those hours -of respite. - -Elizabeth coaxed and cajoled; she wanted at all hazards to stop Joan -from working. She let down the barrier of her calm aloofness and showed -a new aspect of herself to her pupil. She entreated, she begged, for it -seemed to her that things were becoming desperate. At last she played -her trump card, she played it suddenly without warning and without tact, -in a way that was characteristic of her in moments of deep feeling. One -day she closed her book, folded her hands and said: - -"Joan! If you loved me you couldn't make me unhappy about you as you do. -Joan, don't you love me?" - -For answer Joan fled from the room as if pursued by a fiend. - -"Do I love her? Do I? Do I?" There it was again--this time for -Elizabeth. Did she love Elizabeth and was that why she did not love her -mother? Here was a new and fruitful source of self-analysis; if she -loved Elizabeth she could not love her mother, for one could not really -love more than one person at a time, at least Joan was sure that she -could not. - - - - -2 - - -Alone in the schoolroom Elizabeth clasped her slim hands on her lap; she -sat very upright in her chair. Suddenly she rose to her feet; she knew -what was the matter with her pupil, she had had an illuminating thought -and meant to lose no time in acting upon it. She went upstairs and -knocked softly on the door of Colonel Ogden's bedroom. Mrs. Ogden opened -it; she looked surprised. - -"May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Ogden?" - -Mrs. Ogden glanced at the bed to make certain that this intrusion had -not wakened the sleeping patient, then she closed the door noiselessly -behind her and the two faced each other on the landing. Something in -Elizabeth's eyes startled her. - -"Is anything wrong?" she faltered. - -"I think we had better talk in the dining-room," was all that Elizabeth -would say. - -They went into the dining-room and shut the door; neither of them sat -down. - -"It's about Joan," Elizabeth began, "I'm worried about her." - -"Why, is anything the matter?" - -"I think," said Elizabeth, "that a great deal is going to be the matter -unless something is done very soon." - -"You frighten me, Elizabeth; for goodness' sake explain yourself." - -"I don't want to frighten you, but I'm beginning to be frightened myself -about Joan; she's been very queer for weeks, she looks terribly ill, and -I think something is preying on her mind." - -"Preying on her mind?" - -"I think so--she seems unnatural--she isn't like Joan, somehow." - -"But, I haven't noticed all this!" Mrs. Ogden's voice was cold. "Are you -sure that you're not over-anxious, Elizabeth?" - -"I'm sure I'm right. If you haven't noticed that Joan's ill, it must be -because you have been so worried about Colonel Ogden." - -"Really, Elizabeth, I cannot think it possible that I, the child's -mother, should not have noticed what you say, were it true." - -"Still, you haven't noticed it," said Elizabeth stubbornly. - -"No, I have not noticed it, but I'm glad to have an opportunity of -telling you what I have noticed; and that is that you systematically -encourage the child to overwork." - -Elizabeth stiffened. "She does overwork, though I have begged her not -to, but I don't think it's that, entirely." - -"Then what do you think it is?" - -"Do you really want me to tell you?" - -"Certainly--why not?" - -"Because, when I do tell you, you'll get angry. Because it is a -presumption on my part, I suppose, to say what I am going to say; -because--oh! because after all I'm only the governess and you are her -mother, but for all that I ought to tell you what I think." - -"You bewilder me, Elizabeth, I can't imagine what all this means; I -didn't know, you see, that Joan made you her confidante." - -"She doesn't, and possibly that's a pity; I've never encouraged her to -confide in me, and now I'm beginning to wonder whether I haven't been a -fool." - -"I think that I, and not you, Elizabeth, would be the person in whom -Joan would confide." - -"Yes, of course," said Elizabeth, but her voice lacked conviction. - -"Elizabeth! I don't like all this; I should be sorry if we couldn't get -on together; it would, I frankly admit, be a disadvantage for the -children to lose you, but you must understand at once that I cannot, -will not, allow you to usurp my prerogatives." - -"I've never done so, knowingly, Mrs. Ogden." - -"But you are doing it now. You appear to want to call me to book, at -least your manner suggests it. I cannot understand what it is you are -driving at; I wish you would speak out, I detest veiled hints." - -"You don't like me, Mrs. Ogden; if I speak out you will like me even -less----" Elizabeth's mind was working quickly; this might mean losing -Joan--still, she must speak. - -She continued: "Well, then, I think it's a mistake to play on the -child's emotions as you do; Joan's not so staid and quiet as she seems. -You may not realize how deeply she feels things, but she feels them -horribly deeply--when you do them. I've watched you together and I know. -You've done it for years, Mrs. Ogden, perhaps unconsciously, I don't -know, but for years Joan has had a constant strain on her emotions. She -loves you in the only way that Joan knows how to love, that is with -every ounce of herself; there aren't any half tones about Joan, she sees -things black or white but never grey, and I think, I feel, that she -loves you too much. Oh, I know that what I'm saying must seem -inexcusable, perhaps even ridiculous, but that's just it: I think Joan -loves you too much. I think that underneath her quiet outside there is -something very big and rather dangerous; an almost abnormally developed -capacity for affection, and I think that it is this on which you play -without cease, day in and day out. I feel as if you were always poking -the fire, feeding it, blowing it until it's red hot, and I can't think -it's right, Mrs. Ogden, that's all; I think it will be Joan's ruin." - -"_Elizabeth!_" - -"Wait, I _must_ speak. Joan is brilliant, you know that she's brilliant, -and that she ought to do something with her life. You must surely feel -that she can't stay here in Seabourne for ever? She must--oh! if I could -only find the right words--she must fulfil herself in some way--either -marriage or work, at all events some interest outside of and beyond you. -She's consuming herself even now, and what will she do later on? Yet, -how can she come to fruition if she's drained dry before she begins to -live at all? I don't know how I dare to speak to you like this, but I -want your help. Joan is such splendid material; don't let her worry -about you as she does, don't let her see that you are not a happy woman, -don't let her _spend_ herself on you!" - -She paused, her knees shook a little, she felt that in another moment -she would begin to cry, and emotions with her came hard. - -Mrs. Ogden blanched. So it had come at last! This was what she had -always known would happen; Elizabeth had dared to criticize her handling -of Joan. She felt a blind rage towards her, a sudden longing to strike -her. The barriers went down with a crash, primitive invectives sprang to -her lips and she barely checked them in time. She choked. - -"You dare to say this, Elizabeth?" - -"I love Joan." - -"_What!_" - -"I love Joan, and I must save her, Mrs. Ogden." - -"_You_? How dare you suggest that the child is more to you than she is -to me; do you realize what Joan means to me?" - -"Yes, it's because I do realize it----" - -"Then be silent." - -"I dare not." - -Mrs. Ogden stamped her foot. "You _shall_ be silent. And understand, -please, that you will leave us when your notice expires; but in the -meantime you will not interfere again between Joan and me, I will not -tolerate it! I refuse to tolerate it!" She burst into a violent fit of -weeping. - -Elizabeth grew calm at the sight of her tears. "I am going to ask you to -reconsider your decision to dismiss me," she said. "I want to go on -teaching Joan, I shall not accept my notice to leave unless you give it -me again, which I hope for my sake you will not do; what I have said, I -have said from a conviction that it was my duty to speak plainly." Then -she played skilfully in self-defence. "You see, Joan simply adores you." - -Mrs. Ogden sobbed more quietly and became attentive. Elizabeth pressed -her advantage home; she could not endure to lose Joan, and she didn't -intend to lose her. - -"Can't you see that Joan's love for you is no ordinary thing, that it's -the biggest thing about her, that it is her, and that's why everything -you do or say, however unintentional, plays on her feelings to an -abnormal extent?" - -Mrs. Ogden drew herself up. "I hope," she said stiffly, "that I'm quite -capable of judging the depth of my child's affection. But I shall have -to think over your request to remain with us, Elizabeth. I hardly -think----" she paused. - -"I am anxious to stay," said Elizabeth simply. - -"Whether you stay or go, I consider that you owe me an apology." - -"I'll give it very gladly, for a great deal that I've said must have -seemed to you unwarrantable," Elizabeth replied. - -Mrs. Ogden was silent. She longed to tell Elizabeth to go now at once, -but her rage was subsiding. Colonel Ogden was still ill and governesses -were not to be found easily or cheaply in Seabourne, at least not with -Elizabeth's qualifications. There were many things to consider, so many -that they rushed in upon her, submerging her mind in a tide of -difficulties--perhaps, after all, she would accept the apology for the -moment, and bide her time, but forgive Elizabeth? _Never_! - -Elizabeth left the room. "She won't dismiss me," she thought, "I'm -cheap, and she won't find anyone else to take my post at my salary; but -I shall have to be more careful in future, it won't do to play with -cards on the table. I behaved like an impetuous fool this afternoon. -What is it about Joan that makes a fool of one? I shall stop on here -until Joan breaks free--I must help her to break free when the time -comes." - - - - -3 - - -That night when the doctor called to see the colonel, Mrs. Ogden asked -him to examine Joan. - -"My governess is rather inclined to overwork the child," she told him, -"but I don't think you will find much wrong with her." - -Joan, dutifully stripping to the waist, was sounded and pronounced by -the doctor to be in practically normal health. Too thin and a little -anæmic, perhaps, and the heart action just a little nervous, but Mrs. -Ogden was assured that she had no grounds for anxiety. The doctor -advised less study and more open air; he patted Joan's shoulder and -remarked comfortingly that he only wished all his patients were such -healthy specimens. Then he gave her a mild nerve tonic, told her to eat -well and go to bed early, shook hands cordially with Mrs. Ogden and -departed. - - - - -CHAPTER TWELVE - - -1 - - -COLONEL OGDEN was convalescent. - -Every morning now when it was fine he went out in a bath chair, dragged -by a very old man. The dreadful bend of the old man's shoulders as he -tugged weakly with his hands behind him, struck Joan as an outrage. The -old man shuffled too, he never seemed able to quite lift his feet; she -wondered how many pairs of cheap boots he wore out in the year. It was -the starting of the bath chair that was particularly horrible, the first -strain; after that it went more easily. Muffled to the eyes and swathed -in rugs, his feet planted firmly on the footstool, his hat jammed on -vindictively, Colonel Ogden sat like a statue of outraged dignity, the -ridiculous leather apron buttoned over his knees. Above his muffler his -small blue eyes tried hard to glare in the old way, but the fire had -gone out of them, and his voice coming weakly through the folds of his -scarf, had already acquired the irritable whine of the invalid. Mrs. -Ogden would stand, fussy and solicitous, on the steps to see him off, -sometimes she would accompany him up and down the esplanade, adjusting -his cushion, tucking in his rug, inquiring with forced solicitude -whether he felt the wind cold, whether his chest ached, whether his -heart was troublesome. The colonel endured, puffing out his cheeks from -time to time as though an explosion were imminent, but it never came, or -at least if it did come it was such a melancholy ghost of its former -self as to be almost unrecognizable. And very deaf, a little rheumy in -the eyes, and terribly bent in the back, the old bath-chair man tugged -and tugged with his head shot forward at a tortoise-like angle, the -dirty seams standing out on the back of his neck. - -But though Colonel Ogden required a great deal of attention now that the -nurse was gone, his wife's immediate anxiety regarding him was relieved, -which gave her the time to brood constantly over Joan. The girl was -seldom from her thoughts, she began to loom even larger than she had -done before in her mother's life, to appear ten times more valuable and -more desirable, now that Mrs. Ogden felt that a serious rival had -declared herself. Elizabeth's words burnt and rankled; she rehearsed the -scene with the governess many times a day in her mind and went to sleep -with it at nights. She felt Elizabeth's personality to be well-nigh -unendurable; she could never look at her now without remembering the -grudge which she must always bear her, though a veneer of civility was -absolutely necessary, for she did not intend to lose her just yet. She -told herself that she kept her because she was still too tired to look -for a successor, who must be found as soon as she recovered from the -strain of the colonel's illness; but in her heart of hearts she knew -that this was not her reason--she knew that she kept her because she was -afraid of the stimulus to Joan's affection for Elizabeth that might -result from an unconsidered action on her part. She was afraid to let -Elizabeth go and afraid to let her stay, afraid of Elizabeth and -mortally afraid of Joan. - -She watched the girl with ever increasing suspicion, and what she saw -convinced her that she was less responsive than she used to be. Joan had -grown more silent and more difficult to understand. Now, the mother and -daughter found very little to say to each other; when they were together -their endearments were strained like those of people with a guilty -secret. Yet even now there were moments when the mother thought that she -recognized the old Joan in the almost exasperated flood of affection -that would be poured out upon her. But she was not satisfied; these -moments were of fleeting duration, spoilt by uncertainty, by lack of -comprehension. There was something almost tragic about these two at this -time, bound together as they were by a subtle and unrecognized tie, -struggling to find each for herself and for the other some compensation, -some fulfilment. But if Mrs. Ogden was deceived, even for a moment, her -daughter was not. Joan knew that they never found what they sought and -never would find it now, any more. She could not reason it out, she had -nothing wherewith to reason, she was too young to rely on anything but -instinct, but that told her the truth. - -The Horror was still with her; she wanted to love Mrs. Ogden, she felt -empty and disconsolate without that love. She longed to feel the old -quick response when her mother bent towards her, the old perpetual -romance of her vicinity. She was like a drug-taker from whom all -stimulant has been suddenly removed; the craving was unendurable, -dangerous alike to body and mind. - - - - -2 - - -Now began a period of petty irritations, petty tyrannies and miseries. -Mrs. Ogden watched! She was gentle and overtired and pathetic, but oh! -so terribly watchful. Joan could feel her watching, watching her, -watching Elizabeth. Things happened, only the merest trifles, yet they -counted. One day it was a hat, another a pair of shoes or a pattern of -knitting wool. Perhaps Elizabeth would say: - -"Put your black hat on this afternoon, Joan; it suits you." Then Joan -would look up and see Mrs. Ogden standing inside the dining-room door. - -"Joan!" - -"Yes, dearest?" - -"I dislike you in that hat, put the blue one on, darling." - -A thousand little unexpected things were always cropping up to give rise -to these thinly veiled quarrels. Even Milly began to feel uncomfortable -and ill at ease, but with I characteristic decision she solved the -problem for herself. - -"I shan't stay here when I'm bigger, Joan; I shall go away," she -announced one day. - -Joan was startled; the words made her uneasy, they reopened the eternal -question, presenting a new facet. She began to ask herself whether she -too did not long to go away, whether she would want to stay at Seabourne -when she was older, and above all whether she loved her mother enough to -stay for ever in Seabourne. They were sitting in the school-room, and -Joan's eyes sought Elizabeth, who answered the unspoken thought. She -turned to Joan with a quick, unusual gesture. - -"Joan, you mustn't stay here always either." - -"Not stay here, Elizabeth? Where should I go?" - -"Oh, I don't know; to Cambridge perhaps, and then--oh, well, then you -must work, do things with your life." - -"But, Mother----" - -Elizabeth was silent. Joan pressed her. - -"Elizabeth, do you think Mother would ever consent?" - -"I don't know; you have the brain to do it if you choose." - -"But suppose it made her unhappy?" - -"Why should it? She'll probably be very proud of you if you make -good--in any case you'll have to leave her if you marry." - -"But it might--oh! can't you see that it might make her unhappy, -dreadfully unhappy?" - -"What do you feel about it yourself, Joan; are you ambitious, I mean?" - -Joan was silent for a moment, then she said: "I don't think I am really -ambitious. I mean I don't think that I could ever push everything aside -for the sake of some big idea; I hate being hurt and hurting, and I -think you've got to do that if you're really ambitious; but I want to go -on working, frightfully." - -"Well, you'll probably get through your exam, all right." - -"And if I do, what then?" - -"Then your Oxford Local, I suppose." - -"Yes, but then?" - -"Well, then we shall have to consider. I should think Cambridge for you, -Joan--though I don't know; perhaps Oxford is better in some respects." -She paused and appeared to reflect. - -Joan looked at her fixedly. She thought: "This is said to me in direct -opposition to Mother; it's being said on purpose. Elizabeth hates her -and I ought to hate Elizabeth, but I _don't_!" - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTEEN - - -1 - - -RICHARD BENSON came home towards the end of August after a visit to -friends in Ireland. To Elizabeth's disappointment, Joan showed no -pleasure at his return. However, it appeared that Richard had not -forgotten her, for Mrs. Benson wrote insisting that she and Elizabeth -should come to luncheon, as he had been asking after them. - -They went to Conway House on the appointed day. Joan was acquiescent, -she never offered much opposition to anything at this time unless it -were interference with her self-imposed and ridiculous cramming. After -all it was a pleasant luncheon, and Elizabeth, at all events, enjoyed -it. - -Joan thought: "I'm glad she looks happy and pleased, but I wish they'd -asked Mother; I wonder why they didn't ask Mother?" Her mother's absence -weighed upon her. Not that Mrs. Ogden had withheld a ready consent, she -was glad that her girls had such nice neighbours, but Joan knew -instinctively that she had felt hurt; she was beginning to know so much -about her mother by instinct. She divined her every mood; it seemed to -her to be like looking through a window-pane to look at Mrs. Ogden, and -the view you saw beyond was usually deeply depressing. Mrs. Ogden had -smiled when she kissed her good-bye, but the smile had been a little -rueful, a little tremulous; it had seemed to say: "I know I'm not as -young as I used to be, I expect they find me dull." Joan wondered if -they did find her dull, and her heart ached. - -She was thinking of her now as she tried to eat. Richard, more freckled -and blunt-faced than ever, talked and joked in a kind of desperation; it -seemed to him that something must be seriously wrong with Joan. Mrs. -Benson's keen eyes watched the girl attentively, and what she saw -mystified her. She took Elizabeth into the drawing-room after lunch, -having first ordered Richard and Joan into the garden. When she and -Elizabeth were alone together she began at once. - -"What on earth's the matter with Joan, Elizabeth?" - -"I don't know--why? Do you think she looks ill?" - -"Don't you?" - -"Yes." - -"I was quite shocked to-day. I always feel interested in that child, and -I should be dreadfully anxious if she belonged to me." - -"Well, she's at a difficult age, you know." - -"Oh, my dear, it's more than that; have you been letting her work too -hard?" - -"Oh!" said Elizabeth violently, "I'm sick to death of being asked that; -of course she works too hard, but it isn't that, it's----" - -"Yes?" queried Mrs. Benson. - -"It's--oh! I don't know, Mrs. Benson, I can't put it into words, but -it's an awful responsibility, somehow; I can't tell you how it worries -me." Her voice shook. - -Mrs. Benson patted her hand reassuringly. "Whatever it is, it's got on -your nerves too, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth looked at her a little startled. Yes, it had got on her -nerves, it was horribly on her nerves and had been for weeks. She longed -to talk frankly and explain to this kind, commonplace woman the -complicated situation as she saw it, to ask her advice. She began: -"Joan's got something on her mind----" Then stopped. - -"But of course she has," said Mrs. Benson. - -"And she's growing--mentally, I mean. Oh, and physically too----" - -"They all do that, Elizabeth." - -"Yes, but--I don't understand it; at least, yes, I do understand it, -only I can't see my way." - -"Your way?" - -"Yes, my way with Joan." - -"Can't you try to rouse her? She seems to me to be getting very morbid." - -"No, she's not--at least not in the way you mean. Don't think I'm mad, -but Joan gives me such a queer feeling. I feel as though she'd been -fighting, fighting, fighting to get out, to be herself, and that now -she's not fighting any more, she's too tired." - -"But, my dear child, what is it all about?" - -"I think I know, in fact I'm sure I do, and yet I can't help her. I want -her to go away from here some day, I want her to have a life of her own. -Can't you see how it is? She's so much her mother's favourite--they -adore each other." - -Mrs. Benson did not speak for a little while, then she said: "I don't -know Mrs. Ogden very well, but I think she might be a very selfish -mother; but then, poor soul, she hasn't had much of a life, has she?" - -Then Elizabeth let herself go, she heard her voice growing louder, but -could not control it. - -"I don't care, she has no right to make it up to herself with Joan. -Joan's young and clever, and sensitive and dreadfully worth while. -Surely she has a right to something in life beyond Seabourne and Mrs. -Ogden? Joan has a right to love whom she likes, and to go where she -likes and to work and be independent and happy, and if she can't be -happy then she has a right to make her own unhappiness; it's a thousand -times better to be unhappy in your own way than to be happy in someone -else's. Joan wants something and I don't know what it is, but if it's -Mrs. Ogden then it ought not to be, that's all. The child's eating her -heart out and it's wrong, wrong, wrong! She dare not be herself because -it might not be the self that Mrs. Ogden needs. She wants to go to -Cambridge, but will she ever go? Why she's even afraid to be fond of me -because Mrs. Ogden is jealous of me." She paused, breathless. - -Mrs. Benson looked grave. "My dear," she said very quietly, "I -sympathize, and I think I understand; but be careful." - -Elizabeth thought: "No, you don't understand; you're a kind, good woman, -but you don't understand in the least." - -Aloud she said: "I'm afraid I seem violent, but I'm personally -interested in Joan's possibilities, she's very clever and lovable." - -Mrs. Benson assented. "Why not encourage her to come here more often," -she suggested. "She and Violet are about the same age, and Violet's -nearly always here in the holidays. Richard and Joan seemed to get on -very well last year. Oh, talking of Richard; you know, I suppose, that -he insists upon being a doctor?" - -Elizabeth laughed. "Well, as long as he's a good doctor I suppose he -won't kill anyone!" They both smiled now as they thought of Richard. -"His father's furious," Mrs. Benson told her, "but it's no good being -furious with Richard; you might as well get angry with an oak tree and -slap it." - -"Does he work well?" - -"Oh, I believe so; you wouldn't think it to look at him, would you? but -I hear that he's rather clever. Anyhow, he's a perfect darling, and what -_does_ it matter whether he's a doctor or a cabinet minister, so long as -he's respectable!" - -"Will he specialize eventually, do you think?" - -"He wants to, if he can get his father to back him." - -"Oh, but he will do that, of course. Does Richard say what he wants to -specialize in?" - -Mrs. Benson smiled again. "He does," she remarked with mock grimness. -"He says he means to specialize in medical psychology--nerves, I believe -is what it boils down to. _Can_ you see Richard as a nerve specialist, -Elizabeth?" - -"Well, if having no nerves oneself goes to the making of a good nerve -doctor, I should think he would succeed." - -"He tells me he's certain to succeed, my dear; he takes it as a matter -of course. If you could see the books he leaves about the house! Do you -know, Elizabeth, I'm almost afraid for my Richard sometimes; it would be -so awfully hard for him if he failed to make good, he's so sure of -himself, you know. And it's not conceit; I don't know what it is--it's -a kind of matter-of-fact self-confidence--it's almost impressive!" - - - - -2 - - -Richard and Joan were walking up and down the path by the tennis lawn; -they looked very young and lanky and pathetic, the one in his eagerness, -the other in her resignation. Joan, as she listened to the enthusiastic -sentences, wondered how anyone could care so much about anything. - -He was saying: "It's ripping the feeling it gives you to know that you -can do a thing, and to feel that you're going to do it well." - -"But how can you be certain that you will do it well?" Joan inquired. - -"I don't know, but one is certain--at least, I am." - -"Will you live in Seabourne when you've taken your degree?" - -"Good Lord, no, of course not! No one who wants to get on could do -anything in a place like this!" - -"It's not such a bad place," she protested. She felt an urgent need to -uphold Seabourne just then. - -"It's not a bad place for old people and mental deficients; no, I -suppose it's not." - -"But your mother isn't old and she isn't mentally deficient." - -"Of course not; but she doesn't stick here. She goes up to London for -months on end sometimes; besides, she's different!" - -"I don't see how she's different. How is she different from my mother, -for instance? And my mother never gets away from Seabourne." - -It was on the tip of his tongue to say: "Oh! but she is different!" but -he checked himself and said: "Well, perhaps some people can stick here -and remain human; only I know I couldn't, that's all." - -She longed to ask him about Cambridge, but she felt shy; his -self-confidence was so overpowering, though she liked him in spite of -it. It struck her that he had grown more self-confident since last -Christmas; she remembered that then he had been dreadfully afraid of -being "bottled "; now he didn't seem afraid of anything, of Seabourne -least of all. She wondered what he would say if she told him her own -trouble; it was difficult to imagine what effect her confidences would -have on him; he would probably think them ridiculous and dismiss them -with an abrupt comment. - -"I suppose," she said drearily, "some people have to stick to -Seabourne." - -"There's no '_have to_,'" he replied. - -"Oh, yes, there is; that's where you don't know. Look at Elizabeth!" - -"Elizabeth doesn't have to stay here; she's lazy, that's all that's the -matter with her." - -Joan flared at once: "If you think Elizabeth's lazy you can't know much -about her; she's staying on here because of her brother. He's delicate, -and he can't live alone, and he needs her; I think she's splendid!" - -"Rot! He isn't a baby to need dry nursing. If Elizabeth had the will I -expect she'd find the way. If Elizabeth stops here it's because she's -taken root, it's because she likes it; I'm disappointed in Elizabeth!" - -"She _hates_ it!" said Joan with conviction. - -He turned and stared at her. "Then why in heaven's name----" he began. - -"Because everyone doesn't think only of themselves!" She was angry now; -she had not been angry for so long that she quite enjoyed the -excitement. "Because Elizabeth thinks of other people and wants to be -decent to them, and doesn't talk and think only of her own career and of -the things that she wants to do. She sacrifices herself, that's why she -stays here, and if you can't understand that it's because you're not -able to understand the kind of people that really count!" - -They stopped and faced each other in the path; her eyes glowered, but -his were twinkling though his mouth was grave. "If you're talking at me, -Joan," he said solemnly, "then you may spare your breath, because you -see I know I'm right; I know that even if Elizabeth is splendid and -self-sacrificing and all the rest of it, she's dead wrong to waste it on -that little dried up brother of hers. She ought to get out and do -something for the world at large, or if she can't rise to that then she -ought to do something for herself. _I_ think it's a sin to let yourself -get drained dry by anyone, I don't care who it is; that wasn't the sort -of thing God gave us our brains for; it wasn't why He made us -individuals." - -Joan interrupted him: "But Elizabeth isn't drained dry; she's the -cleverest woman I know." - -"Yes, now, perhaps." - -"She always will be," said Joan coldly. - -He felt that he had gone too far; he didn't want to quarrel with her. - -"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "It's my fault, I suppose. I mean I daresay -I'm selfish and self-opinionated, and perhaps I'm not such great shakes, -after all. Anyhow, you know I'm awfully fond of Elizabeth." - -Joan was pacified. "One does get fond of her," she told him. "She's so -calm and neat and masterful, so certain of herself and yet so awfully -kind." - -He changed the subject. "I'm swatting at Cambridge," he announced. - -"Are you?" - -He heard the interest in her voice and wondered why his casual remark -had aroused it. - -"Yes; when I've taken my science degree I shall go up to London for -hospital work--and then "--he gave a sigh of contentment--"I shall get -my Medical--and then Germany. You ought to go to Cambridge, Joan." - -"Is it expensive? Does it cost much?" she asked him. - -"Well, that depends. Why, are you really going?" - -She hesitated. "Elizabeth would like me to." - -"Oh, yes, she was there, wasn't she? Well, you won't be there when I am, -I'm afraid; we'll just miss it by a year." - -"I don't suppose I shall go at all." - -"Why not?" - -"Oh, lots of reasons. We're poor, you know." - -"Then try for a scholarship." - -"I'd probably fail if I did." - -"Why on earth should you fail; you're very clever, aren't you?" - -She began to laugh. "I don't know if I'm what you would call clever; you -see you think yourself clever, and I'm not a bit like you. I like -working, though, so perhaps I'd get through." - -Elizabeth, coming towards them across the lawn, heard the laugh and -blessed Richard. - - - - -CHAPTER FOURTEEN - - -1 - - -IT is strange in this world, how events of momentous importance happen -without any warning, and do not, as is commonly stated, "Cast their -shadows before." Moreover, they reach us from the most unexpected -quarters and at a time when we are least prepared, and such an event -dropped out of space upon the Ogden household a few days later. - -The concrete form which it took was simple enough--a small business -envelope on Colonel Ogden's breakfast tray; he opened it, and as he read -his face became suffused with excitement. He tried to get up, but the -tea spilt in his efforts to remove the heavy tray from his lap. - -"Mary!" he shouted, "Mary!" - -Mrs. Ogden, who was presiding at the breakfast table, heard him call, -and also the loud thumping of the stick which he now kept beside the -bed. He used it freely to attract his family's attention to his -innumerable needs. She rose hastily. - -Joan and Milly heard the quick patter of her steps as she hurried -upstairs, followed, in what seemed an incredibly short time, by her -tread on the bedroom floor, and then the murmur of excited conversation. -Joan sighed. - -"Is it the butter or the bacon?" queried Milly. - -Milly had come to the conclusion that her parents were unusually -foolish; had she been capable of enough concentration upon members of -her family, she would have cordially disliked them both; as it was they -only amused her. At thirteen Milly never worried; she had a wonderful -simplicity and clarity of outlook. She realized herself very completely, -and did not trouble to realize anything else, except as it affected her -monoideism. She was quite conscious of the strained atmosphere of her -home, conscious that her father was intolerable, her mother nervous and -irritating, and Joan, she thought, very queer. But these facts, while -being in themselves disagreeable, in no way affected the primary issues -of her life. Her music, her own personality, these were the things that -would matter in the future so far as she was concerned. She had what is -often known as a happy disposition; strangers admired her, for she was a -bright and pretty child, and even friends occasionally deplored the fact -that Joan was not more like her sister. - -Upstairs in the bedroom the colonel, tousled and unshaven, was sitting -very bolt upright in bed. - -"It's Henrietta!" he said, extending the solicitor's letter in a hand -which shook perceptibly. - -"Your sister Henrietta?" inquired Mrs. Ogden. - -"Naturally. Who else do you think it would be?--Well, she's dead!" - -"Dead? Oh, my dear! I am sorry; why, you haven't heard from her for -ages." - -Colonel Ogden swallowed angrily. "Why the deuce can't you read the -letter, Mary? Read the letter and you'll know all about it." - -Mrs. Ogden took it obediently. It was quite brief and came from a firm -of solicitors in London. It stated that Mrs. Henrietta Peabody, widow of -the late Henry Clay Peabody, of Philadelphia, had died suddenly, leaving -her estate, which would bring in about three hundred a year, to be -equally divided between her two nieces, Joan and Mildred Ogden. The -letter went on to say that Colonel and Mrs. Ogden were to act as -trustees until such time as their children reached the age of twenty-one -years or married, but that the will expressly stated that the income was -not be accumulated or diverted in any way from the beneficiaries, it -being the late Mrs. Peabody's wish that it should be spent upon the two -children equally for the purpose of securing for them extra advantages. -The terms of the letter were polite and tactful, but as Mrs. Ogden read -she had an inkling that her sister-in-law Henrietta had probably made -rather a disagreeable will. She glanced at her husband apprehensively. - -"It means----" she faltered, "it means----" - -"It means," shouted the colonel, "that Henrietta must have been mad to -make such a will; it means that from now on my own children can snap -their fingers under my nose; it means that I have ceased to have any -control over members of my own family. A more outrageous state of -affairs I never heard of! What have I ever done, I should like to know, -to be insulted like this? Why should this money be left over my head? -One would think Henrietta imagined I was the sort of man to neglect the -interests of my own children; she hasn't even left the income to me for -life! Did the woman wish to insult me? Upon my word, a pretty state of -affairs! Think of it, I ask you; Milly thirteen and Joan fifteen, and a -hundred and fifty a year to be spent at once on each of 'em. It's -bedlam! And mark you, I am under orders to see that the money is spent -entirely upon them; I, the father that bred them, I have no right to -touch a penny of it!" He paused and leant back on his pillows exhausted. - -Through the myriads of ideas that surged into her brain Mrs. Ogden was -conscious of one dominating thought that beat down all the others like a -sledge-hammer: "Joan--how would this affect Joan?" - -She tried to calculate hastily how much she could claim for the children -in her housekeeping; she supposed vaguely that Elizabeth's salary would -come out of the three hundred a year; that would certainly be a relief. -Then there were doctors and dentists, clothes and washing. Somewhere at -the back of her mind she was conscious of a faint rejoicing that never -again would she have to shed so many tears over current expenses, and a -faint sense of pride in the knowledge that her daughters were now -independent. But, though these thoughts should have been consoling, they -could not push their way to the foreground of her consciousness, which -was entirely occupied at that moment by an immense fear; the fear of -independence for Joan. Colonel Ogden was looking at her; clearly he -expected her to sympathize. She pulled herself together. - -"After all, James," she ventured, "it's a great thing for Joan and -Milly, and it will make a difference in our expenses." - -He glared. "Oh, naturally, Mary, I could hardly expect you to see the -situation in its true light; I could hardly expect you to realize the -insult that my own sister has seen fit to put on me." - -"Really, James," said Mrs. Ogden angrily, stung into retort by this -childish injustice, "I understand perfectly all you're saying, but I do -think you ought to be grateful to Henrietta. I certainly am, and even if -you don't approve of her will, I don't see that there's anything to do -but to look on the bright side of things." - -"Bright side, indeed!" taunted the colonel. "A pretty bright side you'll -find developing before long. Not that I begrudge my own children any -advantages; I should think Henrietta ought to have known that. No, what -I resent, and quite rightly too, is the public lack of confidence in me -that she has been at such pains to show; that's the point." - -"The point is," thought Mrs. Ogden, "whether Joan will now be in a -position to go to Cambridge. This business will play directly into -Elizabeth's hands." Aloud she said: "Am I to tell the children, James?" - -"You can tell them any damn thing you please. If you don't tell them -they'll hear about it from somebody else, I suppose; but I warn you -fairly that when you do tell them, you can add that I intend to preserve -absolute discipline in my household, I'll have no one living under the -roof with me who don't realize that I'm the master." - -"But, my dear James," his wife protested, "they're nothing but children -still; I don't suppose for a moment they'll understand what it means. I -don't suppose it would ever enter their heads to want to defy you." - - - - -2 - - -She turned and left the room, going slowly downstairs. The children were -still at breakfast when she reached the dining-room. As they looked up, -something in their mother's expression told them of an unusual -occurrence; it was an expression in which pride, apprehension and -excitement were oddly mingled. Mrs. Ogden sat down at the head of the -table and cleared her throat. - -"I have very serious news for you, children," she began. "Your Aunt -Henrietta is dead." - -The children evinced no emotion; they had heard of their Aunt Henrietta -in America, but she had never been more than a name. Mrs. Ogden glanced -from one to the other of her daughters; she did not quite know how to -explain to them the full significance of the news, and yet she did not -wish to keep it back. Her maternal pride and generosity struggled with -her outraged dignity. She felt the situation to be quite preposterous, -and in a way she sympathized with her husband's indignation; she was of -his own generation, after all. Yet knowing him as she did, she felt a -guilty and secret understanding of Henrietta Peabody's motive. She told -herself that if only she were perfectly certain of Joan, she could find -it in her to be grateful to the departed Henrietta. She began to speak -again. - -"I have something very important to tell you. It's something that -affects both of you. It seems that your Aunt Henrietta, apart from her -pension, had an income of three hundred pounds a year, and this three -hundred a year she has left equally divided between you. That means that -you will have one hundred and fifty pounds a year each from now on." - -Her eyes were eagerly scanning Joan's face. Joan saw their appeal, -though she did not understand it; she left her place slowly and put her -arm round her mother. - -Milly clapped her hands. "A hundred and fifty a year and all my own!" -she cried delightedly. - -"Shut up!" ordered Joan. "Who cares whether you've got a hundred and -fifty a year or not? Besides, anyhow, you're only a kid; you won't be -allowed to spend it now." - -"It isn't now," said Milly thoughtfully. "It's afterwards that I care -about." - -Mrs. Ogden ignored her younger daughter. What did it matter what Milly -felt or thought? She groped for Joan's hand and squeezed it. - -"I think I ought to tell you," she said gravely, "that your father is -very much upset at this news; he's very much hurt by what your aunt has -done. I can understand and sympathize with his feelings. You see he -knows that he has always been a good father to you, and it would have -been more seemly had this money been left to him, though, of course, -your father and I have control of it until you each become twenty-one -years old or get married." - -Something prompted her to make the situation quite clear to her -children. She had another motive for telling them, or at all events for -telling Joan, exactly how things stood; she wanted to know the worst at -once. She knew anything would be more endurable than uncertainty as to -how this legacy would affect Joan. - -The children were silent; something awkward in the situation impressed -them; they longed to be alone to talk it over. Mrs. Ogden left the room -to interview the cook; she had had her say, and she felt now that she -could only await results. - - - - -3 - - -As the door closed behind her they stared at each other incredulously. -Joan was the first to speak. - -"What an extraordinary thing!" she said. - -Milly frowned. "You are queer; I don't believe you're really pleased. I -believe you're almost sorry." - -"I don't know quite what I am," Joan admitted. "It seems to worry -Mother, though I don't see why it should; but I have a feeling that -that's going to spoil it." - -"Oh, you always find something to spoil everything. Why should it worry -Mother? It doesn't worry me; I think we're jolly lucky. I know what I'm -going to do, I'm going to talk to Doddsie this very day about going to -the Royal College of Music." - -Joan scented trouble. Would Milly's little violin master side with her -when he knew of his pupil's future independence? - -"You'd better look out," she warned. "You talk as though you had the -money now. Father won't agree to your going up to London, and anyhow -you're much too young. For goodness' sake go slow; one gets so sick of -rows!" - -Milly smiled quietly; she felt that it was no good arguing with Joan; -Joan was always apprehensive and on the look-out for trouble. Milly knew -what she wanted to do and she intended to do it; after all, she -reckoned, she wouldn't remain thirteen years old for ever, and when the -time came for her to go to London to London she meant to go, so there -was no good fussing. A glow of satisfaction and gratitude began to creep -over her; she thought almost tenderly of Aunt Henrietta. - -"Poor Aunt Henrietta!" she remarked in a sympathetic voice. "I hope it -didn't hurt her--the dying, I mean." - -Joan looked across at her sister; she thought: "A lot you really care -whether it hurt her or not!" - -The front door bell rang; they knew that decided ring for Elizabeth's, -and leaving the table they hurried to the schoolroom. Elizabeth was -unpinning her hat; she paused with her arms raised to her head, divining -some unusual excitement. She looked at Joan, waiting for her to speak. -Joan read the unvoiced question in her eyes. But before she could -answer, words burst from Milly's lips in a flood; Elizabeth had heard -all about it in less than a minute, including all Milly's plans for the -future. During this recital Elizabeth smiled a little, but her eyes were -always on Joan's face. Presently she said: - -"This will help you too, Joan." - -Joan was silent; she understood quite well what was meant. Elizabeth had -put into words a feeling against which she had been fighting ever since -her mother had told her the news--a triumphant, possessive kind of -feeling, the feeling that now there was no valid reason why she should -not go to Cambridge or anywhere else for that matter. She looked at -Elizabeth guiltily, but there was no guilt in Elizabeth's answering -smile; on the contrary, there was much happiness, a triumphant happiness -that made Joan feel afraid. - - - - -CHAPTER FIFTEEN - - -1 - - -AFTER all, the novelty of the situation wore off very quickly. In a few -weeks' time the children had got quite accustomed to the thought of a -future hundred and fifty a year; it did not appear to make any -difference to their everyday lives. To be sure an unknown man arrived -from London one day and remained closeted with Colonel Ogden for several -hours. The children understood that he had come from the solicitors in -order to discuss the details of their inheritance, but what took place -at that interview was never divulged, and they soon ceased to speculate -about it. - -Could they but have known it the colonel had raged at considerable -length over what he considered the gross insult that his sister had put -upon him. It had been revealed to him as he read the will that a direct -slight had been intended, that Henrietta had not scrupled to let him -know, with as much eloquence as the legal phraseology permitted, that -she was sorry for her nieces, and that she knew a trick worth two of -making them dependent on their father for future benefits. The lawyer -from London did not appear to see any way out of the difficulty; he had -been politely sympathetic, but had in the main contented himself with -pointing out the excellence of the late Mrs. Peabody's investments. The -estate could be settled up very quickly. - - - - -2 - - -Joan was conscious that she had changed somehow, and was working with a -new zest. She realized that whereas before her aunt's death she had -worked as an antidote to her own unhappiness, she was now working for a -much more invigorating purpose, working with a well-defined hope for the -future. The examination for which she had slaved so long now loomed very -near, but she was curiously free from apprehension, filled with a quiet -confidence. Her brain was clearing; she slept better, ate better and -thought of Mrs. Ogden less. She felt quite certain that she would pass, -and the nearer the examination came the less she worked; it was as -though some instinct of self-preservation in her had asserted itself at -last. Elizabeth encouraged her new-found idleness to the full; it was a -lovely autumn, warm and fine, and together they spent the best part of -their days on the cliffs. Milly rejoiced in the general slackness; it -gave her the time she needed for practising her violin. Sometimes she -would go with them, but more often now Elizabeth let her off the -detested walks, wanting to be alone with Joan. - -Joan was surprised to find that she was gradually worrying less about -her mother, that it seemed less important, less tragic when Mrs. Ogden -complained of a headache. With this new-found normality her affection -did not lessen; on the contrary, she ceased to doubt it, but together -with other things it had begun to change in quality. It seemed to her as -though she had acquired an invisible pair of scales, on to which she -very gently lifted Mrs. Ogden's words and actions. - -Sometimes, according to her ideas, Mrs. Ogden would be found wanting, -but this neither shocked nor estranged her, for at other times her -mother would give good measure and overflowing. But this weighing -process was not romantic; it killed with one blow a vast deal of -sentimentality. Joan began to realize that Mrs. Ogden's cough did not -necessarily point to delicate lungs, that her headaches were largely the -outcome of a worrying disposition, and occasionally a comfortable way -out of a difficult situation; in fact, that Mrs. Ogden was no more -tragic and no more interesting, and at the same time no less -interesting, than many other people. - - - - -3 - - -A new factor entered into Joan's life at this period, and may have been -responsible for partially detaching her interest from her mother. Joan -had begun to mature--she was growing up. It was impossible to study as -she had done without gradually realizing that life offered many aspects -which she did not understand. It would have been unlike her to dismiss a -problem once she had become conscious of it. This new problem filled her -with no shyness and no excitement, but she realized that certain -emotional experiences played an immensely important part in the -universal scheme. She had been considering this for some time, gradually -realizing more and more clearly that there must be a key to the riddle, -which she did not possess. It was not only her books that had begun to -puzzle her--there were people--their lives--their emotions--above all -their unguarded words, dropped here and there and hastily covered up -with such grotesque clumsiness. She felt irritated and restless, and -wanted to know things exactly as they stood in their true proportion one -to the other. She shrank from questioning her mother; something told her -that this ought not to be the case, but she could not bring herself to -take the plunge. However, she meant to know the truth about certain -things, and having dismissed the thought of questioning Mrs. Ogden she -decided that Elizabeth should be her informant. - -There was no lack of opportunity; the long warm afternoons of idleness -on the cliffs encouraged introspection and confidences. Joan chose one -of these occasions to confront Elizabeth with a series of direct -questions. Elizabeth would have preferred to shirk the task that her -pupil thrust upon her. Not that the facts of life had ever struck her as -repulsive or indecent; on the contrary, she had always taken them as a -matter of course, and had never been able to understand why free -discussion of them should be forbidden. With any other pupil, she told -herself, she would have felt completely at her ease, and she realized -that her embarrassment was owing to the fact that it was Joan who asked. -She fenced clumsily. - -"I can't see that these things enter into your life at all, at the -present moment," she said. "I can't see the necessity for discussing -them." - -But Joan was obdurate. "I see it," she replied, "and I'd like to hear -the truth from you, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth knew that she must make up her mind quickly; she must either -refuse to discuss these things with Joan, or lie to her, or tell her the -truth, which was after all very simple, and she chose the latter course. -She watched the effect of her words on her pupil a little -apprehensively, but Joan did not seem disturbed, showing very little -surprise and no emotion. - - - - -4 - - -That long and intimate talk on the cliffs had not left Joan unmoved, -however; underneath the morbidity and exaggerated sensitiveness of her -nature flowed a strong stream of courage and common sense. The knowledge -that Elizabeth had imparted acted as a stimulant and sedative in one; -Joan felt herself to be in possession of the truth and thus endowed with -a new dignity and new responsibility towards life. She began to put -everyday things to the touchstone of her new knowledge, to try to the -best of her ability to see them and people in their true proportion, and -then to realize herself. Material lay near her hand for this entrancing -study; there was Elizabeth, for instance, and her mother. Shyly at -first, but with ever growing courage, she began to analyse Mrs. Ogden -from this fresh aspect, to select a niche for her and then to put her in -it, to decide the true relativity which her mother bore to life in -general. Joan, although she could not have put it into words, had begun -to realize cause and effect. Mrs. Ogden did not suffer by this analysis, -but she stood revealed in her true importance and her true -insignificance, it deprived her for ever of the power of imposing upon -her daughter. If she lost in this respect she gained in another, for -Joan's feelings for her now became more stable and, if anything, more -protective. She saw her divested of much romance, it is true, but not -divested of her claim to pity. She saw her as the creature of -circumstances, as the victim of those natural laws which, while being -admirably adapted for the multitude, occasionally destroyed the -individual. She realized as she had never been able to realize before -the place that she herself held in her mother's life; it was borne -slowly in upon her that she represented a substitute for all that Mrs. -Ogden had been defrauded of. - -A few months ago such a realization would have tormented her, would have -led to endless self-analysis, to innumerable doubts and fears lest she -in return could not give enough, but Joan's mind was now too fully -occupied for morbidity, it was busy with the realization of her own -personality. She knew herself as an individual capable of hacking out a -path in life, capable, perhaps, of leading a useful existence; and this -knowledge filled her with a sense of importance and endeavour. She found -herself able to face calmly the fact that her mother could never mean to -her what she meant to her mother; to her mother she was a substitute, -but she, Joan, was not conscious of needing a substitute. She did not -formulate very clearly what she needed, did not know if she really -needed anything at all except work, but one thing she did know and that -was that her mental vision stretched far beyond Seabourne and away into -the vistas of the great Untried. - -Things were as they were, people were as they were, she was as she was -and her mother was as she was. And Elizabeth? Elizabeth she supposed was -as she was and that was the end of it. You could not change or alter the -laws that governed individual existence, but she meant to make a success -of life, if she could; her efforts might be futile, they probably would -be; nevertheless they were worth making. She concluded that individual -effort occasionally did succeed, though the odds were certainly against -it; it had failed in Mrs. Ogden's case, and she began to realize that -hitherto it had failed in Elizabeth's; but would Elizabeth always fail? -She saw her now as a creature capable of seizing hold of life and using -it to the full. Elizabeth, so quiet, so painfully orderly, so -immaculately neat, and in her own way so interesting, suddenly became -poignantly human to Joan; she speculated about her. - -And meanwhile the examination drew nearer. Now it was Elizabeth who grew -nervous and restless, and Joan who supported her; it was extraordinary -how nervous Elizabeth did grow, she could neither control nor conceal -it, at all events from her observant pupil. Joan began to understand how -much it meant to Elizabeth that she should do well, and she was touched. -But she herself could not feel any apprehension; she seemed at this time -to have risen above all her doubts and fears. It is possible, however, -that Elizabeth's perturbation might in time have reacted on her pupil -had fate not interposed at the psychological moment. - - - - -CHAPTER SIXTEEN - - -1 - - -SURELY the last place in the world where anyone would have expected to -meet a tragedy was in the High Street of Seabourne. There never was a -street so genteel and so lacking in emotion; it was almost an indecency -to associate emotion with it, and yet it was in the High Street that a -thing happened which was to make a lasting impression on Joan. She was -out with Elizabeth and Milly early one afternoon; they were feeling -dull, and conversation flagged; their minds were concentrated on -innumerable small commissions for Mrs. Ogden. It was a bright and rather -windy day, having in the keen air the first suggestion of coming winter. -The High Street was very empty at that hour, and stretched in front of -them ugly and shabby and painfully unimportant. Hidden from sight just -round the corner, a little bell went clanging and tinkling; it was the -little bell attached to the cart of the man who ground knives and -scissors every Thursday. A tradesman's boy clattered down the street on -a stout unclipped cob, a basket over his arm, and somewhere in a house -near by a phonograph was shouting loudly. - -Then someone screamed, not once but many times. It was an ungainly -sound, crude with terror. The screams appeared to be coming from Mrs. -Jenkins's, the draper's shop, whither Elizabeth was bent; and then -before any of them realized what was happening, a woman had rushed out -into the street covered in flames. The spectacle she made, horrible in -itself, was still more horrible because this was the sort of thing that -one heard of or read of but never expected to see. Through the fire -which seemed to engulf her, her arms were waving and flapping in the -air. Joan noticed that her hair, which had come down, streamed out in -the wind, a mass of flame. The woman, still screaming, turned and ran -towards them, and as she ran the wind fanned the flames. Then Elizabeth -did a very brave thing. She tore off the long tweed coat she was -wearing, and running forward managed somehow to wrap it round the -terrified creature. It seemed to Joan as though she caught the woman and -pressed her against herself, but it was all too sudden and too terrible -for the girl to know with any certainty what happened; she was conscious -only of an overwhelming fear for Elizabeth, and found herself tearing at -her back, trying to pull her away; and then suddenly something, a mass -of something, was lying on the pavement with Elizabeth bending over it. - -Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. "Are you there, Joan?" The voice -sounded very matter of fact. - -Joan sprang to her side. "Oh, Elizabeth!" - -"I want you to run to the chemist and tell him what's happened. Get him -to come back with you at once; he'll know what to bring, and send his -assistant to fetch the doctor, while I see to getting this poor soul -into the house." - -Joan turned to obey. A few moments ago the street had been practically -empty, but now quite a throng of people were pressing forward towards -Elizabeth. Joan shouldered her way through them; half unconsciously she -noticed their eager eyes, and the tense, greedy look on their faces. -There were faces there that she had known nearly all her life, -respectable middle-class faces, the faces of Seabourne tradespeople, but -now somehow they looked different; it was as though a curtain had been -drawn aside and something primitive and unfamiliar revealed. She felt -bewildered, but nothing seemed to matter except obeying Elizabeth. As -she ran down the street she saw Milly crying in a doorway; she felt -sorry for her, she looked so sick and faint, but she did not stop to -speak to her. - - - - -2 - - -When she returned with the chemist the crowd was denser than ever, but -all traces of the accident had disappeared. She supposed that Elizabeth -must have had the woman carried into the shop. - -Inside, all was confusion; somewhere from the back premises a child -wailed dismally. A mass of unrolled material was spread in disorder upon -the counter, behind which stood an assistant in tears. She recognized -Joan and pointed with a shaking finger to a door at the back of the -shop. The door opened on to a narrow staircase, and Joan paused to look -about her; the old chemist was hard on her heels, peering over her -shoulders, his arms full of packages. A sound reached them from above, -low moaning through which, sharp and clear, came Elizabeth's voice: - -"Is that you, Joan? Hurry up, please." - -They mounted the stairs and entered a little bedroom; on the bed lay the -servant who had been burnt. Elizabeth was sitting beside her, and in a -corner of the room stood Mrs. Jenkins, looking utterly helpless. -Elizabeth looked critically at Joan; what she saw appeared to satisfy -her, for she beckoned the girl to come close. - -"We must try and get the burnt clothes off her," she said. "Have you -brought plenty of oil, Mr. Ridgway?" - -The chemist came forward, and together the three of them did what they -could, pending the doctor's arrival. As they worked the smell of burnt -flesh pervaded the air, and Mrs. Jenkins swayed slightly where she -stood. Elizabeth saw it and sent her downstairs; then she looked at -Joan, but Joan met her glance fearlessly. - -"Are you equal to this?" - -Joan nodded. - -"Then do exactly what we tell you." - -Joan nodded again. They worked quickly and silently, almost like people -in a dream, Joan thought. There was something awful in what they did, -something new and awful in the spectacle of a mutilated fellow-creature, -helpless in their hands. Into Joan's shocked consciousness there began -to creep a wondering realization of her own inadequacy. Yet she was not -failing; on the contrary, her nerve had steadied itself to meet the -shock. After a little while she found that her repulsion was giving way -to a keen and merciful interest, but she knew that all three of them, so -willing and so eager to help, were hampered by a lack of experience. -Even Mr. Ridgway's medical knowledge was inadequate to this emergency. -Apparently Elizabeth realized this too, for she glanced at the window -from time to time and paused to listen; Joan knew that she was waiting -in a fever of impatience for the doctor to arrive. The woman stirred and -moaned again. - -"Will she die?" Joan asked. - -Elizabeth looked at the chemist; he was silent. At last he said: "I'm -afraid she's burnt in the third degree." - -Joan thought: "I ought to know what that means, but I don't." - -Then she thought: "The poor thing's suffering horribly, she's probably -going to die before the doctor comes, and not one of us really knows how -to help her; how humiliating." - -At that moment they heard someone hurrying upstairs. As the doctor came -into the room they stood aside. He examined the patient, touching her -gently, then he took dressings from his bag. He went to work with great -care and deftness, and Joan was filled with admiration as she watched -him. She had no idea who he was; he was not the Ogdens' doctor, this was -a younger man altogether. Then into her mind flashed the thought of -Richard Benson. She wondered why she had laughed at Richard when he had -talked of becoming a doctor. Was it because he was so conceited? But -surely it was better to be conceited than inadequate! - -The doctor was unconscious of her scrutiny; from time to time he spoke -to Elizabeth, issuing short, peremptory orders. Elizabeth stood beside -him, capable and quiet, and Joan felt proud of her because even in this -extremity she managed somehow to look tidy. - -"I think I've done all that I can, for the moment," he said. "I'll come -again later on." - -Elizabeth nodded, her mouth was drawn down at the corners and her arms -hung limply at her sides. Something in her face attracted the doctor's -attention and his glance fell to her hands. - -"Let me look at your hands," he said. - -"It's nothing," Elizabeth assured him, but her voice sounded far away. - -"I'm afraid I disagree with you; your hands are badly burnt, you must -let me dress them." He turned to the dressings on the table. - -She held out her hands obediently, and Joan noticed for the first time -that they were injured. The realization that Elizabeth was hurt -overwhelmed her; she forgot the woman on the bed, forgot everything but -the burnt hands. With a great effort she pulled herself together, -forcing herself to hold the dressings, watching with barely concealed -apprehension, lest the doctor should inflict pain. She had thought him -so deft a few minutes ago, yet now he seemed indescribably clumsy. But -if he did hurt it was not reflected on Elizabeth's face; her lips -tightened a little, that was all. - -"Anywhere else?" the doctor demanded. - -"Nowhere else," Elizabeth assured him. "I think my hands must have got -burnt when I wrapped my coat round her." - -The doctor stared. "It's a mystery to me," he said, "how you managed to -do all you did with a pair of hands like that." - -"I didn't feel them so much at first," she told him. - -The doctor called Mrs. Jenkins and gave her a few instructions; then he -hurried Elizabeth downstairs into the little shop, leaving her there -while he went to find a cab. - -Joan stood silently beside her; neither of them spoke until the fly -arrived, then Joan said: "I shall come home with you, Elizabeth." - -"I'll send in two nurses," said the doctor. "Your friend here will want -help too." - -Joan gave him Elizabeth's address. - - - - -3 - - -During the drive they were silent again, there didn't appear to be -anything to say. Joan felt lonely; something in what had happened seemed -to have put Elizabeth very far away from her; perhaps it was because she -could not share her pain. The fly drew up at the door; she felt in -Elizabeth's coat pocket for her purse and paid the man; then she rang. -There was no one in the house but the young general servant, who looked -frightened when she saw the bandaged hands. Joan realized that whatever -there was to do must be done by her; that Elizabeth the dominating, the -practical, was now as helpless as a baby. The thought thrilled her. - -They went slowly upstairs to the bedroom. Joan had been in the house -before but never in that room; she paused instinctively at the door, -feeling shy. Something told her that by entering this bedroom she was -marking an epoch in her relations with Elizabeth, so personal must that -room be; she turned the handle and they went in. As she ministered to -Elizabeth she noticed the room, and a feeling of disappointment crept -over her. Plain white painted furniture, white walls and a small white -bed. A rack of books and on the dressing-table a few ivory brushes and -boxes. The room was very austere in its cold whiteness; it was like -Elizabeth and yet it was not like Elizabeth; like the outward Elizabeth -perhaps, but was it like the real Elizabeth? Then her eyes fell upon a -great tangle of autumn flowers, standing in a bright blue jar on the -chest of drawers; something in the strength and virility of their -colouring seemed to gibe and taunt the prim little room; they were there -as a protest, or so the girl felt. She wondered what it was in Elizabeth -that had prompted her to choose these particular flowers and the bright -blue jar that they stood in. Perhaps Elizabeth divined her thoughts, for -she smiled as she followed the direction of Joan's eyes. - -"A part of me loves them, needs them," she said. - -Very gently Joan helped her to undress; it was a painful and tedious -business. Joan noticed with surprise that Elizabeth's clothes were finer -than Mrs. Ogden's; it gave her a pleasure to touch them. Her nightgown -was of fine lawn, simple in design but very individual. Strange, oh! -strange, how little she really knew Elizabeth. She looked entirely -different with her hair down. Joan felt that in this new-found intimacy -something was lost and something gained. Never again could Elizabeth -represent authority in her pupil's eyes; that aspect of their -relationship was lost for ever; and with it a prop, a staff that she had -grown to lean on. But in its place there was something else, something -infinitely more intimate and interesting. As she helped her into bed, -she was conscious of a curious embarrassment. Elizabeth glanced at the -clock; it was long past tea-time. - -"Good Heavens, Joan, you simply must go! And do see your mother at once, -and tell her what's happened. Do go; the nurse will be here any moment." - -Joan stood awkwardly beside the bed; she wanted to do something, to say -something; a lump rose in her throat, but her eyes remained dry. She -moved towards the door. Elizabeth watched her go, but at that moment she -was conscious of nothing but pain and was thankful that Joan went when -she did. - - - - -CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - - -1 - - -MRS. OGDEN had been waiting at the dining-room window and ran to open -the front door as Joan came down the street. The girl looked worn out -and dispirited; she walked slowly and her head was slightly bowed as she -pushed open the gate. - -Mrs. Ogden, who had heard from Milly of the accident, had not intended -to remonstrate at Joan's prolonged absence. On the contrary, while she -had been waiting anxiously for her daughter's return, she had been -planning the manner in which she would welcome her, fold her in her -arms; poor child, it was such a dreadful thing for her to have seen! As -the time dragged on and Joan did not come a thousand fears had beset -her. Had Joan perhaps been burnt too? Had she fainted? What had -happened, and why had Elizabeth not let her know? - -Milly's account had been vague and unsatisfactory; she had rushed home -in a panic of fear and was now in bed. Her sudden and dramatic -appearance had upset the colonel, and he too had by now retired to his -room, so that Mrs. Ogden, who had longed to go and ascertain for herself -the true state of affairs, had been compelled to remain in the house, a -prey to anxiety. - -At the sight of her daughter safe and sound, however, she temporarily -lapsed from tenderness. The reaction was irresistible; she felt angry -with Joan, she could have shaken her. - -"Well, really!" she began irritably, "this is a nice time to come home; -I must say you might have let me know where you were." - -Joan sighed and pushed past her gently. - -"I'm so sorry," she said, "but you see there was so much to do. Oh, I -forgot, you haven't heard." She paused. - -"Milly has told me; at least, she has told me something; the child's -been terrified. I do think Elizabeth must be quite mad to have allowed -either of you to see such a horrible thing." - -"Elizabeth put out the fire," said Joan dully. - -"Elizabeth put out the fire? What _do_ you mean?" - -"She wrapped the woman in her coat and her hands got burnt." - -"Her hands got burnt? Where is she now, then?" - -"At home in bed; I've just come from her." - -"Is _that_ where you've been all these hours? I see, you've been home -with Elizabeth, and you never let me know!" - -"I couldn't, Mother, there was no one to send." - -"Then why didn't you come yourself? You must have known that I'd be -crazy with anxiety!" - -Joan collapsed on a chair and dropped her head on her hand. She felt -utterly incapable of continuing the quarrel, it seemed too futile and -ridiculous. How could her mother have expected her to leave Elizabeth; -she felt that she should not have come home even now, she should have -stayed by her friend and refused to be driven away. She looked up, and -something in her tired young eyes smote her mother's heart; she knelt -down beside her and folded her in her arms. - -"Oh, my Joan, my darling," she whispered, pressing the girl's head down -on her shoulder. "It's only because I was so anxious, my dearest--I love -you too much, Joan." - -Joan submitted to the embrace quietly with her eyes closed; neither of -them spoke for some minutes. Mrs. Ogden stretched out her hand and -stroked the short, black hair with tremulous fingers. Her heart beat -very fast, she could feel it in her throat. Joan stirred; the gripping -arm was pressing her painfully. - -Mrs. Ogden controlled herself with an effort; there was so much that she -felt she must say to Joan at that moment; the words tingled through her, -longing to become articulate. She wanted to cry out like a primitive -creature; to scream words of entreaty, of reproach, of tenderness. She -longed to humble herself to this child, beseeching her to love her and -her only, and above all not to let Elizabeth come between them. But even -as the words formed themselves in her brain she crushed them down, -ashamed of her folly. - -"I hope Elizabeth was not much burnt," she forced herself to say. - -Joan sat up. "It's her hands," she answered unsteadily. - -Mrs. Ogden kissed her. "You must lie down for a little; this thing has -been a great shock, of course, and I think you've been very brave." - -Joan submitted readily enough; she was thankful to get away; she wanted -to lie on her bed in a darkened room and think, and think and think. - - - - -2 - - -The days that followed were colourless and flat. Joan took to wandering -about the house, fidgeting obviously until the hour arrived when she -could get away to Elizabeth. - -On the whole Elizabeth seemed glad of her visits, Joan thought. No doubt -she was dull, lying there alone with her hands on a pillow in front of -her. The nurse went out every afternoon, and Joan was careful to time -her visits accordingly. But it seemed to the girl that Elizabeth had -changed towards her, that far from opening up new fields of intimacy -Elizabeth's condition had set up a barrier. She was acutely conscious of -this when they were alone together. She felt that whatever they talked -about now was forced and trivial, that they might have said quite -different things to each other; then whose fault was it, hers or -Elizabeth's? She decided that it was Elizabeth's. Her hurried visits -left her with a feeling of emptiness, of dissatisfaction; she came away -without having said any of the clever and amusing things that she had so -carefully prepared, with a sense of having been terribly dull, of having -bored Elizabeth. - -Elizabeth assured her that the burns were healing, but she still looked -very ill, which the nurse attributed to shock. Joan began to dislike the -nurse intensely, without any adequate reason. Once Joan had taken some -flowers; she had chosen them carefully, remembering that one part of -Elizabeth loved bright flowers. It had not been very easy to find what -she wanted, and the purchase had exhausted her small stock of money. But -when she had laid them shyly on the bed Elizabeth had not looked as -radiantly pleased as she had expected; she had thanked her, of course, -and admired the flowers, but something had been lacking in her reception -of the offering; it was all very puzzling. - -Mrs. Ogden said nothing; she bided her time and secretly recorded -another grudge against Elizabeth. She was pleased with a new scheme -which she had evolved, of appearing to ignore her. Acting upon this -inspiration, she carefully forbore to ask after her when Joan came home, -and if, as was usually the case, information was volunteered, Mrs. Ogden -would change the subject. Colonel Ogden was not so well, and this fact -gave her an excuse for making the daily visit to Elizabeth difficult if -not impossible. The colonel needed constant attention, and a thousand -little duties were easily created for Joan. Joan was not deceived, she -saw through the subterfuge, but could not for the life of her find any -adequate excuse for shirking the very obvious duty of helping with the -invalid. - -When she was not kept busy with her father, her mother would advise her -to study. She had been in the habit of discouraging what she called -"Elizabeth's cramming system," yet now she seemed anxious that Joan -should work hard, reminding her that the examination was only two weeks -distant, and expressing anxiety as to the result. Colonel Ogden made no -secret of his preference for his younger daughter. It was Milly's -company that he wanted, and because she managed cleverly to avoid the -boredom of these daily tasks, the colonel's disappointment was vented on -Joan. He sulked and would not be comforted. At this time Mrs. Ogden's -headaches increased in frequency and intensity, and she would constantly -summon Joan to stroke her head, which latter proceeding was supposed to -dispel the pain. Joan felt no active resentment at what she recognized -as a carefully laid plot. Something of nobility in her was touched and -sorry. Sometimes, as she sat in her mother's darkened bedroom stroking -the thin temples in silent obedience, she would be conscious of a sense -of shame and pity because of the transparency of the deception -practised. - -In spite of Mrs. Ogden, she managed to see Elizabeth, who was getting -better fast; she was down in the study now, and Joan noticed that her -hands were only lightly bandaged. She asked to be allowed to see for -herself how they were progressing, but Elizabeth always found some -trifling excuse. However, it was cheering to know that she would soon be -back at Leaside, and Joan's spirits rose. Elizabeth seemed more natural -too when they were able to meet, and Joan decided that the queer -restraint which she had noticed in the early days of her illness had -been the outcome of the shock from which the nurse said she was -suffering. She argued that this in itself would account for what she had -observed as unusual in Elizabeth's manner. She had told her why the -daily visits had ceased to be possible, explaining the hundred little -duties that had now fallen to her share, and Elizabeth had said nothing -at all. She had just looked at Joan and then looked away, and when she -did speak it had been about something else. Joan would have liked to -discuss the situation, but Elizabeth's manner was not encouraging. - -Elizabeth had told her that the servant had died of her burns; according -to the doctor it had been a hopeless case from the first, and Joan -realized that, after all, Elizabeth's courage had been in a sense -wasted. She looked at her lying so quietly on the sofa with her helpless -hands on their supporting pillow, and wondered what it was in Elizabeth -that had prompted her to do what she had done; what it was in anyone -that occasionally found expression in such sudden acts of -self-sacrifice. Elizabeth had tried to save a life at the possible loss -of her own, and yet she was not so unusual a creature so far as Joan -could judge, and the very fact that she was just an everyday person made -her action all the more interesting. She herself appeared to set no -store by what she had done; she took it for granted, as though she had -seen no other alternative, and this seemed to Joan to be in keeping with -the rest of her. Elizabeth would refuse to recognize melodrama; it did -not go with her, it was a ridiculous thing to associate with her at all. -There had been a long article in the local paper, extolling her -behaviour, but when Joan, full of pride and gratification, had shown it -to her, she had only laughed and remarked: "What nonsense!" - -But Joan had her own ideas on the subject; she neither exaggerated nor -minimized what Elizabeth had done. She saw the thing just as it was; a -brave thing, obviously the right thing to do, and she was glad that -Elizabeth should have been the person to do it. But quite apart from -this, the accident had been responsible for starting a train of thought -in the girl's mind. She had long ago decided that she wanted to make a -career, and now she knew exactly what that career should be. She wanted -to be a doctor. She knew that it was not easy and not very usual; but -that made it seem all the more desirable in her eyes. She thought very -often of Richard Benson, and was conscious of wishing that he were at -home so that she could talk the matter over with him. She was not quite -sure how Elizabeth would take her decision, and she expected opposition -from her mother and father, but she felt that Richard could and would -help her. She felt that something in his sublime confidence, in his -sublime disregard for everything and everybody, would be useful to her -in what she knew to be a crisis in her life. She scarcely glanced at her -books; the examination was imminent, but she knew that she would not -fail. - - - - -3 - - -When at length the great moment arrived it found Joan calm and -self-possessed; she breakfasted early and took the train for a -neighbouring town in which the examination was to be held. The weather -was oppressive, the atmosphere of the crowded room stifling, seeming to -exude the tension and nervousness of her fellow competitors; yet, while -recognizing these things, she felt that they were powerless to affect -her. She glanced calmly over the examination paper that lay upon her -desk; it did not seem very formidable, and she began to write her -answers with complete assurance. - -On her return home that evening she went in to see Elizabeth for a few -moments. She found her more perturbed and nervous than she could have -conceived possible. Joan reassured her as best she could and hastened on -to Leaside. Her mother also seemed anxious; something of the gravity of -the occasion appeared to have affected even Mrs. Ogden, for she -questioned her closely. Joan wondered why they lacked confidence in her, -why they seemed to take it for granted that she would have found the -examination difficult; she felt irritated that Elizabeth should have -entertained doubts. She had always expressed herself as being certain -that Joan would pass, yet now at the last moment she was childishly -nervous; perhaps her illness had something to do with it. Joan wished -for their sakes that the examination could have been completed in one -day and the result made known that first evening, but for herself she -felt indifferent. What lay ahead of her was unlikely to be much more -formidable than what she had coped with already, so why fear? She smiled -a little, thinking of Richard Benson--was she, too, growing -conceited--was she growing rather like him? - - - - -CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - - -1 - - -THE usual time elapsed and then Joan knew she had passed her examination -with honours. There was a grudging pride in Mrs. Ogden's heart in spite -of herself, and even the colonel revived from his deep depression to -congratulate his elder daughter. Joan was happy, with that assured and -peaceful happiness that comes only to those who have attained through -personal effort; she felt now very confident about the future, capable -of almost anything. It was a red-letter day with a vengeance, for -Elizabeth was coming back to Leaside that same afternoon to take up her -work again. She would not have heard the news, and Joan rejoiced -silently at the prospect of telling her. She pictured Elizabeth's face; -surely the calm of it must break up just this once, and if it did, how -would she look? There were flowers on the school-room table; that was -good. Mrs. Ogden had put them there to celebrate Joan's triumph, she had -said. Joan wished that they had been put there to welcome Elizabeth -back. The antagonism between these two had never ceased to worry and -distress her, not so much on their behalf as because she herself wanted -them both. At all times, the dearest wish of her heart was that they -should be reconciled, lest at any time she should be asked to choose -between them. But on this splendid and fulfilling morning no clouds -could affect her seriously. - -The hours dragged; she could not swallow her lunch; at three o'clock -Elizabeth would arrive. Now it was two o'clock, now a quarter past, then -half past. Joan, pale with excitement, sat in the schoolroom and waited. -Upstairs, Milly was practising her violin; she was playing a queer -little tune, rather melancholy, very restrained, as unlike the child who -played it as a tune could well be; this struck Joan as she listened and -made her speculate. How strange people were; they were always lonely and -always strange; perhaps they knew themselves, but certainly no one else -ever knew them. There was her mother, did she really know her? And -Elizabeth--she had begun to realize that there were unexpected things -about her that took you by storm and left you feeling awkward; you could -never be quite certain of her these days. Was it only the shock of the -illness, she wondered, or was it that she was just beginning to realize -that there was an Elizabeth very different from that of the schoolroom; -a creature of moods, like herself? - -Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour, and as it did so the -door-bell rang. Joan jumped up, she laughed aloud; how like Elizabeth to -ring just as the clock was striking, exactly like her. The schoolroom -door opened and she came in. She was a little thinner perhaps, but -otherwise the great experience seemed to have made no impression on her -outward appearance. - -"Elizabeth, I've passed with honours!" - -Elizabeth was midway between the door and the table; she opened her lips -as if to speak, but paused. - -"I knew you would, Joan," was all she said. - -Somewhere deep down in herself, Joan smiled. "That's not what you wanted -to say," she thought. "You wanted to say something very different." - -But she fell in with Elizabeth's mood and tried to check her own -enthusiasm. What did it matter if Elizabeth chose to play a part, she -knew what this news meant to her; she could have laughed in her face. - -"But what really matters is that you've come back," she said. - -"Yes, I suppose that is what really matters," replied Elizabeth, her -calm eyes meeting Joan's for an instant. - -"Oh, Elizabeth, it's been too awful without you, dull and awful!" - -"I know," she answered quietly. - -"And suppose I'd failed you, Elizabeth, suppose I'd failed in the -examination," Joan's voice trembled. "Suppose I had had to tell you -that!" - -"I should still have been coming back." - -"Yes, I know, and that's all that really matters; only it's better as it -is, isn't it?" - -"You would never fail me, Joan. I think it's not in you to fail, -somehow; in any case I don't think you'll fail me." She hesitated--then, -"I don't feel that we ought to fail each other, you and I." - -She took off her hat and coat and drew off her gloves with her back -turned; when she came back to the table her hands were behind her. She -sat down quickly and folded them in her lap. In the excitement of the -good news and the reunion, Joan had forgotten to ask to see her hands. - -"Where's Milly?" said Elizabeth. - -Joan smiled. "Can't you hear? She's at her fiddle." - -Elizabeth looked relieved. "Don't call her," she said. "Let me see your -examination report." Joan fetched it and put it on the table in front of -her. For a moment or two Elizabeth studied it in silence, then she -looked up. - -"It's perfectly excellent," she remarked. - -In her enthusiasm, she picked up the paper to study it more closely, and -at that moment the sun came out and fell on her hands. - -Joan gasped, a little cry of horror escaped her in spite of herself. -Elizabeth looked up, she blanched and hid her hands in her lap, but Joan -had seen them; they were hideously seamed and puckered with large, -discoloured scars. - -"Oh, Elizabeth--your hands! Your beautiful hands! You were so proud of -them----" - -Joan laid her head down on the table and wept. - - - - -2 - - -After supper that night Joan took the plunge. She had not intended doing -it so quickly, but waiting seemed useless, and, besides, she was filled -with a wild energy that rendered any action a relief. Colonel Ogden was -dozing over the evening paper; from time to time he jumped awake with a -stifled snort; as always the dining-room smelt of his pipe smoke and -stale food. At Joan's quick movement he opened his eyes very wide; he -looked like an old baby. - -She began abruptly, "Mother, I want to tell you that I'm going to study -to be a doctor." - -It was characteristic of her to get it all out at once without any -prelude. Mrs. Ogden laid down her knitting, and contrary to all -expectations did not faint; she did not even press her head, but she -smiled unpleasantly. - -She said: "Why? Because Elizabeth has burnt her hands?" - -It was the wrong thing to say--a thoroughly stupid and heartless remark, -and she knew it. She would have given much for a little of the tact -which she felt instinctively to be her only weapon, but for the life of -her she could not subdue the smouldering anger that took hold of her at -the moment. She never for an instant doubted that Elizabeth was in some -way connected with this mad idea; it pleased her to think this, even -while it tormented her. The mother and daughter confronted each other; -their eyes were cold and hard. - -"What's that?" said Colonel Ogden, leaning a little forward. - -Joan turned to him. "I was telling Mother that I've decided on a career. -I'm going in for medicine." - -"For _what_?" - -"For medicine. Other girls have done it." - -Her father rose unsteadily to his feet; he helped himself up by the arms -of his chair. Very slowly he pointed a fat, shaking finger at his wife. - -"Mary, what did I tell you, what did I tell you, Mary? This is what -comes of Henrietta's iniquitous will. My God! Did I ever think to hear a -girl child of fifteen calmly stating what she intends to do? Does she -ask my permission? No, she states that she intends to be a doctor. A -doctor, my daughter! Good God! What next?" He turned on Joan: "You must -be mad," he told her. "It's positively indecent--an unsexing, indecent -profession for any woman, and any woman who takes it up is indecent and -unsexed. I say it without hesitation--indecent, positively immodest!" - -"Indecent, Father?" - -"Yes, and immodest; it's an outrageous suggestion!" - -Mrs. Ogden took up her knitting again; the needles clicked irritatingly. -Once or twice she closed her eyes, but her hands moved incessantly. - -"Joan!" She swallowed and spoke as if under a great restraint. - -"Yes, Mother?" - -"If you were a boy I would say this to you, and since you seem to have -chosen to assume an altogether ridiculous masculine role, listen to me. -There are things that a gentleman can do and things he cannot; no -gentleman can enter the medical profession, no Routledge has ever been -known to do such a thing. Our men have served their country; they have -served it gloriously, but a Routledge does not enter a middle-class -profession. I wish to keep quite calm, Joan. I can understand your -having acquired these strange ideas, for you have naturally been thrown -very much with Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is--well, not quite one of us; -but you will please remember who you are, and that I for one will never -tolerate your behaving other than as a member of my family. I----" - -The colonel interrupted her. "Listen to me," he thundered. In his anger -he seemed to have regained some of his old vitality. "You listen to me, -young woman; I'll have none of this nonsense under my roof. You think, I -suppose, that your aunt has made you independent, but let me tell you -that for the next six years you're nothing of the kind. Not one penny -will I spend on any education that is likely to unsex a daughter of -mine. I'll have none of these new-fangled woman's rights ideas in my -house; you will stay at home like any other girl until such time as you -get married. You will marry; do you hear me? _That's_ a woman's -profession! A sawbones indeed! Do you think you're a boy? Have you gone -stark, staring mad?" - -"No, I'm not mad," Joan said quietly, "but I don't think I shall marry, -Father." - -"Not marry, and why not, pray?" - -She did not attempt to explain, for she herself did not know what had -prompted her. - -"I can wait," she told him. "It wouldn't be too late to begin when I'm -twenty-one." - -He opened his mouth to roar at her, but the words did not come; instead -he fell back limply in his chair. Mrs. Ogden rushed to him. Joan stood -very still; she had no impulse to help him; she felt cold and numb with -anger. - -"I think you've killed your father," said Mrs. Ogden unsteadily. - -Joan roused herself. She looked into her mother's working face; they -stared at each other across the prostrate man. - -"No," she said gravely, "it's you, both of you, who are trying to kill -me." - -She went and fetched brandy, and together they forced some between the -pallid lips. After a little he stirred. - -"You see, he's not dead," said Joan mechanically. "I'll go for the -doctor." - -When the doctor came he shook his head. - -"How did this happen?" he inquired. - -"He got angry," Mrs. Ogden told him. - -"But I warned you that he mustn't be excited, that you ought not to -excite him under any circumstances. Really, Mrs. Ogden, if you do, I -won't answer for the consequences." - -"It was not _I_ who excited him," she said, and she looked at Joan. - -Joan said: "Will he die, Doctor Thomas?" She could hear herself that her -voice was unnaturally indifferent. - -The doctor looked at her in surprise. "Not this time, perhaps; in fact, -I'm pretty sure he'll pull round this time, but it mustn't happen -again." - -"No," said Joan, "I understand; it mustn't happen again." - -"Quite so," said the doctor dryly. - - - - -_BOOK III_ - - - - -CHAPTER NINETEEN - - -1 - - -IN the two years that elapsed before Joan's seventeenth birthday nothing -occurred in the nature of a change. Looking back over that time she was -surprised to find how little had happened; she had grown accustomed to -monotony, but the past two years seemed to have been more monotonous -than usual. The only outstanding event had been when she and Milly -joined the tennis club. Mrs. Ogden did not encourage her daughters to -take part in the more public local festivities, which were to a great -extent shared with people whom she considered undesirable, but in this -case she had been forced to yield to combined entreaties. - -The tennis club meant less after all to Joan than she had anticipated, -though she played regularly for the sake of exercise. The members were -certainly not inspiring, nor was their game challenging to effort. They -were divided into two classes; those who played for the sake of their -livers and those who played for the sake of white flannels and -flirtation. To the former class belonged General Brooke, a boisterous -player, very choleric and invariably sending his balls into neighbouring -gardens. His weight had increased perceptibly since the colonel's -illness; perhaps because there was now no one to cause him nervous -irritation. When he played tennis his paunch shook visibly under his -flannel shirt. The latter class was made up principally of youths and -maidens from adjacent villas. To nearly every member of this younger -generation was supposed to belong some particular stroke which formed an -ever fruitful topic for discussion and admiration. Mr. Thompson, the new -assistant at the circulating library, sprang quickly into fame through -volleying at the net. He was a mean player and had an odious trick of -just tipping the ball over, and apologizing ostentatiously when he had -done it. There was usually a great deal of noise, for not only was there -much applause and many encouraging remarks, but the players never failed -to call each score. Joan played a fairly good game, but contrary to all -expectation she never became really proficient. Milly, on the other -hand, developed a distinct talent for tennis, and she and young Mr. -Thompson, who was considered a star player, struck up a friendship, -which, however, never penetrated beyond the front door of Leaside. - -At fifteen Milly was acutely conscious of her femininity. She was in all -respects a very normal girl, adoring personal adornment and distinctly -vain. The contrast between the two sisters was never more marked than at -this period; they made an incongruous couple, the younger in her soft -summer dresses, the elder in the stiff collars and ties which she -affected. In spite of all Mrs. Ogden's entreaties Joan still kept her -hair short. Of course it was considered utterly preposterous, and the -effect in evening dress was a little grotesque, but she seemed -completely to lack personal vanity. At seventeen she suggested a well -set-up stripling who had borrowed his sister's clothes. - -The life of the schoolroom continued much as usual. Mrs. Ogden, now two -years older and with an extra two years of the colonel's heart and her -own nervous headaches behind her, had almost given up trying to -interfere with Joan's studies. She went in for her examinations as a -matter of course, and as a matter of course was congratulated when she -did well, but the subject of her career was never mentioned; it appeared -to have been thrust into the background by common consent. Elizabeth -looked older; at times a few new lines showed on her forehead, and the -curious placidity of her mouth was disturbed. Something very like -discontent had gathered about the firmly modelled lips. - -But if Joan was given more freedom to study, she was to some extent -expected to pay for that freedom. Seabourne could be quite gay according -to its own standards; there were tennis and croquet parties in the -summer and a never-ending chain of whist drives in the winter, to say -nothing of tea parties all the year round. To these festivities Joan, -now seventeen, was expected to go, and it was not always possible to -evade them, for, as Mrs. Ogden said, it was a little hard that she -should have to go everywhere alone when she had a daughter who was -nearly grown up. - - - - -2 - - -The Loos gave a garden party at Moor Park. Poor Joan! She felt horribly -out of place, dressed for the occasion in a muslin frock, her cropped -head, crowned by a Leghorn hat, rising incongruously from the collarless -bodice. Sir Robert thought her a most unattractive young woman, but his -wife still disagreed with him. She had always admired Joan, and now the -fact that there was something distinctly unfeminine about the girl was -an added interest in her hostess's eyes. For Lady Loo, once the best -woman to hounds in a hard riding hunt, had begun to find life too -restful at Moor Park. She had awakened one day filled with the -consciousness of a kind of Indian summer into which she had drifted. -Some stray gleam of youth had shot through her, filling her with a -spurious vitality that would not for the moment be denied. And since the -old physical activity was no longer available, she turned in -self-defence to mental interests, and took up the Feminist Movement with -all the courage, vigour and disregard of consequences that had -characterized her in the hunting-field. It was a nine-days' wonder to -see Lady Loo pushing her bicycle through the High Street of Seabourne, -clad in bloomers and a Norfolk jacket, a boat-shaped hat set jauntily on -her grey head. It is doubtful whether Lady Loo had any definite ideas -regarding what it was that she hoped to attain for her sex; it certainly -cannot have been equality, for in spite of her bloomers, Sir Robert, -poor man, was never allowed to smoke his cigar in the drawing-room to -the day of his death. - -Lady Loo's shrewd eyes studied Joan with amusement; she took in at a -glance the short hair and the wide, flat shoulders. - -"Will you ever let it grow?" she asked abruptly. - -"Never," said Joan. "It's so little trouble as it is." - -"Quite right," said her hostess. "Now why on earth shouldn't women be -comfortable! It's high time men realized that they ain't got the sole -prerogative where comfort is concerned." She chuckled. "I suppose," she -remarked reflectively, "that people think it's rather odd for a young -woman of your age to have short hair. I suppose they think it's rather -odd for an old woman like me to bicycle in bloomers; but the odd thing -about it is that they, the women I mean, should think it odd at all. It -must be that all the centuries of oppression have atrophied their brains -a little, poor dears. When they get equal rights with men it'll make all -the difference to their outlook; they'll be able to stretch themselves." - -"Do you think so, Lady Loo?" said Mrs. Ogden. "I should never know what -to do with that sort of liberty if I had it, and I'm sure Joan -wouldn't." - -Lady Loo was not so sure, but she said: "Well, then, she must learn." - -"I think there are many other things she had better learn first," -rejoined Mrs. Ogden tartly. - -Lady Loo smiled. "What, for instance? How to get married?" - -Mrs. Ogden winced. "Well, after all," she said, "there are worse things -for a girl than marriage, but fortunately Joan need not think of that -unless she wants to; she's got her----" she paused--" her home." - -Lady Loo thought. "You mean she's got you, you selfish woman." Aloud she -said: "Well, times are changing and mothers will have to change too, I -suppose. I hear Joan's clever; isn't she going to _do_ something?" - -Joan flushed. "I want to," she broke in eagerly. - -Mrs. Ogden drew her away and Lady Loo laughed to herself complacently. - -"Oh! the new generation," she murmured. "They're as unlike us as chalk -from cheese. That girl don't look capable of doing a quiet little job -like keeping a house or having a baby; she's not built for it mentally -or physically." - -At that moment a young man came across the lawn. "Joan!" he called. It -was Richard Benson. - -Joan turned with outstretched hands in her pleasure. "I didn't know you -were in England," she said. - -"I got back from Germany last week. It's ripping your being here -to-day." - -He shook hands politely with Mrs. Ogden and then, as if she did not -exist, turned and drew Joan after him. - -"Now then," he began, "I want to hear all about it." - -"All about what? There's nothing to tell." - -"Then there ought to be. Joan, what have you been doing with yourself?" - -"Nothing," she answered dully, and then, quite suddenly, she proceeded -to tell him everything. She was surprised at herself, but still she went -on talking; she talked as though floodgates had been loosed, as though -she had been on a desert island for the past two years and he were the -man who had come to rescue her. He did not interrupt until she fell -silent, and then: "It's all wrong," he said. - -She stood still and faced him. "I don't know why I told you; it can't be -helped, so there's no use in talking." - -His keen grey eyes searched her face. "My dear, it's got to be helped; -you can't be a kind of burnt sacrifice!" - -She said: "I sometimes think we're all sacrifices one to the other; -that's what Elizabeth says when she's unhappy." - -"Then Elizabeth's growing morbid," he remarked decidedly. "It's the -result of being bottled." - -At the old familiar phrase she laughed, but her eyes filled with tears. - -"Richard," she said, "it's utterly, utterly hopeless; they don't mean -it, poor dears, but they can't help being there, and I can't help -belonging to them or they to me. If I worry Mother, she gets a batch of -nervous headaches that would move a stone to compassion. And her cough -takes several turns for the worse. But if I worry _Father_, and make him -really angry, the doctor says he'll die of heart disease, and I know -perfectly well that he would, he's just that kind of man. What do you -suggest, that I should be a parricide?" She smiled ruefully. "I ought to -go up to Cambridge next year, if I'm to be any good, and then to the -hospitals in London, but can you see what would happen if I were to -suggest it, especially the latter part of the programme? I don't think -I'd have to carry it out to kill my father, I think he'd die of fury at -the mere idea." - -"He'll die anyhow quite soon," said Richard quietly. "No man can go on -indefinitely with a heart like his." - -"That may be," she agreed, "but I can't be a contributory cause. There's -one side of me that rages at the injustice of it all and just wants to -grab at everything for itself; but there's another side, Richard, that -simply can't inflict pain, that can't bear to hurt anything, not even a -fly, because it hurts itself so much in doing it. I'm made like that; I -can't bear to hurt things, especially things that seem to lean on me." - -"I understand," he said. "Most of us have that side somewhere; maybe -it's the better side and maybe it's only the weaker." - -"Tell me about yourself," said Joan, changing the subject. - -"Well, this is my last year at Cambridge, you know, and then the real -work begins--Joan, life's perfectly glorious!" - -She looked at him with interest; he had not changed much; he was taller -and broader and blunter than ever, but the keenness in his grey eyes -reminded her still of the bright inquiring look of a young animal. - -"Look here," he said impetuously, "I'll send you some medical books; -study as well as you can until you come of age, and then--cut loose! Ask -Elizabeth to help you, she's clever enough for anything; and anyhow I -won't send things that are too difficult at first, I'll just send -something simple." - -Her eyes brightened. "Oh, will you, Richard?" - -"You bet I will. And, Joan, do come over more often, now I'm home, then -we can talk." - -"I will," she promised, and she meant it. - - - - -3 - - -They had scarcely met for two years, for Richard had spent most of his -vacations abroad; there was little in common between him and his father. -His decision to take up medicine had shocked Mr. Benson, but he was a -just man in spite of the fact that he completely failed to understand -his younger son. He and Richard had thrashed things out, and it had been -decided that Richard's allowance should continue until he had taken his -medical degree, after which his father would make him a present of a -lump sum of money to do as he liked with, but this was to be final, and -Richard was well content. His self-confidence never failed. He talked -Joan over with his mother that evening. - -"She's an awfully jolly girl," he said. - -Mrs. Benson demurred at the adjective. "Jolly is hardly the way I should -express her," she replied. "I think she's a solemn young creature." - -"No wonder," he said hotly. "Her life must be too awful; a mother who's -an hysteric, and a father----" He paused, finding no words adequate to -describe Colonel Ogden. - -Mrs. Benson laughed. "Oh, Richard! You never change. Don Quixote tilting -at windmills--and yet you're probably right; the girl's life must be -rather hard, poor child. But there are thousands like her, my son." - -"Millions," he corrected bitterly. "Millions all over England! They -begin by being so young and fine, like Joan perhaps; and, Mother, how do -they end?" - -"But, Richard dear, I'm afraid it's the lot of women. A woman is only -complete when she finds a good husband, and those who don't find one are -never really happy. I don't believe work fulfils them; it takes children -to do that, my dear; that's nature, and you can't get beyond nature." - -"No," he said. "You're mostly right, and yet they can't all find -husbands--and some of them don't want to," he added reflectively. - -"Joan will marry," said Mrs. Benson. "She ought to let her hair grow." - -He burst out laughing. "Bless you, you old darling," he exclaimed. "It's -what's inside the head that decides those things, not what's outside -it!" - -She took his hand and stroked it. "I'm glad I had you," she said. - -He stooped and kissed her cheek. "So am I," he told her. They wandered -into the garden, arm in arm. - -"It's lovely here," he said. "But it's not for me, Mother; I don't think -lovely things were meant for me, so I must make the ugly ones beautiful -somehow." - -"My dear, you've chosen an ugly profession; and yet the healing of the -sick is beautiful." - -"I think so," he said simply. - -Presently she said: "I want to talk to you about Lawrence." - -"Fire away! You don't mean to tell me that Lawrence has been sowing -anything like wild oats? Your voice sounds so serious." - -"No, of course not, you goose; can you see Lawrence knee-deep in a field -of anything but--well--the very best Patna rice?" They laughed. "No, -it's very far from wild oats--I think he's fallen in love with -Elizabeth." - -"With Elizabeth? But, good Lord! Lawrence hates clever women!" - -"I know; he always said he did, and that's what makes it so astounding; -and yet I'm sure I'm right, I can see it in his eye." - -Richard whistled. "Will she have him, do you think?" - -"I don't know. Elizabeth is not an ordinary woman; sometimes I think -she's rather strange. I love her, but I don't understand her--she's not -very happy, I think." - -"Will Lawrence make her happy, Mother?" - -She paused. "Well--he'll make her comfortable," she compromised. - -They laughed again. - -"Poor old Lawrence," he said. "He's the best fellow in the world, but -quite the very dullest; I can't think how you produced him, darling." - -"I can't think how I produced you!" she retorted. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY - - -1 - - -DURING the weeks that followed, Joan managed to visit the Bensons on -every available opportunity, or so it seemed to her mother. Mrs. Benson, -lavish in invitations, encouraged the intimacy between Joan and Richard, -and watched with amusement the rather pathetic and clumsy efforts of her -elder son to win Elizabeth. Mrs. Ogden searched her heart and found no -consolation. She had very little doubt that Joan and Richard were -falling in love; they were very young of course, especially Joan, but -she felt that Joan had never really been young, that she was a creature -with whom age did not count and could not be relied upon to minimize or -intensify a situation. She became retrospective, looking back into her -own dim past, recalling her own courtship and mating. The burning days -of Indian sunshine, the deep, sweet-smelling Indian nights with their -melodramatic stars, the garden parties, the balls, the picnics, and the -thin young Englishmen who had thought her beautiful; she remembered -their tanned faces, serious with new responsibilities. - -She remembered the other English girls and her own sister Ann, with -their constant whispers of love and lovers, their vanities, their -jealousies, their triumphs and their heart-breaks. She, too, had been -like that, whispering of love and lovers, dreaming queer, uneasy dreams, -a little guilty, but very alluring. And then into the picture came -striding James Ogden, a square young man with a red moustache and cold, -twinkling blue eyes. They had danced together, and almost any man looked -his best in the full dress uniform of the Buffs. They had ridden in the -early mornings, and James was all of a piece with his Barb, a goodly -thing to behold. He had never troubled to court her properly, she knew -that now. Even then he had just been James, always James, James for all -their lives; James going to bed, James getting up, James thinking of -James all day long. No, he had not wasted much time on courtship; he had -decided very quickly that he wanted to marry her and had done so. She -remembered her wedding night; it had not been at all like her slightly -guilty dreams; it had been--she shuddered. Thinking back now she knew -that she herself, that part of her that was composed of spirit, had been -rudely shaken free, leaving behind but a part of the whole. It had not -been _her_ night, but all James's, a blurred and horrible experience -filled with astonished repugnance. - -Then their married life in the comfortable bungalow; after all, that had -had compensations, for Joan had come as a healer, as a reason, an -explanation. She had found herself promoted to a new dignity as a young -married woman and mother, the equal of the other married women, the -recipient of their confidences. Ann had married her chaplain, now a -bishop, but Ann neither gave nor received confidences, she had become -too religious. By the death of their father the two sisters had found -themselves very much alone; they were stranded in a strange, new -continent with strange, new husbands, and Mary Ogden would have given -much at that time could she have taken her secret troubles to her -sister. But Ann had discouraged her coldly, and had recommended prayer -as the only fitting preliminary to marital relations. - -Then another man had come into her life, quite different from James; a -tall man with white hair and a young face. Unlike James, he took nothing -for granted; on the contrary, he was strangely humble, considering his -brilliant career. He was James's very good friend, but he fell in love -with James's wife; she knew it, and wondered whether, after all, what -men called love was as gross and stupid and distasteful as James made -it. She let him kiss her one night in the garden, but that kiss had -broken the spell for them both; they had sprung apart filled with a -sense of guilt; they were good, conventional creatures, both of them. -They were not of the stuff that guilty lovers are made of. But in their -way they were almost splendid, almost heroic, for having at one time -bidden fair to throw their prejudices to the wind, they had made of them -instead a coat of mail. - -Mrs. Ogden searched her heart; it ached, but she went on prodding. What -would happen to Joan if she married--did she love Richard? Did she know -what it meant? What was her duty towards the girl, how much should she -tell her, how much did she know? She had been afraid of Joan going to -Cambridge. She laughed bitterly; what was Cambridge in comparison to -this? What was anything in comparison to the utter desolation of Joan in -love, Joan giving herself utterly to another creature! She felt weak and -powerless to stop this thing, and yet she told herself she was not quite -powerless; one thing remained to her, she could and would tell Joan the -facts of her own married life, she would keep back nothing. Yet she -would be careful to be just, she would point out that all men were not -like James, and at the same time make it clear that James was, as men -go, a good man. Was it not almost her duty to warn Joan of the sort of -thing that might happen, and to implore her to think well before she -took an irrevocable step? Yes, she told herself, it was a duty too long -delayed, a duty that must be fulfilled at once, before it was too late. - - - - -2 - - -As Mrs. Ogden came to her momentous decision, Richard was actually -proposing to Joan. They stood together in the paddock beyond the -orchard, some colts gambolled near by. He went at it with his head down, -so to speak, in the way he had of charging at things. - -He said, seizing her astonished hand: "Joan, I know you only come here -to pick my brain about medicine and things, but I've fallen in love with -you; will you marry me?" - -She left her hand in his, because she was so fond of him and because his -eyes looked a little frightened in spite of his usual self-confidence, -but she said: - -"No, I can't marry you, Richard." - -He dropped her hand. "Why can't you?" he demanded. - -"Because I don't feel like that," she told him. "I don't feel like that -about you." - -"But, Joan," his voice was eager, "we could do such splendid things -together; if you won't have me for myself will you have me because of -the work? I can help you to get away; I can help you to make a career. -Oh, Joan, do listen! I know I could do it; I'll be a doctor and you'll -be a doctor, we'll be partners--Joan, do say 'Yes.'" - -She almost laughed, it struck her that it was like a nursery game of -make-believe. "I'll be a doctor and you'll be a doctor!" It sounded so -funny; she visualized the double plate on their door front: "Doctor -Richard Benson," and underneath: "Doctor Joan Benson." But she reached -again for his hand and stroked it gently as if she were soothing a -little brother whose house of bricks she had inadvertently knocked down. - -"I'm not the marrying sort," she said. - -"God knows _what_ you are, then!" he burst out rudely. Then his eyes -filled with tears. - -"Oh, Richard!" she implored, "don't stop being my friend, don't refuse -to help me just because I can't give you what you want." - -Now it was his turn to laugh ruefully. "You may not be the marrying -sort," he said, "but you're a real woman for all that; you look at -things from a purely feminine point of view." - -"Perhaps I do," she acquiesced. "And that means that I'm being utterly -selfish, I suppose; but I need your friendship--can I have it?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," he said with some bitterness. "But you won't really -need it, you know, for you never mean to break away." - -She flushed. "Don't say it!" she exclaimed. "I forbid you to say it!" - -"Well," he told her, "if you mean to, it's time you began to get a move -on. If you won't take me, then for God's sake take something, anything, -only don't let Seabourne take you." - - - - -3 - - -On the way home Joan told Elizabeth. They stopped and faced each other -in the road. - -"And you said----?" Elizabeth asked. - -"I said 'No,'" replied Joan. "What did you think I'd say?" - -"No!" said Elizabeth, and she smiled. Then, "I wonder if you'll be -surprised to hear that I had a proposal too, last week?" - -Joan opened her lips but did not speak. Elizabeth watched her. - -"Yes," she said. "I had a proposal from Lawrence. It seems to run in the -family, but mine was very impressive. I felt it carried the weight of -the whole Bank of England behind it. It sounded very safe and -comfortable and rich, I was almost tempted----" She paused. - -"And what did you say, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth came a step nearer. "I said I was too busy just now to get -married; I said I was too busy thinking of someone I cared for very much -and of how they could get free and make a life of their own." - -"You said that, Elizabeth?" - -"Yes. Does it surprise you? That's what I said--so you see, Joan, you -mustn't fail me." - -Joan looked at her. She stood there, tall and neat, in the road; the -dust on her shoes seemed an impertinence, as though it had no right to -blemish the carefully polished leather. Her eyes were full of an -inscrutable expression, her lips a little parted as though about to ask -a question. - -"If it's devotion you want," said Joan gruffly, "then you've got all -I've got to give." - -There was a little silence, and when Elizabeth spoke it was in her -matter-of-fact voice. She said, "I not only want your devotion but I -need it, and I want more than that; I want your work, your independence, -your success. I want to take them so that I can give them back to you, -so that I can look at you and say, 'I did this thing, I found Joan and I -gave her the best I had to give, freedom and----'" she paused, "'and -happiness.'" - -They turned and clasped hands, walking silently home towards Seabourne. - - - - -4 - - -Mrs. Ogden was watching from the dining-room window as she often watched -for Joan. Her pale face, peering between the lace curtains, had grown to -fill the girl with a combined sense of irritation and pity. She called -Joan into the room and closed the door. Joan knew from her mother's -manner that something was about to happen, it was full of a suppressed -excitement. Without a word she led Joan to the sofa and made her sit -beside her; she took the girl's face between her two cold hands and -gazed into her eyes. - -Then she began. "Joan, darling, I want to talk to you. I've wanted to -have a serious talk with you for some time. You're not a child any -longer, you're nearly a woman now; it seems so strange to me, for -somehow I always think of you as my little Joan. That's the way of -mothers, I suppose; they find it difficult to realize that their -children can ever grow up, but you have grown up and it's likely that -you'll fall in love some day--perhaps want to marry, and there are -things that I think it my duty to tell you----" She paused. "Facts about -life," she concluded awkwardly. - -Her conscience stirred uneasily, she felt almost afraid of what she was -about to do, but she thrust the feeling down. "It _is_ my duty, I'm -doing it for Joan's sake," she told herself. "I'm doing it for her sake -and _not_ for my own." - -Joan sat very still, she wondered what was coming; her mother's eyes -looked eager and shy and she was a little flushed. Mrs. Ogden began to -speak again in quick jerks, she turned her face slightly aside showing -the delicate line of her profile, her hands moved incessantly, plaiting -and unplaiting the fringed trimming on her dress. - -"When I was not very much older than you, in India," she went on, "I was -like you, little more than a child. I was not clever as you are--I never -have been clever, my dear, but I was beautiful, Joan, really beautiful. -Do you remember, you used to think me beautiful?" The voice grew wistful -and paused, then went on without waiting for a reply. "I had no mother -to tell me anything, and what I learnt about things I learnt from other -girls of my own age; we speculated together and came to many wrong -conclusions." Another pause. "About the facts of life, I mean--about men -and marriage and--what it all meant. Men made love to me, dearest, they -admired your mother in those days, but their love-making was restrained -and respectful, as the love-making of a man should be to a young -unmarried girl, and----" she hesitated, "it told me nothing--nothing, -Joan, of what was to come. Then I met your father, I met James, and he -proposed to me and I married him. He was good looking then, in a way--at -least I thought so--and a wonderful horseman, and that appealed to me, -as you may guess, for we Routledges have always been fond of horses. -Well, dear, that's what I want to tell you about--not the horses, my -married life, I mean." - -She went on quickly now, the words tumbled over each other, her voice -gathered volume, growing sharp and resentful. As she spoke she felt -overwhelmed with the relief that came with this crude recital of long -hidden miseries. Joan watched her, astonished; watched the refined, worn -face, the delicate, peevish lips that were uttering such incongruous -things. Something of her mother's sense of outrage entered into her as -she listened, filling her with resentment and pity for this handicapped -and utterly self-centred creature, for whom the natural laws had worked -so unpropitiously. She thought bitterly of her father, breathing heavily -on his pillows upstairs, of his lack of imagination, his legally -sanctified self-indulgence, his masterful yet stupid mind, but she only -said: - -"Why have you told me all this, dearest?" - -Mrs. Ogden took her hand. "Why have I told you? Oh, Joan, because of -Richard Benson, because I think you're falling in love for the first -time." - -Joan looked at her in amazement. "You think that?" she asked. - -"Well, isn't it so? Joan, tell me quickly, isn't it so?" - -"No," said Joan emphatically, "it isn't. Richard asked me to marry him -to-day and I refused." - -Mrs. Ogden burst into tears; her weeping was loud and unrestrained; she -hid her head on the girl's shoulder. "Oh, Joan--my Joan----" she sobbed. -"Oh, Joan, I am so glad!" - -Now she did not care what she said, the years of unwilling restraint -melted away; she clung to the girl fiercely, possessively, murmuring -words of endearment. Joan took her in her arms and rocked her like a -child. "There, there!" she whispered. - -Presently Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes, her face was ugly from weeping. -"It's the thought of losing you," she gasped. "I can't face the thought -of that--and other things; you know what I mean, the thought of your -being maltreated by a man, the thought that it might happen to you as it -happened to me. You see, you've always seemed to make up for it all, -what I missed in James I more than found in you. I know I'm tiresome, my -darling, I know I'm not strong and that I often worry you, but, oh Joan, -if you only knew how much I love you. I've wanted to tell you so, often, -but it didn't seem right somehow, but you do understand, don't you, my -darling? Joan, say you understand, say you love me." - -Somewhere in the back of Joan's mind came a faint echo: did she love -her? But it died almost immediately. - -"You poor, poor darling," she said, "of course I understand, and love -you." - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - - -1 - - -RICHARD was faithful to his promise. Large brown paper parcels of books -began to arrive from Cambridge; Joan and Elizabeth studied them -together. The weariness of the days was gone for Joan; with the advent -of her medical books she grew confident once more, she felt her foot -already on the first rung of the ladder. - -At this time Elizabeth strove for Joan as she had never striven before. -Joan did not guess how often her friend sat up into the small hours of -the morning struggling to master some knotty point in their new studies. -How she wrestled with anatomy, with bones and muscles and circulatory -systems, with lobes and hemispheres and convolutions, until she began to -wonder how it could be possible that anyone retained health and sanity, -considering the delicate and complicated nature of the instrument upon -which they depended. A good many of the books dealt with diseases of the -nerves and brain, and Joan found them more fascinating and interesting -than she had imagined possible. Poor Elizabeth had some ado to keep pace -with her pupil's enthusiasm. She strained every nerve to understand and -be helpful; she joined a library in London and started a line of private -study, the better to fit her for the task in hand. She gloried in the -difficulties to be surmounted, and felt that this work was invested with -a peculiar significance, almost a sanctity. It was as though she were -helping Joan towards the Holy Grail of freedom. - -At the end of six months Elizabeth paused for breath, and together the -two students reviewed their efforts. They were very well pleased with -themselves and congratulated each other. But in spite of all this -Elizabeth was dissatisfied and apprehensive at moments. She told herself -that she was growing fanciful, nervy, that she was hipped about life and -particularly about Joan, that she needed a change, that she had been -overworking recklessly; she even consulted their text books with a view -to personal application, only to throw them aside with a scornful -exclamation. Theories, all theories! Those theories might conceivably -apply to other people, to Mrs. Ogden for instance, but not to Elizabeth -Rodney! She was not of the stuff in which neurosis thrives; she was just -a plain, practical woman taking a plain, practical interest in, and -having a plain, practical affection for, a brilliant pupil. But her -state of mental unrest increased until it became almost physical--at -last she broke---- - -"Joan!" she exclaimed irritably one day, flinging a text book on to a -chair, "what, in Heaven's name, are we doing this for?" - -Joan looked up in bewilderment. "Out of scientific interest, I suppose," -she ventured. - -"Interest!" Elizabeth's eyes gleamed angrily. "Interest! Scientific -interest--yes, that's it! I'm sitting up half the night out of mere -scientific interest in a subject that I personally don't care a button -about, except inasmuch as it affects your future. I'm trying to take a -scientific interest in the disgusting organs of our disgusting bodies, -to learn how and why they act, or rather how and why they don't act, to -read patiently and sympathetically about a lot of abnormal freaks, who -as far as I can see ought all to be shut up in a lunatic asylum, to -understand and condone the physical and mental impulses of hysterics, -and I'm doing all this out of scientific interest! Scientific interest! -That's why I'm slaving as I never slaved at Cambridge--out of pure -scientific interest! Well, I tell you, you're wrong! I don't like -medical books and I particularly dislike neurotic people, but it's been -enough for me that you do like all this, that you feel that you want to -be a doctor and make good in that way. It's not out of scientific -interest that I've done it, Joan; it's because of you and your career, -it's because I'm mad for you to have a future--I've been so from the -first, I think--I don't care what you do if only you do something and do -it well, if only you're not thrown on the ash-heap----" She paused. - -Joan felt afraid. Through all the turbulent nonsense of Elizabeth's -tirade she discerned an undercurrent of serious import. It was -disconcerting to find that Elizabeth could rage, but it was not that -which frightened her, but rather a sudden new feeling of responsibility -towards Elizabeth, different in quality from anything that had gone -before. She became suddenly aware that she could make or mar not only -herself but Elizabeth, that Elizabeth had taken root in her and would -blossom or fade according to the sustenance she could provide. - -"It's you, _you_, Joan!" she was saying. "Are you serious, are you going -to break away in the end, or is it--am I--going to be all wasted?" - -"You mean, am I going to leave Seabourne?" - -"Yes, that is what I mean; are you going to make good?" - -"Good God!" Joan exclaimed bitterly. "How can I?" - -"You can and you must. Haven't you any character? Have you no -personality worthy to express itself apart from Seabourne. No will to -help yourself with? Are you going to remain in this rut all the rest of -your life, or at least until you're too old to care, simply because -you've not got the courage to break through a few threads of ridiculous -sentiment? Why it's not even sentiment, it's sentimentality!" Her -voice died down and faltered: "Joan, for my sake----" - -They stared at each other, wide-eyed at their own emotions. They -realized that all in a moment they had turned a sharp corner and come -face to face with a crisis, that there was now no going back, that they -must go forward together or each one alone. For a long time neither -spoke, then Joan said quietly: - -"You think that I'm able to do as you wish, that I'm able to break -through what you call 'the threads of sentimentality,' and you despise -me in your heart for hesitating; but if you knew how these threads eat -into my flesh you might despise me less for enduring them." - -Elizabeth stretched out a scarred hand and touched Joan timidly; her -anger had left her as suddenly as it had come, she felt humble and -lonely. - -"You see," she said, "I'm a woman who has made nothing of life myself -and I know the bitterness that comes over one at times, the awful -emptiness; but if I can see you happy it won't matter ever again. I -don't want any triumphs myself, not now; I only want them for you. I -want to sit in the sun and warmth of your success like a lizard on an -Italian wall; I want positively to bask. It's not a very energetic -programme, perhaps, and I never thought I'd live to feel that way about -anything; but that's what it's come to, you see, my dear, and you can't -have it in you to leave me shivering in the cold!" - -Joan clung to the firm, marred hand like a drowning man to a spar; she -felt at that moment that she could never let it go. In her terror lest -the hand should some day not be there she grew pale and trembled. She -looked into Elizabeth's troubled eyes. - -"What do you want of me?" she asked. - -"If I told you, would you be afraid?" - -"No, I'm only afraid of your taking your hand away." - -"Then listen. I want you to work as we are doing until you come of age, -then I want you to go to Cambridge, as I've often told you, but after -that--I want you to make a home with me." - -"Elizabeth!" - -"Yes, I have a little money put by, not very much, but enough, and I -want you to come to London and live there with me. We could jog along -somehow; I'd get a job while you studied at the hospital; we'd have a -little flat together, and be free and very happy. I've wanted to say -this to you for some time and to-day somehow it's all come out; it had -to get said sooner or later. Joan, I can't stand Seabourne for many more -years, and yet as long as you're here I can't get away. I tell you there -are times when I could dash myself to bits on the respectable -mud-coloured wall of our house, when I could lay a trail of gunpowder -down the middle of the High Street and set light to the fuse, when I -could hurl Ralph's woollen socks in his face and pull down the plush -curtains and stamp on them, when I could throw all the things out of the -study window, one by one, at the heads of the people on the parade, when -I could--oh, Joan!--when I could swim a long way out to sea and never -come back; I nearly did that once, and then I thought of you and I came -back, and here I am. But how long will you make me stay here, Joan? How -long shall I have to endure the sight of you growing weaker instead of -stronger, as you mature, and some day perhaps the sight of you growing -old and empty and utterly meaningless, with all the life and blood -sucked out of you by this detestable place, when we might get free and -hustle along with life, when we might be purposeful and tired and happy -because we mean something." - -Joan got up. - -"Listen," she said. "When I'm twenty-one I _will_ go to Cambridge and -after that I shall come to you in London; we'll find a little flat and -be very happy, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth looked straight into her eyes with a cold, searching scrutiny. -"Is that a promise, Joan?" - -"Yes, it's a promise." - - - - -2 - - -Joan's medical studies went almost unnoticed by Mrs. Ogden, whose mind -was occupied with more pressing worries. Milly had suddenly announced -her intention of going to the Royal College of Music, and her master had -backed her up; there had been a scene, recriminations. The colonel had -put his foot down and had not on this occasion had a heart attack, so -that the scene had been painfully prolonged. In the end he had said -quite bluntly that there was no money for anything of the kind. This had -surprised Mrs. Ogden and had made her feel vaguely uncomfortable; she -began to remember certain documents that James had asked her to sign -lately; he had told her that they concerned the investment of the -children's money. And then, to her who knew him so well, it was all too -evident that something was preying on his mind; she fancied that -recently there had been more in his morose silences than could be -accounted for by ill-health. He had grown very old, she thought. - -Milly had not stormed, nor did she appear to have gone through much -mental perturbation; in fact she had smiled pleasantly in her father's -face. It never occurred to her for one moment that she would not get her -own way in the end; it hardly seemed worth worrying about. She did not -believe that there was no money to send her to the College; she told -Joan afterwards that this sort of remark was on a par with all the rest -of the lies their father told when he did not wish to be opposed. - -"After all," she said, "there is my hundred and fifty a year, and of -course I should take a scholarship. It's only Father's usual tactics, -and it's all on a par with him to like the feeling of holding on to my -money as long as he can; he thinks it gives him the whip hand. But I'm -going up to the College, and I'm not going to wait until I'm twenty-one. -I shall manage it, you'll see; I'm not in the least worried about it -really; if necessary I shall run away." - -But Mrs. Ogden was not so confident; she questioned her husband timidly. - -"James, dear--of course I understand your not wishing Milly to go to the -College at her age; she's only a child, that in itself is a reason -against it; but to say there's no money! Surely, dear----" - -He cut her short. "At the moment there is not," he said gruffly. - -"James!" - -"Oh, what is it, Mary?" - -"I ought to understand. Am I spending too much on the household? Surely -I haven't bought Milly too many new clothes, have I, dear? I thought -perhaps that hundred and fifty a year of hers would have gone a long way -towards helping her expenses in London; they say she'd certainly take a -scholarship, and there's no doubt she has very real talent. With Joan -it's different. I don't consider that she has very marked talent in any -particular direction; she's an all round good student and that's all; -but Milly is certainly rather remarkable in her playing, don't you think -so?" - -The colonel did not answer for a full minute, and when he spoke a -pleading note had come into his voice, a note so unusual that his wife -glanced quickly at him. - -"Mary, it's these doctors and things, this damned long illness of mine -has been the very deuce. If it hadn't been for that money of Henrietta's -I don't know where we'd have been, but I'm not the man to spend my -children's money on myself." He drew himself up painfully and his face -flushed. "No, Mary, if Henrietta wished to make me feel that I'd no -right to it, I wouldn't touch a penny that I couldn't pay back. If the -damned unsisterly old devil is able to understand anything at all in the -next world, I hope she understands that!" - -"But, James, have we borrowed some of the children's money?" - -"A little," he admitted. "We've had to. After all, the children would be -in a bad way without their father. I consider it my duty to keep myself -alive for their sakes. Where would you all be without me?" he concluded -with some return of his old manner. - -Mrs. Ogden looked at him; he was a very broken man. A faint pity stirred -in her, a faint sense of shock as though there were something indecent -in what she was now permitted to see. She had been little better than -this man's slave for over twenty years, the victim of his lusts, his -whims, his tempers and his delicate heart, the peg on which to hang his -disappointments, the doormat for him to kick out of the way in his -rages. She had lost youth and hope and love in his ungrateful service; -at times she almost hated him, and yet, now that the hand was weakening -on the reins, now that she realized that she could, if she would, take -the bit between her teeth, she jibbed like a frightened mare; it was too -late. There had been something in his almost humble half-explanation -that brought his illness home to her as no fits of irritability or -silence could have done. - -"Never mind, my dear," she said gently; "you've done everything for the -best." - -He looked at her with frightened eyes and edged nearer. - -"I've done what I hope was for the best," he said uncertainly. "Some of -their money we had to take to keep going. I didn't want to tell you that -funds were pretty low. I suppose I ought to have told you not to spend -so much on clothes, but--oh, well, damn it all! A man has his pride, and -I hated to have to touch a penny of Henrietta's money after the way she -treated me; God knows I hated it! It must come all right, though. I've -changed some of the investments and put the money into an excellent -concern that I heard about quite by chance through Jack Hicks--a mine -out in Rhodesia--they say there's a fortune in it. Mary, listen and do -try to understand; it's a new mine and it's not paying yet, that's why -we're short at the moment, but it ought to begin paying next year, and -by the time the children come of age it'll be in full swing. It paid for -a bit, jolly well, of course, otherwise I wouldn't have put the money -into it, but I hear they're sinking a new shaft or something, and can't -afford any dividends just at present. It's only a matter of time, a few -months perhaps. There can't be a question about it's being all right; I -realize that from what Jack told me. And then, as you know, Mary, I -always fancy myself as a bit of an expert in mineralogy. From what I can -see the children ought to get a fortune out of it; don't suppose they'll -be grateful to me though, not likely, these days. Of course you -understand, Mary, that I didn't depend entirely upon my own opinion. If -it had been our own money I shouldn't have hesitated, for I've never -found any one whose opinion I'd rather take than my own on financial -matters; but being the children's money I went into it thoroughly with -Hicks, and between us we came to the conclusion that as an investment -it's as safe as the Bank of England." - -"I see," said Mrs. Ogden, trying to keep all traces of doubt from her -voice. She did not see in the least and, moreover, gold mines in -Rhodesia reminded her unpleasantly of some of her poor brother Henry's -ventures, but her head felt suddenly too tired to argue. "Shall I -economize?" she asked him. - -He hesitated. "Well, perhaps----" His voice shook a little, then he -pulled himself together. "No, certainly not," he said loudly. "Go on -just as you are, there's no reason whatever to economize in reasonable -expenditure. Of course this crack-brained scheme of Milly's is quite -another matter; there's no money for that sort of thing and never will -be, as I told Joan pretty plainly when she began expounding her theories -of a career. But in all reasonable matters go on just the same." - -He reached out his hand and took hers, patting it affectionately. "I -think I'll go to bed," he said. "I feel rather tired." - - - - -3 - - -Milly had hit upon a course of action diametrically opposed to her real -feelings, which were placid and a little amused. She intended to go to -London, and it occurred to her that the best way to achieve this might -be to make herself dispensable; at all events it was worth trying. She -therefore sulked and wept to an abnormal extent, and took care that -these fits of weeping should not go unobserved. Whenever possible she -shut herself up with her violin, ignoring the hours of meals. Her family -became alarmed and put a tray outside her door, which she mostly left -untouched, having provided herself with a surreptitious supply of rolls -and potted meat. Her father looked at her glumly, but through his angry -eyes shone an uneasy, almost wistful expression, when forced to meet his -favourite daughter face to face. At the end of a fortnight he could bear -it no longer and began to make tentative efforts at reconciliation. - -"That's a pretty dress you have on, Milly; going out to give the -neighbours a treat?" - -Milly turned away. "No," she said shortly. - -"Coming out with your old father this morning, when he goes for a drive -in his perambulator? It's devilish dull with no one to talk to." - -She stared at him coldly. "I have my violin to practise; I'm sorry I -can't come." - -The colonel winced; she was more than a match for him now, this impudent -daughter of his, perhaps because he loved her as deeply as he was -capable of loving. Once, when she had been unusually rude, snubbing his -advances with the sharp cruelty of youth, Joan had seen his bulgy eyes -fill with tears. She waited until they were alone together and then she -turned on her sister. - -"Beast!" she said emphatically. - -"I don't know what you mean," retorted Milly. - -"I think you're a perfect beast to treat Father the way you do lately. -Anyone can see he's terribly ill and you speak to him as though he were -a dog." - -"Well, he's treated me as though _I_ were a dog--no, worse; he'd give a -dog a sweet biscuit any day, but he denies me the only thing I long for, -that I'm ready to work for--my music. It's my whole life!" she added -melodramatically. - -"Rot!" said Joan. "That's no reason for speaking to him as you do; I -can't stand it, it makes me feel sick and cold; his eyes were full of -tears to-day." - -"Well, my eyes are almost blind from crying--I cry all night long." - -"That's a whopper, you snored all last night." - -"Oh!" exclaimed Milly, angrily. "How I do _hate_ sharing a room with -you, there's no privacy!" - -Joan laughed rudely. "You are an ass, Milly, you try so hard to be grown -up and you're nothing but a silly kid." - -"Perhaps if you knew all," Milly hinted darkly, "you'd realize that some -people think me grown up." - -"Do they?" - -"Yes, Mr. Thompson does, if you must know." - -"I didn't say I wanted to know." - -"Well, Mr. Thompson doesn't treat me as though I were a little girl; -he's very attentive." - -"Do you mean the young man at the library, who smells of hair oil?" - -"I mean Mr. Thompson the tennis player." - -"Oh, yes," said Joan vaguely, "I remember now, he does play tennis." - -"Considering he's the best player we've got," said Milly flushing, "it's -not at all likely that you didn't know who I meant." - -"Oh, shut up!" Joan exclaimed, growing suddenly impatient. "I don't care -what Mr. Thompson thinks of you. I think you're a beast!" - -Joan tried clumsily to make it up to her father; she tore herself away -from her books to walk beside his bath chair, but all to no avail, he -was silent and depressed. He wanted Milly, with her fair curls and -doll's eyes, not this gawky elder daughter with her shorn black locks. -He fretted for Milly; they all saw how it was with him. Milly saw too, -but continued to treat him with open dislike. In the midst of this -welter of illness and misery Mrs. Ogden flapped like a bird with a -broken wing; she reproached Milly, but not as one having authority. All -day long the sounds of a violin could be heard all over the house; it -was almost as though Milly played loudest when the colonel went upstairs -to rest; he would doze, and start up suddenly, wide awake. - -"What's that? What's that?" And then, "Oh, it's Milly; will the child -never think of anyone but herself!" - -The doctor came more often. "I'm not satisfied," he told Mrs. Ogden. "I -think you must take him to London for the Nauheim cure. It's too late to -go to the place itself, but he can do the cure in a nursing home." - -Mrs. Ogden looked worried. "He'll never go," she said. - -"He must, I'm afraid," the doctor replied firmly. "But before moving him -we must have Sir Thomas Robinson down in consultation." - -They told the colonel together. "I absolutely refuse!" he began. -"There's no money for that sort of nonsense. Good God, man, do you think -I'm a millionaire!" - -The doctor said soothingly: "I'll speak to Sir Thomas and ask him to -reduce his fee, he's a charming fellow." - -"I won't have him!" thundered the colonel. "I refuse to be ordered about -like a child." - -Doctor Thomas motioned Mrs. Ogden to leave the room; presently he called -her in again. - -"He's promised to be good," he told her with an assumption of -playfulness. - -The colonel was sitting very upright in his chair, his face was paler -than usual but his little moustache bristled angrily above his parted -lips. - -"Well, I must be off," said the doctor, hastily picking up his hat. - - - - -4 - - -Mary Ogden laid her hand on her husband's arm. "I'm sorry if this annoys -you," she said. - -For a moment he did not speak, then he cleared his throat and swallowed. -"He tells me, Mary, that it's my one chance of life, always providing -that the specialist man consents to my being moved." She was silent, -finding nothing to say. He had died so many times already in all but the -final act, that now, if Death had moved one step nearer, she scarcely -perceived that it was so. Her mind was busy with a thousand pressing -problems, the money difficulty, how to manage about her girls, who to -leave in charge of the house if she went to London, and where she -herself would stay; it would all cost a very great deal. She thought -aloud. "It will cost a lot----" she murmured. - -He turned towards her. "They say it's my only chance," he repeated, and -there was something pathetic in his eyes. - -She pulled herself up. "Of course, my dear, we must go, no matter what -it costs. And as it's certain to cure you the money will be well spent." - -He looked at her doubtfully. "Not certain; there's just a chance, Thomas -said. And after all, Mary, I suppose a man has a right to take his last -chance? I'm not so very old, you know." - -He seemed to expect her to say something; she felt his need but could -not fill it. - -"Not so very old," he repeated, "and I come of a good sound stock; my -father lived to be eighty-five. Not that I aspire to that, my dear, but -still, a few years more, just to look after you and the children? What?" - -His lips were shaking. "Mary!" he broke out suddenly; "damn it all, -Mary, I've got to go if my time has come, but do for God's sake show a -little feeling, say something; it's positively unnatural the way you -take it!" - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - - -1 - - -JOAN took two letters from her jacket pocket; one was from Elizabeth, -the other from her mother. Aunt Ann had come to the rescue in the end, -and Joan and Milly had been sent to the palace during Mrs. Ogden's -absence in London; they had been there now for three weeks. There was -peace up here in the large, airy bedroom; peace from her dominating, -patronizing aunt, peace from the kind, but talkative bishop. - -She looked at the letters, undecided as to which to open first. Her -fingers itched to open Elizabeth's, but she put it resolutely aside. -Mrs. Ogden wrote from the family hotel in South Kensington where she had -taken up her abode. - - -"My own darling Joan," she began. "At last I hear from you; I had begun -to fear that you must be ill. Surely a postcard every day would not be -too much trouble for you to send? If only you knew how I watch and wait -for news, you would be more regular in writing, my darling. As for me, I -write this from my bed. I am utterly worn out and suppose that my -general condition is accountable for my having caught a cold which has -gone down on to my chest. The doctor says I must be really careful, and -my heart has been troubling me again lately, especially at night when I -try to sleep on my left side. I have had the strangest sensation in my -throat and all down my left arm. However, I must get up as soon as I -feel able to stand, as your poor father has no one else to look after -him. I do not myself think the nurses are very kind or the food at all -good at the Nursing Home; I spoke to the matron about it just before I -went to bed, she is an odious person and was inclined to be offensive. -This hotel is very uncomfortable, my bed hard and unsympathetic in the -extreme, and the servants far from attentive. I rang my bell six times -yesterday before anybody came near me. I shall have to complain. I -cannot attempt to eat their eggs, which is very trying as I am kept on a -light diet. Your father varies from day to day. The doctor assures me -that he is quite satisfied with his progress, but I think the cure -altogether too severe. Oh! my Joan, how cruel it seems that there was -not enough money for you to come to London with me. I feel that if only -I could have you to talk things over with, I could bear it so much -better. I am such a child in moments of anxiety, and my loneliness is -terrible; I sit alone all the evenings and think of you and of how much -I need you--as never before! I feel utterly lost; your poor, little -mother in this big, big city, and her Joan so far away and probably not -thinking of her mother at all, probably forgetting----" - - -"Oh, I can't read any more now!" Joan thought desperately. "It's always -the same; she's never contented, and always sees the darkest side of -things, and I know there's nothing really wrong with her heart or her -chest!" - -Her poor mother, so small and so inadequate! Why did her mother love her -so much? She oughtn't to love her so much; it was all wrong. Or if the -love was there, then it ought to be a patient, waiting, unchanging love; -the kind that went with making up the fire and sitting behind the -tea-tray awaiting your return. The love that wrote and told you that you -were expected home for Christmas, and that when you arrived your -favourite pudding would be there to greet you. Yes, that was the ideal -mother-love; it never waned, but it never exacted. It was a beautiful -thing, all of one restful colour. It belonged to rooms full of old -furniture and bowls of potpourri; it went with gentle, blue-veined hands -and a soft, old voice. It was a love that kissed you quietly on both -cheeks, too sure of itself to need undue demonstration. She sighed, and -thrusting the letter away, opened Elizabeth's. She smiled a little as -she saw the small, neat handwriting. Elizabeth always left a margin down -one side of the paper. - - -"Well, Joan, I have been waiting to answer your last letter until I had -something of interest to write about. Will you be surprised to hear that -I have been up to London? Do you remember my telling you about a friend -of mine at Cambridge, Jane Carruthers? Well, I heard from her the other -day after having lost sight of her for ages. She has some job or another -at the Royal College of Science and lives in London permanently now, and -as in her letter she asked me to look her up, I struck while the iron -was hot and went straight off, via a cheap excursion. - -"But it's really about her service flat that I want to tell you. She -lives in a large building called 'Working Women's Flats' or -'Gentlewomen's Dwellings,' I can't remember which, but I prefer the -former, in a street just off one of those dignified old squares in -Bloomsbury. The street itself is not dignified, but if you walk just to -the end of it you are surrounded at once by wonderful Georgian houses -with spreading fanlights and link extinguishers and wide shallow -front-door steps. They are the most quietly friendly houses in the -world, Joan; a little reserved, but then we should like them all the -better for that. - -"Jane's flat is on the fourth floor, so that instead of seeing the -undignified street you catch a glimpse of the trees in the square, and -of course there are plenty of roofs and chimney-pots, always interesting -things, or so I think. Even in London the roofs have character. It's the -most delightful little flat imaginable, two bedrooms with a study in -between. She has made it very homey with books and brown walls, and she -tells me that it's cheap as rents go in London; only it's difficult to -get in there at all. - -"Oh, Joan, it's the very place for you and me. I felt it the moment I -set foot inside the front door; don't think me an idiot, but I felt -excited, I felt about fifteen. I could see us established in a flat like -Jane's. The whole time I was trying to discuss tea and cakes I found -myself planning a new arrangement of Jane's bookshelves, the better to -hold your books and mine--I should have put the writing-table in the -other corner of the room too. I murmured something to this effect just -as Jane was expounding some new scientific theory she has hit upon; -she looked a little surprised and rather pained, I thought. - -"I asked her about my chances of finding a job in London. I thought I -might as well, as it will be very necessary, and she says she thinks -that I ought to be able to get quite a decently paid post, with my -fairly good Cambridge record. - -"And now for a confession. I have put my name down for one of the flats. -I saw the agent and he says that there's a long waiting list, but we can -afford to wait for nearly three years, you and I, and if one is -available before that, we must beg, borrow or steal in order to secure -it. We might buy some odds and ends of furniture on the hire system and -let the place furnished until we want it for ourselves. Jane says the -flats let like wildfire, but I think I should try to live there while -you were at Cambridge. I'm sure I could make both ends meet, and then -you could come there for part of your vacations. But if that were not -possible it wouldn't matter much for I could always put up at Ralph's. - -"I am beginning to laugh all by myself as I write, for I can see your -astonished face. Oh, yes, I know, I have acted on impulse, but it's -glorious to be reckless of consequences sometimes, and then think how -un-Seabournish I have been. Can you hear Ralph's consternation if I told -him?--which I shan't. I think we will keep it as a secret between us, at -all events for the present. Never cross a Seabourne bridge until you -come to it. - -"Joan, I am missing you." - - - - -2 - - -Joan folded the letter and sat staring in front of her. So it had really -come very near; her freedom, her life with Elizabeth. The flat would -have a study with shelves for their books; they would go out of it every -morning to jostle with crowds, to work and grow tired; and come back to -it every evening to talk, study, or perhaps to rest. They would cook -their own supper, or sometimes go out to one of the little Italian -restaurants that Richard had told her about, queer little restaurants -with sanded floors and coarse linen tablecloths. Sometimes, when they -could afford it, they would go to cheap seats at the theatre or to the -gallery at Covent Garden, and afterwards find their way home in the -'bus, or the Underground, discussing what they had seen and heard. They -would unlock their front door with their own latch-key and hang up their -coats in their own front hall; then they would laugh and joke together -over the old days in Seabourne, which, by then, would seem very far -away. - -"Joan!" came her aunt's voice with a note of irritation; "Joan, I asked -you to do those flowers for the drawing-room. Have you forgotten?" - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - - -1 - - -MRS. OGDEN wrote yet again: "I brought your father home yesterday; the -doctor thought he would be better in his own house. God knows if the -cure has helped him at all, I do not think so; but, Joan, my dearest, -come back to me at once, for I am so longing to see you." - -Joan looked into the fire; she did not care whether her father was -better or worse, and now she did not care whether she cared or not. From -Seabourne to Blumfield, from Blumfield to Seabourne! And that was just -life; not a tragedy at all, only life, a simple and monotonous business. - -As their train drew in to the familiar station the tall figure of -Elizabeth was waiting on the platform. She was standing very still, like -a statue of Fate; a porter, pushing a truck of luggage towards her, -called out: "By your leave, miss!" and seemed to expect her to move; but -the tall, impassive figure appeared not to notice him and he pulled up -abruptly, skirting it as best he could. - -Milly said: "Hallo, Elizabeth!" and then: "What a beastly station this -is. I hate the bare flower-beds and the cockle-shells!" - -They collected the luggage, Elizabeth unusually silent. It was not until -they drove off in the fly that she began to talk. - -"Joan, your father is very ill; Mrs. Ogden told me to meet you, she -couldn't leave him to-day. He's no better for the cure--they say he's -worse; but you'll judge for yourself when you see him." - -They bumped down the High Street and on to the esplanade. A weak, watery -sunshine played over the sea and the asphalt. Walking stiffly, with his -hands behind his back, General Brooke was taking the air. A smell of -seaweed and dried fish came in through the open windows and mingled with -the pungent, musty smell of the fly. The cliffs that circled the bay -looked white and spectral, and far away they could just discern the -chimneys of Glory Point, sticking up in a fold of green. Joan roused -herself from a deadly lethargy that had been creeping over her. - -"How is Mother?" she asked. - -Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. "Just the same," she said. "Very -worried about your father, of course, but just the same as usual." She -was staring at Joan with hard, anxious eyes, her lips a little -compressed. "I'm glad you've come back, Joan, because----" She did not -finish her sentence, and the cab drew up at Leaside. - -They got out, tugging at their bags. Milly rang the bell impatiently. -Elizabeth pulled Joan back. - -"Look here," she said in a low voice, "I'm not coming in, but, -Joan--remember your promise to me." And before Joan could answer she had -turned and walked quickly away. - - - - -2 - - -Mrs. Ogden met them in the hall; her eyes were red. She flung her arms -around Joan's neck and began to cry again. - -"Your poor father, he's very ill. Oh, Joan, it's been so terrible all -alone in London without a soul to speak to or to appeal to! You don't -know what I've been through; don't leave me again, I couldn't bear it!" - -Joan pushed her gently into the dining-room; it was all in confusion, -with the remnants of luncheon still on the table. "Don't cry, dear," she -said. "Try to tell me what has happened." - -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes, clinging to Joan's hand the while. Her soft -greyish hair was untidy, escaping from the net. "The cure was too severe -for him; he ought never to have gone to London; he didn't want to go and -they forced him, the brutes! He got worse and they sent him home two -days ago; they said he was quite fit to travel and had better get home, -but he wasn't fit to travel--that's the way they get rid of their -responsibilities. And the nurses at that home were inhuman devils. I -told them so; he hated them all. He seemed better yesterday, but this -morning he fainted, and when the doctor came he put him to bed. He's -there now, and oh, Joan, he's groaning! They say he's not in pain, but -of course he must be, and sometimes he knows me, and sometimes he's -delirious and thinks he's back in India." - -"Come upstairs," said Joan drearily. "I want to see him." - -The familiar bedroom was not familiar any longer; it looked strange and -austere as Joan entered. The blinds were down, flapping in the draught -from the windows. A large fire blazing in the grate added to the sense -of something important and portentous that hung about the place. On the -bed lay a strange figure; someone whom Joan felt she had never seen -before. Its face was unnaturally pale and shrunken and so were the -wandering hands extended on the coverlet. This stranger moaned -incessantly, and turned his head from side to side; his eyes were open -and blank. - -Joan took one of the wandering hands in hers: "Father!" she said softly. - -He looked through her and beyond, breathing with an effort. - -A quiet tap came on the door and the nurse, hastily summoned from the -Cottage Hospital, came in. She was a pink-faced, competent-looking girl, -and wore her cloak and bonnet. She took in the situation at a glance. - -"I'll just take off my things," she said, "and be back in a minute." - -Presently the doctor came again. He said very little, and pressing Mrs. -Ogden's limp hand, departed. The nurse, now in charge, had rendered the -bedroom still more unfamiliar, with her temperature chart, and a table -covered with a clean white towel, upon which she had set out strange -little appliances that they did not know the use of. When she spoke she -did so in a loud whisper, glancing ever and anon towards the figure on -the bed. Her cuffs creaked and so did her shoes. A smell of disinfectant -was everywhere; they wondered what it was, it was unfriendly, but no one -dared to question this empress ruling over the kingdom of Death. - -The colonel belonged to her now; they all felt it, and submitted without -a protest. He was hers to do as she pleased with, to turn in the bed or -to leave in discomfort, to raise up or lay down. She it was who -moistened his lips with cotton wool, soaked in a solution of her own -making. Sometimes she opened his mouth and moistened his tongue as well. -He lay there utterly helpless and unable to protest, while she subjected -him to countless necessary indignities. Her trained hands, hard and -deft, permitted of no resistance, doing their work quietly and without -emotion. It seemed horrible to Joan to see him brought so low, but she, -like the rest of the household, stood back respectfully, bowing to the -realization that only three beings had any control over her father now: -the doctor, the nurse--and Death. - -Just before he died, on the afternoon of the fifth day, he knew his wife -and called her: "Mary!" His voice was unexpectedly loud. - -She went and put her arms round him. - -"Mary!" - -"Yes, James?" - -"I'm going to die--it's funny my going to die--wish I knew more about -it." - -"Hush, dearest, don't talk." - -"Mary." - -"Yes, James?" - -"Sorry--if I've been hard on you--but you see----" - -"Hush, my dear, you mustn't try to talk." - -But the colonel had ceased to try to do anything any more in this world. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - - -1 - - -THEY buried him in the prim cemetery which had somehow taken upon itself -the likeness of Seabourne, holding as it did so many of the late -occupants of Seabourne's bath chairs and shelters. Everyone attended the -funeral. Admiral Bourne, General Brooke wearing a top hat, the despised -bank manager, Ralph Rodney, in fact all the members of the club, and -most of the local tradespeople. Sir Robert and Lady Loo sent a handsome -wreath, but Mr. and Mrs. Benson came in person. - -Colonel Ogden had never been really liked in his lifetime; an ignorant -and over-bearing man at best. But now that he was a corpse he had for -the time being attained a new importance, almost a popularity, in the -eyes of Seabourne. His death had provided an excitement, something to -do, something to talk about. The four days of his final illness had been -more interesting than usual, in consequence of the possibility of -tragedy. People would not have admitted it even to themselves, but had -he recovered they would have felt flat; it would have been an -anti-climax. - -It was not until the funeral had been over for a week that Mrs. Ogden -could be persuaded to think of ways and means. At first she had given -way to a grief so uncontrollable that no one had dared to mention the -family solicitor. But now there were bills to be paid and plans to be -made for the future, and at last Joan persuaded her mother to write to -the firm in London who had attended to Colonel Ogden's affairs. - -When the quiet man in a frock coat came down to Leaside, Joan was -present at the interview, which was short and to the point. The point -being that there was very little left of the three hundred a year that -should have been hers and Milly's. The quiet man made a deprecating -gesture, explaining that, against his firm's advice, the colonel had -persisted in changing the trust investments. The firm had refused to act -for him in this, it seemed, whereupon he had flown into a rage and acted -without them. They had inquired at the bank, on Mrs. Ogden's authority, -and had discovered that the bulk of the trust moneys had been put into a -mine which was paying nothing at present and seemed unlikely ever to pay -again. But Mrs. Ogden must surely be aware of this, as she was the -co-trustee? Had she not had papers to sign for the sale of securities -and so on? Ah, yes, of course, she naturally did not like to question -her husband's judgment--just signed whatever he told her to; still--she -should have been more cautious, she should have insisted upon knowing -what was being done. But then ladies were proverbially ignorant of such -things. Well, well, it was very sad, very distressing; there would be -her pension, of course, and about fifty pounds a year left of the trust -moneys--No, not more, unfortunately, but that fifty pounds came from a -sound investment, thank goodness. The two young ladies would have -twenty-five pounds a year each; that was better than nothing, still---- - -They thanked him, and when he had gone sat looking at each other -helplessly. - -Joan said: "This is the end for Milly and me, now we shall never get -away." - -Her own words astonished her, they were so cruel; she had not meant to -think aloud. Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. "Oh, James, James!" she sobbed -hysterically; "listen to her, she wants to get away! Oh, what shall I -do, now that you've left me; what shall I do, what shall I do?" - -"Stop crying, Mother, I'm sorry I said that, only you see--but don't -let's talk now, by this evening we shall both feel more able to decide -things." - -She left the room, closing the door quietly, and snatching up a hat went -out of the house. A black anger was slowly surging up in her, anger and -a feeling of desperation. What had they done to her and her sister, the -overbearing, self-willed father and this weak, inadequate mother with -her exaggerated grief? For now that the colonel was dead Mrs. Ogden -elected to mourn him as though he had been the love of her life; she -gave herself up to an orgy of sorrow that permitted of no interruption. -It had puzzled Joan, remembering as she did the things her mother had -told her. Through it all her mother could not bear to have her out of -her sight for an instant, it was as though she craved her as an -audience. She thought of all this as she strode along, the fine drizzle -soaking her shoulders. - -It was not so much for herself that she cared as for Milly, and above -all for Elizabeth; how could she ever tell Elizabeth the truth, that now -there would be no money for Cambridge or for their little flat in -London? But, yes, it was for herself that she cared too. Oh, horribly, -desperately she cared for herself. She clenched her hands in her -pockets, a pain almost physical possessed her; she could not give it up -like this, all in a moment. She realized as never before how much that -future with Elizabeth had meant to her, and now it had been snatched -away. What would she do, what could she do? Nothing, if her mother would -not help her to get free--and of course she would not; she could not -even if she would; she was poor, poor, poor, they all were, poorer than -they had ever been. What would Milly do now? What would Elizabeth do? -Milly would rage, she would metaphorically stamp on their father's -grave. And Elizabeth? - - - - -2 - - -Elizabeth was alone in the schoolroom when Joan got back. As she came -in, pale and drenched with rain, Elizabeth held out her hand. - -"I've been waiting for you; come here, Joan." - -Joan took the proffered hand and pressed it. - -"Joan, I know what it is you want to tell me, I've known for some time." - -"You know--but how?" - -"My dear, all Seabourne knows that your father had been speculating -before he died. Do you think there's ever anything that all Seabourne -doesn't know? I heard something about it from Ralph; he told me." - -Joan snatched her hand away, she spoke bitterly: "All Seabourne knew and -you knew, it seems; I see--only Milly and I were kept in the dark!" - -"Don't be angry. What was the good of making you unhappy before it was -absolutely necessary; surely you know soon enough as it is?" - -"But I don't understand, Elizabeth; do you realize what this means to -you and me?" - -"You mean that now you have no money you can't go to Cambridge?" - -"Yes, Cambridge, but above all the flat. I was thinking of our plans for -our life together." - -"Go up and change and then we'll talk," said Elizabeth quietly. "You're -wet through." - -Joan obeyed. - - - - -3 - - -"And now," Elizabeth began, when Joan, wrapped in a dressing-gown, had -sunk into a chair. "Let's thrash this thing out from clue to earring. -How much has he left you?" - -"Twenty-five pounds a year each." - -Elizabeth considered. "It might be done," she said. "With care and -scraping, I think it might be done, providing of course you take a -scholarship, which you can do. You remember I told you that I could get -a job in London? Well, I'm more sure of that now than I was when I -wrote, I'm practically certain it can be managed. Don't interrupt, -please. This is my plan: you will go to Cambridge when you're twenty-one -and I shall take the flat. If it's available sooner we'll let it. While -you're at Cambridge I shall find a P.G. That oughtn't to be difficult, -and the little money that I've saved will go to help with Cambridge. Oh, -don't argue, you can pay me back when you get into harness. And there's -another thing I never told you; I have a relation from whom I must -inherit something, a most disagreeable relation of my father's who can't -help leaving me his little all, because it's entailed. Well, I propose -to raise a loan on my expectations, 'borrowing on reversion' is what -they call it, I think, and with that loan we're going to make a doctor -of you, so you see it's all arranged." - -Joan stared at her, bewildered. "But, Elizabeth, I could never pay you -back, perhaps." - -"Oh, well," said Elizabeth laughing; "then you'll have to work for me, -you may even have to keep me in my old age." - -Joan began to cry, with the suddenness of a child; she cried openly, not -troubling to hide her face. - -"Oh, for God's sake, Joan, don't do that!" - -"It's you," sobbed Joan, choking. "It's you--just _you_." - -Elizabeth got up, she hesitated and then went to the door, she did not -look at Joan. - -"Think it over," she said. - - - - -4 - - -Mrs. Ogden's hands fluttered helplessly over the litter of papers that -lay among the plates on the half-cleared supper table; the eyes that she -raised to Joan were vague. - -"Can you make all this out?" she said drearily. "I shall never be able -to understand legal terms." - -Joan picked up a letter and read it through. "There's your small life -interest under grandpapa Ogden's will, and then there'll be your -pension, Mother, but it's very little, I'm afraid; we shall obviously -have to leave this house." - -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I can't do that," she said, with an -unexpected note of firmness in her voice. "Where could I go and pay less -rent than I do here? Only thirty-five pounds a year." - -"But you see, dear, there are other expenses, servants and light and -coal." Joan spoke patiently. "And then the rates and taxes; a tiny flat -in London would cost so much less to run." - -"How can you suggest London to me now, after all I went through there -with my James's illness?" Her lips began to tremble. "I should never be -able to face the noise and the dirt and the fearful climate, with my -heart as it is. You're cruel, Joan." - -"But, Mother, we have to face things as they are." - -"I can't," said Mrs. Ogden faintly. "I'm too ill." - -Joan sighed. "You must, darling; you can't stay here, you haven't got -the money, we none of us have now. It'll be all right, truly it will, if -you'll let me help to straighten things out." - -A sly, stubborn expression came over Mrs. Ogden's face; she wiped the -tears from her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. "Tell me exactly -what I have got," she asked quietly. - -Joan told her. - -"And then there's the fifty pounds a year, dearest, that your poor -father saved from the wreck; surely with that as well we can get on here -quite comfortably." - -Joan dropped the letter, something seemed to turn very cold inside her. -Even that, then! She meant to take even that from them. "But, Mother, -there's Milly's future and--and mine," she finished lamely. - -Mrs. Ogden flushed. "I don't understand you," she said. - -"Oh, Mother, don't make it all so terribly difficult, you know what I -mean; you know quite well that Milly and I want to work for our living. -We shall need the little he's left us if we're ever to make good; it's -bad enough, God knows, but we might manage somehow. Oh, Mother, dear! -won't you be reasonable?" - -Mrs. Ogden's mouth tightened. "I see," she said; "you and Milly wish to -leave home, to leave me now that I have no one else to care for me. You -want to hide me away in a tenement house, while you two lead the life -that seems amusing to you. This home is to be broken up and I am to go -to London--my health doesn't matter. Well, I suppose I'd be better dead -and then you'd be rid of the trouble of me. Your father must be turning -in his grave, I should think, feeling as he did about your ridiculous -notions. And what a father he was, devoted to you both; he killed -himself working and striving to make money for you, and this is the -gratitude he gets." She began to sob convulsively. "Oh, James!" she -wailed, "James, James, why did you ever leave me!" - -Joan got up. "Stop it!" she said harshly. "Stop it at once, Mother. You -know you're unjust and that you're not telling the truth, and as for my -father, he had---- Oh, never mind, I won't say it, but stop crying and -listen to me. Milly and I are young, we've got all our lives before us -and we're unhappy here, don't you understand? We are not happy, we want -to go out into the world and do something; we must, I tell you, we can't -stay here and rot. It's our right to go and no one has any business to -stop us; you least of all, who brought us into the world. Did we ask to -be born? No, you and father had us for your own pleasure. Very well, -then, now you must let us go for ours; it's your duty to help us because -you are our mother and we need your help. If you won't help us we shall -go just the same, because we must, because this thing is stronger than -we are, but----" - -Mrs. Ogden clutched at Joan's hand, she dragged her to her, kissing her -again and again. "You fool!" she said passionately. "Can't you -understand that it's not Milly I care about, or the money, but _you_; -will you never see that I love you more than anything else in the -world?" - - - - -_BOOK IV_ - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - - -1 - - -THE two years that elapsed after Colonel Ogden's death were years of -monotonous uncertainty. There was no charm about this uncertainty, no -spirit of possible high adventure raised it from the level of Seabourne; -like everything else that came under the spell of the place, it was -dull. Mrs. Ogden had sunk into a deep depression, which expressed itself -in the wearing of melodramatic widow's weeds; when she roused herself -now it was usually to be irritable. There was a servant less in the -house, for they could no longer afford to keep a house-parlourmaid, and -things had already begun to look dingy and ill cared for. The overworked -generals provided a certain periodical variety by leaving at a moment's -notice, for Mrs. Ogden was fast developing the nagging habit, and spent -hours every day in examining the work that had been left undone. And -then there was the money. Always a difficult problem, it had now become -acute. Released from the domestic tyranny of her husband, Mrs. Ogden -lapsed into partial invalidism. She scarcely did more than worry along -somehow. The books went unchecked and sometimes unpaid, and in -consequence the tradespeople were less respectful in their manner, or so -she imagined. - -Elizabeth still crammed Joan, but for this she received no payment, and -they studied at Ralph Rodney's house during his office hours. In his -plush-hung study, beneath the portrait of Uncle John grown old, they sat -and worked and made plans; sometimes they were happy and sometimes -inexplicably sad. Elizabeth knew that Mrs. Ogden hated her, had always -hated her with the stubborn hatred of a weak nature. In the old days she -had not cared, except inasmuch as it might separate her from Joan, but -now she had become acutely sensitive to the atmosphere of antagonism -that she met at Leaside. It had begun to depress her, while at the same -time her will rose up to meet the emergency; it was "pull Devil, pull -baker" more than ever before. Between these two passionately determined -women stood Joan, miserable and young, longing for things to come to a -head, for something that she felt ought to happen; she didn't know what. -She was conscious of a sense of emptiness, of unfulfilment; she was -sleeping badly again, tormented by dreams that were only half -remembered, the shadow of which haunted her throughout the day. She -longed for peace; when she was away from Elizabeth she was restless -until they met again, yet when they were together now their -companionship was spoilt by Joan's consciousness of her mother's -disapproval. Elizabeth had swift gusts of anger now that came up -suddenly like a thunderstorm; she, too, was changing, breaking a little -under the strain. These two had begun to act as an irritant on each -other, and the hours of study would be interrupted by quarrels that had -no particular beginning or end, and reconciliations that were only -partial because so much seemed to be left unsaid. - -Joan became scrupulously neat; she found relief in grooming herself. Her -hair no longer tumbled over her forehead, but was parted and brushed -till it shone, and she took an unconscionable time over her ties and the -polishing of her brown shoes. If she had had the money, she would -certainly have bought silk stockings to match her ties, a pair for every -new tie. The more unhappy she felt the more care did she lavish on her -appearance; it was a kind of bravado, a subtle revenge for some nameless -injustice that fate had inflicted on her. Elizabeth secretly approved -the change, but was silent; in vain did Joan wait for words of -approbation; they never came. She longed for praise, with a childish -desire that Elizabeth should admire her. Elizabeth did admire her, but a -new perverseness that had sprung up in her lately made her refrain from -saying so. - -Events were moving slowly, but all the more surely for that, perhaps. -Less than a year now and Joan would be of age, and then what? The -unspoken question looked out of Elizabeth's eyes. Joan saw it there; it -seemed to materialize and stand between them. They could not evade the -hungry, restless thing; it made them feel self-conscious and afraid of -each other. - -It was summer now and still Mrs. Ogden wore her heavy mourning; she -looked frailer than ever in the long crape veil, and her pathetic eyes -seemed to have grown dim with too much weeping. Seabourne elected to -pity her, and looked askance at Joan. Not that Mrs. Ogden ever accused -her daughter of heartlessness; she only implied it, together with her -own maternal devotion. People thought her a helpless little woman, -worthy of better treatment at the hands of that queer, cranky girl of -hers. They began to talk at Joan rather than to her. - - - - -2 - - -The loss of her money had had an entirely unexpected effect on Milly, -who had not raged after all, but had just smiled disagreeably. "I knew -he'd do something devilish," she said, "and how like him to die and -leave us to bear the brunt." - -If she fretted she did so silently, taking no one into her confidence; -it was curiously unlike the old Milly. At eighteen she was beautiful, -with the doll-like beauty that would some day become distressing, the -beauty that would never weather pleasantly. - -Her little violin master had wrung his hands at the news of her -misfortune; to him the disaster meant the end of his hopes, the end of a -life-long ambition. Tears had stood in his eyes when Milly told him what -had happened; he had put his arm around her, thinking that she must be -in need of consolation, but she had flung away from him with a laugh. - -Mrs. Ogden behaved as though her younger daughter were non-existent, and -Elizabeth, though she saw that all was very far from well, had become -absorbed in her own troubles and held her peace. Joan, on the other -hand, watched her sister with increasing apprehension; she felt that -this unnatural calm could not go on. - -In the circumstances, it was too foreign to Milly's nature, an alien and -unwholesome thing that might some day give place to a whirlwind. - -Milly still played her violin, but lately there was something defiant, -almost cruel, in her playing; she played now because she must and not -because she wanted to. She appeared to have grown calmly frivolous, but -there was no joy in her frivolity, or so it seemed to Joan; it was -premeditated. The society of Seabourne welcomed her advent with -enthusiasm; it found her bright and amusing. Her principal pleasure was -now lawn tennis, which absorbed her during the summer months; she was -bidding fair to become a star player, and she and Mr. Thompson of the -circulating library vied with each other in amiable competition. - -Mr. Thompson was sleeker than ever, and slightly impertinent in his -manner, Joan thought; his hair shone and his flannels were immaculate. -"No, reely now, Miss Milly, reely now!" he protested, failing to take -her service after an exaggerated effort. It became quite usual for him -to see her home in the evenings, carrying her racket confidentially -under his arm. - -Joan said: "I can't understand you, Milly; why on earth do you treat -that bounder as if he were one of us?" - -But Milly only smiled and held her peace. - -She seemed to spend hours every Saturday afternoon at Mr. Dodds'. "He's -teaching me some new German music," she told Joan, when questioned. - -Milly had become a great letter writer; she was always writing letters -these days, and always receiving them. She made a practice of collecting -her post before the family came down to breakfast, slipping out of the -bedroom on any transparent pretext. - -But gradually a subtle change began to come over Milly; some of the -bravado left her, its place being taken by a queer, resentful desire to -please; it was almost as though she were frightened. She offered to run -errands for Joan, but was quick to take offence if her offer were -refused. She was no longer so secretive either, and seemed to welcome -occasions for confidential talks. When they were in bed at nights she -tossed and complained of sleeplessness; she was constantly hinting at -some secret that she would gladly divulge if pressed. But Joan did not -press her; she was growing sick of Milly. - -One morning it happened that Joan herself went early to the letter-box; -Milly had overslept, and was in her bath. Among some circulars and a few -bills, there was a letter addressed to "Miss Ogden" in a neat clerical -hand. She opened it and read, turning white with anger as she did so. - -The letter was fulsome in its details, leaving nothing to the -imagination. So this was how Milly spent her Saturday afternoons! Not in -learning new music with innocent little Mr. Dodds, but hiding guiltily -in an old sand-pit on the downs, with Mr. Thompson of the circulating -library. Indulging herself in vulgar sensuality like any kitchen-maid -courting disaster. Here then was the explanation of the man's -impertinence, of her sister's new-found desire to propitiate; this then -was Milly's revenge for her wrong, this low intrigue with a common -tradesman in their own town. She tore upstairs with the letter in her -hand. Milly was only half dressed and looked round in surprise as the -door burst open. - -Joan held the letter out towards her. "This!" she panted. "This -_beastly_ thing!" - -Milly saw the handwriting and turned pale. "How dare you open my -letters, Joan?" - -"_I_ open your letters? Look at the envelope; he forgot to put your -Christian name; it came addressed to me." - -Milly snatched the letter away. "You beast!" she said furiously, "you -cad! you needn't have read it all through." - -"I didn't read it all through, but I read enough to know what you've -been doing. Good God! You--you common little brute!" - -Milly turned and faced her; her eyes were wild but resolute, like an -animal's at bay. "Go on!" she said, "go on, Joan, call me anything you -like, but at the same time suppose you try to realize that I'm also a -human being. Do you imagine that I really mind your knowing about Jack -and me? I don't care! I've wanted to tell you scores of times. Yes, we -do meet each other in the sand-pit every Saturday, and he makes love to -me and I like it; do you hear? I enjoy it; I like being kissed and all -the rest. I love Jack because he gives me what I want; if he's common I -don't care, he's all I've got or am ever likely to get. You stand there -calling me names and putting on your high and mighty air as though I -were some low creature that had defiled you; and why? Only because I'm -natural and you're not. You're a freak and I'm just a normal woman. I -like men they mean a lot to me, and there aren't so many men in -Seabourne that a girl can afford to pick and choose. How am I going to -find the sort of man you would approve of in Seabourne; tell me that? -And where's the harm? Lots of other girls like men too, but they go to -dances and things and meet what you, I suppose, would call gentlemen. -But it's all one; they do very much what Jack and I have done, only you -don't know it, you with your books and your doctoring and your -Elizabeth! Well, if I'd had a chance given me to meet your precious -gentleman, perhaps I'd be engaged to be married by now, instead of -having to be satisfied with Jack in a sand-pit." She began to laugh -hysterically. "Jack in a sand-pit, how funny it sounds; Jack in a -sand-pit!" She stopped suddenly and stared into Joan's eyes. "Listen," -she said seriously, "listen, you queer creature; haven't you learnt -anything from all your medical books? Don't you know that some people's -natures are like mine, and that they can't help giving way sometimes to -their impulses; and after all, Joan, where's the harm; tell me that? -Where's the harm to anyone in what Jack and I have done? Perhaps I'll -marry him--he wants me to--but meanwhile where's the harm in our being -happy, even if it is in a sand-pit on Saturday afternoons?" - -Joan looked at her in amazement. This was Milly, beside whom she had -slept for years; this was her sister, talking like some abandoned woman, -quite without shame, glorying in her lapse. This was the real Milly; all -the others had been unreal, this was the natural Milly. Something in her -own thoughts made her pause. Natural, yes, natural. This was Milly -upholding the nature she had inherited, fighting for its pleasures, its -gratifications; Milly was only being natural, being herself. Were other -people like that when they were themselves? Was that why a housemaid -they had had years ago had left because she was going to have a baby? -Had she, too, been just natural? And what was being natural? Was it -being like Milly, or like the housemaid with her sin great and heavy -within her? What gave people these impulses which they would not or -could not resist? Was it nature working on them for her own ends? Milly -and the housemaid, she coupled them together in her mind. They were both -human beings and what they had done was very human, too; very pitiful -and sordid, like most human happenings. - -She looked at her sister where she stood half dressed, her head drooping -a little now, her cheeks flushed. She was so thin. It was touching the -way her thin arms hung down from the short sleeves of her vest; they -were like young twigs waiting to complete their growth. Seen like this -there was so little of Milly to upbraid, she looked so childish. Yet she -was not childish; she was wiser than Joan, she had probed into some -secret. How funny! - -"Come here," Joan said unsteadily; "come here to me, Milly." - -Milly went to her, hiding her head on her shoulder. She began to cry. -"Joan, listen, I didn't mean half I said just now, all the beastly, -coarse things, I didn't mean any of them I know it's wrong, it's -awful--and I've been so horribly ashamed--only I couldn't help it. I -just couldn't help it!" - -Joan thought quickly; she knew instinctively that her moment had come. -It was now or never with Milly. - -"Do you want to marry him?" she asked quietly. - -Milly looked up, a little smile trembling over her tear-stained face. - -"Of course not," she said. "Would you want to marry Jack?" - -"Well, then, look here; do you still want to go to the Royal College, or -have you lost all interest in your fiddle?" - -"Lost interest? Why, I want it more than anything on earth; you know I -do." - -"Right!" said Joan; "then you shall go. I'll speak to Mother to-morrow." - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - - -1 - - -"IT'S no good, Mother," said Joan firmly. "Things like this can happen, -they do happen; it's human nature, I suppose." - -"It's not my idea of _human_ nature," Mrs. Ogden replied in a trembling -voice. - -"Well, in any case it seems to have been Milly's nature, and the point -is now that she ought to be sent to London." - -"To think," Mrs. Ogden burst out suddenly, "to think that a daughter of -mine could stoop to a vulgar intrigue with a common young man in a shop! -Could--oh! I simply can't bring myself to say it--but could--well, go to -such lengths that he ought to marry her. It's too horrible! It's on a -par with our servant Rose, years ago; that was the milkman, and now it's -my own flesh and blood--a Routledge!" - -Joan sighed impatiently. "Good Lord! Mother, what does it matter who it -is, a Routledge or a Rose Smith, it's all the same impulse." - -Mrs. Ogden winced. "Please, _please_; surely there's no need to be so -coarse, Joan?" - -"I'm not coarse, Mother. Life may be, but I'm not; I'm just looking -things squarely in the face. It seems to me that people have different -temperaments. Some are pure because they can't help it, and some are -impure because they can't help it. Milly likes men too much, and I like -them too little, but here we are, we're your daughters, Routledges if -you like, and all you can do is to make the best of it. It's horribly -hard on you, Mother, but the only way that I see out of it for Milly is -for her to go to the College. She'll probably forget this miserable -business when she has her music again." She paused. - -Mrs. Ogden voiced a sudden, fearful thought. "Joan," she said faintly, -"will there--is there going to be a child?" - -"No," said Joan. "I don't think you need fear that, from what Milly -tells me." - -Mrs. Ogden fell back in her chair. "I think I'm going to faint," she -whispered, wiping her lips with trembling fingers. Joan went to her and, -lifting her bodily, sat down with her mother on her knee. "You can't -faint," she told her with the ghost of a smile. "We've no time for -fainting, dear; we must go into the accounts and see where the money's -to come from." - - - - -2 - - -Milly took her scholarship and went to London. As the train moved slowly -from the platform, Joan had an overwhelming sense of something that -mattered. Was it Milly's departure? Perhaps. Milly's face had looked -very small and young peering from the window of the third-class -carriage, it had stirred Joan's protective instinct; yet her sister had -smiled and waved happily, filled with joy at her new-found independence. -But something had happened that did really matter, there was a change at -last; change for Milly, it must be that Milly had got out of the cage. -Why was Milly free while she, Joan, remained a prisoner? Was it because -Milly was heartless, a callous egoist? Milly did not submit, she took -the bit between her teeth and went at her own pace no matter who pulled -on the reins. And her own pace had led her not to destruction, as by all -the laws of morality it should have done, but to the actual goal of her -heart's desire; surely this was immoral, somehow? - -Milly's letters were full of enthusiasm. She wrote: - - -"I can't begin to tell you, Joan, how ripping it all is up here. I like -Alexandra House; some of the others kick at the rules, but I don't mind -them. Good Lord! After Leaside it seems Paradise to me. And I'm going -ahead with my playing; I'm in the College orchestra, which is jolly -good, I think; of course it's only a students' orchestra, but it's -splendid practice. The students are quite good sorts, I've made one or -two friends already. I never tell a soul about Jack; you said not to and -I'm being cautious, for once. He keeps on writing, but I don't answer; -what's the good? I hope he'll soon leave Seabourne, as it will be so -awkward to have him there when the holidays come. By the way, he says -he's going to try to get work in London, but don't worry, I shan't see -him if he does; that's all over and I'm very busy." - - -It had worked better than Joan had dared to hope. Milly, absorbed in her -music, had apparently submerged the other side of her nature, at all -events for the time being. Joan could not help thinking of herself as a -benefactress, a very present help in trouble. She had saved the -situation, and perhaps her sister, and yet she felt discontented. No -clouds of glory trailed for her, there was no spiritual uplift; she was -conscious of nothing but a great restlessness that swept over her like a -wind. - -She would soon be of age; Elizabeth never let her forget this, for -Elizabeth was restless too. She urged and drove to work; once she had -held Joan back, but now she thrust her on and on. They slaved like two -creatures possessed, working well on into the evenings. If Ralph turned -them out of his study they went upstairs to Elizabeth's bedroom; work, -always work and more work. On Saturday afternoons they tore themselves -away from their books, and tired and dispirited walked slowly up to the -Downs and sat there, looking out to sea. - -Elizabeth said once: "You were little when I first knew you, Joan." - -And Joan answered: "Yes, I was little then." - -It seemed as though they had uttered a momentous statement, they quailed -at the solemnity of their own words. It was like that now; their -overstrained nerves tanged sharply to every commonplace. - -"Next year," said Elizabeth thoughtfully. - -"Next year," Joan repeated with a sinking heart. - -"I'm growing old, Joan, but you'll make me young again." - -And Joan's eyes filled with tears. "You're not old; don't say things -like that, Elizabeth!" - -"Oh, yes, I shall be old quite soon, and so we mustn't wait too long. -Joan, I can't wait much longer." - -She turned her tired eyes on Joan. "Good God!" she said passionately, -"I've waited long enough." - -And Mrs. Ogden complained. She always complained now; about her health, -her house, the servant, her daughters. She was indefinitely ill, never -quite normal, yet the doctor came and pronounced her to be sound. She -complained of feeling lonely because Joan left her so much, pointing out -that even their evenings together were broken into by the prolonged -hours of study. She cried a good deal, and when she cried the evidences -of it remained with her for hours; her eyes were becoming permanently -red-rimmed. She said that she cried nearly every night in bed. - -Elizabeth, far beyond being able to control her feelings, now expressed -open dislike of her. "A selfish, hysterical woman," she called her; Joan -winced, but remained silent, and alone with her mother was forced in -turn to listen to elaborate tirades against Elizabeth. That was the way -they spent their short evenings now, in bickering about Elizabeth. Mrs. -Ogden said that she was a thief, a thief who had stolen her child from -her, and occasionally Joan's self-control would go with alarming -suddenness and a scene would follow, deplorably undignified and all -quite futile. It would end by Mrs. Ogden going slowly upstairs, clinging -to the banister, probably to cry herself to sleep, while Joan, her head -buried in her hands, sat on far into the night. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - - -1 - - -ON Joan's twenty-first birthday it poured with rain. She woke early, -conscious of a sound that she could not place for a moment, the sound of -a gutter overflowing on to the leads outside her window. She got up and -looked out through the streaming panes. The view was almost completely -hidden by mist, and her room felt cold with the first approach of -autumn. She dressed and went down to breakfast, to find Mrs. Ogden -already behind the coffee-pot. - -Her mother looked up, smiling. "Many happy returns of the day," she -said. - -There were two parcels and two letters on Joan's plate. She opened the -parcels first; one contained a writing-case, from her mother, the other -a book, from Milly. Her letters were from Richard and Elizabeth. She -recognized Elizabeth's writing on the unusually large envelope, and -something prompted her to open Richard's letter first. - -He wrote: - - -"This is to congratulate you on coming of age, that is if there be cause -for congratulation, which, my dear, rests entirely with you. I hope, I -believe, that now at last you have made up your mind to strike out for -yourself; this is your moment, and I entreat you to seize it." - - -The letter ended: - -"Joan, for the fourth time, please marry me!" - -Joan laughed quietly as she folded this epistle and opened the long -envelope addressed in Elizabeth's hand. It contained no letter of any -kind, only a legal document; the lease of the flat in Bloomsbury. - - - - -2 - - -She found Elizabeth in Ralph's study, writing letters. As she came in -Elizabeth got up and took both her hands. - -"My dear," she said, and kissed her. - -Joan sat down. "So you've done it!" was all she found to say. - -"You mean the flat? Yes, it's my birthday present to you--aren't you -pleased, Joan?" - -"Elizabeth," Joan tried to speak quietly, "you shouldn't have done this -until we'd talked things over again; when did you sign the lease?" - -Elizabeth stiffened. "That's not the point," she said quickly. "The -point is what do you mean about talking things over again? Our plans -were decided long ago." - -Joan faltered. "Don't get angry, Elizabeth, only listen; I don't know -how to say it, you paralyse me, I'm afraid of you!" - -"Afraid of _me_?" - -"Yes, of you; terribly, horribly afraid of you and of myself. Elizabeth, -it's my mother; I don't see how I can leave her, now that Milly's gone. -Wait; you've no idea how helpless she is. She seems ill, and we never -keep a servant, these days--what would she do all alone in the house? -She depends so much on me; why, since Father's death she can't even keep -the tradesmen's books in order, and with no one to look after her I -think she'd ruin herself, she seems to have lost all idea about money. -We must wait just a little longer in any case, say a year. Elizabeth, -don't look like that! Perhaps she'll pull herself together, I don't -know; all I know is that I can't come now----" She paused, catching her -breath. - -Elizabeth had come close and was standing over her, looking down with -inscrutable eyes. "Her eyes look like the sea in a mist," Joan thought -helplessly, reverting to the old habit of drawing comparisons. But -Elizabeth was speaking in a calm, cold voice. - -"I see," she was saying. "You've changed your mind. You don't want to -come and live with me, after all; perhaps the idea is distasteful to -you? Of course we should be dirt poor." - -Joan sprang up, shaking with anger. "You know you're lying!" she said. - -Elizabeth smiled. "Am I? Oh no, I don't think so, Joan. It's all quite -clear, surely. I've been a fool, that's all; only I think it would have -been better, worthier, to have been frank with me from the first. I will -not wait a year, or a month, for that matter; either you come now or I -shall go." - -"Go, Elizabeth?" - -"Yes, go!" - -"But where?" - -"Anywhere, so long as it's away from Seabourne and you. I've had enough -of this existence; even you, Joan, are not worth it. I'm going before -it's too late to go, before I get so deeply rooted that I can't free -myself." - -Joan said dully: "If you leave me, I think--I don't think I can bear -it." - -"Then come with me." - -"No, I can't." - -"You can. You're quite free except in your own imagination, and your -mother is not ill except in hers. You'd find that she'd get on all right -once she hadn't got you as an audience; naturally she'll depend on you -as long as you let her. But I say to you, don't let her, she's little -short of a vampire! Well, let her vampire herself for a change, she -shall certainly not vampire me; if you choose to be drained dry, I do -not. Good God! You and she between you are enough to drive anyone -insane!" - -Joan faced her with bright, desperate eyes. "Elizabeth, you can't go -away, I need you too much." - -"I must go away." - -"But I tell you I can't let you go!" - -"Oh, yes, you can, Joan; you need your self-esteem much more than you -need me; you'll be able to look upon yourself as a martyr, you see, and -that'll console you." - -"Don't, Elizabeth!" - -"You'll be able to wallow in a bog of sentimentality and to pat yourself -on the head because you're not as other men. _You_ have a sense of duty, -whereas I---- You'll feel that you are offering yourself as a sacrifice. -Oh, I know it all, and it makes me sick, sick, do you hear? Positively -_sick_. And you actually expect me to sympathize. Perhaps you expect me -to praise you, to tell you what a really fine fellow I think you, and -that I feel honoured to follow in your trail and be permitted to offer -you a cup of cold water from time to time. Is that what you want? Well, -then, you won't get it from me; you've had too much from me already, -Joan, and what are you giving me in return?" - -Joan said: "Not much, but all I have." - -Elizabeth laughed. "All you have! Well, it's not enough, not nearly -enough; if this is all you have, then you're too poor a thing for me. -You see, I too have my ideals, and you don't fulfil them. You're the -veriest self-deceiver, Joan! You think you're staying on here because -you can't bring yourself to hurt your mother. It's not that at all; it's -because you can't bear to hurt yourself in the process. It's yourself -you love. Well, I've had enough; it's no good our trying to understand -each other, it's better to make the break here and now." - -Joan held out her hand. "Good-bye, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth ignored the hand. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - - -1 - - -"WHERE'S Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Ogden curiously. "Have you two -quarrelled at last?" - -Joan did not answer; she went on dusting the drawing-room mechanically; -the servant had left and she and her mother were alone. - -"I must go and put the meat in the oven," she said, leaving the room. - -She put the joint in the oven and, turning to the sink, began peeling -potatoes; then she rinsed them and put them to boil. The breakfast -things were waiting to be washed up; an incredible lot of them for two -people to have used, Joan thought. She hated the feeling of cold grease -on her fingers; she could not find the mop and the skummed water crept -up her bare wrists. But much as she detested this washing-up process, -she prolonged it intentionally--it was something to do. - -The potatoes boiled over; she moved the saucepan to a cooler spot and, -finding a broom, swept the kitchen. Where was Elizabeth? She had left -Seabourne for London; so much she had learnt from the porter at the -station, but where was she now? It was a week since they had quarrelled, -but it seemed like years. And Elizabeth did not write; she must be too -angry, too bitterly disillusioned! She fetched the dust-pan and took up -the dust; it lay in great unsightly flakes where she had swept it from -corners neglected by the discontented maid. Elizabeth had sacrificed all -the best years of her life for this, to be deserted, left in the end; -she had offered all that she had to give, and she, Joan, had spurned it, -hurled it back in her face--in Elizabeth's face! - -The bell clanged. "Milk!" - -Joan fetched a jug. - -"How much will you have to-day, miss?" - -"I don't know," said Joan vaguely. - -With a look of surprise the man filled the jug. "Fine weather, miss, -after the rain." - -"Yes--oh, yes, very fine." - -She would write to her, go to her, anything but this; she would humble -herself, implore forgiveness. If only she knew where she was; she would -ask Ralph. No, what was the good? Elizabeth would not have her now, she -did not want a weak-kneed creature who didn't know her own mind; she -liked dependable, strong people like herself. - -"Joan!" came a voice. - -"Yes, Mother?" - -"Bring me my nerve tonic, dear." - -"Yes, Mother." - -"Oh, and bring me my shawl, I feel cold; you'll find it in my top -right-hand drawer." - -She obeyed, fetching the shawl, measuring out the tonic in a medicine -glass. - -"I don't feel it's doing me much good," Mrs. Ogden complained. "I slept -very badly again last night." - -"You must give it time," said Joan comfortingly. "This is only your -third dose." - -Where was Elizabeth? Had she found a new friend to share the flat? - -"You might go and buy me that trimming, some time to-day, darling; it -may be all sold out if we wait." - -"All right, I'll go when I've tidied the house, Mother; they had plenty -of it yesterday." - -But Mrs. Ogden persisted: "I have a feeling that it will all be sold out -and I'm short by just half a yard. Can't you finish the house when you -come back?" - -"I'd rather get on and finish it now, Mother; I'm quite sure it'll be -all right." - -Mrs. Ogden reverted to the subject of the trimming again during lunch, -and several times before tea. "We shall never get it," she complained -querulously. "I feel sure it'll all be sold out!" - -She allowed herself to be a little monotonous these days, clinging to an -idea with wearying persistence. In her husband's lifetime she would have -been more careful not to irritate, but the restraint of his temper being -removed, she no longer felt the necessity for keeping herself in hand. - -Joan bought the trimming just before the shop closed, and this done, -they settled down to their high tea. Joan cleared the table wearily, -answered two advertisements of general servants, and finally took her -book to the lamp. It was a new book that Richard had just sent her. -Richard did not yet suspect what she had done; he probably thought she -was busily making plans for her departure; how furious he would be when -he knew. But Richard didn't count; he could think what he liked, for all -she cared. - -She could not read, the book seemed beyond her comprehension, or was it -all nonsense? - -Mrs. Ogden's voice broke the silence: "Joan, it's ten o'clock!" - -"Is it, dear?" - -"Yes, shall we go to bed?" - -"You go, I'll come presently." - -"Well, don't stay up too late; it makes me nervous, I can't sleep -properly till I know you're in bed." - -"I shan't wake you coming upstairs." - -"I never go to sleep at all until I hear your door close. Have you -written about those servants?" - -"Yes, I'm going out now to post the letters." - -"Then I'll wait up until you get back, darling." - -"No, please not, Mother; I have a key." - -"But it makes me nervous when I know you're out. Run along, dear; I -shall wait for you." - -"Very well," said Joan, "I shan't be long." - - - - -2 - - -Mrs. Benson called and talked about Richard, and she looked at Joan as -she spoke. She would have liked her Richard to have this girl, if, as -she had begun to suspect, he had set his heart on her. - -"You and Richard have so much in common, Joan; he's always writing to me -about you." - -Mrs. Ogden said nothing. - -"When are you going to Cambridge?" Mrs. Benson continued hurriedly, -bridging an awkward pause. - -Joan looked at her mother, but she was still silent. - -"Aren't you going?" Mrs. Benson persisted. - -Joan hesitated. "Well, you see, it's rather difficult just now----" - -"She doesn't want to leave me," said Mrs. Ogden with a little smile. -"She thinks I'm such a helpless creature!" - -"But, surely----" Mrs. Benson began, and then stopped. - -The atmosphere of this house was beginning to depress her, and in a -sudden flash she realized the cause of her depression. There was -something shabby about everything here, both physical and mental. -Inanimate things, and people, were letting themselves go, sliding; Mrs. -Ogden was sliding very fast--and Joan? She let her eyes dwell on the -girl attentively. No, Joan had only begun to slip a little as yet, but -there were signs; her mouth drooped too much at the corners, her lips -were too pale and her strong hands fidgeted restlessly, but otherwise -she was intact so far, and how spruce she looked! Mrs. Benson envied -this talent for tidiness, which had never been hers. Yes, on the whole, -Joan's clothes suited her, it would be difficult to conceive of her -dressed otherwise; still, the short hair was rather exaggerated. She -wondered if Richard would make her let it grow when they were married, -for, of course, she would marry him in the end. - -"So Elizabeth has gone to London," she said after a silence, feeling -that she had made a bad slip the moment the words were out. - -"Yes, she went more than a week ago," Joan replied. - -Mrs. Ogden looked up with interest. "But surely not for long? How queer -of you not to have told me, dear." - -"I thought I had," said Joan untruthfully. - -"I heard from her this morning," Mrs. Benson plunged on, feeling that -she might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. "She's got a very -good post as librarian to some society." - -Then Elizabeth was in London! - -"Well, of all the extraordinary things!" said Mrs. Ogden, genuinely -surprised. "Joan, you _never_ told me a word!" - -"I didn't know about the post as librarian, Mother." - -"No, but you knew that Elizabeth had left Seabourne for good." - -"Yes, I knew that----" - -"Well then, fancy your not telling me; fancy her not coming here to say -good-bye--extraordinary!" Her voice was shaking a little with excitement -now. "What made her go off suddenly, like that? Surely you and she -haven't quarrelled, Joan?" - -Joan looked at Mrs. Benson; did she know? Probably, as Elizabeth had -written to her. Mrs. Benson smiled and nodded sympathetically, her -motherly eyes said plainly: "Never mind, dear, it's not so bad as you -think; you've got my Richard." But Joan ignored the comfort. What could -Mrs. Benson know of all this, what could anyone know but Elizabeth and -herself. - -She said: "I think she was tired of Seabourne, Mother. Elizabeth was -always very clever, and there's nothing to be clever about here." - -Mrs. Ogden smiled quietly. "Elizabeth was certainly very clever; but -what about her interest in you?" - -"Yes, she took a great interest in me; she believed in me, I think, -but--oh, well, she couldn't wait for ever, could she?" - -She thought: "If they go on like this I shall scream!" - -"Well, I must be going," said Mrs. Benson uncomfortably. "Come up -to-morrow and lunch with me, Joan; half-past one, and I hope you'll come -too, Mrs. Ogden." - -Mrs. Ogden sighed. "I never go anywhere since James's death. It may be -morbid of me, but I feel I can't bear to, somehow." - -"Oh, but do come, please. We shall be quite alone and it'll do you -good." - -The smile that played round Mrs. Ogden's lips was apologetic and sad; it -seemed to repudiate gently the suggestion that anything, however kindly -meant, could do her good, now. - -"I think not," she said, pressing Mrs. Benson's hand. "But thank you all -the same for wanting such a dull guest." - -Mrs. Benson thought: "A tiresome woman; she's overdoing her bereavement, -poor thing." - -The door had scarcely closed on the departing guest when Mrs. Ogden -turned to her daughter. "Is this true?" she demanded, holding out her -hands. - -"Is what true?" - -"About Elizabeth." - -"Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed Joan gruffly, "don't let's go into all -that. Elizabeth has gone away, isn't that enough? Aren't you satisfied?" - -"Yes," said Mrs. Ogden, and her voice was wonderfully firm and -self-possessed. "I am quite satisfied, Joan." - - - - -3 - - -At Christmas, Milly came home, a little taller, a little thinner, but -prettier than ever. Joan was glad enough of her sister's brief visit, -for it broke the monotony of the house. - -Milly was happy, self-satisfied and friendly. She seemed to look upon -the episode of Mr. Thompson as an escapade of her foolish youth; she had -become very grown-up and experienced. She had a great deal to tell of -her life in London; she shared rooms with a girl called Harriet Nelson, -a singer. Harriet was clever and fat. You had to be fat if you wanted to -be an operatic singer, and Harriet had a marvellous soprano voice. She -had taken the principal part in the College opera last year, but -unfortunately she couldn't act, she just lumbered about and sang -divinely. - -Milly said that Harriet was not a bad sort, but rather irritating and -inclined to show off her French. She did speak French pretty well, -having had a French nurse before her family had lost their money. Her -father had been a manager in some big works up north, they had been -quite well off during his lifetime; Harriet was always bragging about -their big house and the fact that she used to hunt. Milly didn't believe -a word of it. Still, Harriet always seemed to have plenty to spend, even -now. Milly complained of shortness of money, one felt it when it came to -providing teas and things. - -Then there was Cassy Ryan, another singer who also had a wonderful voice -and was a born actress as well. She was a great darling. Milly would -have liked to chum up with her, her diggings were just above Milly's and -Harriet's. They had high jinks up there occasionally, judging by the row -they made after hours; they had nearly been caught by "Old Scout," the -matron, one night, and had only just had time to empty the coffee down -the lavatory and jump into bed with the cakes. Milly wished that she had -been one of that party, but she didn't know Cassy very well; Harriet -did, but was rather jealous and liked keeping her friends to herself. -Cassy's father had been a butcher; Cassy said that he used to get drunk -and beat her mother; and one day he had got into a frenzy and had thrown -all the carcasses about the shop. One of them had hit Cassy and her lip -had been cut open by a piece of bone; she still had the scar of it. But -it didn't matter about Cassy's father having been a butcher; Cassy -belonged to the aristocracy of brains, that was the only thing that -really counted. - -The violin students were rather a dull lot with the exception of Renée -Fabre, who was beautiful. She was Andros's favourite pupil. Milly -thought that he pushed her rather to the detriment of the others; but it -really didn't matter, because Renée would be well off hands when Milly -wished to take the field. - -Andros was a great dear; he wore a pig-skin belt instead of braces, and -when he played his waistcoat hitched up and you saw the belt and buckle; -it was very attractive. He had a blue-black beard, which he combed and -brushed, and really beautiful black eyes. He was very Spanish indeed, -they said that he had cried like a baby over his first London fog, he -missed the sunshine so much. - -You were allowed to go and see people, and Milly had gone once or twice -to Sunday luncheon with Harriet's family in Brondesbury. Her mother was -a brick; nothing was good enough for Harriet, special dishes were cooked -when it was known that she was bringing friends home. - -Milly babbled on day after day; when she wasn't talking about her new -life she was making fun of the old one. Seabourne provided great scope -for her wit; she enjoyed walking up and down the esplanade, ridiculing -the inhabitants. - -"What a queer crew, Joan, just look at them! They think they're alive, -too, and that's the funniest thing about them." - -Joan tried to enter in and to appear amused and interested, but she was -very heavy of heart. And in addition to this a certain new commonness -about her sister jarred her; Milly had grown second-rate and her sense -of humour was second-rate too. Still, she was happy and, so far as Joan -knew, good, and the other thing mattered so little after all. Mr. -Thompson had left Seabourne, so there was really nothing to worry about -so far as Milly was concerned; she was launched, and if she came to -shipwreck later on it would not be Joan's fault, she had done everything -she could for Milly. - -There was no mutual understanding between them; Joan felt no temptation -to take her sister into her confidence. Milly had received the news of -Elizabeth's departure much as she always took things that did not -concern her personally--listening with half an ear, while apparently -thinking of something else. She had sympathized perfunctorily: "Poor old -Joan, what a beastly shame!" But her voice had lacked conviction. After -all, it was not so bad for Joan, who had no talent in particular, it was -when you had the artistic temperament that things went deep with you. -Joan had retired into her shell at this obvious lack of interest, and -the subject was not discussed any more. - -Milly seemed to take it for granted that Joan had given up all idea of -Cambridge. "All I ask," she said laughing, "is that you don't grow to -look like them." - -"Like who?" Joan asked sharply, nettled by Milly's manner. - -"Like the rest of the Seabourne freaks." - -"Oh, don't get anxious about me; I may change my mind and go up next -year, after all." - -"Not you!" said Milly with disturbing conviction. - -On the whole, however, the holidays passed peaceably enough. They -avoided having rows, which was always to the good, and when at last -Milly's trunks were packed and on the fly, Joan felt regretful that her -sister was really going; Milly was rather amusing after all. - - - - -CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - - -1 - - -THE winter dragged on into spring, a late spring, but wonderfully -rewarding when it came. Everything connected with the earth seemed to -burst out into fulfilment all in a night; there was a feeling of -exuberance and intense colour everywhere, which reflected itself in -people's spirits, making them jolly. The milkman whistled loudly and -clanked his cans for the sheer joy of making a noise. They had a servant -again at Leaside, so that Joan no longer exchanged the time of day with -him at the back door, but she stood at the dining-room window and -watched him swinging down the street, pushing his little chariot in -front of him; a red-haired and rosy man, very well contented with life. - -"He's contented and I'm miserable," she thought. "Perhaps I should be -happier if I were a milkman, and had nothing to long for because there -was nothing in me to long with." - - - - -2 - - -Far away, in London, Elizabeth strode through Kensington Gardens on her -way to work; her head was a little bent, her nostrils dilated, sniffing -the air. A chorus of birds hailed her with apparent delight. She noticed -several thrushes and at least one blackbird among them. The Albert -Memorial came into sight, it glowed like flame in the sun; a pompous and -a foolish thing made beautiful. - -"I suppose it's spring in Seabourne too," she was thinking, and then: "I -wonder if Joan is very unhappy." - -She quickened her steps. "Go on, go on, go on!" sang the spring -insistently, and then: "Go back, go back, go back! There is something -sweeter than ambition." Elizabeth trembled but went on. - -To Joan the very glory of it all was an added heart-break. Grief is -never so unendurable in suitable company, it finds quite a deal of -consolation in the sorrow of others; it feels understood and at home. -But on this spring morning in Seabourne Joan's grief found no one to -welcome it. Even the servant at Leaside was shouting hymns as she laid -the breakfast; she belonged to the Salvation Army and every now and then -would pause to clap her hands in rhythm to the jaunty tune. - - - "_My sins they were as scarlet! - They are now as white as snow!_" - - -She carolled, and clapped triumphantly. Joan could hear her from her -bedroom upstairs. - -Mrs. Ogden heard her too. "Ethel!" she called irritably; "not so much -noise, please." She closed her door sharply and kneeling down in front -of a newly acquired picture of The Holy Family, began to read a long -Matinal Devotion--for Mrs. Ogden was becoming religious. The presence of -spring in her room coloured her prayers, giving them an impish vitality. -She entreated God with a new note of sincerity and conviction to cast -all evil spirits into Hell and keep them there for ever and ever. She -made an elaborate private confession, striking her breast considerably -more often than the prescribed number of times. "Through my fault, -through my fault----" she murmured ecstatically. - - - - -3 - - -An amazingly High Church clergyman had been appointed to a living two -miles away, and something in the incense and candles he affected had -stirred a new emotional excitement in Mrs. Ogden. Her bedside table was -strewn with little purple and white booklets: "Steps towards Eternal -Life," "Guide to Holy Mass," "The Real Catholic Church." They found -their way downstairs at times, and got themselves mixed up with Joan's -medical literature. - -There appeared to be countless services at "Holy Martyrs," all of which -began at inconvenient hours, for Mrs. Ogden was for ever having the -times of the meals altered so that she might attend. It was wonderful -how she found the strength for these excursions. Two miles there and two -back and early service every Sunday morning, for she had become a -regular Communicant now, and wet or fine went forth fasting. - -Joan understood that the new "priest," as Mrs. Ogden insisted that he -should be called, was ascetic, celibate and delicate. His name was -Cuthbert Jackson, and he was known to his flock as "Father Cuthbert." - -It was not at all unusual for Mrs. Ogden to feel faint on her return -from Mass--the congregation called it Mass to annoy the bishop--and once -she had actually fainted in the church. Joan had been with her on that -occasion and had helped to carry her mother into the vestry; it had been -very embarrassing. When, after a severe application of smelling salts, -Mrs. Ogden had opened her eyes, there had been much sympathy expressed, -and she had insisted on leaving the church via the nave, clinging to her -daughter's arm. - -She remonstrated with her mother about these early services, but to no -effect. - -"Oh, Joan! If only you could find Him too!" - -"Who?" Joan inquired flippantly; "Father Cuthbert?" - -"No, my darling. I didn't mean Father Cuthbert--but then you don't -understand!" - -Joan was silent, she felt that she was getting hard. It worried her at -times, but something in the smug contentment of her mother's new-found -faith irritated her beyond endurance. Mrs. Ogden had become so familiar -with the Almighty; so soppily sentimental over her Redeemer. Joan could -not feel Christianity like this or recognize Christ in this guise. She -suspected that Mrs. Ogden put Him only a very little above Father -Cuthbert: Father Cuthbert to whom she went every few days to confess the -sins that she might have committed but had not. Joan had formed her own -picture of Christ, and in it He did not appear as the Redeemer -especially reserved for elderly women and anæmic parsons, but as a -Being immensely vast and fierce and tender. Hers was a militant, -intellectual Christ; the Leader of great armies, the Ruler over the -nations of the earth, the Companion of wise men and kings, the Friend of -little children and simple people. She felt ashamed and indignant for -Him whenever her mother touched on religion, she was so terrifyingly -patronizing. - -Mrs. Ogden had quickly become the slave of small, pious practices. She -went so far as to keep a notebook lest she should forget any of them. -They affected the household adversely, they made a lot more work for -other people to do. No meat was permitted on Fridays; in fact, they had -very little to eat of any kind. It was all absurd and tiresome and -pathetic, and obviously bad for the health. The only result of it, so -far as Joan could see, was that Mrs. Ogden evinced even less interest -than before in domestic concerns, only descending from her vantage -ground to find fault. She seemed to be living in another world, while -still keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. - -She found an excellent new grievance in the fact that Joan resisted all -efforts to make her attend church regularly; there was no longer -Elizabeth to worry about, so she worried about Joan's soul. Joan was -patiently stubborn, she refused to confess to Father Cuthbert or to -interest herself in any way in his numerous activities. He came to tea -at Mrs. Ogden's request and tried his best, poor man, to wear down what -he felt to be Joan's prejudice against him. But he was melodramatic -looking and doubtfully clean, and wore a large amethyst cross on his -emaciated stomach, and Joan remained unimpressed. - -"If you want to be a Catholic," she told her mother afterwards, "why not -be a real one and be done with it." - -"I am a real one," said Mrs. Ogden. - -"Oh no, Mother, you're not, you're only pretending to be. You take the -plums out of other people's religion and disregard the rest. I think -it's rather mean." - -"If you mean the Pope!----" began Mrs. Ogden indignantly. - -"Oh, I mean the whole thing; anyhow, it wouldn't suit me." - -Mrs. Ogden was offended. "I must ask you not to speak disrespectfully of -my religion," she said. "I don't like it." - -"Then don't keep on pushing it down my throat." - -They started bickering again. Bickering, always bickering; Joan knew -that it was intolerable, undignified, that she ought to control herself, -but the power of self-control was weakening in her. She was sorry for -her mother, for the past that was so largely responsible for Mrs. -Ogden's present, but the fact that she felt sorry only irritated her the -more. She told herself that if this new religious zeal had been -productive of peace she could have been tolerant, but it was not; on the -contrary the domestic chaos grew. If Mrs. Ogden had tried her servants -before, she did so now ten times more; she nagged with new-found -spiritual vigour; it was becoming increasingly difficult to please her. - -"It's them meal times, miss," blubbered the latest acquisition to Joan, -one morning. "It's the chopping and the changing that's so wearying; I -can't stand it, no I can't, I feel quite worn out." - -"Don't say you want to leave, Ethel?" Joan implored with a note of -despair in her voice. - -"But I do! She's never satisfied, miss; she's at me all the time." - -"She's at me, too," thought Joan, "and yet I don't seem able to give a -month's notice." - - - - -4 - - -It was summer again. How monotonously the seasons came round; it was -always spring, summer, autumn, or winter; it could never be anything -else, that made a year. How many years made a lifetime? - -Joan began playing tennis again; one always played tennis every summer -at Seabourne, but now she disliked the game. Since Milly's affair with -Mr. Thompson the tennis club and its members had become intolerable to -her. The members found her dull and probably disliked her; she was so -sure of this that she grew self-conscious and abashed in their midst. -She wondered sometimes if that was why she found fault with them, -because they made her feel shy. She had never made friends, she had been -too much wrapped up in Elizabeth. No one was interested in her, no one -wanted her. Richard wrote angry letters; she never answered them, but he -went on writing just the same. He seemed to take a pleasure in bullying -her. - - -"I shan't come home this summer," he wrote. "I can't see you withering -on your stalk. You can marry me if you like; why not, since nothing -better offers? But what's the good of talking to you? It's hopeless! I -don't know why I waste time in writing; I suppose it's because I'm in -love with you. You've disappointed me horribly; I could have stood aside -for your work, but you don't want to work, and you make your duty to -your mother the excuse. Oh, Joan! I did think you were made of better -stuff. I thought you were a real person and not just a bit of flabby -toast like the rest of the things at Seabourne." - - -She had said that she cared less than nothing for his approval or -disapproval, but she found she did care after all; not because she loved -Richard, but because it was being brought home to her that she, like the -rest of mankind, needed approbation. No one approved of her, not even -the mother for whose sake she was sacrificing herself. Self-sacrifice -was unpopular, it seemed, or was it in some way her own fault? She must -be different from other people, a kind of unprepossessing freak. She sat -brooding over this at the school-room table, with Richard's last epistle -crushed in her hand. Her eyes were bent unseeing on the ink-stained -mahogany, but something, perhaps it was a faint sound, made her look up. -Elizabeth was standing in the doorway gazing at her. - -Joan sprang forward with a cry. - -"Hallo, Joan," said Elizabeth calmly, and sat down in the arm-chair. - -Joan's voice failed her. She stood and stared, afraid to believe her -eyes. - -Elizabeth waited; then: "Well?" she queried. - -Joan found her voice. "You've come back for the holidays? Thank you for -coming to see me." - -Elizabeth said: "There's no need to thank me; I came because I wanted -to; don't be ridiculous, Joan!" - -"But I thought--I understood that you'd had enough of me. I thought my -failing you had made you hate me." - -"No, I don't hate you, or I shouldn't be here." - -"Then I don't understand," said Joan desperately. "Oh! I _don't_ -understand!" - -Elizabeth said: "No, I know you don't. I don't understand myself, but -here I am." - -They were silent for a while, eyeing each other like duellists waiting -for an opening. Elizabeth leant back in the rickety chair, her -enigmatical eyes on the girl's agitated face. She was smiling a little. - -"What have you come for?" said Joan, flushing with sudden anger. "If you -don't mean to stay, why have you come back to Seabourne? Perhaps you've -come to jeer at me. Even Richard hasn't done that!" - -Elizabeth stretched her long legs and made as if to stifle a yawn. "I've -given up my job," she said. - -"You've given up your job in London?" - -"Yes." - -"But why?" - -"Because of you." - -"Because of me? You've thrown over your post because of me?" - -"Yes; it's queer, isn't it? But I've come back to wait with you a little -while longer." - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY - - -1 - - -IT was extraordinary how Elizabeth's return changed the complexion of -things for Joan; strange that one human being, not really beautiful, -only a little more than average clever and no longer very young, could, -by her mere presence, make others seem so much less trying. - -Now that she had Elizabeth again the people at the tennis club, for -instance, were miraculously changed. She began to think that she had -misjudged them; after all, they were very good sorts and kindly enough, -nor did they really seem to be bored with her; she must have imagined -it. She found herself more tolerant towards Mrs. Ogden's religiosity. -Why shouldn't her mother enjoy herself in her own way! Surely everyone -must find their rare pleasures how and where they could. And, oh! the -joy of using her brain again! The exhilaration of renewed mental effort, -of pitting her mind against Elizabeth's. - -"We must work a bit to keep you from getting rusty, Joan, but I can't do -much more for you now; you're getting beyond me, and Cambridge must do -the rest," Elizabeth said. - -Ralph was pleased at his sister's return and welcomed Joan cordially as -the chief cause thereof. The atmosphere at his house had become restful, -because now it contained three happy people. Joan had never known -anything quite like this before; she wondered whether the dead felt as -she did when they met those they loved on the other side of the grave. -A deep sense of peace enveloped her; Elizabeth felt it too, and they sat -very often with clasped hands without speaking, for now their silence -drew them closer together than words would have done. - -As if by mutual consent they avoided discussing the future. At this time -they thought of neither past nor future, but only of their present. And -they no longer worked very hard; what was the use? Joan was ready, and, -as Elizabeth had said, it was now only a matter of not letting her get -rusty, so they slackened the gallop to a walk and began to look about -them. - -They ransacked Seabourne and the neighbouring towns for diversion, -visiting such theatres as there were, making excursions to places of -interest that they had lived close to for years yet never seen. They -discovered the joys of sailing, setting out of mornings before it was -quite light, becoming acquainted together for the first time with the -mystery and wonder that is Nature while she still smells drowsy and -sweet after sleep. - -And they walked. They would go off now for a whole day, lunching -wherever they happened to find themselves. Sometimes it would be at a -little inn by the roadside and sometimes on the summit of a hill, or in -woods, eating biscuits they had stuffed into their pockets before -starting. - -When Milly came home for her holidays she did not seem surprised to find -Elizabeth back in Seabourne. They were relieved at this, for they had -both been secretly dreading her questions, which, however, did not come. -Milly was not wanted, but they found room for her in their days, -nevertheless; she joined them whenever their programme seemed amusing, -and because they themselves were so happy they made her welcome. - -At this time Elizabeth did her best to placate Mrs. Ogden; she did it -entirely for Joan's sake, and although her efforts were rebuffed with -coldness, she knew that Joan was the happier for them. Mrs. Ogden was -aggrieved and rude; she could not find it in her, poor soul, to -compromise over Joan. If she had only met Elizabeth half way, had made -even a slight effort to accept things as they were, she would almost -certainly have won from her daughter a lifelong gratitude. But she let -the moment slip, and so for the time being she found herself ignored. - -Contentment agreed with Joan; she grew handsomer that summer, and people -noticed it. Now they would turn sometimes and look after the Ogden girls -when they passed them in the street, struck by the curious contrast they -made. Joan was burnt to the colour of a gipsy; her constant excursions -in the open air had brightened her eyes and reddened her lips and given -her slim body a supple strength which showed in all her movements. -Milly's beauty was a little marred by an ever-present suggestion of -delicacy. Her skin was too pink and white for perfect health, and of -late dark shadows had appeared under her eyes. However, she seemed in -excellent spirits, and never complained, in spite of the fact that she -coughed a good deal. - -"It's the dry weather," she explained. "The dust irritates my throat." - -Her shoulders had taken a slight stoop from the long hours of practice, -which contracted her chest, but her playing had improved enormously; she -was beginning to acquire real finish and style. - -"I shall be earning soon!" she announced triumphantly. - -Elizabeth could not resist looking at Joan, but she held her tongue and -the dangerous moment passed. - -Joan began to find it in her to bless Father Cuthbert and Holy Martyrs, -for between them they took up a good deal of Mrs. Ogden's time. To be -sure, her eyes were red with secret weeping, and she lost even that -remnant of appetite that her religious scruples permitted her; but Joan -was happy and selfish to the verge of recklessness. She was like a man -reprieved when the noose is already round his throat; for the moment -nothing mattered except just being alive. She felt balanced and calm, -with the power to see through and beyond the frets and rubs of this -everyday life, from which she herself had somehow become exempt. - -She and Elizabeth went to tea with Admiral Bourne. It was like the old -days, out there in the garden, under the big tree. The admiral eyed them -kindly. "Capital, capital!" was all he said. After tea they asked to see -the mice, because they knew that it would give him pleasure, and he -responded with alacrity, leading the way to the mousery. But although -they had gone there to please Admiral Bourne, they stayed on to please -themselves; playing with the tame, soft creatures, feeling a sense of -contentment as they watched their swift, symmetrical movements and their -round bright eyes. - - - - -2 - - -They walked home arm in arm through the twilight. - -Joan said: "Our life seems new, somehow, Elizabeth, and yet it isn't -new. Perhaps it's because you went away. We aren't doing anything very -different, only working rather less; but it all seems so new; I feel new -myself." - -Elizabeth pressed her arm very slightly. "It's as old as the hills," she -said. - -"What is?" asked Joan. - -"Nothing--everything. Did you change those library books?" - -"Yes. But listen to me, Elizabeth. I _will_ tell you how your going away -and coming back has changed things. I'm changed; I feel softer and -harder, more sympathetic and less so. I feel--oh, how shall I put it? I -feel like a tiny speck of God that can't help seeing all round and -through everything. I seem to know the reason for things, somewhere -inside of me, only it won't get right into my brain. I don't think I -love Mother any less than I did, and I don't think I really hate -Seabourne any less; but I can't worry about her or it, and that's where -I've changed. I've got a feeling that Mother had to be and Seabourne had -to be and that you and I had to be, too; that it's all just a necessary -part of the whole. And after all, Elizabeth, if you hadn't gone away and -I hadn't been frightfully unhappy there wouldn't have been your coming -back and my happiness over that. I think it was worth the unhappiness." - -They stood still, staring at the sunset. A sweet, damp smell was coming -up from the ground; there had been a little shower. The sea lay very -quiet and vast, flecked here and there with afterglow. Down below them -the lights of Seabourne sprang into being, one by one; they looked small -and unnaturally bright. The ugly homes from which they shone were -mercifully hidden in the dusk. Only their lights appeared, elusive, -beckoning, never quite still. Around them little hidden specks of life -were making indefinable noises; a blur of rustlings, chirpings, -buzzings. They were very busy, these hidden people, with their secret -activities. Presently it would be night; already the moon was showing -palely opposite the sunset. - -Elizabeth turned her gaze away from the sky and looked at Joan. The girl -was standing upright with her head a little back. She had taken off her -hat, and the queer light fell slantwise across her broad forehead, and -dipped into her wide open eyes that held in their depths a look of fear. -Her lips were parted as if to speak, but no words came. She stretched -out a hand, without looking at Elizabeth, as though groping for -protection. Elizabeth took the hand and held it firmly in her own. - -"Are you frightened, Joan?" she asked softly. - -"A little; how did you know?" - -"Your eyes looked scared. Why are you frightened? I thought you were so -confident just now." - -"I don't know, but it's all so strange, somehow. I think it's the -newness I told you about that frightens me, now I come to think of it. -You seem new. Do you feel new, Elizabeth?" - -Elizabeth dropped the hand and turned away. - -"Not particularly," she said; "I'm getting rather old for that sort of -thing; if I let myself feel new I might forget how old I'm getting. No, -I don't think I'd better feel too new, or you might get more frightened -still; you told me you were frightened of me once, do you remember?" - -"Oh, rot! I could never be frightened of you, Elizabeth; you're just a -bit of me." - -"Am I? Well, come on or we'll be late, and I think I'm catching cold." - -"Let's walk arm and arm again," Joan pleaded, like a schoolgirl begging -a favour, and Elizabeth acquiesced with a short laugh. - - - - -3 - - -Milly was obviously not well; she coughed perpetually, and Joan sent for -the doctor. He came and sounded her chest and lungs, but found no -alarming symptoms. Mrs. Ogden protested fretfully that Joan was always -over-fussy when there was nothing to fuss about, and quite unusually -indifferent when there was real cause for anxiety. She either could not -or would not see that her younger daughter looked other than robust. - -Joan had a long talk with her sister about the life at the College. They -were pretty well fed, it seemed, but of course no luxuries. Oh, yes, -Milly usually went to bed early; she felt too dead tired to want to sit -up late. She practised a good many hours a day, whenever she could, in -fact; but then that was what she was there for, and she loved that part -of it. Couldn't she slack a bit? Good Lord, no! Rather not; she wanted -to make some money, and that as soon as possible; you didn't get on by -scamping your practising. Joan mustn't fuss, it bored Milly to have her -fussing like an old hen. The cough was nothing at all, the doctor had -said so. How long had it been going on? Oh, about two months, perhaps a -little longer; but, good Lord! it was just a cough! She did wish Joan -would shut up. - -Elizabeth was anxious too; she felt an inexplicable apprehension about -this cough of Milly's. She was glad when the holidays came to an end and -Milly and her cough had removed themselves to London. - -With her sister's departure, Joan seemed to forget her anxiety. She had -fallen into a strangely elated frame of mind and threw off troubles as -though they were thistledown. - -"Mother seems very busy with her religion," she remarked one day. - -Elizabeth agreed. - -They fell silent, and then: "Perhaps we can go soon now, Elizabeth; I -was thinking that perhaps after Christmas----" - -Elizabeth bit her lip. Something in her wanted to cry out in triumph, -but she choked it down. - -"The flat's let until March," she said quietly. - -"Well then, March. Oh! Elizabeth, think of it!" - -Elizabeth said: "I never think of anything else--I thought you knew -that." - -"But you seem so dull about it, aren't you pleased?" - -"Yes, but I'm afraid!" - -"Of what?" - -"Of something happening to prevent it. Don't let's make plans too long -ahead." - -Joan flushed. "You don't trust me any more," she said, and her voice -sounded as though she wanted to cry. - -"Trust you? Of course I trust you. Joan, I don't think you know how I -feel about all this; it's too much, almost. I feel--oh, well, I can't -explain, only it's desperately serious to me." - -"And what do you think it is to me?" demanded Joan passionately. "It's -more than serious to me!" - -"Joan, you've known me for years now. I was your teacher when you were -quite little. I used to think you looked like a young colt then, I -remember--never mind that--only you've known me too long really to know -me; that can happen I think. I often wish I could get inside you and -know just how I look to you, what sort of woman I am as you see me, -because I don't believe it's the real me. I believe you see your old -teacher, and later on your very good and devoted friend. Well, that's -all right so far as it goes; that's part of me, but only a part. There's -another big bit that's quite different; you saw the edge of it when I -left you to go to London. It's not neat and calm and self-possessed at -all, and above all it's outrageously discontented and adventurous; it -longs for all sorts of things and hates being crossed. This part of me -loves life, real life, and beautiful things and brilliant, careless -people. It feels young, absurdly so for its age, and it demands the -pleasures of youth, cries out for them. I think it cries out all the -more because it's been so long denied. This me could be reckless of -consequences, greedy of happiness and jealous of competition. It is -jealous already of you, Joan, of any interests that seem to take your -attention off me, of any affection that might rob me of even a -hair's-breadth of you. It wants to keep you all to itself, to have all -your love and gratitude, all that makes you; and it wouldn't be -contented with less. Well, my dear, this side of me and the side that -you know are one and indivisible, they're the two halves of the whole -that is Elizabeth Rodney; what do you think of her? Aren't you a little -afraid after this revelation?" - -Joan laughed quietly. "No," she said, "I'm not a bit afraid. Because, -you see, I think I've known the real Elizabeth for a long time now." - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE - - -1 - - -THE tiny study at Alexandra House was bright with flowers, although it -was November. The flowers had been the gift of one of Harriet Nelson's -youthful admirers, Rosie Wilmot, an art student. The room was littered -with a mass of futilities, including torn music and innumerable signed -photographs. The guilty smell of cigarette smoke hung on the air, -although the window had been opened. - -Harriet, plump and pretty, with her red hair and blue eyes, lolled -ungracefully in the wicker arm-chair; her thick ankles stretched out in -front of her. On a low stool, sufficiently near these same ankles to -express humbleness of spirit, crouched Rosie Wilmot. - -"_Chérie_," Harriet was saying with an exaggerated Parisian accent, -"you are a naughty child to spend your money on flowers for me!" - -"But, darling, you know how I loved buying them!" - -Rosie's sallow cheeks flushed at her own daring. Her long brown neck -rose up from a band of Liberty embroidery, like the stem of a carefully -coloured meerschaum. She rubbed her forehead nervously with a -paint-stained hand, fixing her irritatingly intense eyes the while on -Harriet's placid face. - -Harriet stretched out an indolent hand. "There, there," she said -soothingly, "I'm very pleased indeed with the flowers; come and be -kissed." - -Milly raised scoffing eyes to the ceiling. She made her mouth into a -round O, and proceeded to blow smoke rings. - -"Let me know when it's all over," she said derisively, "and then we'll -boil the kettle." - -"You can boil it now," said Harriet, waving Rosie back to her -foot-stool. - -They proceeded to make tea and toast bread in front of the fire. Milly -fetched some rather weary butter and a pot of "Gentleman's Relish" from -the bedroom, and Rosie produced her contribution in the shape of a bag -of Harriet's favourite cream puffs. She had gone without lunch for two -days in order to afford this offering, but as Harriet's strong teeth bit -into the billowy cream which oozed out over her chin, Rosie's heart -swelled with pleasure; she had her reward. - -"_Méchante enfant_!" exclaimed Harriet, shaking her finger, "you -mustn't spend your money like this!" - -At that moment the door opened and Joan and Elizabeth walked into the -room. - -"Good Lord, _you_!" exclaimed Milly in amazement. - -They laughed and came forward, waiting to be introduced. - -"Oh, yes; Harriet, this is my sister Joan, and this is Miss Rodney." - -Harriet nodded casually. - -"This is Rosie Wilmot, Joan; Rosie, Miss Rodney." - -Rosie shook hands with a close, intense grip. Her eyes interrogated the -new-comers as though they alone held the answer to the riddle of her -Universe. Milly dragged up the only remaining chair for Elizabeth. - -"You can squat on the floor, Joan," she said, throwing her sister a -cushion. "That's right. And now, what on earth are you doing here?" - -It was Elizabeth who answered. "We've come up for a fortnight. We're -staying with the woman who has my flat." - -"But why? Has anything happened?" - -"No, of course not. We just thought it would be rather fun." - -Milly whistled softly; however, she refrained from further comment. - -Harriet was examining Joan. Joan fidgeted; this self-possessed young -woman made her feel at a disadvantage. - -"You're musical too?" inquired the singer, still staring. - -"Oh, no, not a bit; I don't know one note from another." - -"_Tiens_! Then what _do_ you do?" - -Joan hesitated. "At the present moment, nothing." - -Harriet turned to Elizabeth. "And you?" she inquired. "I feel sure you -must do something; you look it." - -"I? Oh, I teach Joan." - -Milly fidgeted with the tea things; the unexpected arrivals necessitated -more hot water. Her sister's sudden appearance with Elizabeth made her -vaguely uneasy. How on earth had these two managed to escape, and what -did this escape portend? Would it, could it possibly affect her in any -way? And they seemed so calm about it; Joan apparently took it as a -matter of course that she should come up to London for a fortnight's -spree. Milly felt incapable of boiling the kettle again; she poured out -some tepid tea and handed it to her sister. - -"Is Mother all alone?" she inquired. - -Joan smiled at the implied reproach. "No, we've got a very good maid at -the moment, though goodness only knows how long she'll stay." - -Milly was silent; what could she say? Joan's manner was utterly -unconcerned, and in any case, why shouldn't she come up to London for a -bit; everyone else did. She felt a little ashamed of herself; hadn't she -always been the one to rage against the injustice of their existence, to -encourage insubordination? And she owed her own freedom entirely to -Joan; Joan had stuck by her like a brick. - -"I'm jolly glad you've come," she said, squeezing her sister's hand. -"Jolly glad!" - - - - -2 - - -Through the open window drifted the sound of innumerable pianos, string -instruments and singing; a queer, discordant blur that crystallized -every now and then into stray cadences, shrill arpeggios, or snatches of -operatic airs. The distorted melody of some familiar ballad would now -and then be wafted through the misty atmosphere from the adjacent -College. "My dearest heart," sang a loud young voice, only to be -submerged again under the wave of other sounds that constantly ebbed and -flowed. This queer, almost painful inharmony struck Joan as symbolic. It -awed her, as the immense machinery of some steel works she had once seen -as a child had awed her. Then, she had been frightened to tears as the -great wheels spun and ground, whirring their straining belts. And now as -she listened to this other sound she was somehow reminded of her -childish terror, of the pistons and valves and wheels and belts that had -throbbed and ground and strained. Here was no steel and iron, it is -true, but here was a vast machine none the less. Only its parts were -composed of flesh and blood, of striving, living human beings, and the -sound they produced was such pitiable discord! - -Her thoughts were broken into by the consciousness that eyes were upon -her; she turned to meet Harriet Nelson's stare. - -Harriet smiled and tapped Rosie's shoulder. "Go and find me a -handkerchief, in my drawer," she ordered. - -The girl went with alacrity, and Joan was motioned to the vacant -footstool. - -She protested: "Oh, but surely this is Miss Wilmot's place." - -"Never mind that, sit down; I want to talk to you." Joan obeyed -unwillingly. - -"Now tell me about your life. Milly mentions you so seldom, I had no -idea she had such an interesting sister; tell me all about yourself; you -live with your friend Miss--Miss--Rodney, is that her name? Is she nice? -She looks terribly severe." - -"Oh, no, I don't live with Miss Rodney; I live with my mother at -Seabourne." - -"You live there all the year round? _Quelle horreur_! Why don't you come -to London?" - -"Well, you see----" began Joan uncomfortably. But at this stage they were -interrupted. For some moments Rosie had been standing motionless in the -doorway, the clean handkerchief crushed in her hand. Her smouldering -eyes had taken in the situation at a glance, and it seemed to her -catastrophic. She stood now, paling and flushing by turns, biting her -under-lip. Her thin neck was extended and shot forward; the attitude -suggested an eagle about to attack. Harriet saw her there well enough, -but appeared to notice nothing unusual and continued to talk to Joan. In -fact her voice grew slightly louder and more intimate in tone. Rosie -drew a quick breath; it was noisy and Harriet looked up impatiently; -then her eyes fell to the crushed handkerchief. - -"Give it to me, do!" she exclaimed. - -Rosie took a step forward as if to obey, but instead she raised her arm -and hurled the crumpled linen ball straight at Harriet, then snatching -up her coat she fled from the room. Joan jumped up, Elizabeth looked -embarrassed and Milly laughed loudly; but Harriet only shrugged her -plump shoulders. - -"_Nom d'un nom_!" she murmured softly. "Poor Rosie grows -insupportable!" - -The situation was somewhat relieved by a knock on the door. "Can I come -in?" inquired a pleasant, deep voice. - -Cassy Ryan looked from one to another of the group gathered near the -tea-table. Her soft brown eyes and over-red lips suggested her Jewish -origin. She was a tall girl and as yet only graciously ample. - -She turned to Milly. "I've only come for a moment; I want you to try the -violin obbligato over with me to-morrow, Milly; I'm not sure of that -difficult passage." - -She hummed the passage softly in her splendid contralto voice. "It won't -take you long; you don't mind, do you?" - -"Rather not!" said Milly, introducing her to Joan and Elizabeth. - -Cassy turned to Harriet. "What's the matter with Rosie?" she inquired. -"I met her on the stairs just now looking as mad as a hatter." - -"Oh, she's only in one of her tantrums; she's furious with me at the -moment." - -Cassy shook her head. "Poor kid, she's half daft at times, I think. You -oughtn't to tease her, Harriet." - -"_Bon Dieu_!" exclaimed Harriet, flushing with temper. "I shall forbid -her to come here at all if she goes on making these scenes." She pressed -a hand to her throat. "It makes my throat ache; I don't believe I've a -_soupçon_ of voice left." - -She stood up and deliberately tried an ascending scale, while the rest -sat silent. Up and up soared the pure, sexless voice, the voice of an -undreamt-of choir-boy or an angel; and then, just as the last height was -reached, it hazed, it faltered, it failed to attain. - -"There you are!" screamed Harriet, forgetting in her agitation how -perfectly she could speak French. "What did I tell you? I knew it! -That's Rosie's fault, damn her! Damn her! She's probably upset my voice -for days to come, and I've got that rehearsal with Stanford to-morrow; -my God, it's too awful!" - -She paused to try her voice once more, but with the same result. -"Where's my inhaler?" she demanded of the room in general. - -Milly winked at Cassy as she went into Harriet's bedroom. "Here it is, -on your washstand," she called. - -Harriet began feverishly to boil up the kettle; she appeared to have -completely forgotten Joan and Elizabeth; she spoke in whispers now, -addressing all her stifled remarks to Cassy. Milly brought in the -inhaler and a bottle of drops; they filled it from the kettle and -proceeded to count out the tincture. Harriet sat down heavily with her -knees apart; she gripped the ridiculous china bottle in both hands and, -applying her lips to the fat glass mouthpiece, proceeded to evoke a -series of bubbling, gurgling noises. - -Milly drew her sister aside. "You two had better go," she whispered. -"Don't try to say good-bye to her; she's in one of her panics, she won't -notice your going." - -Cassy smiled across at Elizabeth with a finger on her lips; her eyes -were full of amusement as she glanced in the direction of her friend. -Years afterwards when the names of Cassy Ryan and Harriet Nelson had -become famous, when these two old friends and fellow students would be -billed together on the huge sheets advertising oratorio or opera, Joan, -seeing an announcement of the performance in the papers, would have a -sudden vision of that little crowded sitting-room, with Harriet hunched -fatly in the wicker arm-chair, the rotund inhaler clasped to her bosom. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - - -1 - - -THE transition from Seabourne to London had been accomplished so quietly -and easily that the first morning Joan woke up on the divan in the -sitting-room of Elizabeth's flat she could hardly believe that she was -there. She thumped the mattress to reassure herself, and then looked -round the study which, by its very strangeness, testified to the -glorious truth. - -The idea had originated with Elizabeth. "Let's run up to London for a -fortnight," she had said, and Joan had acquiesced as though such a thing -were an everyday occurrence. And, strangest of all, Mrs. Ogden had taken -it resignedly. Perhaps there had been a certain new quality in Joan's -voice when she had announced her intention. Perhaps somewhere at the -back of her mind Mrs. Ogden was beginning to realize that her daughter -was now of an age when maternal commands could be disregarded. Be that -as it may, she consented to Joan's cashing a tiny cheque, and beyond -engineering a severe migraine on the morning of their departure, offered -no greater obstacle to the jaunt than an injured expression and a rather -faint voice. - -Elizabeth had arranged it all. She had persuaded her tenant to take them -in as "paying guests," and had overcome Joan's pride with regard to -finances. "You can pay me back in time," she had remarked, and Joan had -given in. - -The little flat was all that Elizabeth had said, and more. Miss Lesway -had put in a small quantity of furniture to tide her over; she was only -there until March, when she would move into a flat of her own. But the -things that she had brought with her were good, quiet and unobtrusive -relics of a bygone country house; they suggested a grandfather, even a -great-grandfather for that matter. From the windows of the flat you saw -the romantic chimney-pots and roofs that Elizabeth loved, and to your -right the topmost branches of the larger trees of the Bloomsbury square. -Yes, it was all there and adorable. Miss Lesway had welcomed them as old -friends. Tea had been ready on their arrival and flowers on Elizabeth's -dressing-table. - - - - -2 - - -Beatrice Lesway was a Cambridge woman. She was a pleasant, somewhat -squat, practical creature; contented enough, it seemed, with her lot, -which was that of a teacher in a High School. Her father had been a -hunting Devonshire squire, a rough-and-tumble sort of man having more in -common with his beasts than with his family. A kindly man but a mighty -spendthrift, a paralysing kind of spendthrift; one who, having no vices -on which you could lay your hand, was well-nigh impossible to check. But -that was a long time ago, and beyond the dignified Sheraton bookcase and -a few similar reminders of the past, Miss Lesway allowed her origin to -go unnoticed. Her eyes were so observant and her sense of humour so -keen, that she managed to extract a good deal of fun from her drab -existence. The pupils interested her; their foibles, their follies, -their rather splendid qualities and their less admirable meannesses. She -attributed these latter to their up-bringing, blaming home environment -for most of the more serious faults in her girls. She liked talking -about her work, and had an old-fashioned trick of dropping her "g's" -when speaking emphatically, especially when referring to sport. Possibly -Squire Lesway had said: "Huntin', racin', fishin', shootin';" in any -case his daughter did so very markedly on those rare occasions when she -gave rein to her inherited instincts. - -"Some of the girls would be all the better for a good day's huntin' on -Exmoor, gettin' wet to the skin and havin' their arms tugged out by a -half-mouthed Devonshire cob; that's the stuff to make men of 'em, that's -the life that knocks the affectation and side out of young females." - -Once she said quite seriously: "The trouble is I can't give that girl a -sound lickin'; I told her mother it was the only way to cure a liar; but -of course she's a liar herself, so she didn't agree with me." - -She liked Elizabeth, hence her acceptance of this invasion, and she -liked Joan too, after she got used to her, though she looked askance at -her hair. - -"No good dotting the 'i's,' my dear," had been her comment. - -Miss Lesway herself wore Liberty serges of a most unpleasing green, and -a string of turgid beads which clinked unhappily on her flat bosom. Her -sandy hair was chronically untidy, and what holding together it -submitted to was done by celluloid pins that more or less matched her -dresses. Her hands and wrists were small and elegant, but although she -manicured her shapely nails with immense care, and would soak them in -the soap dish while she talked to friends in the evenings, she disdained -all stain or polish. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a -heavy signet ring that had once belonged to her father. Her feet matched -her hands in slimness and breeding, but these she ignored, dooming them -perpetually to woollen stockings and wide square-toed shoes, heelless at -that. - -"Can't afford pneumonia," she had said once when remonstrated with. - -The thick-soled, flat shoes permitted full play to the clumping stride -which was her natural walk. Her whole appearance left you bewildered; it -was a mixed metaphor, a contradiction in style, certainly a little -grotesque, and yet you did not laugh. - -It was impossible to know what Beatrice Lesway thought of herself, much -less to discover what cravings, if any, tore her unfeminine bosom. She -managed to give the impression of great frankness, while rarely -betraying her private emotions. At times she spoke and acted very much -like a man, but at others became the quintessence of old maidishness. If -she did not long for the privileges denied to her sex she took them none -the less; you gathered that she thought these privileges should be hers -by right of some hidden virtue in her own make-up, but that her opinion -of women as a whole was low. The feminist movement was going through a -period of rest, having temporarily subsided since the days, not so very -long ago, when Lady Loo had donned her knickerbockers. But the lull was -only the forerunner of a storm which was to break with great violence -less than twenty years later. Even now there were debates, discussions, -threats, but at these Miss Lesway laughed rudely. - -"Bless their little hearts," she chuckled, "they must learn to stop -squabbling about their frocks before they sit in Parliament." - -"But surely," Elizabeth protested, putting down the evening paper, "a -woman's brain is as good as a man's? I cannot see why women should be -debarred from a degree, or why they should get lower salaries when they -work for the same hours, and I don't see why they should be expected to -do nothing more intellectual than darn socks and have babies." - -Miss Lesway made a sound of impatience. "And who's to do it if they -don't, pray?" - -Elizabeth was silent, and Joan, who had not joined in this discussion, -was suddenly impressed with what she felt might be the truth about Miss -Lesway. Miss Lesway had the brain of a masterful man and the soul of a -mother. Probably that untidy, art-serged body of hers was a perpetual -battle-ground; no wonder it looked so dishevelled, trampled under as it -must be by these two violent rival forces. - -"Well, I shall never marry!" Joan announced suddenly. - -Miss Lesway looked at her. Joan had expected an outburst, or at least a -severe reproof, but, instead, the eyes that met hers were tired, -compassionate and almost tender. - -Miss Lesway said: "No, I don't think you ever will. God help you!" - - - - -3 - - -Everything was new and interesting and altogether delightful to Joan and -Elizabeth during this visit. They played with the zest of truant -schoolboys. No weather, however diabolical, could daunt them; they put -on their mackintoshes and sallied forth in rain, sleet and mud. They got -lost in a fog and found themselves in Kensington instead of Bloomsbury. -They struggled furiously for overcrowded buses, or filled their lungs -with sulphur in the Underground. They stood for hours at the pit doors -of theatres, and walked in the British Museum until their feet ached. -Joan developed a love of pictures, which she found she shared with -Elizabeth, and the mornings that they spent in the galleries were some -of their happiest. To Joan, beauty as portrayed by fine art came as a -heavenly revelation; she knew for the first time the thrill of looking -at someone else's inspired thoughts. - -"After all, everything is just thought," she said wisely. "They think, -and then they clothe what they've thought in something; this happens to -be paint and canvas, but it's all the same thing; thought must be -clothed in something so that we can see it." - -Elizabeth watched her delightedly. She told herself that it was like -putting a geranium cutting in the window; at first it was just all -green, then came the little coloured buds and then the bloom. She felt -that Joan was growing more in this fortnight than she had done in all -her years at Seabourne; growing, expanding, coming nearer to her -kingdom, day by day. - - - - -4 - - -The fortnight passed all too quickly; it was going and then it was gone. -They sat side by side in an empty third-class compartment, rushing back -to Seabourne. Everything had changed suddenly for the worse. Their -clothes struck them as shabby, now that it no longer mattered. In -London, where it really had mattered, they had been quite contented with -their appearance. Their bags, on the luggage rack opposite them, looked -very worn and battered. How had they ever dared to go up to London at -all? They and their possessions belonged so obviously to Seabourne. - -Joan took Elizabeth's hand. "Rotten, it's being over!" - -"Yes, it's been a good time, but we'll have lots more, Joan." - -"Yes--oh, yes!" Why was she so doubtful? Of course they would have lots -more, they were going to live together. - -She realized now how necessary, how vitally necessary it was that they -should live together. Their two weeks in London had emphasized that -fact, if it needed emphasizing. In the past she had known two -Elizabeths, but now she knew a third; there had been Elizabeth the -teacher and Elizabeth the friend. But now there was Elizabeth the -perfect companion. There was the Elizabeth who knew so much and was able -to make things so clear to you, and so interesting. The Elizabeth who -thought only of you, of how to please you and make you happy; the -Elizabeth who entered in, who liked what you liked, enjoying all sorts -of little things, finding fun at the identical moment when you were -wanting to laugh; in fact who thought your own thoughts. This was a -wonderful person who could descend with grace to your level or -unobtrusively drag you up to hers; an altogether darling, humorous and -understanding creature. - -The train slowed down. Joan said: "Oh, not already?" - -They shared the fly as far as the Rodneys' house, and then Joan drove on -alone. - -Mrs. Ogden opened the front door herself. - -"She's gone!" were her words of greeting. - -"Who has? You don't mean Ethel?" - -Mrs. Ogden sank on to the rim of the elephant pad umbrella stand. "She -walked out this morning after the greatest impertinence. Of course I -refused to pay her. I'm worn out by all I've been through since you -left; I nearly telegraphed for you to come back." - -"Wait a minute, Mother dear; I must get my trunk in. Yes, please, -cabby--upstairs, if you don't mind; the back room." - -"She kept the kitchen filthy; I've been down there since she left and -the sink made me feel quite sick! I've thought for some time she was -dishonest and brought men in the evenings, and now I'm sure of it; -there's hardly a grain of coffee left and I can't find the pound of -bacon I bought only the day before yesterday." - -"Oh! I do wish we hadn't lost her!" said Joan inconsequently. "Have you -been to the registry office?" - -"No, of course not; what time have I had? You'll have to do that -to-morrow." - -Joan went upstairs and began unstrapping her trunk. She did not attempt -to analyse her feelings; they were too confused and she was very tired. -She wanted to sit down and gloat over the past two weeks, to recapture -some of their fun and freedom and companionship; above all she did not -want to think of registry offices. - -Mrs. Ogden came into her room. "You haven't kissed me yet, darling." - -Joan longed to say: "You didn't give me a chance, did you?" But -something in the small, thin figure that stood rather wistfully before -her, as if uncertain of its welcome, made her kiss her mother in -silence. - -"Have you had any tea?" she asked, patting Mrs. Ogden's arm. - -"No, I felt too tired to get it, but it might do my head good if you -could make some really strong tea, darling." - -Joan left her trunk untouched, and turned to the door. "All right, I'll -have it ready in a quarter of an hour," she said. - -Mrs. Ogden looked at her with love in her eyes. "Oh, Joan, it's so good -to have you home again; I've missed you terribly." - -Joan was silent. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - - -1 - - -THAT Christmas Mrs. Benson invited them to dinner, and, being cookless, -Mrs. Ogden accepted. Milly was delighted to escape from the dreaded -ordeal of Christmas dinner at home. Her holidays were becoming -increasingly distasteful. For one thing she missed the convivial student -life, the companionship of people who shared her own interests and -ambitions, their free and easy talk, their illicit sprees, their love -affairs and the combined atmosphere of animal passion and spiritual -uplift which they managed to create. She dearly loved the ceaseless -activity of the College, the hurrying figures on the stairs, the muffled -thud of the swing-doors. The intent, preoccupied faces of the students -inspired and fascinated her; their hands seemed always to be clutching -something, a violin case, a music roll. Their hands were never empty. - -She felt less toleration than ever for her home, now that she had left -it; the fact that she was practically free failed to soften her judgment -of Seabourne; as she had felt about it in the past, so she felt now, -with the added irritation that it reminded her of Mr. Thompson. - -Milly was not introspective and she was not morbid. A wider experience -of life had not tended to raise her standard of morality, and if she was -ashamed of the episode with Mr. Thompson, it was because of the partner -she had chosen rather than because of the episode itself. She was -humiliated that it should have been Mr. Thompson of the circulating -library, a vulgar youth without ambition, talent, or brain. The memory -of those hours spent in the sand-pit lowered her self-esteem, the more -so as the side of her that had rejoiced in them was in abeyance for the -moment, kept in subjection by her passion for her art. She watched the -students' turbulent love affairs with critical and amused eyes. Some -day, perhaps, she would have another affair of her own, but for the -present she was too busy. - -In her mind she divided the two elements in her nature by a well-defined -gulf. Both were highly important, but different. Both were good in -themselves, inasmuch as they were stimulating and pleasurable, but she -felt that they could not combine in her as they so often did in her -fellow students, and of this she was glad. - -Her work was the thing that really counted, as she had always known; but -if the day should come when her work needed the stimulus of her -passions, she was calmly determined that it should have it. She knew -that she would be capable of deliberately indulging all that was least -desirable in her nature, if thereby a jot or tittle could be gained for -her music. - -Her opinion of her sister was becoming unstable, viewed in the light of -wider experience; she was beginning to feel that she did not understand -Joan. In London Joan had seemed free, emancipated even; but back at -Leaside she was dull, irritable and apparently quite hopeless, like -someone suffering from a strong reaction. - -It was true enough that the home-coming had been a shock to Joan; why, -it is impossible to say. She had known so many similar incidents; -servants had left abruptly before, especially of late years, so that -familiarity should have softened the effect produced by her arrival at -Leaside. But a condition of spirit, a degree of physical elation or -fatigue, perhaps a mere passing mood, will sometimes predispose the mind -to receive impressions disproportionately deep to their importance, and -this was what had happened in Joan's case. She had felt suddenly -overwhelmed by the hopelessness of it all, and as the days passed her -fighting spirit weakened. It was not that she longed any less to get -away with Elizabeth, but rather that the atmosphere of the house sapped -her initiative as never before. All the fine, brave plans for the -future, that had seemed so accessible with Elizabeth in London, became -nebulous and difficult to seize. The worries that flourished like -brambles around Mrs. Ogden closed in around Joan too, seeming almost -insurmountable when viewed in the perspective of Leaside. - -Milly watched her sister curiously: "You look like the morning after the -night before! What's the matter, Joan?" - -"Nothing," said Joan irritably. "Do let me alone!" - -"Your jaunt with Elizabeth doesn't seem to have cheered you up much." - -"Oh, I'm all right." - -"Are you really going to Cambridge, do you think, after all?" - -"_Will_ you shut up, Milly! I've told you a hundred times I don't know." - -Milly laughed provokingly, but the laugh brought on a paroxysm of -coughing; and she gasped, clinging to a chair. - -Joan eyed her with resentment. Milly's cough made her unaccountably -angry sometimes; it had begun to take on abnormal proportions, to loom -as a menace. Her tense nerves throbbed painfully now whenever she heard -it. - -"Oh, do stop coughing!" she said, and her voice sounded exasperated. - -What was the matter with her? She was growing positively brutal! She -fled from the room, leaving Milly to cough and choke alone. - - - - -2 - - -Christmas dinner at the Bensons' was a pleasant enough festivity. Mrs. -Benson was delighted that the Ogdens had come, for Richard was at home. -His stolid determination not to seek Joan out, coupled with his evident -melancholy, had begun to alarm his mother. She tried to lead him on to -talk about the girl, but he was not to be drawn. The situation was -beyond her. If Richard was in love with Joan, why didn't he marry her? -His father couldn't very well refuse to make him a decent allowance if -he married; it was all so ridiculous, this moping about, this pandering -to Joan's fancies. - -"Marry her, my son, and discuss things afterwards," had been Mrs. -Benson's advice. - -But Richard had laughed angrily. "She won't marry me, unfortunately." - -"Then make her, for of course she's in love with you." - -No good; Mrs. Benson could not cope with the psychology of these two. -She felt that her only hope lay in propinquity, so if Richard would not -go to Joan the roles must be reversed and Joan must be brought to -Richard. She watched their meeting with scarcely veiled eagerness. - -They shook hands without a tremor; a short, matter-of-fact clasp. -Curious creatures! Mrs. Benson felt baffled, and angry with Richard; -what was he thinking about? He treated Joan like another boy. No wonder -the love affair was not prospering! - -Elizabeth was already there when the Ogdens arrived, and she, too, -watched the little comedy with some interest. She would rather have -liked to talk to Richard about Cambridge, it was so long since she -herself had been there, but Lawrence Benson was for ever at her elbow, -quietly obtrusive. He had taken to wearing pince-nez lately. Elizabeth -wished that he had not chosen the new American rimless glasses; she felt -that any effort to render pince-nez decorative only accentuated their -hideousness. She found herself looking at Lawrence, comparing the shine -on his evening shirt front with the disconcerting shine of his glasses. -He was very immaculate, with violets in his buttonhole, but he had aged. -The responsibility of partnership and riches appeared to have thinned -his sleek hair. Perhaps it made you old before your time to be a member -of one of the largest banking firms in England--old and prim and tidy. -Elizabeth wondered. - -Lawrence reminded her of an expensive mahogany filing cabinet in which -reposed bundles of papers tied with red tape. Everything about him was -perfectly correct, from the small, expensive pearl that clasped his -stiff shirt, to his black silk socks and patent leather shoes. His -cuff-links were handsome but restrained, his watch-chain was platinum -and gold, not too thick, his watch was an expensive repeater in the -plainest of plain gold cases. - -Elizabeth felt his thin, dry fingers touch her arm as he stooped over -her chair. "You look beautiful to-night," he murmured. - -She believed him, for she knew that her simple black dress suited her -because of its severity. The fashion that year was for a thousand little -bows and ruches, but Elizabeth had not followed it; she had draped -herself in long, plain folds, from which her fine neck and shoulders -emerged triumphantly white. She was the statuesque type of woman, who -would always look her best in the evening, for then the primness that -crept into her everyday clothes was perforce absent. She smiled across -at Joan, as though in some way Lawrence's compliment concerned her. - -They went in to dinner formally. Mr. Benson gave his arm to Mrs. Ogden, -Lawrence to Elizabeth, and Richard to Joan. Milly was provided with a -Cambridge friend of Richard's, and Mrs. Benson was pompously escorted by -the local vicar. - -Something of Mrs. Ogden's habit of melancholy fell away during dinner. -She noticed Lawrence looking in her direction, and remembered with a -faint thrill of satisfaction that although now he was obviously in love -with Elizabeth, some years ago he had admired her. Joan, watching her -mother, was struck afresh by her elusive prettiness that almost amounted -to beauty. It had been absent of late, washed away by tears and -ill-health, but to-night it seemed to be born anew, a pathetic thing, -like a venturesome late rosebud that colours in the frost. - -Joan's mind went back to that long past Anniversary Day when her mother -had worn a dress of soft grey that had made her look like a little dove. -How long ago it seemed! It had been the last of many. It had ceased to -exist owing to her father's failing health, and now there was no money -to start it again. As she watched her mother she wished that it could be -re-established, for it had given Mrs. Ogden such intense pleasure, -filled her with such a harmless, if foolish, sense of importance. On -Anniversary Day she had been able to rise above all her petty worries; -it had been _her_ Day, one out of the three hundred and sixty-five. -Perhaps, after all, it had done much to obliterate for the time being -the humiliations of her married life. Joan had never thought of this -possibility before, but now she felt that hidden away under the bushel -of affectations, social ambitions and snobbishness that The Day had -stood for, there might well have burnt a small and feeble candle--the -flame of a lost virginity. - -The same diaphanous prettiness hung about her mother now, and Joan -noticed that her brown hair was scarcely greyer than it had been all -those years ago. She felt a sudden, sharp tenderness, a passionate sense -of regret. Regret for what? She asked herself, surprised at the violence -of her own emotion; but the only answer she could find was too vague and -vast to be satisfactory. "Oh, for everything! for everything," she -murmured half aloud. - -Richard looked at her. "Did you speak, Joan?" - -"No--at least I don't know. Did I?" - -Her eyes were on her mother's face, watchful, tender, admiring. Mrs. -Ogden looked up and met those protecting, possessive eyes, full upon -her. She flushed deeply like a young girl. - -Richard touched Joan's arm. "Have you forgotten how to talk?" he -demanded. - -She laughed. "You never approve of anything I say, so perhaps silence is -a blessing in disguise." - -"Oh, rot! Joan, look at my brother making an ass of himself over -Elizabeth. Shall I start looking at you like that? I'm much more in love -than he is, you know." - -"Richard _dear_, you're not going to propose again in the middle of -dinner, are you?" - -"No; but it's only putting off the evil day, I warn you." - -He was not going to lecture her any more, he decided. Elizabeth had -written him a letter which was almost triumphant in tone; Joan was -making up her mind, it seemed; perhaps after all she would show some -spirit. In any case he found her adorable, with her black, cropped hair, -her beautiful mouth, and her queer, gruff voice. Her flanks were lean -and strong like a boy's; they suggested splendid, unfettered movement. -She looked all wrong in evening dress, almost grotesque; but to Richard -she appeared beautiful because symbolic of some future state--a -forerunner. As he looked at her he seemed to see a vast army of women -like herself, fine, splendid and fiercely virginal; strong, too, capable -of gripping life and holding it against odds--the women of the future. -They fascinated him, these as yet unborn women, stimulating his -imagination, challenging his intellect, demanding of him an explanation -of themselves. - -He dropped his hand on Joan's where it lay in her lap. "Have you prayed -over your sword?" he asked gravely. - -She knew what he meant. "No," she said. "I haven't had the courage to -unsheathe it yet." - -"Then unsheathe it now and put it on the altar rails, and then get down -on your knees and pray over it all night." - -Their eyes met, young, frank and curious, and in hers there was a faint -antagonism. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR - - -1 - - -IN the following February Milly was sent home They wrote from Alexandra -House to say that for the present, at all events, she was too ill to -continue her studies. She had had a touch of pneumonia shortly after her -return, with the result that her lungs were weak. The matron wrote what -was meant to be a kind and tactful letter. It was full of veiled -sentences; the sort of letter that distracted Joan by reason of its -merciful vagueness. The letter said that Milly was not strong, that she -was losing weight and was apt to run a little temperature night and -morning; according to the doctor, her lungs required care and she must -be given time to recover, and plenty of open air. - -Joan looked across at Mrs. Ogden as she finished reading. - -"It's tubercle," she said briefly. - -Her voice sounded calm and cold. "I might be saying 'It's Monday -to-day,'" she thought. She felt stupid with pity for Milly and for -herself. - -Mrs. Ogden tightened her lips; she assumed her stubborn expression. - -"What nonsense, Joan! We've never had such a thing in our family." - -"But, good heavens, Mother!--your father and your brother died of -galloping consumption." - -"Nothing of the kind. Henry died of bronchial pneumonia; you don't know -what you're talking about, my dear." - -Joan thought. "She's going to refuse to face it, she's going to play -ostrich; what on earth am I to do!" Aloud she said: "Well, I'd better go -up and fetch her; we can't let her travel alone." - -"Ah! there I agree with you; certainly go up and bring her home. But -whatever you do, don't frighten the life out of the poor child with any -ridiculous talk about consumption." - -Joan left her gently embroidering a handkerchief. "I must see Elizabeth -at once," she told herself. - - - - -2 - - -It was already half-past nine in the evening, but Joan rushed round to -the Rodneys' house, to find that Elizabeth had gone to bed with a -headache. - -"I expect she's asleep," said Ralph doubtfully. - -He was wearing an old Norfolk jacket and carpet slippers; his grey hair -was ruffled, and an end-of-the-day grey stubble clung like mould to his -chin. His eyes looked heavy and a little pink; he had probably been -asleep himself, or dozing in the arm-chair, under the picture of old -Uncle John. He was certainly too sleepy to be polite, and looked -reproachfully at Joan, as though she had done him some wrong. - -Oh! the gloom of it all! Of this seaside house with its plush study, of -old Uncle John and his ageing descendant, of the lowered gas-jet in its -hideous globe, that was yet not dim enough to hide the shabby -stair-carpet and the bloodthirsty Landseer engraving on the landing. - -It was misty outside, and some of the mist had followed Joan into the -house; it made a slight, melancholy blur over everything, including -herself and Ralph. She left him abruptly, climbing the stairs two at a -time. - -She opened the bedroom door without knocking. The gas had been turned -down to the merest speck, but by its light Joan could see that Elizabeth -was asleep. She turned the gas up full, but still Elizabeth did not -stir. She was lying on her side with her cheek pressed hard into the -pillow; her hair was loosely plaited, thick, beautiful hair that shone -as the light fell across it. One of her scarred hands lay on the white -bedspread, pathetically unconscious of its blemish. - -Joan stood and looked at her, looked at Elizabeth as she was now, off -her guard. What she saw made her look away and then back again, as if -drawn by some miserable attraction. Elizabeth's lips were closed, gently -enough, but from their drooping corners a few fine lines ran down into -the chin; and the closed eyelids were ever so slightly puckered. Joan -bent nearer. Yes, those were grey hairs close to the forehead; Elizabeth -had a good many grey hairs. Strange that she had never noticed them -before. She flushed with a kind of shame. She was discovering secret -things about Elizabeth; things that hid themselves by day to look up -grimacing out of the night-time and Elizabeth's sleep. Elizabeth would -hate it if she knew! And there lay her beautiful hand, all scarred and -spoilt; a brave hand, but spoilt none the less. Was it only the scars, -or had the texture of the skin changed a little too, grown a little less -firm and smooth? She stared at it hopelessly. - -She found that she was whispering to herself: "Elizabeth's not so young -any more. Oh, God! Elizabeth is almost growing old." - -She felt that her sorrow must choke her; pity, sorrow, and still more, -shame. Elizabeth's youth was slipping, slipping; it would soon have -slipped out of sight. Joan stooped on a sudden impulse and kissed the -scarred hand. - -"Joan! Are you here? You woke me; you were kissing my hand!" - -"Yes, I was kissing the scars." - -Elizabeth twitched her hand away. "Don't be a fool!" she said roughly. - -Joan looked at her, and something, perhaps the pity in her eyes made -Elizabeth recover herself. - -"Tell me what's the matter," she asked quietly. "Has anything new -happened?" - -Joan sat down beside her on the bed. "Come here," she said. - -Elizabeth moved nearer, and Joan's arm went round her with a quiet, -strong movement. She kissed her on the forehead where the grey hairs -showed, and then on the eyelids, one after the other. Elizabeth lay very -still. - -Joan said: "They're sending Milly home; I'm afraid she's in -consumption." - -Elizabeth freed herself with a quick twist of her body. "What?" - -"Read this letter." - -Elizabeth blinked at the gas-jet. "It's my eyes," she complained almost -fretfully. "Light the candle, will you, Joan? Then we can put the gas -out." - -Joan did as she wished, and returning to the bed leant over the -foot-rail, watching Elizabeth as she read. Elizabeth had gone white to -the lips; she laid down the letter and they stared at each other in -silence. - -At last Elizabeth spoke. "She's coming home soon," she said in a flat -voice. - -"Yes; I must go and fetch her the day after to-morrow." - -"She'll need--nursing--if she lives." - -"Yes--if she lives----" - -"It's February already, Joan." - -"Yes, next month is March. We called it our March, didn't we, -Elizabeth?" - -"There are places--sanatoriums, but they cost money." - -"We haven't got the money, Elizabeth. And in any case, Mother's decided -that Milly can't be seriously ill." - -"I have some money, as you know, Joan, but I was saving it for you; -still----" Her voice shook. - -Joan sat down on the bed again and took Elizabeth's hand. "It's no -good," she said gently. - -And then Elizabeth cried. She did it with disconcerting suddenness and -complete lack of restraint. It was terrible to Joan to see her thrown -right off her guard like this; to feel her shoulders shake with sobs -while the tears dripped through her fingers on to the bedspread. - -She said: "Don't, oh, don't!" - -But Elizabeth took no notice, she was launched on a veritable torrent of -self-indulgence which she had no will to stem. The pent-up unhappiness -of years gushed out at this moment. All the ambitions, the longings, the -tenderness sternly repressed, the maternal instinct, the lover -instinct, all the frustrations, they were all there, finding despairing -expression as she sobbed. She rocked herself from side to side and -backwards and forwards. She lost her breath with little gasps, but found -it again immediately, and went on crying. She murmured in a kind of -ecstatic anguish: "Oh! oh!--Oh! oh!" And then, "Joan, Joan, Joan!" But -not for an instant did her tears cease. - -Ralph heard the sound of sobbing as he passed on his way to bed, and a -quiet, unhappy voice speaking very low, breaking off and then speaking -again. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should go in, but shook -his head, and sighing, went on to his own room, closing the door -noiselessly after him. - - - - -3 - - -Two days later Joan was waiting in the matron's sitting-room at -Alexandra House. Someone had told her that Miss Jackson wished to speak -to her before she went up to her sister. She remembered that Miss -Jackson was Milly's "Old Scout," and smiled in spite of herself. - -The door opened and Miss Jackson came in. She held out her hand with an -exaggeratedly bright smile. "Miss Ogden?" - -Joan thought: "She's terribly nervous of what she has to tell me." - -"Do sit down, Miss Ogden, _please_. I hope you had a good journey?" - -"Yes, thank you." - -The matron looked at her watch. "Your train must have been unusually -punctual; I always think the trains are so very bad on that line. -However, you've been fortunate." - -"Yes, we were only five minutes late." - -"You don't find it stuffy in here, do you? I cannot persuade the maids -to leave the window open." - -"No, I don't feel hot--I think you wanted to speak to me about Milly." - -"Milly; oh, yes--I thought--the doctor wanted me to tell you----" - -"That my sister is in consumption? I was afraid it was so, from your -letter." - -Miss Jackson moistened her lips. "Oh, my dear, I hope my letter was not -too abrupt! You mustn't run ahead of trouble; our doctor is nervous -about future possibilities if great care is not used--but your sister's -lungs are sound so far, he _thinks_." - -"Then I disagree with him," said Joan. - -Miss Jackson felt a little shocked. Evidently this was a very sensible -young woman, not to say almost heartless; still it was better than if -she had broken down. "We all hope, we all believe, that Milly will soon -be quite well again," she said, "but, as you know, I expect, she's -rather frail. I should think that she must always have been delicate; -and yet what a student! A wonderful student; they're all heart-broken at -the College." There was real feeling in her voice as she continued: "I -can't tell you what an admiration I have for your sister; her pluck is -phenomenal; she's worked steadily, overworked in fact, up to the last." - -Joan got up; she felt a little giddy and put her hand on the back of the -chair to steady herself. - -"My dear, wait, I must get you some sal-volatile!" - -"Oh, no, no, please not; I really don't feel ill. I should like to go to -Milly now and help her to collect her luggage, if I may." - -"Of course; come with me." - -They mounted interminable stairs to the rooms that Milly shared with -Harriet. A sound of laughing reached them through the half-open door. It -was Milly's laugh. - -"She's very brave and cheerful, poor child," Miss Jackson whispered. - -Joan followed her into the study. - -"Here's your sister, Milly dear." - -Milly looked up from the strap of her violin case. "Hullo, Joan! This is -jolly, isn't it?" - -Joan kissed her and shook hands with Harriet. - -"I'll leave you now," said Miss Jackson, obviously anxious to get away. - -Harriet raised her eyebrows. "_Vieille grue_!" she remarked, scarcely -below her breath. - -Milly laughed again, she seemed easily amused, and Joan scrutinized her -closely. She was painfully thin and the laugh was a little husky; -otherwise she looked much as usual at that moment. Joan's heart beat -more freely; supposing it were a false alarm after all? Suppose it -should be only a matter of a month or two, at most, before Milly would -be quite well again and she herself free? - -"How do you feel?" she inquired with ill-concealed anxiety. - -"Oh, pretty fit, thank you. I think it's all rot myself. I suppose Old -Scout informed you that I was going into a decline, but I beg to differ. -A few weeks at Seabourne will cure me all right. Good Lord! I should -just think so!" and she made a grimace. - -Harriet began humming a sort of vocal five-finger exercise; Joan glared -at her. Damn the woman! Couldn't she keep quiet? - -Harriet laughed. "Don't slay me with a glance, my dear!" - -Joan forced herself to smile. "I was thinking we'd be late for the -train." - -"Oh, no, you weren't; but never mind. You amuse me, Joan. May I call you -Joan? Well, in any case, you amuse me. Oh! But you are too funny and -young and gauche, a regular boor, and your grey-green coloured eyes go -quite black when you're angry. I should never be able to resist making -you angry just for the pleasure of seeing your eyes change colour; do -you think you could manage to get really angry with me some day?" - -Joan felt hot with embarrassment. What was the matter with this woman; -didn't she know that she was in the room with a perfectly awful tragedy, -didn't she realize that here was something that would probably ruin -three people's lives? She wondered if this was Harriet's way of keeping -the situation in hand, of trying to carry the thing off lightly. -Perhaps, after all, she was only making an effort to fall in with -Milly's mood; that must be it, of course. - -Harriet's decided voice went on persistently. "Come up and see me -sometimes; don't stop away because Milly isn't here, though I expect -she'll be back soon. But in the meantime come up and see me; I shall -like to see you quite often, if you'll come." - -"Thank you," said Joan, "but I'm never in London." - -Harriet smiled complacently. "We'll see," she murmured. - -Joan turned to Milly. "Come on, Milly, we ought to go; it's getting -late." - - - - -4 - - -In the train Milly talked incessantly; she was flushed now, and the hand -that she laid on Joan's from time to time felt unnaturally hot and dry. -She assured Joan eagerly that the doctor was a fool and an alarmist; -that he had sent a girl home only last year for what he called -"pernicious anæmia," whereas she had been back at College in less than -four months as well as ever. Milly said that if they supposed she was -going to waste much time, they were mistaken; a few weeks perhaps, just -to get over that infernal pneumonia, but no longer at Leaside--no, thank -you! If she stayed at Leaside she was sure she would die, but not of -consumption, of boredom! Her lungs were all right, she never spat blood, -and you always spat blood if your lungs were going. It was quite bad -enough as it was though; jolly hard lines having a set-back at this -critical time in her training. Never mind, she would have to work all -the harder later on to make up for it. - -She talked and coughed and coughed and talked all the way from London to -Seabourne. She was like a thing wound up, a mechanical toy. Joan's heart -sank. - -Elizabeth was at the station and so was Mrs. Ogden. They had come quite -independently of each other. As a rule Elizabeth kept away if she knew -that Mrs. Ogden was meeting one of the girls, anxious these days not to -feed the flame of the older woman's jealousy; but to-day her anxiety had -outweighed her discretion. - -Mrs. Ogden kissed Milly affectionately. "Why, she looks splendid!" she -remarked to the world in general. - -Elizabeth assumed an air of gaiety that she was very far from feeling. -It seemed to her that Milly looked like death, and her eyes sought -Joan's with a frightened, questioning glance. For answer, Joan shook her -head ever so slightly. - -They all went home to Leaside together. Elizabeth had offered to help -with the unpacking. She was not going to torment herself with any -unnecessary suspense, and she cared less than nothing whether Mrs. Ogden -wanted her or not. She had got beyond that sort of nonsense now, she -told herself. She pressed Joan's hand quite openly in the fly. Why not? -Mrs. Ogden was jealous of any demonstrations of affection towards Joan -other than her own; Elizabeth knew this, but pressed the hand again. - -She and Joan had no opportunity of being alone together that evening. -They longed to talk the situation over. They were taut with nervous -anxiety; even a quarrel would have been a relief. But Mrs. Ogden was in -a hovering mood, they could not get rid of her; even after Milly had -gone to bed she continued to haunt them. Frail, unobtrusive, but always -there. She seemed to be feeling affable, for she had pressed Elizabeth -to stop to supper and had even thanked her for helping with the -unpacking. It was remarkable; one would have expected tears or at least -depression or irritability over this fresh disaster, for disaster it -was, even though Mrs. Ogden chose to take a cheerful view of Milly's -condition. It was impossible that she should contemplate with equanimity -more doctor's bills, and the mounting tradesmen's accounts for luxuries. -Whatever the outcome, Milly would require milk, beef-tea and other -expensive things; and there was little or no money, as even Mrs. Ogden -must know. And yet she was cheerful; it made Elizabeth feel afraid. - -She became a prey to a horrible idea that Mrs. Ogden was happy, yes, -positively happy over Milly's illness, because she saw in it a new -fetter wherewith to bind Joan. Perhaps she had suspected all along that -Joan had determined to break away soon. Perhaps she had begun to realize -that her influence over her daughter was waning. And now came Milly's -collapse, with all that it entailed of responsibility, of diminished -finances, of appeal to every generous and unselfish instinct. Elizabeth -shuddered. She did not accuse Mrs. Ogden of consciously visualizing the -cause of her satisfaction; but she knew that no greater self-deceiver -had ever lived, and that although she was probably telling herself that -she was being cheerful and brave in the face of sorrow, and acting with -unselfish courage, she was subconsciously rejoicing in the misfortune -that must bind Joan closer to her than ever. - -They could hear Milly coughing fitfully upstairs; a melancholy sound, -for it was a young cough. Mrs. Ogden remarked that they must get some -syrup of camphor, which in her experience never failed to clear up a -chest cold. She told Joan to write to London for it next day. - -Elizabeth got up; she felt that she must walk and walk, no matter where. -Her legs and feet seemed terribly alive, they tormented her with their -twitching. - -"I must go," she said suddenly. - -Joan followed her into the hall. Their eyes met for an instant in a look -of sympathy and dismay; but Mrs. Ogden was standing in the open doorway -of the drawing-room, watching them, and they parted with a brief good -night. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - - -1 - - -TWO weeks elapsed before Mrs. Ogden would consent to any further -examination of Milly's lungs. At first she refused on the ground that -Milly was only in need of rest, and when Joan persisted, made other -excuses, all equally futile. She seemed determined to prevent Doctor -Thomas's visit, and it struck Joan that her mother was secretly afraid. - -Doctor Thomas was getting old. He had attended the Ogdens as long as -Joan could remember. He attended most of the residents of Seabourne, -though it was said that the summer visitors preferred a younger man, who -had recently made his appearance. Joan herself would have preferred the -younger man, but on this point Mrs. Ogden was obdurate; she would not -hear of a stranger being called in, protesting that Doctor Thomas would -be deeply hurt. - -Doctor Thomas came, and rubbed his cold hands briskly together; he -smiled at the assembled family as he had smiled on all serious occasions -throughout his career. A wooden stethoscope protruded from his -tail-pocket; he took it out and balanced it playfully between finger and -thumb. - -"Let _me_ explain," said Joan peremptorily, as Mrs. Ogden opened her -lips to speak. - -She had to raise her voice somewhat, for the doctor was a little hard of -hearing. - -"Eh, what? What was that?" he inquired from time to time. - -Milly's lip curled. She shrugged her shoulders and complied with an ill -grace when told to remove her blouse. - -"Take a deep breath." - -Doctor Thomas pressed his stethoscope to her chest and back; he pressed -so hard with his large, purplish ear that the stethoscope dug into her -bones. - -"Ow! That hurts," she protested peevishly. - -"Say 'ninety-nine'!" - -"Ninety-nine." - -"Again, please." - -"Ninety-nine." - -"Again." - -"Oh! Ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety-nine!" - -For a young woman about to be twenty-one years old, Milly was behaving -in an extraordinarily childish manner. The doctor looked at her -reproachfully and began tapping on her back and chest with his notched -and bony fingers. Tap, tap, tap, tap: Milly glanced down at his hand -distastefully. - -"And now say 'ninety-nine' again," he suggested. - -Milly flushed with irritation and coughed. "Ninety-nine," she exclaimed -in an exasperated voice. - -The old doctor straightened himself and looked round complacently. "Just -as I thought, there's nothing seriously wrong here." - -"Then you don't think----?" began Joan, but her mother interrupted. - -"That's just what I thought you'd say, Doctor Thomas; I felt sure there -could be nothing radically wrong with Milly's lungs. Thank God, she -comes from very healthy stock! I suppose a good long rest is all that -she needs?" - -"Exactly, Mrs. Ogden. A good rest, good food, and plenty of air; and no -more practising for a bit, Miss Milly. You must keep your shoulders back -and your chest well out, and just take things easy." - -"But for how long?" Milly asked, with a catch in her voice. - -"How long? Oh, for a few months at least." - -Milly looked despairingly at Joan, but, try as she would, Joan could not -answer that look with the reassuring smile that it was obviously asking -for. She turned away and began straightening some music on the piano. - -"I must be off," said the doctor, shaking hands. "I shall come in from -time to time, just to see that Miss Milly is obeying orders; oh, and I -think cod liver oil would prove beneficial." - -"No; that I will not!" said Milly firmly. - -"Nonsense! You'll do as the doctor tells you," Mrs. Ogden retorted. - -"I will _not_ take cod liver oil; it makes me sick!" - -Joan left them arguing, and followed Doctor Thomas to the front door. -"Look here," she said in a low voice, "surely you'll examine for -tubercle?" - -He looked at her whimsically through his spectacles. "My dear young -lady, you've been stuffing your head up with a lot of half-digested -medical knowledge," and he patted her shoulder as though to soften his -words. "Be assured," he told her, "that I shall do everything I think -necessary for your sister, and nothing that I think unnecessary." - - - - -2 - - -Joan went back to the drawing-room. The argument about the cod liver oil -had ceased, and Milly was crying quietly, all by herself, in the window. -She looked up with tearful eyes as her sister took her hand and pressed -it. - -"Cheer up, old girl!" Joan whispered, her own heart heavy with -forebodings. - -Mrs. Ogden said nothing; her face seemed expressionless when Joan -glanced at her. Ethel's successor brought in the tea and Milly dried her -eyes. It was a silent meal; from time to time Milly's gaze dwelt -despairingly on her violin case where it lay on the sofa, and Joan knew -that she was grieving as a lover for a lost beloved. - -"It's only for so short a time," she said, answering the unspoken -thought. - -Milly shook her head and her eyes overflowed again, the tears dripped -into the tea-cup that she held tremulously to her lips. - -Mrs. Ogden pretended not to notice. "More tea, Joan?" she inquired. - -Joan looked at her and hated her; and before the hate had time to root, -began to love her again, for the weak thing that she was. There she sat, -quiet and soft and utterly incapable. She was not facing this situation, -not even trying to realize what it meant to her two daughters. - -"But I could crush her to pulp!" Joan thought angrily. "I could make her -scream with pain if I chose, if I told her that I saw through her, -despised her, hated her; if I told her that I was going to leave her and -that she would never see me again. I could make her cry like Milly's -crying, only worse; oh, how I could make her cry!" But her own thought -hurt her somewhere very deep down, and at that moment Mrs. Ogden looked -up and their eyes met. - -Joan stared at her coldly. "Milly is fretting," she said. Mrs. Ogden's -glance wavered. "She mustn't do that, after what the doctor has told us. -Milly, dearest, there's nothing to cry about." - -Milly hid her face. - -"It's all my life, Mother," she sobbed. - -"What is, my dear?" - -"My fiddle!" - -"But, my dear child, you're not giving up your violin; he only wants you -to rest for a time." - -Milly sobbed more loudly, she was growing hysterical. "I want to go back -to the College," she wailed. "I hate, hate, _hate_ being here! I hate -Seabourne and all the people in it, and I hate this house! It stifles -me, and I'm not ill and I shan't stop practising and I shan't take cod -liver oil!" She wrenched herself free from Joan's restraining arm. "Let -me go upstairs," she spluttered. "I want to go upstairs!" - -Joan released her. Alone together, the mother and daughter looked at -each other defiantly. - -"She ought to see a specialist," Joan said; "Doctor Thomas is an old -fool!" - -Mrs. Ogden's soft eyes grew bright with rising temper. "Never!" she -exclaimed, raising her voice. "I hate the whole brood; it was a -specialist who killed your father. James would be alive now if it hadn't -been for a so-called specialist!" - -Joan made a sound of impatience. "Don't be ridiculous, Mother; you don't -know what you're talking about. You're taking a terrible responsibility -in refusing to have a first-class opinion." - -"I consider Doctor Thomas first-class." - -"He is _not_; he's antediluvian and deaf into the bargain! I tell you, -Milly is very ill." - -Mrs. Ogden's remaining calm deserted her. "You tell me, _you_ tell me! -And what do you know about it? It seems that you pretend to know more -than the doctor himself. You and your ridiculous medical books! You'll -be asking me to consult your fellow-student Elizabeth next." - -"I wish to God you would!" - -"Ah! I thought so; well then, send for your clever friend, your unsexed -blue-stocking, and put her opinion above that of your own mother. How -many children has she borne, I'd like to know? What knowledge can she -have that I as a mother haven't got by natural instinct, about my own -child? How dare you put Elizabeth Rodney above me!" - -Joan lost her temper suddenly and violently. "Because she is above you, -because she's everything that you're not." - -Mrs. Ogden gave a stifled cry and sank back in her chair. - -"Oh! my head, it's swimming, I feel sinking, I feel as if I were dying. -Oh! oh! my head!" - -"Sit up!" commanded Joan. "You're not dying, but I think Milly is." - -Mrs. Ogden began to cry weakly as Joan turned away. "Cruel, cruel!" she -murmured. - -Joan went up to her and shook her slightly. "Behave yourself, Mother; -I've no time for this sort of thing." - -"To tell me that a child of mine is dying! You say that to frighten me; -I shall tell the doctor." - -Joan shrugged her shoulders. "You may tell him what you please. I'm -going up to Milly, now." - - - - -3 - - -Richard had been gone for some weeks and Mr. and Mrs. Benson had moved -back to London when Milly came home. Joan would have given much to have -had Richard to talk to just now, but she could only write and tell him -her fears, which his brief answers did little to dispel. He advised an -immediate consultation and mentioned a first-class specialist; at the -same time he managed to drop a word here and there anent Joan's own -prospects, which he pointed out were becoming more gloomy with every -month of delay. No, Richard was not in a consoling mood these days. - -Lawrence, on the other had, was full of kindness. He had taken to coming -down to Conway House for the weekends, and he seldom came without a jar -of turtle soup or some other expensive luxury for the invalid. His -constant visits to Leaside might have suggested an interest in one of -its inmates; in fact Mrs. Ogden began to wonder whether Lawrence was -falling out of love with Elizabeth and into love with Milly. But Joan -was not deceived; she felt certain that he only came there in the hopes -of catching a glimpse of Elizabeth if, as sometimes happened, he found -her out when he called at her brother's house; she was amused and yet -vaguely annoyed. - -"Your admirer's in the drawing-room, Elizabeth." - -Elizabeth smiled. "Well, let him stay there with your mother; we'll -sneak out by the back door, for a walk." - -But Lawrence invariably saw them escaping; it was uncanny how he always -seemed to be standing at the window on such occasions. On a blustery day -in March he hurried after them and caught them at the corner of the -street, as he had already done several times. He always said the same -thing: - -"Ripping afternoon for a walk, you two; may I join you?" He threw out -his chest and took off his hat. - -"Jolly good for the hair, Elizabeth!" - -Elizabeth's own hat, blown slightly askew, was causing her agony by -reason of the straining hat-pins; and in any case she always suffered -from neuralgia when the wind was in the east. She managed to turn her -head slightly in his direction, but before she had time to snub him, a -gust removed her hat altogether and blew her hair down into her eyes. - -The hat bowled happily along the esplanade, and after it went Joan, with -Lawrence at her heels. She could hear him pattering persistently behind -her. For some reason the sound of his awkward running infuriated her; -his steps were short for a man's, as though he were wearing tight boots. -She felt suddenly that she must reach the hat first or die; must be the -one to restore it to its owner. She strained her lanky legs to their -limit; her skirts flew, her breath came fast, she was flushed with -temper and endeavour. Now she had almost reached it. No, there it went -again, carried along by a fresh and more spiteful gust. Several people -stood still to laugh. - -"Two to one on Miss Joan!" cried General Brooke, halting in his strut. - -Ah! At last! Her hand flew out to capture the hat, which was poised, -rocking slightly for a moment, like a seagull on a wave. She stooped -forward, grabbed the air, tripped and fell flat. Lawrence, who was close -behind her, nearly fell over her, but saved himself just in time. He -pursued the hat a few steps farther, seized it and then returned to help -Joan up; but she had already sprung to her feet with an exclamation of -annoyance. - -"I've won!" laughed Lawrence provokingly. "You're not hurt, are you?" - -She was, having slightly twisted her ankle, but she lied sulkily. - -"No, of course not." - -It seemed to her that he was smiling all over, not only with his mouth, -but with his eyes and his glasses and the little brass buttons on his -knitted waistcoat. His very shoes twinkled with amusement all over their -highly polished toe-caps. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to -take the hat from him. - -"Oh, no!" he taunted. "No, you don't; that's not fair!" - -Elizabeth was standing still watching them, with her hands pressed -against her hair. "Thank you," she said, as Lawrence restored her hat to -her; but she looked at Joan and smiled. - -Joan turned her face away to hide a sudden rush of tears. How ridiculous -and childish she was! Fancy a woman of twenty-three wanting to cry over -losing the game! They walked on in silence, Joan trying not to limp too -obviously, but Elizabeth was observant. - -"You're hurt," she said, and stood still. Joan denied it. - -"It's nothing at all; I just twisted my ankle a bit." And she limped on. - -"Hadn't you better turn back?" suggested Lawrence a little too -hopefully. "Look here, Joan, I'll get you a fly." - -"I don't want a fly, thank you; I'm all right." - -"No, you're not; do let me call that cab for you; it's awfully unwise to -walk on a strained ankle." - -"Oh, for goodness' sake," snapped Joan, "do let me know for myself -whether I'm hurt or not!" - -She realized that she was behaving badly; she could hear the irritation -in her own voice. Moreover, she knew that she was spoiling the walk by -limping along and refusing to go home; but some spirit of perverseness -was dominating her. She felt that she disliked Lawrence quite -enormously, and at that moment she almost disliked Elizabeth. Why had -Elizabeth accepted her hat from Lawrence's hand? She should have said -something like this: "Give it to Joan, please; I would rather Joan gave -me my hat." Ridiculous! She laughed aloud. - -"What are you laughing at?" inquired Lawrence. - -"Oh, nothing, only my thoughts." - -"Can't we share the joke?" - -"No, it wouldn't amuse you." - -"Oh, do go back, Joan," said Elizabeth irritably. "You're hardly able to -walk." - -"Do you want me to go back, then?" - -"Yes, of course I do; and put on a cold water bandage as soon as you get -home." - -Joan looked at her with darkening eyes, and left them abruptly. - - - - -4 - - -"What on earth's upset her?" asked Lawrence, genuinely concerned. - -"Nothing--why? She's not upset." - -"She seemed angry about something." - -"Oh, I don't think so. Probably her ankle was hurting her rather badly, -only she didn't want to admit it." - -"Well, I thought she was angry. But never mind, let's talk about you." -And he edged a little nearer. - -Elizabeth evaded the hand that hovered in the vicinity of her arm. "I'm -so dull to talk about," she parried. "Let's talk about metaphysics!" - -He gripped her arm now in a grasp that there was no evading. "Why _will_ -you always make fun of me, Elizabeth?" - -She was silent, her head drooped, and he, misunderstanding the movement, -tightened his fingers. - -"I love you!" he said rather loudly in her ear, raising his voice to be -heard through the wind. "When will you marry me, dearest?" - -"Oh, Lawrence, don't," she protested. "Some day, perhaps, or never. I -don't know!" - -"But you _do_ love me a little, Elizabeth, don't you?" - -"No, not a bit; I don't love you at all." - -"But you would. I'd make you." - -"How would you make me?" - -He considered. "I don't know," he admitted lamely; "but I'd find a way, -try me and see; it's not possible that I shouldn't find a way." - -He was very sincere, that was the worst of it. His eyes glowed fondly at -her behind his glasses. - -"And, my dear, I could give you all you want," he added. - -"All I want, Lawrence?" - -"Yes, I mean we'd be rich." - -She stopped to consider him thoughtfully. A good-looking man, too well -dressed; a dull man, too conscious of worldly success; a shy man, too -shy not to be over-bold at times. A youngish man still, too pompous to -be youthful. - -"Would you like to marry a woman who doesn't love you?" she asked him -curiously. - -"I'd like to marry you, Elizabeth." - -"But why? I can't imagine why anyone should want to marry me." - -"I want to marry you because you're everything I love. My dear -Elizabeth, if you were seventy I should still love you." - -"You think so now, because I'm not seventy." - -"Look here;" he said suddenly. "Is it still Joan that's stopping you?" - -She stiffened. "I said I didn't love you, isn't that enough?" - -He continued in his train of thought. "Because if it is Joan, you know, -just think how we could help her, in her career, I mean. She'll need -money and I have at least got that. If you'll marry me, Elizabeth, I -swear I'll do more for that girl than I'd do for my own sister. Say -you'll marry me, Elizabeth----" - -She pushed his hand away from her arm rather roughly. "If I married -you," she said, "I should have to stop thinking of Joan's career; it -would be your career then, not hers; and in any case money will never -help Joan." - -"Why not?" - -"Because she's Joan, I suppose; she's not like anyone else in the -world." - -He was silent, his rejected hand hanging limply at his side. Presently -he said: "You do love that child. I suppose it's because you've had the -making of her." - -"I suppose so; she's a very lovable creature." - -"I know. Well, think it over." - -"You're a patient man, Lawrence." - -"There's no help for it." - -"I wish you'd marry someone else, that is if you want to marry at all; -it may take me such a long time to think it over." - -He looked at her stubbornly. "I'll wait," he said. "I'm the waiting kind -when I want a thing badly enough." - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX - - -1 - - -MILLY'S illness was discussed at every tea-table in Seabourne, and -proved a grateful topic in the stiff little club as well. If the Ogdens -did nothing else, they certainly provided food for comment. Joan's Short -Hair, the Colonel's Death, Mrs. Ogden's Popish Tendencies and now -Milly's Consumption were hailed in turn with discreet enthusiasm. - -Major Boyle, the doleful politician, killed Milly off at least a dozen -times that spring. - -"Family's riddled with it!" he remarked lugubriously. "I happen to know -for a fact that three of the mother's brothers died of it." - -General Brooke laughed asthmatically. "That's queer," he chuckled, "for -she only had _one_!" - -Major Boyle sighed as though this in itself were a tragedy. - -"Oh, really, only one? Then it must have been a brother and two -cousins--yes, that was it, two cousins--riddled with it!" - -The little bank manager fidgeted in his chair, his mouth opened and shut -impatiently; if only they would let him get a word in edgeways. At last -he could contain himself no longer. - -"Miss Joan told me----" he begun. - -But Sir Robert Loo interrupted with intentional insolence. "You were -saying, Boyle, that two of the cousins died of consumption; which were -they, I wonder? I was at Christ Church with Peter Routledge, a cousin of -the mother's, awfully nice chap he was, but a bit of a wildster." - -They began tossing the ball of conversation backwards and forwards and -around between themselves, keeping it the while well above the head of -the bank manager. Eton, Christ Church, old days in India, the Buffs, the -Guards, crack shots, shooting parties, phenomenal exploits with the rod -and line, lovely women. They nodded their heads, chewing the ends of -their cigars and murmured "By Gad!" and "My dear fellow!" the while they -exaggerated and romanced about the past. - -They emptied their glasses and sucked in their moustaches. They lolled -back in the arm-chairs or straddled in front of the smoky fire. Their -eyes glowed with the enthusiasms of thirty or forty years ago. They -forgot that they were grey or white or bald, or mottled about the jowls, -that their stomachs protruded and their legs gave a little at the knees. -They forgot that their sons defied them and their wives thought them -bores, that their incomes were for the most part insufficient, and that -nearly all their careers had been ignominiously cut short by the age -limit. They lived again in their dashing youth, in the glorious days -when they had been heroes, at least in their own estimation; when a -scrap with savages had taken on the dimensions of Waterloo. When fine -girls and blood fillies met with about equal respect and admiration, -when moonlit nights on long verandas meant something other than an -attack of lumbago; and when, above all, they had classified their -fellow-men as being "One of us" or "An outsider." - -There sat Mr. Pearson the bank manager, with the golden ball flying -around and above him, but never, oh! never within his grasp. He sighed, -he cleared his throat, he smoked a really good cigar that he could ill -afford; he envied. No, assuredly his youth provided no splendours. He -thought distastefully of the Grammar School, he spat mentally when he -remembered the Business College. He felt like a worm who is discovered -in a ducal salad, and he cringed a little and respected. - -He, too, was bald these days, and his waistcoats gaped sometimes where -they buttoned; in seniority he was the equal of most of them, but in -family, opportunity, knowledge of life and love of fair women, judging -by their reminiscences, he was hopelessly their inferior. - -He knew that they resented him as a blot on their club, and that time -would never soften this resentment. He knew all about their almost -invisible incomes, he even accorded financial accommodation to one or -another from time to time. He saw their bank books and treated with as -much tact as possible their minute overdrafts. Sometimes he was allowed -to offer advice regarding a change of investments or the best method -whereby to soften the heart of the Inland Revenue. But all this was at -the bank, in his own little office. Behind his roll-top desk he was a -power; in the little office it was they who hummed and hawed and found -it difficult to approach the subject, while he, urbane and smiling, -conscious of his strength, lent a patronizing ear to their doubts and -worries. - -But positions were reversed in the smoking-room of the club. Securely -entrenched in their worn leather chairs, they became ungrateful, they -forgot, they ignored: "Eton, Christ Church, the Buffs, the Guards!" And -yet he would _not_ resign. He clung to the club like a bastard clings to -the memory of an aristocratic father--desperately, resentfully, with a -shamefaced sense of pride. - -"My sister tells me," said Ralph Rodney, gently dragging the -conversation back to its original topic. "My sister tells me that -Milly's lungs are absolutely sound." - -General Brooke snorted and Major Boyle shook his head mournfully. "Can't -be, can't be," he murmured; "the family's riddled with it!" - -"I'm sorry to hear about poor old Peter Routledge," remarked Sir Robert, -pouring himself out another whisky. "I'd lost sight of him of late -years. Damned hard luck popping off like that, must have been fairly -young too; he was one of the best chaps on earth, you know, sound -through and through, if he was a bit of a wildster." - -Over in a dark corner someone stirred. It was Admiral Bourne, whom they -had thought asleep; now he spoke for the first time. He sat up and, -taking off his glasses, wiped them. - -"She was such a pretty little girl," he said tremulously. "Such a dear -little girl." And he dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. - -They pretended not to notice; he was a very old man now and almost -childish, with him tears and laughter had grown to be very near the -surface. - -"How goes it with the mice, Admiral?" inquired someone kindly, to change -the subject. - -He smiled through his tears and cheered up immediately. "Capital, -capital! Yes, indeed. And I think I've bred a real wonder at last, I've -never seen such a colour before, it's not Roan and it's not Mauve and -it's not Blue; it's a sort of--a sort of----" He hesitated, and forgot -what he was going to say. - -They handed him an evening paper. "Thanks, thanks," he said gratefully. -"Thank you very much indeed," and subsided into his corner again. - - - - -2 - - -In spite of gloomy prognostications Milly's health did nothing -melodramatic or startling as the months dragged on, though her cough -continued and she grew still thinner. At times she was overcome by -prolonged fits of weakness, but any change there was came quietly and -gradually, so that even Elizabeth was deceived. She watched Joan's -anxious face with growing impatience. - -"Don't let yourself get hipped over Milly," she cautioned. - -Joan protested. "I'm not a bit hipped, but I'm terribly afraid." - -Elizabeth flared up. "You really are overdoing it a bit, Joan; it's -almost hysterical! Even Doctor Thomas must know his trade well enough to -suspect tubercle if there were any." - -"I know, but I can't believe in him. Surely you think Milly's looking -terribly ill?" - -"I think she looks very fagged, but I'm not prepared to know better than -the doctor." - -They argued for an hour. Elizabeth was exasperated. Why would Joan -persist in taking the most gloomy view of everything? - -"It's a good excuse for your staying on here," she said bitterly. - -Joan looked at her. - -"Yes, I mean that," said Elizabeth. "You find Milly's illness a -ready-made excuse." - -"I ought to get angry with you, Elizabeth, but I won't let myself. Do -you seriously think that I can leave her? What about Mother?" - -"Yes, what about your mother? Why can't she keep Milly company for a -while; can't they look after each other? Will you never consider -yourself or me?" - -"Oh, what's the good; you don't understand. You know how helpless Mother -is, and then there's Milly. I've promised her not to leave her." - -"Oh, yes, I do understand; I understand only too well, Joan. You're -twenty-three already, and we're no nearer Cambridge than we were; what I -want to know is how long is this going on?" - -Joan was silent. - -"Oh, my dear!" said Elizabeth, stretching out her hand. "Won't you come -now?" - -Joan shook her head. "I can't, I can't." - -A coldness grew up between them, a coldness unrelieved now by even so -much as bad temper. They met less often and hardly ever worked together. -At times they tried to avoid each other, so painful was this -estrangement to them both. The lines deepened on Elizabeth's face and -her mouth grew hard. She darned Ralph's socks with a shrinking dislike -of the texture and feel of them, and ordered his meals with a sickening -distaste for food. She felt that the daily round of life was growing -more and more unendurable. Breakfast was the worst ordeal, heralding as -it did the advent of another useless day. Ralph liked eggs and bacon, -which he would have repeated _ad nauseam_. She could remember the time -when she had shared this liking, but now the smell of the frying bacon -disgusted her. Ralph did not always trouble to eat quite tidily, and he -chewed with a slightly open mouth; when he wiped his lips he invariably -left yellow egg-stains on his napkin. She began to watch for those -stains and to listen for his noisy chewing. His face got on her nerves, -too; it was growing daily more like Uncle John's, and not young Uncle -John's either--old Uncle John's. His eyes were acquiring the "Don't hurt -me" look of the portrait in the study. Something in the way his legs -moved lately suggested approaching old age, and yet he was not so old; -it must be Seabourne. - -"Oh, do let's get away from here!" she burst out one morning. "Let's go -to America, Australia, the Antipodes, anywhere!" - -Ralph dropped his paper to stare at her, and then he laughed. He thought -she was trying to be funny. - - - - -3 - - -At Leaside things were little better. A dreariness more tangible than -usual pervaded the house. Milly alternated between moods of exuberant -hopefulness and fits of deep depression, when she would cling to Joan -like a sickly child. "Don't leave me! Oh, Joan, you mustn't leave me," -was her almost daily entreaty. She was difficult to manage, and insisted -on practising in spite of all they could say; but these bursts of -defiance generally ended in tears, for after a short half hour or so the -music would begin to go tragically wrong, as her weak hand faltered on -the bow. - -"Oh!" she sobbed miserably, whenever this happened; "it's all gone; I -shall never, never play again. I wish I were dead!" - -Any emotion brought on a violent fit of coughing, which exhausted her to -the verge of faintness, so that in the end she would have to be put to -bed, where Joan would try to distract her by reading aloud. But Milly's -attention was wont to wander, and looking up from the book Joan would -find her sister's eyes turned longingly to the open window, and would -think unhappily: "She's just like a thrush in a cage, poor Milly!" - -Mrs. Ogden grew much more affectionate to her younger daughter, and -caressed her frequently; but these caresses irritated rather than -soothed, and sometimes Milly shrank perceptibly. When this happened Mrs. -Ogden's eyes would fill with tears, and her working face would -instinctively turn in Joan's direction for sympathy. "Oh, my God!" Joan -once caught herself thinking, "will neither of them ever stop crying!" -But this thought brought a swift retribution, for she was tormented for -the rest of the day over what she felt to have been her heartlessness. - -The maidservant left, as maids always did in moments of stress at -Leaside; and once again Joan found herself submerged in housework. After -her, as she swept and dusted, dragged Milly; always close at her heels, -too ill to help, too unhappy to stay alone. - -It took a long time to find a new servant, for Mrs. Ogden's nagging -proclivities were becoming fairly well known, but at last a victim was -secured and Joan breathed a sigh of relief. They scraped together enough -money to hire a bath chair for Milly; it was the same bath chair that -Colonel Ogden had used, only now a younger man tugged at the handle. -This man was cheerful and familiar, possibly because Milly was so light -a passenger and looked so young and ineffectual. He joked and spat at -frequent intervals--the latter with an astounding dexterity of aim--and -Milly hated him. - -"I can't bear his spitting," she complained irritably to Joan. "It's -simply disgusting!" - -It was history repeating itself, for Mrs. Ogden accompanied the bath -chair but seldom, and when she did so she managed to get on the -patient's nerves. The daily task fell, therefore, to Joan, as it had to -a great extent in her father's lifetime. - - - - -4 - - -At this period Joan's hardest cross lay in the fact that she was never -alone. She had grown accustomed to having her bedroom to herself during -term time, but now there was no term time for Milly, and, moreover, Joan -had moved into her mother's room. Milly complained that if Joan was -there she lay awake trying not to cough, and that this choked her. She -said, truthfully enough, that she had had a room to herself at Alexandra -House for so long now that anyone in the next bed made her nervous, -because she couldn't help listening to their breathing. - -This change was not for the better so far as Joan was concerned, for -Mrs. Ogden had become abnormally pervading in her bedroom since her -husband's death. During his lifetime he had been the one to dominate -this apartment as he had dominated the rest of the house; but now that -James was corporeally absent there remained only his memory, which took -up very little room; all the rest of the space was purely Mrs. Ogden, -and she filled it to overflowing. - -Joan did not realize to what an extent her mother had spread until they -came to share a room. There was literally not an available inch for her -things anywhere. The drawers were full, the cupboards were full; on the -washstand was a fearsome array of medicine bottles which, together with -a quantity of unneeded trifles, overflowed on to the dressing-table. And -what was so disheartening was that Mrs. Ogden seemed incapable of making -the necessary adjustments. She was far from resenting Joan's invasion; -on the contrary, she liked having her daughter to sleep with her, and -yet each new suggestion that necessitated the scrapping or the putting -away of some of the odds and ends was met with resistance. "Oh! not -that, darling; that was given to me when I was a girl in India"; or, -"Joan, please don't move that lacquer box; I thought you knew that it -came from the drawing-room at Chesham." - -Her years of widowhood had developed the acquisitive instinct in Mrs. -Ogden, who was fast becoming that terrible problem, the hoarder in the -small house. With no husband to ridicule her or protest, she was able to -indulge her mania for treasuring useless things. Joan discovered that -the shelves were full of them. Little empty bottles, boxes of various -size and shape, worn out hair-brushes, discarded garments, and even -threadbare bedroom slippers, all neatly wrapped up and put away against -some mythical day when they might be wanted, and all taking up an -incredible amount of space. In the end she decided that she would have -to let her own possessions remain where they were, in Milly's room. - -Far more oppressive than lack of room, however, was the consciousness of -a continual presence. It seemed to Joan that her mother had begun to -haunt their bedroom. It was not only the exasperating performance of -communal dressing and undressing, but she was never able to have the -room to herself, even during the day; if she went upstairs for a few -minutes' solitude, her mother was sure to follow her, on some pretext or -another. - -In spite of the hoarding instinct Mrs. Ogden was exaggeratedly tidy, and -spent a great deal of time in straightening up after her daughter, with -the result that the most necessary articles had a maddening way of -disappearing. Mrs. Ogden had the acute kind of eye to which a crooked -line is a torture; a picture a little out of the straight or a brush -askew on the table was all that was required to set her off. Once -launched, she fidgeted about the room, touching first this and then -that, drawing the curtains an inch more forward, fiddling with the -obdurate roller until the blind just skimmed the division in the sash -window, putting a mat straight with the toe of her slipper, or running -her fingers across the mantelpiece, which never failed to yield the -expected harvest of dust. Sharing a bedroom, Joan found herself doing a -hundred little odd jobs for her mother that she had never done before. -It was not that Mrs. Ogden asked to be waited on in so many words, but -she stood about and looked the request. Rather than endure this -plaintive, wandering glance, Joan sewed on the skirt braid or found the -lost handkerchief, or whatever else it happened to be at the moment. - -But the long nights were the worst of all. Side by side, in a small -double bed, lay the mother and daughter in dreadful proximity. Their -bodies, tired and nervous after the day, were yet unable to avoid each -other. Mrs. Ogden's circulation being very bad she could never sleep -with less than four blankets and two hot-water bottles. The hot, rubbery -smell of these bottles and the misery of the small double bed, became -for Joan a symbol of all that Leaside stood for. She took to lying on -the extreme edge of the bed, more out than in, in order to escape from -the touch of her mother's flannel nightgown. But this precaution did not -always save her, for Mrs. Ogden, who got a sense of comfort from another -body beside her at night, would creep up close to her daughter. - -"Hold my hand, darling; it's so cold." And Joan would take the groping -hand and warm it between her own until her mother dropped asleep; but -even then she dared not leave go, lest Mrs. Ogden should wake and begin -to talk. - -Lying there uncomfortably in the thick darkness, with her mother's hand -held limply in her own, she would stare out in front of her with aching -eyes and think. During those wakeful hours her brain worked furiously, -her vision became appallingly clear and all-embracing. She reviewed her -short past and her probably long future; she seemed to stand outside -herself, a sympathetic spectator of Joan Ogden. When she slept she did -so fitfully and the sleep was not refreshing. She must hire a camp bed -she told herself over and over again, but where to put it when it came? -There was not a foot of unused space in the bedroom. She thought -seriously of flinging herself on Milly's mercy, and begging to be taken -back into their old room, but a sense of self-preservation stopped her. -She was certain, whatever the doctor said, that Milly's lungs were -diseased, and she did not want to catch consumption and probably die of -it. Queer that, for there was not much to live for in all conscience, -and yet she was quite sure that she did not want to die. - -With the morning would usually come a gleam of hope; perhaps on that day -she would see Elizabeth, perhaps they would be as they had been, the -dreadful barrier of coldness having somehow disappeared in the night. -Sometimes she did see Elizabeth, it is true, but the barrier was still -there, and these meetings were empty and unfruitful. - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - - -1 - - -THAT August Joan's worst fears were justified, for Milly began to spit -blood. Trying to play her violin one morning she was overtaken by a fit -of coughing; she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. - -"Oh! Look, look, Joan, what is it? Oh, I'm frightened!" - -They sent for Doctor Thomas, who ordered Milly to bed and examined her. -His face was grey when he looked up at Joan, and they left the room -together and went downstairs to Mrs. Ogden. - -"It's terribly sudden and quite unexpected," Doctor Thomas said. - -"But I simply can't believe it," wailed Mrs. Ogden. "She comes of such -healthy stock, I simply can't believe it!" - -"I'm afraid there is very little doubt, Mrs. Ogden; I myself have no -doubt. Still, we had better have a consultation." - -Mrs. Ogden protested: "But blood may come from all sorts of places; her -stomach, her throat. She may even have bitten her tongue, poor child, -when she was coughing." - -The doctor shook his head. "No," he said; "I'm afraid not; but I should -like to have a consultation at once, if you don't mind." - -"I will not have a specialist in my house again," Mrs. Ogden repeated -for about the fiftieth time in the last few months. "It was your -specialist who killed my poor James!" - -The doctor looked helplessly at Joan, and she saw fear in his old eyes. -She felt certain that he was conscious of having made a terrible -mistake, and was asking her dumbly to forgive, and to help him. His -mouth worked a little as he took off his dimmed glasses to polish them. - -"No one knows how this grieves me," he said unsteadily. "Why, I've known -her since she was a baby." - -From the depth of her heart Joan pitied him. "The lungs may have gone -very suddenly," she said. - -He looked at her gratefully. "And what about a consultation?" he asked -with more confidence. - -Joan turned to her mother. "There must be one," she told her. - -"But not a specialist. Oh, please, not a specialist," implored Mrs. -Ogden. "You don't know what a horror I have of them!" - -"There's a colleague of mine down here, Doctor Jennings. I'd like to -call him in, Mrs. Ogden, if you won't get a London man; but I'm afraid -he can't say any more than I have." - -"Is he a specialist?" inquired Mrs. Ogden suspiciously. - -"No, oh no, just a general practitioner, but a very able young man." - -Joan nodded. "Bring him this afternoon," she said. - -The doctors arrived together about three o'clock. Joan, sitting in the -dining-room, heard their peremptory ring and ran to open the door. She -felt as though she were in a kind of dream; only half conscious of what -was going on around her. In the dream she found herself shaking hands -with Doctor Jennings, and then following him and Doctor Thomas upstairs. -Doctor Jennings was young and clean and smelt a little of some -disinfectant; it was not an unpleasant smell, rather the reverse, she -thought. Milly looked up with wide, frightened eyes, from her pillow as -they entered; Joan took her hand and kissed it. Doctor Jennings, who -seemed very kind, smiled reassuringly at the patient while making his -exhaustive examination, but once outside the bedroom his smile died -away. - -"I should like a few minutes alone with Doctor Thomas," he said. - -Joan took them into the dining-room and left them. She began pacing up -and down outside in the hall, listening vaguely to the murmur of their -lowered voices. Presently Doctor Thomas looked out. - -"Will you and your mother please come in now." - -She went slowly into the drawing-room and fetched her mother; Mrs. Ogden -looked up with a frightened face and clung to her arm. - -"What do they say?" she demanded in a loud whisper. - -The two doctors were standing by the window. "Please sit down, Mrs. -Ogden," said Doctor Jennings, pushing forward a chair. - -It was all over very soon and the doctors had left. They were completely -agreed, it seemed; Milly's lungs were already far gone and there was -practically no hope. Doctor Jennings would have liked to send her to -Davos Platz, but she was not strong enough to take the journey, and in -any case he seemed doubtful as to whether it was not too late. - - - - -2 - - -So Milly was dying. Joan's eyes were dry while her mother sobbed quietly -in her chair. Milly was dying, going away, going away from Seabourne for -ever and ever. Milly was dying, Milly might very soon be dead. Her brain -cleared; she began to remember little incidents in their childhood, -little quarrels, little escapades. Milly had broken a breakfast-cup one -day and had not owned up; Milly had cried over her sums and had -sometimes been cheeky to Elizabeth. Milly was dying. Where _was_ -Elizabeth, why wasn't she here? She must find her at once and tell her -that Milly was going to die, that Milly was as good as dead already. -Elizabeth would be sorry; she had never really liked Milly, still, she -would begin to like her now out of pity--people did that when someone -was dying. - -She got up. "I'm going to the Rodneys'," she said. - -"Oh! don't leave me, don't leave me now, Joan," wailed Mrs. Ogden. - -"I must for a little while; try to stop crying, dearest, and go up to -Milly. But bathe your eyes first, though; she oughtn't to see them -looking red." - -Mrs. Ogden walked feebly to the door; she looked old and pinched, she -looked more than her age. - -"Don't be long," she implored. - - - - -3 - - -In the street, Joan saw one or two people she knew, and crossed over, in -order to avoid them. It was hot and the sea glared fearfully; she could -feel the sun beating down on her head, and putting up her hand found -that she was hatless. She quickened her steps. - -Elizabeth was upstairs sorting clothes, they lay in little heaps on the -bed and chairs; she looked up as Joan came in. - -"I'm thinking of having a jumble sale," she said, and then stopped. - -Joan sat down on a pile of nightgowns. "It's Milly--they say she's -dying." - -Elizabeth caught her breath. "What _do_ you mean, Joan?" - -Joan told her all there was to tell, from the blood on the handkerchief -that morning to the consultation in the afternoon. Elizabeth listened in -shocked silence. - -At last she said: "It's awful, simply awful--and you were right all -along." - -"Yes, I knew it; I don't know how." - -"Joan, make your mother let me help to do the nursing; I'm not a bad -nurse, at least I don't think I am, and after all I'd be better than a -stranger, for the child knows me." - -"They say she may live for some little time yet, but they can't be sure, -she may die very soon. Are you quite certain you want to help, -Elizabeth?" - -Elizabeth stared at her. So it had come to this: Joan was not sure that -she would want to help in this extremity, was capable of supposing that -she could stand aside while Joan took the whole burden on her own -shoulders. Good God! how far apart they had drifted. - -"I shall come to Leaside and begin to-morrow," was all she said. - - - - -4 - - -Seabourne was genuinely shocked at the news. Of course they had all been -saying for months past that Milly was consumptive, but somehow this was -different, entirely different. People vied with each other in kindness -to the Ogdens, touched by Milly's youth and Mrs. Ogden's new grief. -Friends, and even mere acquaintances, inquired daily, at first; their -perpetual bell-ringing jangled through the house, tearing at the nerves -of the overstrained inmates. Still, all these people meant so well, one -had to remember that. - -The Bishop of Blumfield wrote a long letter of sympathy and -encouragement, and Aunt Ann sent three woolly bed jackets that she had -knitted herself. Richard wrote his usual brief epistle to Joan, but it -was very kind; and Lawrence came to Leaside once a week, loaded like a -pack mule with practical gifts from Mrs. Benson. - -Milly, thin and flushed in her bed upstairs, was pleased at the -attention she was receiving. She knew now that she was very ill and at -times spoke about dying, but Joan doubted whether she ever realized how -near death she was, for on her good days she would begin making -elaborate plans for the future, and scheming to get back to the College -as soon as possible. - -She died in November after a violent hæmorrhage that came on suddenly -in the middle of the night. Beyond the terror of that hæmorrhage there -was nothing fearful in Milly's passing; she slept herself into the next -world with her cheek against the pillow, and even after she was dead -they still thought that she was sleeping. - -She was buried in the local cemetery, near her father. There were -countless wreaths and crosses and a big chrysanthemum cushion with "Rest -in Peace" straggling across it in violets, from the students of -Alexandra House. A good many people cried over Milly's death, -principally because she had been so pretty and had died so young. -Seabourne was shocked and depressed over it all; it seemed like a -reproach to the place, the going out of this bright young creature. They -remembered how talented she had been, how much they had admired her -playing, and began telling each other anecdotes that they had heard -about her childhood. But Joan could not cry; her heart was full of -bitterness and resentment. - -"She broke away," she thought. "Milly broke away, but only for a time; -Seabourne got her in the end, as it gets us all!" - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT - - -1 - - -MILLY'S death had aged Mrs. Ogden; she did not speak of it on every -occasion as she had of her widowhood, but seemed rather to shrink from -any mention of the subject, even by Joan. The sudden, awful climax of an -illness which she had persisted in regarding lightly; the emergence of -the horrid family skeleton of disease in one of her own children, the -fact that Milly had died so young and that she had never been able to -love her as she loved Joan, all combined to make an indelible impression -which she bore plainly on her face. People said with that uncompromising -truthfulness which is apt to accompany sympathy: "Poor thing, she does -look old, and she used to be such a pretty woman; she's got no trace of -that now, poor soul." And it was true; her soft hair had lost its gloss -and begun to thin; her eyes, once so charmingly brown and pathetic, were -paler in colour and smaller by reason of the puffiness beneath them. She -stooped a little and her figure was no longer so girlish; there was a -vague spread about it, although she was still thin. - -Her religion gripped her more firmly than ever, and Father Cuthbert was -now a constant visitor at Leaside. He and his "daughter," as he called -Mrs. Ogden, were often closeted together for a long time, and perhaps he -was able to console her, for she seemed less unhappy after these visits. -Joan watched this religious fervour with even greater misgivings than -she had had before; the fasting and praying increased alarmingly, but -she could not now find it in her heart to interfere. She wished that her -mother would talk about Milly; about her illness and death, or even -bring herself to take an interest in the selection of the tombstone. She -felt that anything would be better than this stony silence. But the -selection of the tombstone was left to Joan, for Mrs. Ogden cried -bitterly when it was mentioned. - -Joan could not pretend that Milly had formed an essential part of her -life; in their childhood there had been no love lost between them, and -although there had been a certain amount of affection later on, it had -never been very strong. Yet for all this, she mourned her sister; the -instinct of protection that had chained her to Milly in her last illness -was badly shocked and outraged. That Milly's poor little fight for -self-expression should have ended as it had done, in failure and death, -seemed to her both cruel and unjust. She could not shake off a sense of -indignation against the Power that so ruthlessly allowed these things to -happen; she felt as though something had given her a rude mental shove, -from which she found it difficult to regain her balance. - -Prayer with Joan had always been extemporary, indulged in at irregular -intervals, as the spirit moved her. But in the past she had been capable -of praying fervently at times, with a childlike confidence that Someone -was listening; now she did not pray at all, because she had nothing to -say. - -She missed Milly's presence about the house disproportionately, -considering how little that presence had meant when it was there. The -place felt empty when she remembered that her sister would never come -home again for holidays, would never again lie chattering far into the -night about the foolish trifles that had interested her. She had often -been frankly bored with Milly in the past, but now she wished with all -her heart that Milly were back again to bore her; back again to litter -up their room with the rubbish that always collected around her, and -above all back again to play so wonderfully on her inferior violin. - - - - -2 - - -Their joint nursing of Milly in her last illness had gone far to draw -Joan and Elizabeth closer once more. Elizabeth had been splendidly -devoted, splendidly capable, as she always was; she seemed to have -softened. For three months after Milly's death they forbore to discuss -their plans, and when, in the end, Elizabeth broached the subject, she -was gentle and reasonable, and seemed anxious not to hurry Joan. - -But Joan ached to get away; to leave the house and never set foot inside -it again, to leave Seabourne and try to forget that such a place -existed, to blot out the memory of Milly's tragedy, in action and hard -work. She began to read furiously for Cambridge. A terror possessed her -that she had let herself get too rusty, and she tormented Elizabeth with -nervous doubts and fears. She lost all self-confidence and worked badly -in consequence, but persisted with dogged determination. - -Elizabeth laughed at her. She knew that she was worrying herself -needlessly, and told her so; and as they gradually resumed their hours -of study Joan's panic subsided. - -At the end of another three months Joan spoke to her mother. - -"Dearest, I want to talk about the future." - -Mrs. Ogden looked up as though she did not understand. "What future?" -she asked. - -"My future, your future. I want you to let me find you a tiny flat in -London. I know we've discussed this before, but we never came to any -conclusion, and now I think we must." - -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "Oh! no," she said. "I shall never leave here -now." - -"Why not? This house will be much too big for you when you're alone." - -"Alone?" - -"Yes; when I go to Cambridge, as I want to do in the autumn." - -There was a long silence. Mrs. Ogden dropped her sewing and looked at -her daughter steadily; and then: - -"You really mean this, about Cambridge, Joan?" - -Joan hesitated uncomfortably; she wished her mother would not adopt this -quiet tone, which was belied by the expression in her eyes. - -"Well, if I don't go now, I shall never go at all. I'm nearly -twenty-four already," she temporized. - -"So you are, nearly twenty-four. How time flies, dear." - -"We're hedging," thought Joan. "I must get to the point." - -"Look here, Mother," she said firmly. "I want to talk this out with you -and tell you all my plans; you have a right to know, and, besides, I -shall need your help. I want to take a scholarship at Cambridge in the -autumn, if I can. I shall only have my twenty-five pounds a year, I -know, because Milly's share you'll need for yourself, but Elizabeth has -some money put by, and she's offered to let me borrow from her until I -can earn something. I'm hoping that if it's not too late, I might manage -to hang out for a medical degree, but even if that's impossible I ought -to find some sort of work if I do well at college. And then there's -another thing." She hesitated for a moment but plunged on. "If you had a -tiny place of your own it would cost much less, as I've always told you. -Say just two or three comfortable rooms, for, of course, there wouldn't -be money enough for you to keep up a flat for the two of us; but that -wouldn't matter, because Elizabeth's got a flat of her own in London, -and could always put me up when I was there. If you were in London I -should feel so much happier about it all; I could look after you better, -don't you see? We could see so much more of each other; and then if you -were ill, or anything--and another thing is that you'd have a little -more money to spend. You could go and stay with people; you might even -be able to go abroad in the winter sometimes. Dearest, you do -understand, don't you?" - -Mrs. Ogden was silent. She had turned rather pale, but when she spoke -her voice was quite gentle. - -"I'm trying to understand, my dear," she said. "Let's see if I've got it -right. You say you mean to take your own money and go up to Cambridge in -the autumn. I suppose you'll stay there the usual time, and then -continue your studies at a hospital or some place; that's what they do, -don't they? Some day you hope to become a doctor, or if that fails to -find some other paid work, in order to be free to live away from me. You -mean to break up our home, if you can, and to take me to London as a -peace offering to your conscience, and when I'm there you hope to have -the time to run in and see me occasionally. I'm right, aren't I; it -would be only occasionally? For between your work and Elizabeth your -time would be pretty well taken up." - -Joan made a sound of protest. - -"No, don't interrupt me," said her mother quietly; "I'm trying to show -you that I understand. Well, now, what does it all mean? It seems to me -that it means just this: I've lost your father, I've lost your sister, -and now I'm to lose you. Well, Joan, I'm not an old woman yet, so I -can't plead age as an excuse for my timidity, and what would be my awful -loneliness; but Milly's death has shaken me very much, and I'm afraid, -yes, afraid to live in a strange place by myself. You may think I'm a -coward; well, perhaps I am, but the fact remains that what friends I -have are in Seabourne, and I don't feel that I can begin all over again -now. Then there's the money; if you take your money out of the home, -little as it is, I shall find it difficult to make ends meet. I'm not a -good manager--I never have been--and without you"--her voice -trembled--"without you, my dear, I don't see how I should get on at all. -But what's the good of talking; your mind's made up. Joan," she said -with sudden violence, "do you know how much you are to me? What parting -from you will mean?" - -"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Joan desperately, "you won't be parting from me -really; you'd have to let me go if I were a son, or if I married--well, -that's all I'm asking, just to be treated like that." - -Mrs Ogden smiled. "Yes, but you're Joan and not a son, and you're not -married yet, you see, and that makes all the difference." - -"Then you won't come to London?" - -"No, Joan, I won't leave this house. I have very sacred memories here -and I won't leave them." - -"Oh, Mother, please try to see my side! I can't give up what's all the -world to me; I can't go on living in Seabourne and never doing anything -worth while all the rest of my life; you've no right to ask it of me!" - -"I don't ask it of you; I've some pride. Take your money and go whenever -you like; go to Elizabeth. I shall stay on here alone." - -"Mother, I can't go while you feel like this about it, and if I take my -money and I'm not here to manage you can't stay on in this house; it's -impossible, when every penny counts, as it does with us. Won't you think -it over, for my sake? Won't you promise to think it over for, say, three -months? I needn't go to London until some time in August. Mother, -_please_! Mother, you must know that I love you, that I've always loved -you dearly ever since I was a little girl, only now I want my own life; -I want work, I want----" - -"You want Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ogden gently. "You want to live with -Elizabeth." - -Joan was silent. It was true, she did want to live with Elizabeth; she -wanted her companionship, her understanding, her help in work and play; -all that she stood for of freedom and endeavour. Only with Elizabeth -could she hope to make good, to break once and for all the chains that -bound her to the old life. If she lived with her mother she would never -get free; it was good-bye to a career, even a humble one. - -She knew that in her vacations she would want leisure for reading, but -she could visualize what would happen when Mrs. Ogden had had time, -during her absence, to store up a million trifling duties against her -return. She could picture the hundred and one small impediments that -would be thrown, consciously or unconsciously, in her way, if she did -succeed in getting work. And above all she had a clear vision of the -everlasting silent protest that would be so much more unendurable than -words; the aggrieved atmosphere that would surround her. - -"Mother," she said firmly, "it's true, I must live with Elizabeth if I'm -ever to make good. If you won't consent to coming to London I shall have -to go somehow, just the same, but I shan't go until about the middle of -August, and I want you to think it over in the meantime." - -Mrs. Ogden got up. "I think we've talked long enough," she said. "In any -case, I have; I feel very tired." And going slowly to the door she left -the room. - - - - -3 - - -Joan sat and stared at the floor. It had been quite fruitless, as it had -been in the past; she and her mother could never meet on the ground of -mutual understanding and tolerance. Then why did they love each other? -Why that added fetter? - -The discussion that evening had held some new features. Her mother's -calmness, for one thing; she had been nonplussed by it, not expecting -it. Her mother had told her to take her money and go whenever she -pleased; yes, but go how? What her mother gave with one hand she took -away with the other. If she left her now it would be with the haunting -knowledge of having left a woman who either would not or could not adapt -herself to the changed circumstances; who would harbour a grievance to -the end of her days. Her mother's very devotion was a weapon turned -ruthlessly against her daughter, capable of robbing her of all peace of -mind. This would be a bad beginning for strenuous work; and yet her -mother had undoubtedly some right on her side. She had lost her husband, -and she had lost Milly, and even supposing that neither of them had -represented to her what Joan did, still death, when it came, was always -terrible. And the talk, the gossip there would be! Everyone in Seabourne -would pity her for having such an unnatural daughter; they would lift -their eyebrows and purse their lips. "Very strange, a most peculiar -young woman." Oh, yes, all Seabourne would be scandalized if she left -home, especially at such a time. She would be thought utterly callous -and odd; a kind of heartless freak. - -Then there had been the subterfuge about her staying occasionally with -Elizabeth. She had said, in a voice that she had tried to make casual: -"Elizabeth has a flat of her own in London, and she could always put me -up when I was there." That had been a lie, pure and simple, because she -was a coward when it came to hurting people. She had tried to cloak her -real purpose, and her mother had seen through her with humiliating ease. -It was true enough that Mrs. Ogden would have to economize, and would -find herself in a better position to cope with the changed circumstances -if she took a flat just big enough for herself; but was that her only -motive for not wanting her mother to have a spare bedroom? She knew that -it was not. She despised herself for having descended to lies. Was she -becoming a liar? The answer was not far to seek; she had lied not only -to save her mother pain, but because she had not had the courage to say -straight out that she intended leaving her mother's home for that of -another woman. She had realized that in doing such a thing she was -embarking upon the unusual; this she had felt the moment she came to -putting her intention into words, and she had funked the confession. - -She stopped to consider this aspect carefully. It was _unusual_, and -because it was unusual she had been embarrassed; a hitherto unsuspected -respect for convention had assailed her. She had never heard of any girl -of her acquaintance taking such a step, now that she came to think of -it. It was quite a common thing for men to share rooms with a friend, -and, of course, girls left home when they married. When they married. -Ah! that was the point, that was what made all the difference, as her -mother had pointed out. If she had been able to say: "I'm going to marry -Richard in August," even although the separation would still have been -there, she doubted whether, in the end, her mother would really have -offered any strenuous opposition. Pain she would have felt; she -remembered the scene with her mother that day long ago, when Richard had -proposed to her, but it would have been quite a different sort of pain; -there would have been less bitterness in the thought, because marriage -had the weight of centuries of custom behind it. - -Centuries of custom, centuries of precedent! They pressed, they crushed, -they suffocated. If you gave in to them you might venture to hope to -live somehow, but if you opposed them you broke yourself to pieces -against their iron flanks. She saw it all; it was not her fault, it was -not her mother's fault. They were just two poor straws being asked to -swim against the current of that monster tyrant: "the usual thing!" - -She got up and walked feverishly about the room. They _must_ swim -against the current; it was ridiculous, preposterous that because she -did not marry she should be forced to live a crippled existence. What -real difference could it possibly make to her mother's loneliness if her -daughter shared a flat with Elizabeth instead of with a husband? No -difference at all, except in precedent. Then it was only by submitting -to precedent that you could be free? What she was proposing seemed cruel -now, even to herself; and why? Because it was not softened and toned -down by precedent, not wreathed in romance as the world understood -romance. "Good God!" she thought bitterly, "can there be no development -of individuality in this world without hurting oneself or someone else?" -She clenched her fists. "I don't care, I don't care! I've a right to my -life, and I shall go in August. I defy precedent. I'm Joan Ogden, a law -unto myself, and I mean to prove it." - - - - -CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE - - -1 - - -ELIZABETH'S attitude towards the new decision to leave Seabourne made -Joan uneasy. Elizabeth said nothing at all, merely nodding her head. -Joan thought that she was worried and unhappy about something, but tried -in vain to find out the reason. - -They worked on steadily together; but she began to miss the old -enthusiasm that had made of Elizabeth the perfect teacher. Now she was -dull and dispirited, even a little abstracted at times. It was clear -that her mind was not in their work. Was it because she doubted their -going to London in August? If Elizabeth began to weaken seriously, Joan -felt that all must indeed be lost. She needed support and encouragement, -as never before, now that she had taken the plunge and told her mother -definitely for the last time that she meant to break away. She felt that -with Elizabeth's whole-hearted support she could manage somehow to stand -out against the odds, but if she was not to be believed in, if Elizabeth -lost faith in her, then she doubted her own strength to carry things -through. - -"Elizabeth," she said, with a note of fear in her voice, "you feel quite -certain that we shall go?" - -Elizabeth looked up from the book she was reading. "I don't know, Joan." - -"But I've told Mother definitely that I intend to go in August." - -"Yes, I know you have." - -"But you're doubtful? You think I shall go back on you again?" - -"You won't mean to do that, but so many things happen, don't they? I -think I'm getting superstitious." - -"Nothing is going to happen this time," said Joan, in a voice which she -tried vainly to make firm. "I'm not the weak sort of thing that you seem -to think me, and in August I go to London!" - -Elizabeth took her hand and held it. "I could weep over you!" she said. - - - - -2 - - -The days were slipping by. It was now June and Mrs. Ogden still -persisted in her refusal to leave Seabourne. On this point Joan found -herself up against an opposition stronger than any she had had to meet -before. Gently but firmly, her mother stuck to her decision. - -"You go, my dear," she said constantly now. "You go, and God bless you -and take care of you, my Joan." She seemed to be all gentleness and -resignation. "After all, I'm not as young as I was, and I'm dull and -tiresome, I know." - -She had grown thinner in the past few weeks, and her stoop was more -pronounced. Joan knew that she must be sleeping badly, for she could -hear her moving about her room well into the small hours. Her appetite, -always poor, appeared to fail completely. - -"Oh! Mother, do try to eat something. Are you ill?" - -"No, no, my dear, of course not, but I don't feel very hungry." - -"Mother, I must know; is your head worrying you again?" - -"I didn't say it was; what makes you ask?" - -"Because you sit pressing it with your hand so often. Does it ache?" - -"A little, but it's nothing at all; don't worry, darling; go on with -your studying." - -Joan often discovered her now crying quietly by herself, but as she came -in her mother would make as though to whisk the tears away. - -"Mother, you're crying!" - -"No, I'm not, dearest; my eyes are a little weak, that's all." - -Towards Elizabeth she appeared to have changed even more completely. Now -she was always urging her to come to meals. "You'll want to talk things -over with Joan," she would say. "Please stop to lunch to-day, Elizabeth; -you two must have a thousand plans to discuss." - -She spoke quite openly to Elizabeth about Joan's chances of taking a -scholarship at Cambridge, and what their life together would be in -London. She sighed very often, it is true, and sometimes her eyes would -fill with tears, but when this happened she would smile bravely. "Don't -take any notice of me, Elizabeth; I'm just a foolish old woman." - -Joan's heart ached with misery. This new, submissive, gentle mother was -like the pathetic figure of her childhood; a creature difficult to -resist, and still more difficult to coerce. Something so utterly -helpless that it called up all the chivalry and protectiveness of which -her nature was capable. - -She found a little parcel on her dressing-table one evening containing -six knitted ties and a note, which said: "For my Joan to wear at -Cambridge. I knitted them when I couldn't sleep." Joan laid down her -head and cried bitterly. - -In so many little ways her mother was showing thought for her. She found -her going through her clothes one day. "Mother, what on earth are you -doing?" - -"Just looking over your things, dearest. I see you'll need new stockings -and a new hat or two. Oh! and, Joan, do you really think these vests are -warm enough? I believe Cambridge is very damp." - -She began to seek out Elizabeth, and whereas, before, she had contented -herself more or less with generalities regarding Cambridge and Joan's -life with her friend, she now appeared to want a detailed description of -everything. - -"Elizabeth," she said one day, "come and sit here by me. I want you to -tell me all about your flat. Describe it to me, tell me what it looks -like, and then I can picture you two to myself after Joan's gone. Is it -sunny? Where is the flat? Isn't it somewhere near the Edgware Road?" - -"In Bloomsbury," said Elizabeth rather shortly; then she saw that Joan -was listening, and added hastily: "Let me see, is it sunny? Yes, I think -it is, rather; it's a very tiny affair, you know." - -"Oh, but big enough for you two, I expect; I wonder if I shall ever see -it." - -"Of course you will, Mother," said Joan eagerly. "Why we expect you to -come up and stay with us; don't we, Elizabeth?" - -Elizabeth assented, but Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "No, not that, my -dear, you won't want to be bothered with me; but it's a darling thought -of yours all the same. And now, Elizabeth, tell me all about Cambridge. -When I'm alone here in the evenings I shall want to be able to make -pictures of the place where my Joan is working." - -Elizabeth felt uncomfortable and suspicious; was Mrs. Ogden making a -fool of her, of them both? She tried to describe the town and then the -colleges, with the Backs running down to the river, but even to herself -her voice sounded hard and unsympathetic. - -"Oh, dear, I'm afraid I've bored you," said Mrs. Ogden apologetically. - -And Elizabeth, looking across at Joan, saw an angry light in her eyes. - - - - -3 - - -Mrs. Ogden gave the maid-servant notice, without consulting her -daughter, who knew nothing about it until the girl came to her to -protest. "The mistress has given me a month's notice, and I'm sure I -do no what I've done. It's a hard place and she's awful to please, but -I've done my best. I have indeed!" - -Joan went in search of her mother. "Why on earth have you given Ellen -notice?" she demanded. "She's the best girl we've ever had." - -"I know she is," said Mrs. Ogden, who was studying her bank book. - -"Then why----?" - -"Well, you see, darling, I shan't be able to afford a servant when -you've gone, so I thought it better to give her notice at once. Of -course I couldn't very well tell her why I was sending her away, could -I?" - -Joan collapsed into a chair. "But, good heavens, Mother! You can't do -the housework. Surely with a little management you might have kept her -on; she only gets nineteen pounds a year!" - -"Ah! but there's her food and washing," said Mrs. Ogden patiently. - -"But what do you propose to do? You can't sweep floors and that sort of -thing; this is awful!" - -"Now don't begin to worry, Joan. I shall be perfectly all right; I can -have a charwoman twice a week." - -"But what about the cooking, Mother?" - -"Oh, that will be easy, darling; you know how little I eat." - -Joan began walking about the room, a trick she had acquired lately when -worried. "It's impossible!" she protested. "You'll end by making -yourself very ill." - -Mrs. Ogden got up and kissed her. "Do you think," she said softly, "that -I can't make sacrifices for my girl, when she demands them of me?" - -"Oh, Mother, I do beg of you to come to London! I know I could make you -comfortable there." - -Mrs. Ogden drew herself away. "No, I can't do that," she said. "I've -lived here since you and Milly were little children, my husband died -here and so did your sister; you mustn't ask me to leave my memories, -Joan." - -In July the servant left. "No, darling, don't do the housework for me; I -must learn to do things for myself," said her mother, as Joan was going -into the kitchen as a matter of course. - -A period of chaos ensued. Mrs. Ogden struggled with brooms and -slop-pails as a mosquito might struggle with Cleopatra's Needle. The -food she prepared came out of tins, for the most part, and what was -fresh was spoilt before it reached the table. Their meals were -tragedies, and when on one occasion Joan's endurance gave out over a -particularly nasty stew, Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. - -"Oh! and I did try so hard!" she sobbed. - -Joan put her arms round her. "You poor darling," she comforted, "don't -cry; it's not so bad, really; only I don't see how I'm ever to leave -you." - -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes. "But you must leave me," she said steadily. -"I want you to go, since you've set your heart on it." - -"Well, I do believe you'll starve!" said Joan, between laughter and -tears. - -Every evening Mrs. Ogden was worn out. She could not read, she could not -sew; whenever she tried her eyelids drooped and she had to give it up. -In the end she was forced to sit quietly with closed eyes. Joan, -watching her apprehensively from the other side of the lamp, would feel -her heart tighten. - -"Mother, go to bed; you're tired to death." - -"Oh, no, darling, I'll sit up with you; I shall have plenty of evenings -to go to bed early when you've gone." - -Not content, apparently, with moderate hours of work, Mrs. Ogden bought -an alarm clock. The first that Joan knew of this instrument of torture -was when it woke her with a fearful start at six-thirty one morning. She -could not exactly locate whence the sound came, but rushed instinctively -into her mother's room. - -"What is it? Are you ill? What was that bell?" she panted. - -Mrs. Ogden, already out of bed, pointed triumphantly to the alarm. "I -had to get it to wake me up," she explained. - -"But, my dear mother, it's only half-past six; you can't get up at this -hour!" - -"There's the kitchen fire to light, darling, and I want you to have a -really hot bath by half-past seven." - -Joan groaned. "Go back to bed at once," she ordered, giving her a gentle -push. "I'll light the kitchen fire; this is ridiculous!" - - - - -4 - - -It was the middle of July; only a few weeks more and then freedom. -"Freedom, freedom, freedom!" repeated Joan to herself in a kind of -desperation. "I'm going to be free at last." But something in her shrank -and weakened. "No, no," she thought in terror. "I will leave her; I -_must_." - -She sought Elizabeth out for comfort. "Only a few weeks now, Elizabeth." - -"Yes, only a few weeks now," repeated Elizabeth flatly. They went on -with their plans with quiet stubbornness. They spent a day in London -buying their furniture on the hire system; the selection was not very -varied, but they could not afford to go elsewhere. They chose fumed oak -for the most part, and blue-grey curtains with art carpets to match -them. Their greatest extravagance was a large roomy bookcase. - -Joan said: "Think of it; this is for our books, yours and mine." - -Elizabeth smiled and pressed her hand. "Are you happy, my dear?" she -asked doubtfully. - -Joan flared up. "What a ridiculous question to ask; but perhaps you're -not happy?" - -"Oh, don't!" said Elizabeth, turning away. - -They had tea in the restaurant of the "Furniture Emporium," tepid Indian -tea and stale pound cake. - -"Ugh!" said Joan disgustedly, as she tried to drink the mixture. - -"Yes, it's undrinkable," Elizabeth agreed. - -They paid for the meal which they had left untouched, and catching a -bus, went to the station. - -On their way home in the train they sat silent. They were very tired, -but it was not that which made speech difficult, but rather the sense of -deep disappointment oppressing them both. No, it had not been at all -like they had expected, this choosing of the furniture for their home -together; something intangible had spoilt it all. "It was my fault," -Joan thought miserably. "It was all my fault. I meant to be happy, I -wanted to be, but I wasn't a bit--and Elizabeth saw it." - -When they said "Good night" at the Rodneys' house they clung to each -other for a moment in silence. - -"Go. Oh, do go!" said Elizabeth brokenly, and Joan went with drooping -head. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY - - -1 - - -IT had come. Joan lay awake and realized that this was her last night in -Seabourne. She got up and lit the gas. Her eyes roved round the familiar -bedroom; there was Milly's bed--they had not had it moved after her -death, and there was the old white wardrobe and the dressing-table, and -the crazy arm-chair off which she and Milly had torn the caster when -they were children. The caster had never been replaced. "How like -Seabourne," she thought, smiling ruefully. "Casters never get themselves -replaced here; nothing does." - -She looked at her new trunk, already locked and strapped; it had been a -present from her mother, and her name, "Joan Ogden," was painted across -its top in white block letters. "I thought it safer to put the full -name," her mother had said. - -The blind flapped and the gas flame blew sideways; it was windy, and the -thud of the sea on shingles came in and seemed to fill the room. "I am -happy!" she told herself; "I'm very happy." - -How brave her mother had been that evening; she had smiled and talked -just as though nothing unusual were about to happen, but oh! how -miserably tired she had looked, and ill. Was she going to be ill? Joan's -heart seemed to stop beating; suppose her mother should get ill all -alone in the house! She had never thought of that before, but of course -she would be alone every night, now that she had sent away the servant. -What was to be done? It was dangerous, terribly dangerous for a woman of -that age to sleep alone in the house. She pulled herself up sharply; oh, -well, she would speak to her in the morning and tell her that she must -have a maid. Of course it was all nonsense; she must afford one. But -what about to-morrow night? She couldn't get a servant by that time. -Never mind; nothing was likely to happen in one or two nights. No, but -it might be weeks before she found a maid; what was to be done? - -If her mother got ill, would she telegraph for her? Yes, of course; and -yet how could she if she were alone in the house? "Oh, stop, stop!" -cried Joan aloud to herself. "Stop all this, I tell you!" She had an -overwhelming desire to rush into her mother's room on the instant, and -wake her up, just to see that she was alive, but she controlled herself. -"Perhaps she's crying," she thought, and started towards the door. "No," -she said resolutely, "I will not go in and see her!" - -She began to think of Elizabeth too; of her face when they had said -good-bye that afternoon. "Don't be late in calling for me," she had -cautioned, and Elizabeth had answered: "I shan't be late, Joan." What -was it that she fancied she had seen in Elizabeth's eyes and heard in -her voice? Not anger, certainly, and not actually tears; but something -new, something rather dreadful, a sort of entreaty. She shuddered. Oh, -why could there never be any real happiness for Joan Ogden, never any -real fulfilment, never any joy that was quite without blemish? She felt -that her unlucky star shed its beams over everyone with whom she came in -contact, everyone she loved; those beams had touched Elizabeth and -scorched her. Yet how much she loved Elizabeth; she would have laid down -her life to save her pain. But she loved her mother too, not quite in -the same way, but deeply, very deeply. She knew this, now that she was -about to leave her; she had always known it, of course, but now that -their parting was near at hand the fact seemed to blaze forth with -renewed force. She began thinking about love in the abstract. Love was -jealous of being divided; it did not admit of your really loving more -than one creature at a time. She remembered vaguely having thought this -before, years ago. Yet in her case this could not be true, for she loved -them both, terribly, desperately, and yet could not serve them both. No, -she could not serve them both, but she had chosen. - -She lay down on her bed again and buried her face in the pillow. "Oh, -Elizabeth," she whispered, "I will come, I will be faithful, I swear I -will." - - - - -2 - - -They breakfasted at Leaside at eight o'clock, for Joan's train left at -ten-thirty. At ten o'clock Elizabeth would arrive with the fly. Joan -could not swallow. - -"Eat something, my darling," said Mrs. Ogden tenderly. She looked as -though she had been crying all night, her eyes were red and swollen, but -she smiled bravely whenever she saw her daughter's glance turned in her -direction. - -She refused to give in about not sleeping alone. "Nonsense," she said -brusquely, when Joan implored, "I shall be all right; don't be silly, -darling." - -But she did not look as though she would be all right, and Joan searched -her brain desperately for some new scheme, but found none. What was she -to do? And in less than two hours now she would be gone. Throwing her -arms round her mother's neck she dropped her head on her shoulder. - -"I can't leave you like this," she said desperately. - -Mrs. Ogden's tears began to fall. "But you must leave me, Joan; I want -you to go." - -They clung together, forlorn and miserable. - -"You will write, Mother, very often?" - -"Very often, my Joan, and you must too." - -"Every day," Joan promised. "Every day." - -She went up to her room and began to pack her bag, but, contrary to -custom, Mrs. Ogden did not follow her. At a quarter to ten she came -downstairs; her mother was nowhere to be seen. - -"Mother!" she called anxiously, "where are you?" - -"In my room, darling," came the answer from behind a closed door. "I'll -be down in a minute; you wait where you are." - -Joan wandered about the drawing-room. It had changed very little in all -these years; the wallpaper was the same, though faded now, there were -the same pink curtains and chairs, all shabby and reflecting the fallen -family fortunes. The turquoise blue tiles in the grate alone remained -startlingly bright and aggressive. The engraving of Admiral Sir William -Routledge looked down on her as if with interest; she wondered if he -were pleased or angry at the step his descendant was about to take; -perhaps, as he had been a man of action, he was pleased. "'Nelson's -Darling' ought at least to admire my courage!" she thought ruefully, and -turned her back on him. She sat down in the Nelson arm-chair. - -Nelson's chair, how her mother had treasured it, how she did still; her -poor little mother. Joan patted the extended arms with tender hands, and -rested her head wearily where Nelson's head was said to have rested. -"Good-bye," she murmured, with a lump in her throat. - - - - -3 - - -She began to feel anxious about her mother. It was five minutes to ten; -what on earth was she doing? In another five minutes Elizabeth would -come with the fly. Her mother had told her to wait in the drawing-room, -but she could not wait much longer, she must go and find her. At that -moment the door opened quietly and Mrs. Ogden came in. She was all in -grey; a soft, pearly grey, the colour of doves' feathers. Her hair was -carefully piled, high on her head, and blended in softness and shine -with the grey of her dress; she must have bathed her eyes, for they -looked bright again and almost young. She came forward, stretching out -her arms. - -Joan sprang up. "Mother! It's--why it's the old dress, the same dress -you wore years ago on our last Anniversary Day. Oh! I remember it so -well; that's the dress that made you look like a grey dove, I remember -thinking that." The outstretched arms folded round her. "What made you -put it on to-day?" she faltered, "it makes you look so pretty!" - -Mrs. Ogden stroked her cheek. "I wanted you to remember me like this," -she whispered. "And, Joan, this is Anniversary Day." - -Joan started. "So it is," she stammered, "and I had forgotten." - -The door-bell clanged loudly. "Let the charwoman answer it." said Mrs. -Ogden, "she's here this morning." - -They heard the front door open and close. - -"Joan!" came Elizabeth's voice from the hall. "Joan!" - -No one answered, and in a moment or two Elizabeth had come into the -room. Joan and her mother were standing hand in hand, like two children. - -Elizabeth said sharply: "Joan, we shall miss the train, are you ready?" - -Joan let go of Mrs. Ogden's hand and stepped forward; she was deadly -pale and her eyes shone feverishly. When she spoke her voice sounded -dry, like autumn leaves crushed under foot. - -"I'm not coming, Elizabeth; I can't leave her." - -Elizabeth made a little inarticulate sound in her throat: "Joan!" - -"I'm not coming, Elizabeth, I can't leave her." - -"Joan, for the last time I ask you: Will you come with me?" - -"No!" said Joan breathlessly. "No, I can't." - -Elizabeth turned without another word and left the room and the house. -Joan heard the door clang dully after her, and the sound of wheels that -grew fainter and fainter as the fly lumbered away. - - - - -4 - - -The queer days succeeded each other like phantoms. Looking back on the -week which elapsed between Elizabeth's going and her last letter, Joan -found that she could remember very little of that time, or of the days -that followed. She moved about, ate her food, got up and went to bed in -a kind of stupor, broken by moments of dreadful lucidity. - -On the sixth day came the letter in the familiar handwriting. The paper -bore no address, only the date, "August, 1901;" a London postmark was on -the envelope. - -Elizabeth wrote: - - -JOAN, - -I knew that you would never come to me, I think I have known it in my -heart for a long time. But I must have been a proud and stubborn woman, -for I would not admit my failure until the very last. I had a hundred -things to keep hope alive in me; your splendid brain, your longing to -free yourself from Seabourne and what it stands for, the strength of all -the youth in you, and then the love I thought you had for me. Yes, I -counted a great deal on that, perhaps because I judged it by my love for -you. I was wrong, you see, your love did not hold, it was not strong -enough to give you your liberty; or was it that you were too strong to -take it? I don't know. - -Joan, I shall never come back, I cannot come back. I must go away from -you, tear you out of me, forget you. You have had too much of me -already. Oh! far too much! But now I have taken it back, all, all; for I -will not go into my new life incomplete. - -I wonder if you have ever realized what my life at Seabourne has been? -So unendurable at times that but for you I think I should have ended it. -The long, long days with their dreadful monotony, three hundred and -sixty-five of them in every year; and then the long, long years! - -I used to go home from Leaside in the evening, and sit in the study with -Ralph and Uncle John's portrait, and feel as if tight fingers were -squeezing my throat; as if I were being suffocated under the awful plush -folds of the curtains. I used to have the horrible idea that Seabourne -had somehow become a living, embodied entity, of which Ralph and Old -Uncle John and the plush curtains and the smell of mildew that always -hung about Ralph's books, all formed a terrifying part. Then I used to -look at myself in the glass when I got up every morning, and count the -lines on my face one by one, and realize that my youth was slipping past -me; with every one of those three hundred and sixty-five days a little -less of it remained, a little more went into the toothless jaws of -Seabourne. - -Joan, I too have had my ambition, I too once meant to make good. When I -first came to take care of Ralph's house, I never intended to stay for -more than a year at most. I meant to go to London and be a journalist if -they'd have me; in any case I meant to work, out in the real world, the -world that has passed Seabourne by, long ago. - -Then I saw you, an overgrown colt of a child, all legs and arms. I began -to teach you, and gradually, very gradually, you became Seabourne's -ally. You never knew it, but at moments I did; you were helping the -place to hold me. My interest in you, in your personality, your unusual -ability; the joy it was to teach you, and later the deep love I felt for -you, all chained me to Leaside. My very desire to uproot you and drag -you away was only another snare that held me to the life I detested. Do -you remember how I tried to break free, that time, and failed? It was -you who pulled me back, through my love for you. Yes, even my love for -you was used by Seabourne to secure its victim. - -I grew older year by year, and saw my chances slipping from me; and I -often felt older than I was, life at Seabourne made me feel old. I -realized that I was only half a being, that there were experiences I had -never had, fulfilments I had never known, joys and sorrows which many a -poor devil of a charwoman could have taught me about. I felt stunted and -coerced, checked at the very roots of me, hungry for my birthright. - -But as time went on I managed to dam up the torrent, till it flowed away -from its natural course; it flowed out to you, Joan. Then it was that my -desire to help forward a brilliant pupil, grew, little by little, into -an absorbing passion. I became a monoïdeist, with you as the idea. I -lived for you, for your work, your success; I lived in you, in your -present, in your future, which I told myself would be my future too. Oh! -my dear, how I built on you; and I thought I had dug the foundations so -deep that no waves or tempests could destroy them. - -Then, five days ago, the house fell down; it crashed about my ears, it -stunned me. All I knew then was that I must escape from the ruin or let -myself be crushed to death; all I know now is that I must never see that -ruin again. - -Joan, I will not even go near enough to our disaster to ask you what you -are going to do. Why should I ask? I already know the answer. You must -forget me, as I must forget you. I don't understand the way of things, -they seem to me to be cruelly badly managed at the source; but perhaps -Someone or Something is wise, after all, as they would have us believe. -No, I don't mean that, I can't feel like that--resigned; not yet. - -By the time this letter reaches you I shall be married to Lawrence -Benson. Do I love him? No, not at all; I like him and I suppose I -respect him, but he is the last person on earth that I could love. I -have told him all this and he still wants to marry me. We shall leave -very soon for South Africa, where his bank is opening new branches. Oh! -Joan, and you will be in Seabourne; the injustice of it! You see I am -hovering still in the vicinity of my ruin, but I shall get clear, never -doubt it. - -Do not try to see me before I go, I have purposely given no address, and -Ralph has been asked not to give it either 3 and do not write to me. I -want to forget. - - ELIZABETH. - - - - -_BOOK V_ - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-ONE - - -1 - - -THE new town band played every Thursday afternoon in the new -skating-rink in the High Street. The band was not really new and neither -was the skating-rink, both having come into existence about twelve -months after Milly Ogden's death, which made them almost nineteen years -old. But by those who remembered the days when these and similar -innovations had not existed, they were always spoken of as "New." - -The old residents of Seabourne, those that were left of them, mourned -openly the time when the town had been really select. They looked -askance at the dancing couples who gyrated round the rink with strange -clingings and undulatings. But in spite of being shocked, as they -genuinely were, they occasionally showed their disapproving faces at the -rink on Thursday afternoons; it was a warm place to sit in and have tea -during the winter and early spring months, and in addition to this they -derived a sense of superiority from criticizing the unseemly behaviour -of the new generation. - -"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, as a couple more blatant than usual -performed a sort of Nautch dance under her nose, "all I can say is, I'm -glad I'm old!" - -Joan smiled. "Yes, we're not so young as we were," she said. - -Her mother protested irritably. "I do _wish_ you would stop talking as -though you were a hundred, Joan, it's so ridiculous; I sometimes think -you do it to aggravate me, you don't look a day over thirty." - -"Well, never mind, darling, look at that girl over there, she's dancing -rather prettily." - -"I'm glad you think so; personally, I can't see anything pretty about -it. Of course, if you like to tell everyone your age I suppose you must; -only the other day I heard you expatiating on the subject to Major -Boyle. But, considering you know I particularly dislike it, I think you -might stop." - -Joan sighed. "Here comes the tea, Mother." - -"Yes, I see it. Oh, don't put the milk in first, darling! Well, never -mind, as you've done it. Major Boyle doesn't go about telling His age, -vain old man, but he's sure not to miss an opportunity now of telling -everyone yours." - -"Have you got your Saxin, Mother?" - -"Yes, here it is, in my bag; no, it's not. Oh dear, I do hope I haven't -lost my silver box, just see if you can find it." - -Joan took the bag and thrust in her hand. "Here it is," she said. - -"Good gracious!" sighed Mrs. Ogden, "I'm growing as blind as a bat; it's -an awful thing to lose your eyesight. No, but seriously, darling, do -stop telling people your age." - -"I will if you mind so much, Mother. But everyone we know doesn't need -to be told, if they think it out, and the new people aren't interested -in us or our ages, so what can it matter?" - -"It matters very much to me, as I've told you." - -"All right, then, I'll try and remember. How old do you want me to be?" - -Mrs. Ogden took offence at the levity in her daughter's tone and the -rest of the meal passed in comparative silence. At last Joan paid for -the tea and they got up to go. She helped her mother with her wrap. - -"My fur's gone under the table," said Mrs. Ogden, looking vague. - -Joan dived and retrieved the worn mink collar. "Your gloves, Mother!" -she reminded. - -Mrs. Ogden glanced first at the table and then at the chair, with a -worried eye. "What _have_ I done with my gloves?" she said unhappily, "I -really believe there's a demon who hides my things." She screwed up her -eyes and peered about; her hand strayed casually into the pocket of her -wrap. "Ah! here they are!" she cried, "I knew I'd put them somewhere." - -Immediate problems being satisfactorily solved, Joan jerked herself into -her own coat; a green freize ulster with astrachan cloth at the neck and -sleeves. As she did so her soft felt hat tilted itself a little back on -her head. It was the sort of hat that continually begs forgiveness for -its wearer, by saying in so many words: "I'm not really odd or unusual, -observe my feminine touches!" If the hat had been crushed down in the -middle it might have looked more daring and been passably becoming, but -Joan lacked the courage for this, and wore the crown extended to its -full height. If it had been brown or black or grey it might have looked -like its male prototype, and been less at variance with its wearer's no -longer fresh complexion and angular face, but instead it was pastel -blue. Above all, if it had not had the absurd bunch of jaunty feathers, -shaped like an interrogation mark, thrust into its band, it might have -presented a less abject appearance, and been less of a shouted apology -for the short grey hair beneath it. - -They were ready at last. Mrs. Ogden had her bag, her umbrella, her fur -and two parcels, all safely disposed about her person. She took her -daughter's arm for guidance as they threaded through the labyrinth of -tea-tables; if she would have put on her glasses this would not have -been necessary, but in one respect she refused to submit to the tyranny -of old age; she would never wear spectacles in public except for -reading. - -A cold March wind swept round the corners of the High Street. "Put your -fur over your mouth, Mother, this wind is deadly," Joan cautioned. - -Mrs. Ogden obeyed, and the homeward walk was continued in silence. Joan -opened the door with a latch-key and turned up the gas in the hall. - -"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed anxiously, "who left that landing window -open?" - -Mrs. Ogden disengaged her mouth. "Helen!" she called loudly, "Helen!" -She waited and then called again, this time at the kitchen door, but -there was no reply. "She's gone out without permission again, Joan; I -suppose it's that cinema!" - -"Never mind, dearest, you go and sit down, I'll shut the window myself. -It seems to me that one's got to put up with all their ways since the -war; if you don't, they just walk out." - -She shut the window, bolted it, and returning to the hall collected her -mother's coat and hat, then she went upstairs. - - - - -2 - - -Her head ached badly, as it did pretty often these days. She put away -Mrs. Ogden's things and passed on to her own room. Taking off her heavy -coat, she hung it up neatly, being careful not to shut the door of the -cupboard until she was sure that the coat could not be crushed; then she -took off her hat, brushed it, and put it in a cardboard box under the -bed. - -The room had changed very little since the time when she and Milly had -shared it. There was the same white furniture, only more chipped and -yellower, the same Brussels carpet, only more patternless and -threadbare. The walls had been repapered once and the paint touched up, -after Milly's death, but beyond this, all had remained as it was. Joan -went to the dressing-table and combed her thick grey hair; she had given -up parting it on one side now and wore it brushed straight back from her -face. - -She looked at her reflection in the glass and laughed quietly. "Poor -Mother," she said under her breath. "Does she really think I don't look -my age?" - -To the casual observer she looked about forty-eight, in reality she was -forty-three. Her grey eyes still seemed young at times, but their colour -had faded and so had their expression of intelligent curiosity. The eyes -that had once asked so many questions of life, now looked dull and -uninterested. Her cheeks had grown somewhat angular, and the clear -pallor of her skin had thickened a little; it no longer suggested good -health. In all her face only the mouth remained as a memory of what Joan -had been. Her mouth had neither hardened nor weakened, the lips still -retained their youthful texture and remained beautiful in their -modelling. And because this mouth was so startlingly young and fresh, -with its strong, white teeth, it served all the more to bring into -relief the deterioration of the rest of her face. Her figure was as slim -as it had been at twenty-four, but now she stooped a little at times, -because her back hurt her; she thought it must be rheumatism, and -worried about it disproportionately. - -She had taken to thinking a great deal about her health lately, not -because she wanted to, but rather because she was constantly assailed by -small, annoying symptoms, all different and all equally unpleasant. Her -legs ached at night after she got to bed, and feeling them one evening -she discovered that the veins were swollen; at times they became acutely -painful. She seldom got up now refreshed by sound sleep, there was no -joy in waking in the mornings; on the contrary, she had grown to dread -the pulling up of the blind, because her eyes felt sensitive, especially -after the night. - -Her mentality was gradually changing too, and her brain was littered -with little things. Trifles annoyed her, small cares preoccupied her, -the getting beyond them was too much of an effort. She could no longer -force her unwilling brain to action, any mental exertion tired her. She -had long since ceased to care for study in any form, even serious books -wearied her; if she read now it was novels of the lightest kind, and she -really preferred magazines. - -Her mind, when not occupied with her own health or her mother's, was -beginning to find relaxation in things that she would have once utterly -despised; Seabourne gossip, not always kind; local excitements, such as -the opening of a new hotel or the coming of a London touring company to -the theatre. Her interests were narrowing down into a small circle, she -was beginning to find herself incapable of feeling much excitement over -anything that took place even as far away as the next town. At moments -she was startled when she remembered herself as she had once been, -startled and ashamed and horribly sad; but a headache or a threatened -cold, or the feeling of general unfitness that so often beset her, was -enough to turn her mind from introspection and send her flying to her -medicine cupboard. - -Mrs. Ogden was her principal preoccupation. They quarrelled often and -seldom thought alike; but the patience that had characterized Joan's -youth remained with her still; she was good to her mother in spite of -everything. For the first few years of their life alone together, Joan -had rebelled at times like a mad thing. Those had been terrible years -and she had set herself to forget them, with a fair amount of success. -Mrs. Ogden had become a habit now, and quite automatically Joan fetched -and carried, and rubbed her chest and gave her her medicine; it was all -in the day's work, one did it, like everything else in Seabourne, -because it seemed the right thing and there was nothing else to do. - -If there had been people who could have formed a link with her youth, -she might more easily have retained a part of her old self; but there -was only her mother, who had always been the opposing force; nearly -everyone else who belonged to that by-gone period had either left -Seabourne or died. She seldom met a familiar face in the street, a face -wherewith to conjure up some vivid memory, or even regret. Admiral -Bourne had been dead for fifteen years, and Glory Point had fallen into -decay; it stood empty and neglected, a prey to the winds and waves that -it had once so gallantly defied. No one wanted the admiral's ship-house, -neither the distant cousin who had inherited it, nor the prospective -tenants who came down from London to view. It was too fanciful, too -queer, and proved on closer inspection to be very inconvenient, or so -people said. - -General Brooke had gone to meet his old antagonist Colonel Ogden, and -Ralph Rodney had died of pleurisy, during the war. The Bensons had sold -Conway House to a profiteer grocer, and had moved to London. Richard, -who had written at intervals for one or two years after Elizabeth's -marriage, had long since ceased to write altogether. His last letter had -been unhappy and resentful, and now Joan did not know where he was. Sir -Robert and Lady Loo spent most of their time out of England, on account -of her health, and were seldom if ever, seen by the Ogdens. - -Seabourne was changing; changing, yet always the same. The war had -touched it in passing, as the Memorial Cross in the market-place -testified; but in spite of world-wide convulsions, dreadful deeds in -Belgium and France, air raids in London and bombardments on the coast, -Seabourne had remained placid and had never lost its head. Immune from -bombs and shells by reason of its smug position, it had known little -more of the war than it gathered from its daily papers and the advent of -food tickets. Even the grip of the speculative post-war builder seemed -powerless to make it gasp. He came, he went, leaving in his wake a trail -of horrid toadstool growths which were known as the new suburb of -"Shingle Park." But few strangers came to live in these blatant little -houses; they were bought up at once by the local tradespeople, who moved -from inconvenient rooms over their shops to more inconvenient villas -outside the town. - -Yes, any change that there was in Seabourne was more apparent than real; -and yet for Joan there remained very little to remind her of her youth, -beyond the same dull streets, the same dull shops and the same monotony, -which she now dreaded to break. In her bedroom was one drawer which she -always kept locked, it contained the books that she and Elizabeth had -pored over together. She had put them away eighteen years ago, and had -never had the courage to look at them since, but she wore the key of -that drawer on a chain round her neck; it was the only token of her past -that she permitted to intrude itself. - -There was no one to be intimate with, for people like the Ogdens; Mrs. -Ogden refused to admit the upstarts to her friendship. Stiff-necked and -Routledge as ever, she repulsed their advances and Joan cared too little -to oppose her. Father Cuthbert and a few oldish women, members of the -congregation, were practically the only visitors at Leaside. Mrs. Ogden -liked to talk over parish affairs with them, the more so as she was -treated with deep respect, almost amounting to reverence, by the -faithful Father Cuthbert, who never forgot that she had been one of his -first supporters. - -With time, Joan, his old antagonist, had begun to weaken, and now she -too took a hand in the church work. She consented to join the Altar -Society, and developed quite a talent for arranging the flowers in their -stiff brass vases. The flowers in themselves gave her pleasure, -appealing to what was left of her sense of the beautiful. Someone had to -take Mrs. Ogden to church, she was too feeble to go alone; so the task -fell to Joan, as a matter of course. She would push her mother in a -light wicker bath chair which they had bought secondhand, or on very -special occasions drive with her in a fly. Also as a matter of course -she now took part in the services, neither impressed nor the reverse, -but remaining purely neutral. She followed the easiest path these days, -and did most things rather than make the necessary effort to resist. -After all, what did it matter, one church was as good as another, she -supposed. She was not quite dishonest in her attitude towards Ritualism, -neither was she strictly honest; it was only that the combative -instincts of youth had battered themselves to death in her; now she felt -no very strong emotions, and did not want to. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-TWO - - -1 - - -THE poor of Seabourne were really non-existent; but since certain types -of religiously-minded people are not happy unless they find some class -beneath them on whom to lavish unwelcome care, the churches of each -denomination, and of these there were at least four, invented deserving -poor for themselves and visited them strenuously. Of all the pastors in -the little town, Father Cuthbert was the most energetic. - -Mrs. Ogden was particularly interested in this branch of church work. -District visiting had come to her as second nature; she had found -immense satisfaction and a salve to her pride in patronizing people who -could not retaliate. But lately her failing health made the long walks -impossible, so that she was reduced to sitting at home and thinking out -schemes whereby the humbler members of the congregation might be coerced -into doing something that they did not want to. - -She looked up from her paper one morning with triumph in her eye. "I -knew it would come!" she remarked complacently. - -"What would come?" Joan inquired. - -She did not feel that she cared very much just then if the Day of -Judgment itself were at hand; but long experience had taught her that -silence was apt to make her mother more loquacious than an assumption of -interest. - -"The influenza; I knew it would come! There are three cases in -Seabourne." - -"Well, what of it?" said Joan, yawning. "The world's very much -over-populated; I'm sure Seabourne is." - -"My dear, don't be callous, and it's the pneumonic kind; I believe those -Germans are still spreading microbes." - -"Oh, nonsense!" said Joan irritably. - -Mrs. Ogden went over to her bureau and began rummaging in a drawer; at -last she found what she was looking for. "These worsted vests must go to -the Robinsons to-day," she declared. "That eldest girl of theirs must -put one on at once; with her tendency to bronchitis, she's an absolute -candidate for influenza." - -Joan made a sound of impatience. "But, Mother, you know the girl hates -having wool next her skin; she says it makes her itch; she'll never wear -them." - -"Oh, but she _must_; you'll have to see her mother and tell her I sent -you; it's nonsense about wool making the skin irritate." - -"I don't agree with you; lots of people can't wear it. I can't myself, -and, besides, the Robinsons don't want our charity." - -"The poor always need charity, my dear." - -"But they're not poor; they're probably better off than we are, or they -ought to be, considering what that family earned during the war." - -"I can't help what they earned in war-time, Joan; they're poor enough -now; everyone is, with all the unemployment." - -"I daresay, only they don't happen to be unemployed." - -"I expect they will be soon," said Mrs. Ogden with ghoulish optimism. - -Joan sighed; this task of thrusting herself on people who did not want -her was one of the trials of life. For many years she had refused to be -a district visitor, but lately this too had been one of the duties that -her mother's increasing age imposed upon her. Mrs. Ogden worried herself -ill if she thought that her share in this all-important work was being -neglected, so Joan had given in. - -She stretched out her hand for the vests. "How they must hate us," she -said thoughtfully. - -Mrs. Ogden took off her spectacles. "They? Who?" - -"Only the poor Poor." - -"You are a strange girl, Joan. I don't understand half the time what -you're talking about, and I don't think you do yourself." - -"Perhaps not!" Joan's voice was rather sharp; she wished her mother -would not speak of her as a "girl," it was ridiculous and embarrassing. -At times this and equally trifling irritations made her feel as though -she could scream. "Give me the idiotic things!" she said angrily, -snatching up the vests; "I'll take them, if you make me, but they'll -only throw them away." - -Mrs. Ogden appeared not to hear her; she had become slightly deaf in one -ear lately, a fact which she had quickly discovered could be used to her -own advantage. - -"Bring in some muffins for tea, darling," she called after Joan's -retreating figure. - - - - -2 - - -Joan strode along the esplanade on her way to the Robinsons' cottage. -Anger lent vigour to her every movement; she felt almost young again -under its stimulus. This useless errand on which she had been sent! Just -as though the Robinsons didn't know how to dress themselves. The eldest -girl, about whom her mother was so anxious, wore far smarter clothes at -church than Joan could afford, and, in any case, why should the poor -thing be doomed to a perpetual rash because Mrs. Ogden wanted a peg on -which to hang her charity? - -She walked with head bent to the wind; it looked like rain and she had -forgotten her umbrella. Suppose that storm-cloud over there should -break, she'd be drenched to the skin, and that would be bad for her -rheumatism. At the thought of her rheumatism her back began to ache a -little. All this trouble and risk of getting wet through was being taken -for people who would probably laugh at her the moment she was safely out -of their house. Of course the knitted vests would either be given to the -dustman or thrown away immediately. Now the gale began to absorb all her -attention; it was increasing every minute. She had some ado to hold her -hat on. Her anger gave place to feelings of misery and discomfort, -physical discomfort which filled her whole horizon. She forgot for the -moment the irritation she had felt with her mother; almost forgot the -errand on which she was bent, and was conscious only that the wind was -bitter and that she felt terribly tired. - -She came at last to the ugly little street where the Robinson family -lived. She always dreaded this street; it was so full of children. Their -impudent eyes followed her as she walked, and they tittered audibly. She -rang the bell. She had not meant to pull it so hard, and was appalled at -the clanging that followed. After a pause she could hear steps coming -down the passage. - -"No need to pull the 'ouse down when you ring, I should 'ope," said a -loud voice. - -The door was flung open. "Now then----" Mrs. Robinson was beginning -truculently, when she saw who it was and stopped. - -Joan felt that she could not face it. Mrs. Robinson was composing her -countenance into the sly Sunday expression. - -"Some vests; they're from my mother!" she said hurriedly, and thrusting -the parcel into the woman's hands, she fled down the steps. - - - - -3 - - -There was no rain after all, and that was a great relief. Going home -with the wind behind her she had time to remember again that she was -angry. She would tell Father Cuthbert once and for all that he must find -another district visitor. She was not going to trudge about all over -Seabourne, ministering to people who disliked her, helping Father -Cuthbert to make them more hypocritical than they were already. - -By the time she arrived at Leaside, however, apathy was uppermost again; -what was the good of having a row? What did it matter after all? What -really mattered most at the moment was that she wanted a cup of strong -tea and a fire to get warm by. She would have to invent a suitable -interview with Mrs. Robinson; anything for peace! - -"Did you get the muffins, darling?" came Mrs. Ogden's voice from the -dining-room. - -Joan stood still in the hall and pressed her hand to her head with a -gesture almost tragic. She had forgotten the muffins! - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-THREE - - -1 - - -THE Ogdens took their annual holiday in May, in order to avoid the high -prices of the summer season. For a full month prior to their departure, -a feeling of unrest always possessed them. The numbers of things, real -and imaginary, that had to be settled before they could leave for -Lynton, in North Devon, augmented year by year, until they had arrived -at dimensions that only a prolonged visit to Kamchatka or Zanzibar could -possibly excuse. Joan found that as the years went on she was beginning -to subscribe more and more to her mother's fussiness; even beginning to -acquire certain fussinesses of her own. Sometimes the realization of -this made her pause. "I never used to care so much about trifles," she -would think. But she found it almost impossible to stop caring. She -would lie awake at night going over in her mind the obstacles to be -overcome before they could leave Seabourne, and would go to sleep -finally with a weight on her brain. In the morning she would wake -wondering what unpleasant thing it was that hung over the household. - -This brief visit to Lynton generally caused much worry regarding -clothes. Everything seemed to be worn out at once, and the necessity for -replenishing scanty wardrobes was added to the financial strain of the -holiday. Mrs. Ogden had decided that rooms were both objectionable and -expensive, and that unless she could go to an hotel she would rather -stay at home. In some respects Joan was thankful for this decision; -constant quarrels with outspoken landladies had made her dread anything -in the nature of apartments. But the expense was considerable, for the -Bristol Hotel was not cheap, even though they took the smallest bedrooms -available, or, worse still, shared a tiny double room at the back of the -house. They pinched and screwed for this longed-for holiday during all -the rest of the year, and at times Joan wondered whether the respite of -three weeks at an hotel away from Seabourne was worth the anxiety that -it entailed; whether, when she was finally there, she was not too tired -to enjoy it. - -As the month of departure drew near Mrs. Ogden was wont to develop an -abnormal activity of mind. All the things that might so easily have been -spread out over the preceding months seemed only to be remembered a few -weeks prior to going away, and what did not exist to be remembered she -invented. It would also have been more natural and orderly had wreaths -been taken to the cemetery on the anniversaries of her husband's and -Milly's deaths, but this was never done, and their graves were always -visited shortly before leaving for Lynton. - -"I can't go away without seeing for myself that those cemetery people -are looking after things properly," was the explanation she gave. - -A purely hypothetical army of moths was another cause of anxiety. Mrs. -Ogden never visualized anything less than a Biblical scourge of these -pests. "We shall have the carpets and blankets eaten to shreds if we're -not careful," she would prophesy. Bitter apple, naphthaline, even -pepper, was showered all over the house, and every article that could by -the wildest stretch of the imagination be supposed to tempt a moth's -appetite was wrapped in newspaper and put away weeks before the house -was left. It was not unusual for some muffler or golf-coat that might be -required at Lynton to go the way of all the rest, and when this happened -an irritating search would have to be made. - -About this time a species of spring cleaning always took place. "You -can't put the china and glass away without washing it, Joan; unless the -place is left clean we shall be overrun with mice and black-beetles. I -will have things done properly!" Every picture was draped in newspaper, -every chair in dust sheets; curtains were taken down, rugs rolled up, -photographs and knick-knacks were put away in boxes. During this process -the servant occasionally gave notice at a date which would make her -departure fall due shortly after the Ogdens had left for their holiday. -When this happened the confusion was augmented by the necessity of -finding a caretaker, or at least someone who would see that the house -had been properly locked up. - - - - -2 - - -It was towards the end of April that Mrs. Ogden chose to visit her dead. -The day was kept as a kind of doleful festival, full of gloomy -excitement. Joan would unearth decent black for herself, and repair her -mother's widow's weeds, which were always resumed for the pilgrimage. -Little food would be eaten; there was scant time for meals, and, -besides, Mrs. Ogden had ordained a self-imposed fast. Usually the -wreaths would not arrive to the minute, and would have to be fetched -from the florist's. The fly was invariably late, and the servant would -be sent to make inquiries at the livery stable. Perhaps it would rain, -in which case waterproofs, goloshes and umbrellas were an additional -burden. And to cap all this, it was obviously unseemly to display -impatience at such a time, so that immense self-control was added to the -strain of already taut nerves. - -This April everything seemed to have gone wrong. The florist had -arbitrarily raised his prices, and the wreaths were to cost half as much -again as they had in previous years. Mrs. Ogden considered his excuses -positively impertinent; she had not noticed the late frosts, the -abnormally dry weather, or, indeed, any of the disasters to which he -attributed the high price of flowers. In the end she had been obliged to -give in, but the incident had very much upset her, and she blamed this -upset for the cold on her chest which now kept her in bed when she -should have visited the cemetery. With the infantile stubbornness of the -old she had refused to abandon the idea of going until the last moment; -and had even got half through her dressing before Joan could persuade -her to go back to bed. This wilfulness of her mother's had delayed -everything, and the meals were not ordered or the canary cleaned and fed -by the time the fly arrived. - -There had been a sharp shower, and Joan found to her dismay that the -wreaths, all wet and dripping, had been stood against the wallpaper in -the front hall. A little stain of dampness was making its appearance on -the carpet as well. She went to fetch a cloth from the scullery. As -usual, the window had been left open and on the sill sat a neighbour's -cat. - -She spoke irritably. "How many times have I told you to shut this -window, Rose? That cat comes here after the canary." - -She shut the window herself with a bang, and going back to the hall -dabbed at the wallpaper, but it was all too evident that the wet marks -meant to leave a stain. Sighing, she picked up the wreaths. The damp -moss soaked through her gloves. "Oh, damn!" she muttered under her -breath, forgetting in her irritation the solemnity of the occasion. She -took off her gloves, thrust them into her pocket, and putting the -wreaths into the cab got in after them. - -"Where to, miss?" inquired the unimaginative driver. - -"Cemetery!" snapped Joan. - -What a fool the man must be. Did he think she was going to the -skating-rink or the pier, with a large grave wreath over each arm? - -The cemetery lay a little beyond Shingle Park, and as they bumped along -through old Seabourne and out on to the unfinished road Joan glanced -casually out of the window. Her head felt heavy and her eyes ached. -"Ugly, very ugly!" she murmured absent-mindedly. The rough-cast shanties -grinned back defiance. Their walls were so thin that people who had -watched their erection declared that daylight had showed through the -bricks before the rough cast was applied. Their foundations were -non-existent, the woodwork of their front doors shamelessly unseasoned -and warping already in the damp sea air. They stood for everything that -was dishonest and unsound, and yet not one of them was empty. - -The purchasers had begun to develop their front gardens, and several of -these were already making quite a good show of spring flowers. On either -side of the gritty ash paths jonquils and wall-flowers were growing -courageously. A sense of the pathetic stirred Joan's heart; everyone was -trying so hard to be happy, to make a place of enjoyment for themselves. -People had taken their savings to buy these homes; in the evenings they -worked in their tiny gardens, and in the mornings they looked out of -their windows with pride on the fruits of their labours. And all the -while these mean little houses were grinning in impish derision. They -knew the secrets of their shoddy construction, of their faulty walls and -shallow foundations; presently their owners would know them too. But in -the meantime the houses grinned. - -A sudden anger roused Joan from her lethargy and she shook her fist at -them as she passed. "You hideous, untruthful monstrosities," she said -aloud, "I hate you!" - -The fly drew up at the cemetery and she got out, a wreath in either -hand. She made her way to her father's grave and on it laid the wreath -of palm leaves with its meagre spray of lilies. Colonel Ogden's -tombstone was quite impressive. His wife had chosen it before she -realized the state of her future finances; a broken column in fine -Scottish granite and a flower-bed with granite kerb. Joan peered down at -this flower-bed suspiciously. Yes, just as she had expected, there were -weeds among the forget-me-nots; she must speak to the gardener. One had -to be after everyone these days, they were all so slack and dishonest. -She made a mental note of her complaint and turned to her sister's -grave. - -Milly's resting-place testified to the fact that by the time she died -the state of the family fortunes had been all too well understood; a -small white cross and a plain grass mound marked the place where Milly's -fight had ended. Joan propped the wreath of narcissi against the foot of -the cross, and stood staring at the inscription. - - - MILDRED MARY OGDEN. - Died November 25th, 1900. - Aged 21 years. - - -How long ago it seemed; Milly had been dead for twenty years. If she -were alive now she would be forty-one. What would she be doing if she -were alive now? Assuredly not standing near her father's grave in -Seabourne; and yet, who could tell? Perhaps she, too, would have failed. -It was difficult to picture a Milly of forty-one. Would she have been -fat or thin? Would her hair have gone grey like her sister's? Joan -lingered over her imaginings, but failed to arrive at any satisfactory -conclusion. Perhaps Milly would have kept her looks better than she had; -a life such as her sister would have led might well have kept her young. -She tried to conjure up a clear vision of Milly as she had been. Brown -eyes, very soft golden hair that was inclined to curl naturally, rather -a sulky mouth at times and a short, straight nose--no, not quite -straight. Hadn't Milly's nose been a little tip-tilted? They had no -photograph of her when she was twenty-one; that was a pity. But what had -she looked like exactly? Joan went over her features one by one; it was -like sorting out bits of a jig-saw puzzle; when she began to put them -together there was always a slight misfit. Twenty years! it was a long -time. The memory of Milly had been gradually fading, and now she could -no longer be quite sure of her face, could no longer be perfectly -certain what her voice had sounded like. - -She turned away from the grave with a sigh. Things might have been -different if her sister had lived: they might have helped each other; -but would they have done so? Perhaps, after all, Milly had chosen the -wiser part in dying young. Suppose she had failed to make a career? In -that case there might well have been three of them at Leaside instead of -two, and two people were enough to get on each other's nerves, surely. -She pulled herself up. "What's the good of going back?" she thought. -"If, if, if--it's all so futile! I'm not going to be morbid, in addition -to everything else." - -She got into the cab. "Home!" she ordered peremptorily. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR - - -1 - - -JOAN stared into her half-packed trunk with a worried expression. If -only she could know what the weather would be! Should she take her -flannel coat and skirt? Should she take any light suits at all, or would -it be enough if she only had warm things? - -"Joan, I can't find my new bedroom slippers; I've looked everywhere. -Where have you put them?" came Mrs. Ogden's voice from across the -landing. - -"Oh, do wait a minute, Mother! I'm trying to think out what to take; I -can't find your slippers for a minute or two." - -There ensued an offended silence. Joan straightened her aching back and -sat down to consider. It might be hot at Lynton in May. It had been very -hot last year, but that was in the middle of a heat wave, whereas -now--still, on the whole, she had better take her grey flannel, it -wasn't a bulky thing to pack. She took a piece of paper from her pocket -and began to study a list. "Travel in brown tweed, _old coat and skirt_, -brown shoes and stockings and grey overcoat." What hat should she leave -out? Perhaps the old blue one; anything was good enough, it was always a -dirty journey. She referred to the list again. "Pack six pairs -stockings, three pairs gloves, four vests, three nightgowns, blue serge -suit, two pairs shoes, one pair slippers." She ticked the articles off -on her fingers one by one. Her mauve dinner dress was rather shabby, she -remembered, but that couldn't be helped; she must make out with a black -skirt and low-necked blouses, for a change. - -"Joan, I can't lift my bag down from the top of the wardrobe; I do wish -you'd come here." - -"Oh, all right," sighed Joan, getting up. - -They had been packing for several days and yet nothing was finished; the -next morning they were to start at seven in order to catch the express -in London. - -"Where's the medicine bag?" Joan asked anxiously. - -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I don't know; hasn't it been got out? I -suppose it's in the cupboard under the stairs." - -They routed out the bag from its dusty lair and began to sort bottles. -"Joan, you must _not_ go on taking that bromo-seltzer after what Major -Boyle told us." - -"Of course I shall go on taking it; it's perfectly harmless." - -"It's very far from harmless. Major Boyle says that he knows for a -fact----" - -"I don't care a rap what Major Boyle thinks he knows," Joan interrupted -impatiently. "It's the only thing that does my head the least good, and -I'm going to take it." - -"Well, I do wish you wouldn't; I'm sure it's very dangerous." - -"Oh, Mother, do leave me alone; I'm not a child, I can quite well look -after myself." - -They squabbled for a little while over the bromo-seltzer, while the bag -grew gradually full to bursting. At last it was closed, but not without -an effort. - -"Good gracious, here's the bird-seed left out!" Mrs. Ogden exclaimed, -producing a good-sized cocoa tin from the washstand cupboard. "And now -what's to be done?" - -"It must go in a trunk," said Joan firmly. - -"But suppose it upsets?" - -"Oh, it won't." - -"Well, I don't know; it might." - -"Then put it in the hold-all; it will be all right there." - -"I can't understand why it can't go in the medicine bag; it always has -at other times," said Mrs. Ogden discontentedly. "And it's Bobbie's -special mixture; I can only get it at one place." - -"Bobbie won't die, Mother, if he has to live for three weeks on Hyde's -or Spratt's or something; there's lots of seed at the grocers at Lynton, -I've often seen it." - -But Mrs. Ogden persisted. "We must find room in the bag for it, my -dear." - -"I will _not_ unpack the whole of that bag for any bird," said Joan -untruthfully; if there had been the least necessity she would not only -have unpacked the bag but the entire luggage for Bobbie's sake. - - - - -2 - - -They got off at last, and were actually in the Barnstaple train; bags, -wraps, bird-cage and all. - -Mrs. Ogden sighed contentedly. "The worst of the journey's over," she -declared. "It's that change in London I always dread." - -Joan leant back in her corner and tried to sleep, but a flutter from the -cage at her side roused her. She bent down and half uncovered Bobbie, -who hopped to the bars and nibbled her finger. - -"There, there, my pet," she murmured softly. - -Bobbie burst into a loud song. "He likes the noise of the train," smiled -Mrs. Ogden, nodding her head. - -They began to pet the bird. "Pretty Bob, pretty fellow!" - -The canary loved them both, but Joan was his favourite; for her he would -do almost anything. He bathed while she held his bath in her hands, and -would dry himself on her short grey hair. At times Mrs. Ogden felt -jealous of these marks of esteem. "I'm a perfect slave to that bird," -she often complained, "and yet he won't come to me like that." - -But her jealousy never got beyond an occasional grumble, the little -canary managed to avoid being a bone of contention; Bobbie was a mutual -tie, a veritable link of love between them. - -At Barnstaple they changed again, and got into the small toy train that -wanders over the moors to Lynton. The sun was setting across the wide, -misty landscape, turning pools that the rain had left into molten gold, -sending streams of glory earthward from behind the banked-up -storm-clouds. Joan sat with Bobbie's cage on her knee; she might easily -have put it down beside her, there was room on the seat, but she liked -the nearness of the bird. She wished that he were big enough to take out -and hug. - -A great peace possessed her, one of those mysterious waves of well-being -that came over her at times. "Feeling otherworldly," she described it to -herself. Mrs. Ogden was dozing, so there was no one to talk; the small -puffings and rumblings of the train alone broke the silence. She closed -her eyes in sensuous enjoyment. The little bird shook out his feathers -and cracked a seed, while the twilight deepened and the lamp flashed out -in the carriage. Joan sat on in a kind of blissful quiescence. "All is -as it should be," she thought dreamily, "and I know exactly why it is -so, only I can't quite find the words. Somewhere at the back of my mind -I know the why of everything." - - - - -3 - - -On the second afternoon after their arrival, Joan sat alone in the hall -of the hotel. Mrs. Ogden had gone to lie down; she had scarcely got over -the fatigue of the journey. Joan picked up a paper idly; she had no wish -to read the news, but since the paper was there she might as well glance -through it. Two young girls with bobbed hair and well-tailored clothes -had come on to the veranda from the garden. - -One of them was in riding-breeches. They sat down with their backs to -the open window, through which their voices drifted. "Have you seen that -funny old thing with the short grey hair?" - -"Yes, you mean the one at lunch? Wasn't she killing? Why moire ribbon -instead of a proper necktie?" - -"And why a pearl brooch across her stiff collar?" - -"I believe she's what they used to call a 'New woman,'" said the girl in -breeches, with a low laugh. "Honey, she's a forerunner, that's what she -is, a kind of pioneer that's I got left behind. I believe she's the -beginning of things like me. Oh! hang it all, I've left my gloves in the -garden; come on, we must look for them." And they went down the steps -again. - -Joan laid down the newspaper and stared after them. Of course they had -not known that she was there. "A forerunner, a kind of pioneer that's -got left behind." She shoved the hair back from her forehead. Yes, they -were right, that was what she had been, a kind of pioneer, and now she -had got left behind. She saw the truth of this all round her, in women -of the type that she had once been, that in a way she still was. Active, -aggressively intelligent women, not at all self-conscious in their -tailor-made clothes, not ashamed of their cropped hair; women who did -things well, important things; women who counted and who would go on -counting; smart, neatly put together women, looking like well-bred young -men. They might still be in the minority and yet they sprang up -everywhere; one saw them now even at Seabourne during the summer season. -They were particular about their clothes, in their own way; the boots -they wore were thick but well cut, their collars immaculate, their ties -carefully chosen. But she, Joan Ogden, was the forerunner who had -failed, the pioneer who had got left behind, the prophet who had feared -his own prophecies. These others had gone forward, some of them released -by the war, others who had always been free-lances, and if the world was -not quite ready for them yet, if they had to meet criticism and ridicule -and opposition, if they were not all as happy as they might be, still -they were at least brave, whereas she had been a coward, conquered by -circumstances. A funny old thing with grey hair, who wore moire ribbon -instead of a necktie and a brooch in the wrong place; yes, that was what -she had come to in twenty years. - -She sprang up and hurried out of the hotel. On her way to the town she -unfastened the pearl brooch and hurled it into the bushes. It was twenty -minutes to six. She arrived at the shop she wanted just as they were -putting up the shutters. - -"I'm not too late, am I?" she inquired breathlessly. - -The clerk behind the counter reassured her. "You've just ten minutes, -madam." - -"Then show me some stiff collars, the newest pattern." She chose half a -dozen hastily. "And now some neckties, please." - -She made the best selection she could from the limited stock at her -disposal, and left the shop with her parcel under her arm. Half way up -the drive to the hotel, she stood still and stared incredulously at her -purchases; she had spent considerably over thirty shillings--she must -have gone mad! She walked on slowly with bent head. A pioneer that had -got left behind; what an impulsive fool she was! Pioneers that got left -behind didn't count; they were lost, utterly lost in the desert. How -could the young turn back for the old? In any case they didn't do it, -and one could not catch up with the young when one was forty-three. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE - - -1 - - -AT the end of the pleasant hotel dining-room sat a big, florid man, -alone at a table. His reddish hair was sprinkled with grey and so were -the small side-whiskers he affected. His large hands held a wine-card -delicately, as though, used to some work that necessitated extreme -fineness of touch. His jaw was perhaps a trifle too massive, his mouth a -trifle too aggressive in expression, but his eyes were eager and limpid, -and his smile was frank and very kind. - -He put down the wine-card and looked about him. His fellow guests -interested him, people always did. These people were like their -prototypes in every English hotel that he had ever been to; dull men -with duller wives, dreary examples of matrimonial stagnation. Dull sons -with dull fathers, dull daughters with dull mothers. The two girls with -bobbed hair sat together and chattered incessantly, but even they looked -commonplace in their evening dresses, which did not suit them or their -weather-stained necks and hands. - -From his vantage-point, facing the swing doors, he could see the full -length of the room. Even the way people walked had a significance for -him; he was wont to say that you could read a person's whole life -history in the way they moved. As he looked towards the entrance, two -women came in; an old and very feeble lady wearing a white lace cap, and -a middle-aged woman with short, grey hair, who supported her companion -on her arm. In her disengaged hand she carried a white, fleecy shawl and -a bottle of medicine, while tucked away under her elbow was a box-shaped -thing that looked like a minute foot-warmer. The two women seated -themselves at a window table quite near the man. - -"Open the window, dear," he heard the old lady say; "this room is -stuffy." - -The younger woman did as she was asked, and he noticed that the window -seemed too heavy for her. They drank their soup in silence, but -presently the old lady shivered. "It's colder than I thought," she said -plaintively. "I think we'll have it shut, after all." - -Her companion rose obediently and closed the window, then she put the -small box-shaped object under the other's feet. - -"So it was a foot-warmer!" thought the man with some amusement. - -He bent a little forward, the better to hear what they would say. "I'm -eavesdropping," he thought, "but they interest me." - -"Won't you have your shawl on, Mother?" - -"Well, perhaps I will. It's much colder here than it was last year." - -The younger woman got up once more, this time to fold the shawl around -her mother's shoulders. - -"Oh, Lord!" muttered the man impatiently, "will she never sit still?" - -He looked attentively at the pair. "Gentle, tyrant mother," he told -himself, "and virgin daughter withering on her stem." But as he looked, -something in the short-haired woman's appearance arrested him. "It's a -fine face, even now," he thought, "and the mouth is positively -beautiful. I wonder why--I wonder how it happened. Who is it she reminds -me of?" - -The woman turned her head and their eyes met; he thought she started and -looked more intently; at all events she turned to her mother and said -something in a low voice. In a second or two the old lady glanced at -him. - -The man felt his heart tighten. Something in the face of this -short-haired woman and a certain gruff quality in her voice were -strangely familiar. Just then his attention was distracted, and when he -looked again the women's faces were turned away and they were speaking -in an undertone. The pair finished their dinner and left the room, while -he sat on stupidly, letting the years slip backwards. - - - - -2 - - -Presently he got up and walked to the door. He went out into the hall, -meaning to look at the hotel register. The hall was empty except for the -short-haired woman, who had apparently anticipated him, for she was -turning over the pages of the book. He came up quietly and looked over -her shoulder. Her finger was hovering near his own entry: "Sir Richard -Benson, Harley Street, London." - -She saw him out of the corner of her eye. "I was looking you up," she -explained simply. - -"So I see," he said and smiled. "May I look you up, too?" - -She nodded and he turned back a page. "Mrs. and Miss Ogden, Seabourne," -he read aloud. - -They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then: "Oh, Joan!" - -"Richard!" - -They clasped hands and laughed, then they clasped hands all over again -and laughed again too, but with tears in their eyes. - -Presently he said: "After all these years, Joan, and to meet in a place -like this!" - -"Yes, it's a long time, isn't it!" - -"It's a lifetime," he replied gravely. - -They went out on to the veranda. "Mother's going to bed," she told him. -"I can stay out here for twenty minutes." - -"Why only twenty minutes, Joan?" - -"Because I must go and read to her when she's undressed; she's still -rather sleepless after the journey." - -He was silent. Then he said: "Well, tell me all about it, please; I want -to hear everything." - -She smiled at the familiar words. "That won't take twenty minutes; I can -say it in less than two." - -"Then say it," he commanded. - -"I was bottled, after all," she told him with mock solemnity, but her -voice shook a little. - -He took her hand and pressed it very gently. "I know that, my dear." - -She said: "You stopped writing rather suddenly, I thought. Why was -that?" - -He hesitated. "Well, you know, after Elizabeth's marriage and your -decision to throw up the sponge--you remember you wrote to me of your -decision, don't you?---- Well, after that I did write occasionally, for -a year or two, but then it all seemed so hopeless, and I realized that -you didn't mean to marry me, so I thought it best to let you go. I had -my work, Joan, and I tried to wipe you out; you were a disturbing -element." - -She nodded. She could understand his not having wanted a distraction in -the days when he was making his career, she could even understand his -having dropped her; what interest could he have had in so disappointing -a life as hers? "And you, on the other hand, have made good?" she -queried, continuing her own train of thought. - -He sighed. "Oh, yes, I suppose so; I'm considered a very successful man, -I believe." - -It came to her as a shock that she ought to know something about this -very successful man, and that the mere fact that she knew nothing showed -how completely she had dropped away from all her old interests. - -"Don't be angry, Richard," she said apologetically. "But please tell me -what you do. Did you specialize in nerves after all?" - -He shook his head. "No, Joan, I specialized in brain; I'm a surgeon, my -dear." - -"A great one, Richard?" - -"Oh, I don't know; I'm fairly useful, I think." - -His words roused a vague echo in her, something stirred feebly; the -ghost of by-gone enthusiasm, called from the grave by the mere proximity -of this man, so redolent of self-confidence and success. She moved -uneasily, conscious that her thoughts were straying backwards. -"Elizabeth----" she began, but checked herself, and at that moment a -porter came up. - -"Please, miss, the lady in twenty-four says will you come up at once, -she's in bed." - -"I must go; good-night, Richard." - -"Wait a minute!" he said eagerly. "When shall I see you again?" - -She hesitated. "I think I can get off for a walk at nine o'clock -to-morrow morning; Mother won't be getting up until about twelve." - -"I shall be waiting here in the hall," he said. - -When she was gone, he lit a cigar and went out into the night to think. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-SIX - - -1 - - -THE next morning Joan awoke with a feeling of excitement; the moment she -opened her eyes she knew that something unusual had happened. She got up -and dressed, more carefully than she had done for many years past. She -parted her hair on one side again. Why not? It certainly looked neater -parted. She was glad now that she had bought those new collars and ties. -She took an incredibly long time to knot the tie satisfactorily and this -dashed her a little. "My hand's out," she thought, "and I used to tie a -tie so well." She put on her grey flannel suit, thinking as she did so -that it was less frumpish in cut than the others; then she crushed her -soft felt hat into the shape affected by the young women with bobbed -hair, and was pleased with the result. - -Her mother was awake when she went into her room. - -"My darling!" she exclaimed in a protesting voice, "what is the matter -with your hat! You've done something queer to the crown. And I don't -like that collar and tie, it's so mannish looking." - -Joan ignored the criticism. "I'm going for a walk with Richard, Mother, -I'll be back in time to help you to dress at twelve o'clock." - -Mrs. Ogden looked surprised. "Is he staying long?" she inquired. - -"I don't know, I haven't asked him; but it'll be all right if I'm back -at twelve, won't it?" - -"Well, yes, I suppose so. I was going to get up a little earlier this -morning, so as to get as much benefit from the air as possible; still, -never mind." - -Joan hesitated; the long years of habit tugged at her, but suddenly her -mind was made up. - -"I'll be back at twelve, darling, you'd better stay quiet until then." - - - - -2 - - -She hurried over her breakfast. Richard was waiting for her in the hall -and came forward as she left the dining-room. - -"Ah! That's better," he said. - -She looked at him questioningly. "What's better?" - -"Why, you are. You look more like yourself this morning." - -"Do I? It's only the clothes, I always look odd in the evening." - -He looked amused. "Well, perhaps you do, a little," he admitted. - -They strolled down the drive and through the gates into the little town. -The air was full of West Country softness, it smelt of brine and earth -and growing things. "If we keep straight on," she said, "we shall come -to the Valley of the Rocks." - -"I don't care where we come to, my dear, as long as we get to a place -where we can talk in peace. I've a great deal to hear, you know." - -She turned to study him. He was so familiar and yet such a complete -stranger. His voice was the same rather eager, imperative thing that she -remembered, and she thought that his eyes had not changed at all. But -for the rest he was bigger, astonishingly so; his shoulders, his face, -the whole of him, seemed overpoweringly large this morning. And he -looked old. In the bright light she could see that his face was deeply -lined, and that little pouches had formed under his eyes. But it struck -her that she had never seen a more utterly kind expression; it was a -charming age that had come upon Richard, an age full of sympathy and -tolerance. They passed the Convent of the Poor Clares with its white -walls inset with Della Robbia plaques of the Innocents in their -swaddling clothes. Richard glanced at them and smiled. - -"I rather love them, don't you, Joan? They're a kind of symbol of the -childhood of the world." - -She followed the direction of his eyes, but the plaques did not strike -her as being very interesting. Perhaps he missed some response in her, -for he fell silent. - -When they reached the Valley of the Rocks he stood still and looked -about him. "I had no idea there was anything as beautiful as this in -England," he said. - -She nodded. She too had always thought this valley very lovely, but -because of its loveliness it depressed her, filling her with strange -regrets. They sat down on a wide boulder. Somewhere to their right the -sea was talking to itself on the pebbles; on a high pinnacle of grey -rock some white goats leapt and gambolled. Joan looked at the deep blue -of the sky showing between the crags, and then at Richard. - -His chin was resting on his hands, which were clasped over his stick, -and she noticed the hard, strong line of his jaw, and the roughened -texture of his neck. - -Presently he turned to her. "Well, aren't you going to tell me?" he -asked. - -"There's nothing to tell," she said uneasily. - -He laughed. "What, in twenty years, has nothing happened?" - -"Nothing at all, except what you see in me." - -He said gravely: "I see Joan; older certainly, and grey-haired like -myself, but still Joan. What else could I see?" - -She was silent, plucking at some moss with nervous fingers. It was kind -of Richard to pretend that the change in her had not shocked him, as, of -course, it must have done. She knew instinctively that he was kind, a -man one could trust, should the need arise. But she was not interested -in Richard or herself, she cared very little for the impression they -were making on each other. One question, and one only, burnt to get -asked, yet her diffidence was keeping her silent. At last she took -courage. - -"How is Elizabeth? It's a long time since I last saw her." - -He looked at her quickly. "Yes, it must be a long time, now I come to -think of it," he said, "I saw her last year, you know, when I was in -Cape Town." - -She longed to shake the information out of him, his voice sounded so -dull and non-committal. "Is she happy?" she asked. - -"Happy? Oh! that's a large order, Joan. Those goats over there are -probably happy, at least they have a good chance of being so; but when -you come to the higher animals like men and women, it's a very different -thing. We poor human beings with our divine heritage, we think too much; -we know too much and too little to be really happy, I fancy." - -"Yes, I expect you're right," she agreed, but she did not want to hear -about the psychological problems of the race in general, according to -Richard; she wanted to hear about Elizabeth. - -Possibly he divined her thoughts, for he went on quickly, "But you don't -care at this moment for the worries and troubles of mankind, do you? You -just want to know all about Elizabeth." - -She touched his sleeve almost timidly. "Will it bore you to tell me, -Richard?" - -He smiled. "Good Lord, no, of course not; only she asked me not to." - -"She asked you not to?" - -"Yes, she asked me not to talk about her, if I ever met you again." - -"But why? I don't understand." - -"No, neither do I. I told her it was rot and I refused to promise. You -want to know if Elizabeth's happy. Well, yes, I suppose that in her own -way she is. My brother's a most devoted husband and seems to be as much -in love with her as he ever was; he stands from under and fetches and -carries, and Elizabeth likes that sort of thing." - -Joan frowned. "I see you're still unjust to her, Richard; you always -were a little bit, you know." - -"My dear, I'm not unjust; you asked me to tell you about her, and I'm -telling you the impression I received when I stayed in her house last -year." - -"Go on," said Joan. - -"Well, then, she has a truly magnificent mansion in Cape Town. It's -white and square and rather hideous, that's the outside; inside it's -full of very expensive, supposedly antique furniture, all shipped out -from England. They entertain a great deal; my brother's managed to grow -indecently rich; helped by the war, I'm afraid. And he's generous, -positively lavish. Did you know that Lawrence got a baronetcy a little -while ago? Well, he did, so Elizabeth's now Lady Benson! Funny, ain't -it? I'm sorry there are no children; Lawrence would have loved to found -a family, poor old fellow. He deserved that baronetcy all right, though, -he was extremely useful to the Government during the war. Elizabeth was -pretty useful too in a humbler way. I believe she organized more -charities and hospital units and whatnots than any woman in South -Africa; they tell me her tact and energy were phenomenal, in fact she's -a kind of social leader in Cape Town. People go out with introductions -to her, and if she takes them up they're made for ever, and if she don't -they sink into oblivion; you know, that sort of thing." He paused. - -Joan said: "So that's Elizabeth." - -He looked at her with sudden pity in his eyes. "She's changed since you -knew her, Joan." - -"Never mind that," she interrupted. "Tell me what she looks like." - -He considered. "Rather placid, I should say--yes, decidedly placid, but -you feel that's not quite a true impression when you look at her mouth; -her mouth is mystifying." - -"How mystifying?" - -"Oh, I don't know. Full of possibilities--it always was. She's rather -ample these days; not fat you know, but Junoesque, you can imagine that -she would be when she began to put on flesh. Oh! And her hair's quite -white, the nice silvery kind, and always wonderfully dressed. She's a -fine looking woman but she's cranky in some ways; for instance, she -won't come to England. She's never set foot on British soil since she -left for South Africa, except to skim across it _en route_ for the -Continent. When she comes to Europe, she goes to Paris or Rome or some -other place abroad. She says that she hates England. As a matter of fact -I think she dislikes leaving South Africa at all, she says she's grown -roots in the bigness of things out there. Lawrence tells me that when -she feels bored with the gaieties of Cape Town, she goes right away to -the veld; he thinks it's original and fine of her to need so much space -to stretch in and so much oxygen to expand her lungs. Perhaps it is, I -don't know. In any case she was awfully kind to me when I stayed with -them; I was there for three months, you know, having a rest." - -"Did she ever speak about me?" Joan asked, with an eagerness she could -not hide. - -"Only once; let me think. It was one night after dinner. I remember we -were sitting alone on the terrace, and she asked me suddenly if I ever -heard from you. I told her that I hadn't done so for years, that it was -partly my fault, because I'd stopped writing. Then she said: 'I don't -really want to discuss Joan Ogden, she belongs to the past, and I belong -to all this, to my life here. I've given up being sentimental, and I -find nothing either interesting or pathetic in failures. And I want you -to promise me that if you should ever meet Joan, you won't talk about -me; don't discuss me with her, she has no right to know.'" He paused. "I -think those were her words, my dear, at all events they were very like -that." - -His voice was calm and even, and he turned to look at the pale face -beside him. "I think she's succeeded in forgetting her disappointment -over you," he said. "And if she hasn't quite got over it, she's managed -to console herself pretty well. She's not the sort of woman to cry long -over spilt milk." - -He knew that he was being brutal. "But it's necessary," he thought; -"it's vitally necessary. And if it rouses her even to a feeling of -regret, better that than this lethargy of body and mind." - -Joan stared out in front of her. All the expression seemed to have been -wiped out of her face and eyes. "Shall we go?" she said presently. "I -think it's getting late." - -He assented at once, and they turned towards Lynton; he watched her -covertly as she walked beside him. All his knowledge, all his -experience, were braced to their utmost to meet the necessity that he -felt was hers. But while his mind worked furiously, he talked of other -things. He told her about his work during the war; he had gone to France -to operate, and incidentally to study shell-shock, and the effects -produced thereon by hypnotic treatment. He saw that she was scarcely -listening, but he talked on just the same. - -"That shell-shock work would have interested you, Joan, you'd have been -awfully useful out there; they wanted women of your type. The average -trained nurses sometimes hindered rather than helped, they didn't seem -to catch on to the new ideas." He stood still and faced her. "By the -way, what did you do during the war?" he asked suddenly. - -She gave a hard little laugh. "What did I do? Well, you see, I couldn't -leave Mother. I wanted to go with a unit to Serbia, but she got ill just -then, I think the mere idea made her ill; so I made swabs at the Town -Hall at Seabourne; I must have made thousands I should think. I had a -Sister Dora arrangement on my head; we all had, it made us look -important. Some of the women wore aprons with large red crosses on their -bibs, it was very effective! And we gossiped, we did it persistently; -that Town Hall grew to be a veritable 'School for Scandal;' we took away -a character with every swab we made. We quarrelled too, I assure you it -was most exciting at times; why, life-long friendships went to pieces -over those swabs of ours. You see we were jealous of each other, we -couldn't bear to think that some of our friends were more expert than we -were, the competition was terrific! Oh, yes, and I was so good at my job -that they couldn't in decency avoid making me the head of our room for a -short time; I wore a wide blue sash over one shoulder. I shall never -forget the sense of power that I felt when I first put on that sash. I -became hectoring and dictatorial at once; it was a moment worth living -for, I can tell you!" - -He was silent, the bitterness in her voice hurt him intensely. - -"Good-bye," she said as they reached the hotel. "And thank you for -telling me about Elizabeth." - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN - - -1 - - -RICHARD stayed on from day to day. He had come to Lynton meaning to -remain a week, but now almost a fortnight had passed, and still he -stayed. - -He planned endless walks and motor drives, excursions to all parts of -the country. There were many of these in which Mrs. Ogden could not -join, and a situation arose not unlike that which had arisen years ago, -owing to Elizabeth. But now the antagonists fought in grim silence, -playing with carefully concealed cards, outwardly polite and affable. - -While treating Mrs. Ogden quite respectfully, Richard never allowed Joan -to evade him, dragging her out by sheer force of will, and keeping her -out until such time as he thought she had had enough open air and -exercise. He managed with no little skill to combine the authority of -the doctor with the solicitude of an old friend, and Joan found herself -submitting in spite of her mother's aggrieved attitude. - -She began to feel better in health but sick in mind; Richard awoke so -much in her that she had hoped was over and done with. He joked over the -old days at Seabourne, in the hopeful, exuberant manner of a man who -looks forward to the future. And all the while her heart ached -intolerably for those days, the days that had held Elizabeth and her own -youth. He seemed to be trying to make her talk too. "Do you remember all -the medical books I used to send you, Joan?" or, "That was when you and -Elizabeth were going to live together, wasn't it?" He discussed -Elizabeth as a matter of course, and because of this Joan found it -difficult to speak of her at all. She began to be obsessed with a -craving to see her again, to talk to her and hear her voice; the thought -of the miles that would always lie between them grew intolerable. This -woman who had known her since she was a little child, who had fashioned -her, loved her and then cast her out, lived again in her thoughts with -all the old vitality. "I shall die without seeing her," was a phrase -that ran constantly in her brain; "I shall die without ever seeing -Elizabeth again." - -Richard observed the sunburn on her cheeks and felt happier. He believed -that his method was the right one, and dug assiduously among Joan's -memories. He was convinced that she had been very near a nervous -breakdown when he had found her, and congratulated himself on what he -thought was a change for the better. Her reticence when Elizabeth was -mentioned only served to make him speak of her the more. "No good -letting the thing remain submerged," he thought; "she must be made to -talk about it." - -In spite of the mental unrest that possessed her, or perhaps because of -it, Joan looked forward to the long days spent on the moors, the long -drives in the car through the narrow, twisting lanes. Richard was an -excellent companion, always amusing and sympathetic, and there was a -painful fascination in talking over the old days. His eyes were kind -when he looked at her, and his hand felt strong and protective as he -helped her in and out of the car. She thought, as she had done a long -time ago, what an adorable brother he would have made. - -Sometimes he would tell her about his work, going into technical details -as though she too were a doctor. When he spoke of a case which -particularly interested him, he gesticulated, like the Richard of twenty -years ago. - -"How little you've changed," she said one day. - -He replied: "We none of us really change, Joan, except on the surface." - -"I've changed, Richard; the whole of me has." - -"Oh, no, you haven't; you're all of you there, only you've pushed some -of it away out of sight." - -She wondered if he were right. Was it possible that all that had once -made Joan Ogden, was lurking somewhere in her still? She shuddered. "I -don't want to go back!" she said fiercely. "Oh, Richard, I don't want -ever to go back!" - -"Not back, but forward," he corrected. "Just go forward with your whole -self." - - - - -2 - - -The time that Richard could afford to take from his work had come to an -end, it was his last day at Lynton. "Let's walk to Watersmeet this -afternoon, Joan," he suggested. "It's such a perfect day." - -"I oughtn't to leave Mother," she said doubtfully. "She doesn't seem -very well." - -"Oh, she's all right, my dear; I've been up to see her and she's only a -little over-tired. After all, at her age, she's bound to feel tired -sometimes." - -Joan weakened. "Well, wait a minute, then, while I go and say good-bye." - -They made their way down the steep hill and over the bridge to the far -side of the river. The water was rushing in a noisy torrent between the -rocks and boulders. - -"Oh! How I love the noise of it," he exclaimed. "It's life, just life!" - -She looked at his lined and ageing face and marvelled at his -enthusiasms. He was so full of them still and of a great self-courage -that nothing had ever had the power to break. They strolled along the -narrow path under the fresh spring green, keeping the river that Richard -loved beside them all the way. He took her hand and held it and she did -not resist; she was feeling very grateful towards this friend who had -come from the world and found her. Presently she grew tired, it was hot -down there by the river. - -He noticed her lagging steps: "Rest, my dear, we've walked too far." - -They sat down under the trees and for a long time neither spoke. He was -the first to break the silence: - -"Joan, will you marry me?" he said abruptly. - -It was the same old familiar phrase that she had heard so often before, -and she found it hard to believe that they were two middle-aged people -instead of the boy and girl of twenty years ago, but in another moment -she had flushed with annoyance. - -"Is that joke in very good taste, Richard?" - -He stared at her. "Joke? But I mean it!" he stammered. - -She sprang up and he followed her. "Richard, have you gone quite mad?" - -"I was never more sane in my life; I ask you: Will you marry me?" - -She looked at him incredulously, but something in the expression of his -eyes told her that he did mean it. "Oh, Richard," she said with a catch -in her voice, "I can't! I never could, you know." - -He said: "Joan, if I weren't so ridiculously middle-aged, I'd go down on -my knees, here in the grass, and beg you to take me. I want you more -than anything else in the world." - -She said: "You've made some awful mistake. There's nothing of me to -want; I'm empty, just a husk." - -"That's not true, Joan," he protested. "You're the only woman I've ever -cared for. I want you in my life, in my home; I want your companionship, -your help in my work." - -"In your work?" she asked in genuine surprise. - -"Yes, in my work, why not? Wouldn't it interest you to help me in the -laboratory, sometimes? I'm rather keen on certain experiments, you know, -Joan, and if you'll only come, we could work together. Oh, it would all -be so utterly splendid! Just what I planned for us years ago. Don't you -think you can marry me, Joan?" - -She laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "Listen," she said gently, "while -I try to make you understand. The woman you're thinking of is not Joan -Ogden at all; she's a purely fictitious person, conceived in your own -brain. Joan Ogden is forty-three, and old for her age; she's old in -body, her skin is old, and she'll soon be white-haired. Her mind has -been shrivelling away for years; it's not able to grasp big things as it -was once; it's grown small and petty and easily tired. Give it a piece -of serious work and it flags immediately, there's no spring left in it. - -"Her body's a mass of small ailments; real or imaginary, they count just -the same. She goes to bed feeling tired out and gets up feeling more -tired, so that every little futile thing is enough to make her -irritable. She exaggerates small worries and makes mountains out of -molehills. Her nerves are unreliable and she dwells too much on her -health. If she remembers what she used to be like, she tries to forget -it, because she's afraid; long ago she was a coward and she's remained -one to this day, only now she's a tamer coward and gives in without a -struggle. - -"It's different with you, Richard, you've got a right to marry. You want -to marry, because you're successful and because at your age a man -settles down. But haven't you thought that you probably want children, a -son? Do you think the woman I've described would be a desirable mother, -even if she could have a child at all? Would you choose to make -posterity through an old, unhealthy body; to give children to the world -by a woman who is utterly unfit to bear them, who never has loved you -and never could?" - -He covered his face with his hands. "Don't, I can't bear it, Joan!" - -"But it's the truth and you know it," she went on quietly. "I'm past -your saving, Richard; there's nothing left to save." - -"Oh, Joan!" he said desperately. "It can't be as bad as that! Give me a -chance; if anyone can save you, I can." - -She turned her face away from him. "No!" she said. "Only one creature -could ever have saved me and I let her go while I was still young." - -"Do you mean Elizabeth?" he asked sharply. - -She nodded. "Yes, she could have saved me, but I let her go." - -"God!" he exclaimed almost angrily. "I ought to be jealous of her; I am -jealous of her, I suppose! But why, oh, why, if you cared for her so -much, didn't you break away and go with her to London? Why did you let -even that go by you? I could bear anything better than to see you as you -are." - -She was silent. Presently she said: "There was Mother, Richard. I loved -her too, and she needed me; she didn't seem able to do without me." - -His face went white with passion; he shook his clenched fists in the -air. "How long is it to go on," he cried, "this preying of the weak on -the strong, the old on the young; this hideous, unnatural injustice that -one sees all around one, this incredibly wicked thing that tradition -sanctifies? You were so splendid. How fine you were! You had everything -in you that was needed to put life within your grasp, and you had a -right to life, to a life of your own; everyone has. You might have been -a brilliant woman, a woman that counted for a great deal, and yet what -are you now? I can't bear to think of it! - -"If you _are_ a mass of ills, as you say, if your splendid brain is -atrophied, and you feel empty and unfulfilled, whose fault is that? Not -yours, who had too much heart to save yourself. I tell you, Joan, the -sin of it lies at the door of that old woman up there in Lynton; that -mild, always ailing, cruelly gentle creature who's taken everything and -given nothing and battened on you year by year. She's like an octopus -who's drained you dry. You struggled to get free, you nearly succeeded, -but as quickly as you cut through one tentacle, another shot out and -fixed on to you. - -"Good God! How clearly one sees it all! In your family it was your -father who began it, by preying first on her, and in a kind of horrid -retaliation she turned and preyed on you. Milly escaped, but only for a -time; she came home in the end; then she preyed in her turn. She gripped -you through her physical weakness, and then there were two of them! Two -of them? Why, the whole world's full of them! Not a Seabourne anywhere -but has its army of octopi; they thrive and grow fat in such places. -Look at Ralph Rodney: I believe he was brilliant at college, but Uncle -John devoured him, and you know what Ralph was when he died. Look at -Elizabeth: do you think she's really happy? Well, I'm going to tell you -now what I kept from you the other day. Elizabeth got free, but not -quite soon enough; she's never been able to make up for the blood she -lost in all those years at Seabourne. She's just had enough vitality -left to patch her life together somehow, and make my brother think that -all is very well with her. But she couldn't deceive me, and she knew it; -I saw the ache in her for the thing she might have been. Elizabeth's -grasped the spar; that's what she's done, and she's just, only just -managed to save herself from going under. She's rich and popular and -ageing with dignity, but she's not, and never can be now, the woman she -once dreamt of. She's killed her dream by being busy and hard and quite -unlike her real self, by taking an interest in all the things that the -soul of her laughs at. And that's what life with Ralph in Seabourne has -done for her. That, and you, Joan. I suppose I ought to hate Elizabeth, -but I can't help knowing that when she broke away there was one tentacle -more tenacious than all the rest; it clung to her until she cut it -through, and that _was_ you, who were trying unconsciously to make her a -victim of your own circumstances. - -"Joan, the thing is infectious, I tell you; it's a pestilence that -infects people one after another. Even you, who were the most generous -creature that I've ever known; the disease nearly got you unawares. If -Elizabeth hadn't gone away when she did, if she had stayed in Seabourne -for your sake, then you would have been one of them. Thank God she went! -It's horrible to know that they've victimized the thing I love, but I'd -rather you were the victim than that you should have grown to be like -the rest of them, a thing that preys on the finest instincts of others, -and sucks the very soul out of them." His voice broke suddenly, and he -let his arms drop to his sides. "And I know now that I've been loving -you for all these years," he said. "I've just been loving and loving -you." - -She stood speechless before his anger and misery, unable to defend -herself or her mother, conscious that he had spoken the bitter and -brutal truth. - -At last she said: "Don't be too hard on Mother, Richard; she's a very -old woman now." - -"I know," he answered dully. "I know she's very old; perhaps I've been -too violent. If I have you must forgive me." - -"No," she said, "you were right in everything, only one can't always -crush people because one has right on one's side." - -He stroked her arm with his strong, hard fingers, "Can't you marry me?" -he reiterated stubbornly. - -She said: "I shall never marry anyone. I'm not a woman who could ever -have married. I've never been what you'd call in love with a man in my -life; but I think if I'd been different, Richard, I should have wanted -to marry you." - - - - -3 - - -The next morning Richard Benson left Lynton, and in the course of a few -days the Ogdens returned to Leaside. - -"I don't think we'll go to Lynton again," said Mrs. Ogden fretfully. -"It's not done me any good at all, this year." - -Joan acquiesced; she felt that she never again wanted to see the place -in which so many unwelcome memories had been aroused. She sat staring -out of the window as the train neared Seabourne, and wished that Richard -had never crossed her path; all she wanted was to be left in peace. She -dreaded remembering and he had made her remember, she was afraid of -unhappiness and he had made her unhappy. - -As the familiar landmarks sped past one by one, little forgotten -incidents of her youth surged through her mind in rhythm to the glide -and jolt of the train. She pictured the Seabourne station as it used to -be before they had enlarged it, and the flower-beds and cockle-shells -that Milly had once jeered at. On the short platform stood a little army -of ghosts: the red-haired porter who had limped, and had always called -her Miss Hogden. He had been gone these ten years past, where, she did -not know. Richard, freckled and gawky, reminding you somehow of a -pleasant puppy; rather uncouth he had been in those days. Milly, small -and fragile, her yellow curls always bobbing, and Elizabeth, slim as a -larch tree, very upright and neat and quiet, her intent eyes scanning -the incoming train for a sight of Joan's face at the window. And then -herself, Joan Ogden, black-haired, grey-eyed, young; with a body all -suppleness and vigour, and a mind that could grasp and hold. She would -be leaning far out of the carriage, waving an ungloved hand. "Here I -am!" And then the meeting; the firm clasp of friendship, respect and -love; the feel of Elizabeth's signet ring cold against your fingers, and -the goodly warmth of her palm as it met your own. Ghosts, all ghosts; -ghosts of the living and the dead. Her eyelids felt hot and tingling; -she brushed the tears away angrily. Ghosts, all ghosts, every one of -them dead, to her, at all events; and she, how utterly dead she was to -herself. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT - - -1 - - -THAT winter Mrs. Ogden's prophecy came true, and influenza laid hold of -Seabourne with unexpected virulence. Mrs. Ogden was almost the first -victim. She was very ill indeed. Joan was bound to her hand and foot, -for the doctor warned her that her mother's condition was likely to be -critical for some time. "It's her heart I'm afraid of," he said. - -Curiously enough the old lady fiercely resented her invalidism. She, who -for so many years had nursed her slightest symptom, now that at last she -was really ill, showed the rebellious spirit of a young athlete deprived -of his normal activities, and Joan's task in nursing her grew daily more -arduous. She flagged under the constant strain of trying to pacify her -turbulent patient, to whom any excitement might be dangerous. All -household worries must be kept from her mother; incredibly difficult -when a house was as badly constructed as Leaside. The front door could -not open without Mrs. Ogden hearing it and inquiring the cause, and very -little could go on in the kitchen that she was not somehow aware of. - -At this most inappropriate moment Joan herself got influenza, but the -attack seemed so mild that she refused to go to bed. The consequences of -keeping about were disastrous, and she found herself weak to the verge -of tears. The veins in her legs began to trouble her seriously; she -could no longer go up and down stairs without pain. This terrified her, -and in a chastened mood she consulted the doctor. He examined the veins, -and with all the light-hearted inconsequence of his kind prescribed long -and constant periods of rest. Joan must lie down for two hours after -luncheon and again after dinner; must avoid stairs and, above all, must -never stand about. - -One of the most pressing problems was Mrs. Ogden's digestion; always -erratic, it was now submerged in a variety of gastric disturbances -brought on by the influenza. There was so little that she could eat with -impunity that catering became increasingly difficult, the more so as for -the first time in her life she evinced a great interest in food. If the -servant made her Benger's she refused to drink it, complaining of its -consistency, which she described as "Billstickers' paste." In the end -Joan found herself preparing everything her mother ate. - -She grew dully methodical, keeping little time-sheets: "Minced chicken 1 -P.M. Medicine 3 P.M. Hot milk and biscuits 5 P.M. Benger's 9 P.M." Her -days were divided into washing, dressing, feeding, undressing and -generally ministering to the patient. - -About this time she read in the paper the announcement of Richard -Benson's engagement, and a few days later saw a picture of him in the -_Bystander_, together with his future bride. The girl Richard was to -marry was scarcely more than a child; a wide-eyed, pretty creature with -a mass of soft hair, and the meaningless smile which the young assume in -obedience to the fashionable photographer. Joan gazed at the picture in -astonishment, and then at her own reflection in the glass. Richard had -not waited long to find a mate, after his final proposal at Lynton. It -was so characteristic of him to have waited twenty years, and then to -have made up his mind in a few months. She felt no resentment, no tinge -of hurt vanity; she was glad he was going to marry, her sense of justice -told her that it was fitting and right. With this marriage of his the -last link with her own past life would be snapped, and she was content -to let it be so. - -She wondered if she should write and congratulate him, but decided that -she had better not. Her intuition told her that he, too, might want to -wipe out the past, and that even her humble letter of friendship would -probably come as an unwelcome reminder. She thought of him a great deal, -analysing her own feelings, but although she recognized that her -thoughts were kindly, tender even, she could not trace in them the -slightest shadow of regret. Richard was a fine man, a successful man; he -had made good where others had failed; but to her he was just Richard, -as he had always been. - -She was astonished at the scant show of interest which Mrs. Ogden -evinced in the event. She had expected that nothing else would be talked -about for at least a week, and had been prepared for a considerable -amount of sarcasm; but her mother scarcely spoke of the engagement -beyond remarking on the disparity of age between the bride and -bridegroom. Joan felt surprised, but failed to attach much importance to -the incident, until it was repeated with regard to other things. It -began to be borne in on her that a change was coming over her mother, -that she was growing less fussy, less exacting, less interested in what -went on around her, and as the weeks went by she was perplexed to find -that a household disturbance, which would formerly most certainly have -agitated Mrs. Ogden almost past endurance, now aroused no anxiety, not -even much curiosity. - -She would sit idle for hours, with her hands in her lap; she seemed at -last to be growing resigned to her life of restricted activity. Joan -thought that this was nothing more than a natural consequence of old age -imposing itself on her mother's brain, as it had long been doing on her -body. In many ways she found this new phase a relief, lessening as it -did the strain that had gone near to breaking her. - -The canary grew tamer with the old lady, perching on her shoulder and -taking food from her lips. These marks of Bobbie's esteem delighted Mrs. -Ogden; in fact he seemed to be the only creature now who could rouse her -to much show of interest; she played happily with him while Joan cleaned -his cage, and at night insisted on having it on a chair by her bed so -that she could be the one to uncover him in the morning. - -The days grew very peaceful at Leaside. Joan seldom went beyond the -front door, except to buy food; walking made her legs ache, and in any -case she didn't care to leave her mother for long. Father Cuthbert came -and went as he had done for years past, but now Mrs. Ogden showed no -pleasure at his visits. While he was there she listened quietly to what -he said, or appeared to do so, but when he left she no longer expatiated -on his merits to Joan, but just sat on with folded hands and apparently -forgot him. - -The doctor's bill came in; it was very high and likely to get higher. -Joan felt that some of it must be paid off at once, so she sold the -Indian silver. Major Boyle, who loved a depressing errand, volunteered -to take it to a firm in London, and was able to shake his head -mournfully over the small amount it realized. - -"He's missed his vocation," thought Joan irritably, "he ought to have -been a mute at funerals." - -She dreaded the moment when her mother would miss the silver from the -sideboard, and begin to ask questions; but three days elapsed before -Mrs. Ogden noticed the empty spaces. When she did so, and Joan told her -the truth, she only sighed, and nodded slowly. "Oh, well!" was all she -said. - -The sale of the silver did not realize nearly enough to meet the bills -which had been accumulating. Everything cost so much these days, even -simple necessities, and when to these were added all the extras in food -and fires that her mother's health required, Joan awoke to the fact that -they were living beyond their meagre income. She considered the -advisability of dismissing the servant, as her mother had once done; but -at the thought of all that this would entail, her heart utterly failed -her. The girl's wages were at least double what they would have been -prior to the war, and she expected to eat meat three times a day; but -she was a pleasant, willing creature to have about the house, and Joan -decided that she must stay. - -A kind of recklessness seized her; it seemed so useless to try and make -ends meet, with reduced dividends and abnormal taxes, and then she was -so terribly tired. Her tiredness had become like physical pain, it -enveloped her and prevented sleep. She did the simplest things with a -feeling of reluctance, dragging her body after her like a corpse to -which she was attached. If there was not enough money for immediate -necessities, why then they must sell out a little capital. She feared -opposition from her mother, but decided that the time had arrived when -desperate straits required desperate remedies, so broached the subject -without preliminaries. - -"Mother, we're behindhand with the bills, and we can't very well -overdraw again at the bank." - -Mrs. Ogden looked up with dim, brown eyes. "Are we, dear?" she said -indifferently. - -"Yes, the doctor's bill cripples us most, and then there are others, but -his is the worst." - -"It would be," sighed Mrs. Ogden. - -"Listen, Mother, I'm afraid we must sell a little of Milly's and my -capital; not much, you know, but just enough to get us straight. Perhaps -when things get cheaper, later on, we may be able to put it back." - -"My pension used to be enough, with the other money; why isn't it now, -do you think?" - -Joan sighed impatiently. "Because it's worth about half what it was. -Have you forgotten the war?" - -"No, that terrible war! Still, to sell capital--isn't that very wrong, -Joan?" - -"It may be wrong, but we've got to do it; things may be easier next -year." - -Mrs. Ogden offered no further opposition and the stocks and shares were -sold. Like the Indian silver, they realized much less than Joan -expected. But poor as were the results of the sacrifice, when the -gilt-edged securities were translated into cash, Joan felt that the sum -she deposited at the bank gave a moment's respite to her tired brain. -She refused to consider the future. - - - - -2 - - -In June Mrs. Ogden died quietly in her sleep. Joan found her dead one -morning, when she went in to call her as usual. She stood and stared -incredulously at the pale, calm face on the pillow; a face that seemed -to belong to a much younger woman. She turned away and lowered the blind -gently, then went downstairs in search of the servant. A great hush -enveloped the house, and the queer sense of awe that accompanies death -had stolen in during the night and now lay over everything. Joan pushed -open the kitchen door; here, at all events, some of the old familiarity -remained. The sun was streaming in at the uncurtained window and the -sound of hissing came from the stove, where the maid was frying -sausages. - -Joan said: "Go for the doctor at once, will you? My mother died in the -night." - -The girl dropped her fork into the frying-pan and swung round with -frightened eyes. "Oh, Lor'!" she gasped, beginning to whimper. - -But for the first time in her life, Joan had fainted. - - - - -CHAPTER FORTY-NINE - - -1 - - -JOAN sat alone in the dismantled drawing-room. All around her lay the -wreckage and driftwood of years. The drawers of her mother's bureau -stood open and in disorder; an incredible mass of discoloured letters, -old bills, clippings from bygone periodicals, and little hidden -treasures put away for safety and forgotten. - -On the floor, with its face to the wall, stood the engraving of Admiral -Sir William Routledge, with the dust thick on its back. - -"And we had a thorough spring clean last April," Joan thought -inconsequently. - -The admiral's coat and other trophies lay in a neat heap on the Nelson -chair, ready for Aunt Ann to take away with her. The poor little -everyday tragedy of denuded walls enclosed Joan on all four sides; faded -paper, bent nails, dirty streaks where pictures had hung. Even the -curtains had gone, and no longer hid the chipped and yellowing paint of -the window-frames and skirting. - -All over Leaside the same thing was happening. Upstairs in the bedrooms -stood half-packed trunks, the kitchen was blocked with wooden cases. The -suggestive smell of the Furniture Depository hung in the atmosphere, -pervading everything, creeping up from the packing-cases with their -dusty straw and the canvas covers that strewed the passages. Muddy boots -had left their marks on the linoleum in the hall, and the globe on the -gas-bracket by the front door had had a hole knocked in it by a -carelessly carried case. - -Joan looked at the relics of Admiral Sir William and wondered how Aunt -Ann meant to pack them; would they all go in her trunk? The engraving -would certainly be too large; would she insist on taking it into the -railway carriage with her? She got up and touched the sleeve of the -discoloured old coat and found to her surprise that a tear had fallen on -her hand. What was she crying about? Surely not at parting with these -ridiculous things! Then what was she crying about? She did not know. - -Perhaps the house was infecting her with its own sadness, even a Leaside -might be capable of sadness. This meagre little house had known them for -so long; known their quarrels, their reconciliations, their ambitions, -their failures. It had known her father, her mother, her sister and -herself, and once, long ago, it had known Elizabeth. And now Joan was -the only one left, and she was going, she had to go. Nearly everything -would shortly be taken to a sale-room; that was settled, Aunt Ann had -advised it. - -"We must keep only those things that are of family interest," she had -said firmly, and Joan had agreed in view of the debts. - -Perhaps the little house was mourning the changed order, mourning the -family that it had sheltered so long, the ugly furniture from which it -was parting. The chairs and tables, now all in disarray, seemed to be -looking at Joan with reproach. After all, these things had served -faithfully for many years; she was conscious of a sense of regret as she -looked at them. "I hope they'll find good homes and be kindly treated," -she thought. - -The Bishop of Blumfield and his wife had come to Seabourne for the -funeral, and had stayed on for nearly three weeks at the new hotel. The -bishop was incredibly old; his skin had taken on a yellowish polish like -an antique ivory netsuké. Aunt Ann had disapproved of his taking so -long a journey, but he had insisted on coming; he was often inclined to -be wilful these days. Aunt Ann herself bore her years aggressively. A -tall, majestic old lady, with fierce eyes, she faced the world, her -backbone very straight. Her sister's death, while it had come as a -shock, had done little to soften the attitude of disdain with which she -now regarded her fellow beings. Mary Ogden had always been rather -despicable in her eyes, and why think her less so merely because she was -dead? But a sense of duty had kept her at Seabourne for the past three -weeks. After all, Joan was a Routledge, or half of her was, and her -future must be provided for in some way. - -Joan looked at her wrist watch, it was nearly half-past eight. Aunt Ann -had announced that she would dine at seven and come in afterwards for a -long talk. Joan guessed what this talk would be about; namely, her own -plans. What were her plans? She asked herself this for the hundredth -time since her mother's death. She must inevitably work for her living, -but what kind of work? That was the difficulty. - -All this thinking was a terrible effort--if only she had had enough -money to keep Leaside, she felt that she would never have left it. She -would gladly have lived on there alone, just she and Bobbie; yes, she -was actually regretting Leaside. After all, Seabourne was comfortably -familiar, and in consequence easy. She shrank with nervous apprehension -from any change. New places, new people, a new manner of life, noise, -hurry, confusion; she pressed her hand to her head and took up the -_Morning Post_ as she had already done many times that day. - -The situations vacant were few indeed, compared with those wanted. And -how much seemed to be expected of everyone nowadays! Governesses, for -instance, must have a degree, and nearly all must play the piano and -teach modern languages. Private secretaries, typists, book-keepers, -farmers, chauffeurs; their accomplishments seemed endless. - -"Typist. Used to all the well-known makes of typewriter; good speed, -fair knowledge of foreign languages, shorthand." - -"Book-keeper seeks situation in hotel or business house; long -experience." - -"University woman, as secretary-companion; speaks French, German, -Italian, used to travelling, can drive car." - -"Young woman requires situation in country. Experience with remounts -during war, assist small farm or dairy, entire charge of kennels, -sporting or other breeds, or work under stud groom in hunting stables." - -"Lady chauffeur-mechanic, disengaged now, excellent personal references, -clean licence. Three years' war service driving motor ambulance France -and Belgium; undertake all running repairs, any make car." - -Joan laid down the paper. No, she was utterly incapable of doing any of -these things; incapable, it seemed, of filling any position of trust. -She had been brilliant once, but it had led to nothing; people would not -be interested in what she might have become. She supposed she could go -into a shop, but what shop? They liked young, sprack women to stand -behind counters, not grey-haired novices of forty-five; and besides, -there were her varicose veins. - - - - -2 - - -The door-bell rang and Aunt Ann walked in. Behind her, leaning on an -ebony stick, came the little old Bishop of Blumfield. Aunt Ann sat down -with an air of determination and motioned the bishop to a chair. - -"No, thank you; I prefer to stand up," he said stubbornly. His wife -shrugged her shoulders and turned to Joan. - -"It's time we had a serious talk," she said. "The first thing, my dear, -is how much have you got to live on?" - -"Rather less than fifty pounds a year. You see we had to sell out some -capital and mother's pension died with her." - -Aunt Ann sniffed disapprovingly. "It's never wise to tamper with -capital, but I suppose it was inevitable; in any case what's done is -done. You can't live on fifty pounds a year, I hope you realize." - -"No, of course not," Joan agreed. "I shall have to find work of some -kind, but there seem to be more applicants than posts, as far as I can -see; and then I'm not up to the modern standard, people want a lot for -their money these days." - -"I cannot imagine," piped the bishop in his thin, old voice, "I cannot -imagine, Ann, why Joan should not live with us; she could make herself -useful to you about the house, and besides, I should like to have her." - -His wife frowned at him. "Good gracious, Oswald, what an unpractical -suggestion! I'm sure Joan wouldn't like it at all; she'd feel that she -was living on charity. I should, in her place; the Routledges have -always been very independent, high-spirited people." - -Joan flushed. "Thank you awfully, Uncle Oswald, for wanting me, but I -don't think it would do," she said hastily. - -"Of course not," Aunt Ann agreed. "Now, the point is, Joan, have you got -anything in view?" - -During the pause that ensued Joan racked her brain for some dignified -and convincing reply. It seemed incredible to her that she had not got -anything in view, that out of all the innumerable advertisements she had -been unable to find one that seemed really suitable. Her aunt's eyes -were scanning her face with curiosity. - -"I thought you were always considered the clever one," she remarked. - -Joan laughed rather bitterly. "That was centuries ago, Aunt Ann. The -world has progressed since then." - -"Do you mean to say that you feel unfitted for any of the careers now -open to women?" inquired her aunt incredulously. - -"That's precisely what I do feel. You see one needs experience or a -business education for most things, and if you're going to teach, of -course you must have a degree. I've neither the time nor the money to -begin all over again at forty-five." - -Mrs. Blane settled herself more comfortably in her chair. "This requires -thought," she murmured. - -"There's just a faint chance that I might get taken on at a shop," Joan -told her. "But I'm rather old for that too, and there's the standing." - -"A _shop_?" gasped her aunt, with real horror in her voice. "You think -of going into a _shop_, Joan?" - -"Well, one must do something, Aunt Ann; beggars can't be choosers." - -"But, my dear--a Routledge--a shop? Oh, no, it's impossible; besides -it's out of the question for us that you should do such a thing. What -would it look like, for a man in your uncle's position to have a niece -serving in a shop! What would people say? You must consider other -people's feelings a little, Joan." - -But at this point Joan's temper deserted her. "I don't care a damn about -other people's feelings!" she said rudely. "It's my varicose veins I'm -thinking of." - -The bishop gave a low, hoarse chuckle. "Bravo! she's quite right," he -said delightedly. "Her veins are much more important to her than we are; -and why shouldn't they be, I'd like to know! Even a Routledge is -occasionally heir to the common ills of mankind, my dear." - -His eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement and malice. "In your place, -Joan, I'd do whatever I thought best for myself. Being a Routledge won't -put butter on your bread, whatever your aunt may say." - -His wife waved him aside. "I've been thinking of something, Joan," she -said. "Your future has been very much on my mind lately, and in case you -had nothing in view, I took steps on your behalf the other day that I -think may prove to be useful. Did your mother ever mention our cousin -Rupert Routledge to you?" Joan nodded. "Well, then, you know, I suppose, -that he's an invalid. He's unmarried and quite well off, and what is -more to the point, his companion, that is, the lady who looked after -him, has just left to take care of her father, who's ill. Rupert's -doctor wrote to me to know if I could find someone to take her place, -and of course I thought of you at once, but I didn't mention this before -in case you had anything in your own mind. You're used to illness, and -the salary is really excellent; a hundred a year." - -"He's not an invalid," piped the bishop eagerly. "He's as strong as a -horse and as mad as a hatter! Don't you go, Joan!" - -"Oswald!" admonished Mrs. Blane. - -But the bishop would not be silenced, "He's mad, you know he's mad; he's -sixty-five, and he thinks he's six. He showed me his toys the last time -I saw him, and cried because he wasn't allowed to float his boat in the -bath!" - -Mrs. Blane flushed darkly. "There is not and never was any insanity in -our family, Oswald. Rupert's a little eccentric, perhaps, but good -gracious me, most people are nowadays!" - -The bishop stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a very good imitation -of a schoolboy whistle. - -Mrs. Blane turned to Joan: "He was dropped on his head when he was a -baby, I believe, and undoubtedly that stopped his development, poor -fellow. But to say that he's mad is perfectly ridiculous; he's a little -childish, that's all. I can't myself see that he's very much odder than -many other people are since the war. In any case, my dear, it would be a -very comfortable home; you would have the entire management of -everything. There are excellent old servants and the house is large and -very convenient. If I remember rightly there's a charming garden. Not to -put too fine a point on it, Joan, it seems to me that you have no -alternative to accepting some post of this kind as you don't feel fitted -to undertake more skilled work. And of course I should feel much happier -about you if I knew that you were living with a member of the family." - -Joan looked into the fire. "Where does he live?" she inquired. - -Mrs. Blane fished in her bag. "Ah, here it is. I've written the address -down for you, in case you should need it." - -Joan took the slip of paper. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, -Sussex," she read. - -"I've already written to Doctor Campbell about you," said Mrs. Blane, -with a slight note of nervousness in her voice. She paused, but as Joan -made no reply she went on hastily: "I got his answer only this morning, -and it was most satisfactory; he says he'll keep the post open for you -for a fortnight." - -Joan looked up. "Yes, I see; thank you, Aunt Ann, it's very good of you. -I may think it over for a fortnight, you say?" - -"Yes, Joan, but don't lose it. A hundred a year is not picked up under -gooseberry bushes, remember." - -"He's mad, mad, mad!" murmured the bishop in a monotonous undertone, -"and occasionally he's very unmanageable." - -Mrs. Blane raised her eyebrows and shook her head slightly at Joan. -"Don't pay any attention to your uncle," she whispered. "He's overtired -and he gets confused." - - - - -3 - - -When they had gone Joan took the paper from her pocket and studied the -address again. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, Sussex." -Blintcombe! She felt that she already knew every street, and every house -in the place. There would certainly be "The Laurels," "The Nook" and -"Hiawatha" in addition to "The Pines." There would be "Marine Parade," -"Belview Terrace," and probably "Alexandra Road" in addition to "Seaview -Avenue." There would be a pier, a cinema, a skating-rink, a band and a -swimming-bath. There would be the usual seats surrounded by glass along -the esplanade, in which the usual invalids incubated their germs or -sunned themselves like sickly plants in greenhouses, and of course very -many bath chairs drawn by as many old men. In fact, it would be just -Seabourne under a new name, with Cousin Rupert to take care of instead -of her mother. - -She sprang up. "I won't go!" she exclaimed aloud. "I won't, I _won't_!" - -But even as she said it she sighed, because her legs ached. She stood -still in the middle of the room, and stooping down, touched the swollen -veins gingerly. The feel of them alarmed her as it always did, and her -flare of resolution died out. - -A great sense of self-pity came over her, bringing with it a crowd of -regrets. She looked about at all the familiar objects and began -remembering. How desolate the room was. It had not always been like -this. Her mind travelled back over the years to the last Anniversary Day -that Leaside had known. Candles and flowers had lent charm to the room, -yes, charm; she actually thought now that the drawing-room had looked -charming then by comparison. That was the occasion, she remembered, when -her mother had worn a dove-grey dress, and Elizabeth, all in green, had -reminded her of a larch tree. Elizabeth, all in green! She always -remembered her like that. Why always in that particular dress? Elizabeth -had looked so young and vital in that dress. Perhaps it had been -symbolical of growth, of fulfilment; but if so it had been a lying -symbol, for the fulfilment had not come. And yet Elizabeth had believed -in her up to the very last. It was a blessed thing to have someone to -believe in you; it helped you to believe in yourself. She knew that -now--but Elizabeth was married, she was leagues away in Cape Town; she -had forgotten Joan Ogden, who had failed her so utterly in the end. Oh, -well---- - -She sat down at her mother's desk and began to write: - - -"DEAR DOCTOR CAMPBELL, - - "My aunt, Mrs. Blane, tells me----" - - -Then she tore up the letter. "I can't decide to-night," she thought. -"I'm too dead tired to think." - - - - -CHAPTER FIFTY - - -1 - - -JOAN got out of the cab. In her hand she gripped a birdcage, containing -Bobbie, well muffled for the journey. - -"That's the 'ouse, miss," said the driver, pointing with his whip. - -A large gate painted and grained, with "The Pines" in bold black -lettering across it. She pushed it open and walked up the drive. -Speckled laurels and rhododendrons, now damp and dripping, flanked her -on either hand. The yellow gravel was soggy and ill-kept, with grass and -moss growing over it. At a bend in the drive the house came into view; a -large three-storied building of the Victorian era, with a wide lawn in -front, and a porch with Corinthian columns. The house had once had the -misfortune to be painted all over, and now presented the mournful -appearance of neglected and peeling paint. As Joan rang the bell she got -the impression of a great number of inadequate sash windows, curtained -in a dull shade of maroon. - -A middle-aged maid-servant opened the door. "Miss Ogden?" she inquired, -before Joan had time to speak. - -"Yes, I'm Miss Ogden. Do you think my luggage could be brought in, -please?" - -"That cabby should have driven up to the door," grumbled the woman. "And -he knows it, too; they're that lazy!" - -She left Joan standing in the hall while she lifted her skirts and -stepped gingerly down the drive. Joan looked about her, still clutching -the cage. The impression of maroon persisted here; it was everywhere: in -the carpet, the leather chairs, the wallpaper. Even the stained-glass -fanlight over the front door took up the prevailing tone. The house had -its characteristic smell, too; all houses had. Glory Point, she -remembered, had smelt of tar, fresh paint and brass polish; the Rodneys' -house had smelt of Ralph's musty law books. Leaside had smelt of -newspapers, cooking, and for many years of her father's pipes. But this -house, what was it it smelt of? She decided that it smelt of old people. - -The servant came back, followed by a now surly cabby, carrying a trunk. - -"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, miss," she said less austerely. - -A door opened at the far end of the hall, and a pleasant-looking old -woman came forward. Her blue print dress and large apron were -reassuringly clean, and she smiled affably at Joan. She spoke in the -loud sing-song voice of the midlands. "I'm the cook-housekeeper; Keith's -my name," she drawled. "I don't know why you've been left standin' like -this, miss. I says to 'er, I says, 'Now you be sure an' ask her into the -drawing-room when 'er comes, and let me know at once!' But Mary, 'er be -that queer, some days." - -"Oh, it's all right," said Joan, tactfully. "She had to go and see about -my luggage." - -"Very impolite, I calls it; Mary should know better. Please to step this -way." - -Joan followed her into a large, cold room, evidently seldom used, for -the blinds were down and the furniture in linen covers. - -"And I says to 'er, 'Mind you 'ave the blinds up and all,' and now just -look at this!" grumbled Mrs. Keith, as she struggled with a cord at one -of the windows. "And now, miss," she continued, turning to Joan, "since -you're new to us and we're new to you, I'd better tell you about the -master. He's a little queer like, childish, as no doubt you've heard. -But he's very gentle and quiet some days, and if as how you find him -troublesome at first, please just come to I. He knows I and he be good -with I. And when you goes in to him first, mind to take notice of his -toys, if he asks you; he be just a great baby, although he's a -grey-haired man, and his toys is all the world to him. After you've been -introduced to him, you come downstairs and I'll explain about his diet -and all his little fancies. He's a poor, afflicted gentleman, but we're -all very fond on 'im. I've been here for thirty-five years, and I hope -you'll stay as long, miss, if I may say so. And now I'll show you your -room." - -They mounted the sombre staircase to a fair-sized bedroom on the first -floor. - -"I'll be waiting for you on the landing, to take you to Master Rupert -when you're ready," said Mrs. Keith as she closed the door. - -Joan put Bobbie's cage down on the chest of drawers and took off his -cover. "My dear little yellow bird," she murmured caressingly, "we must -keep you out of the draught!" - -She took off her hat and washed her hands. Going to her bag she found a -comb and hastily tidied her hair. - -"I'm quite ready, Mrs. Keith," she said, rejoining the housekeeper. - -The old woman opened a door a little way down the passage. "This be his -nursery," she whispered. - -The room was long and unexpectedly light, having three large windows; -but it struck Joan with a little shock of pity that they were barred -along the lower half, just as the window had been in the old bedroom at -Leaside when she and Milly were venturesome little children. In front of -the fire stood a tall nursery guard. - -"Here's the kind lady, Master Rupert; 'er what I told you about." - -A large, shabby man, with a full grey beard and a mane of hair, was -kneeling in front of an open cupboard. As Joan came forward he looked -round piteously. - -"I've lost my dolly, my best dolly," he whimpered. "You haven't hidden -my dolly, have you?" - -"Now, now, Master Rupert!" said Mrs. Keith sharply. "This is Miss Ogden, -what's come here to look after you; come and say 'How do you do' to her, -at once." - -The big, untidy man stood up. He eyed Joan with suspicion, fingering his -beard. "I don't like _you_," he said thoughtfully, "I don't like you at -all. Go away, please; I believe you've hidden my dolly." - -"Can't I help you to look for her?" Joan suggested. "What's this one; is -this the dolly?" she added, retrieving a dilapidated wax doll from under -a chair. - -"_That's_ my dolly!" cried the man in a tone of rapture. "That's my -dear, darling dolly! Isn't she beautiful?" And he hugged the doll to his -bosom. - -"Say 'Thank you,' Master Rupert," admonished Mrs. Keith. - -But the man looked sulky. "I shan't thank her; she hid my dolly. I know -she did!" - -"Oh, you must thank her, Master Rupert. It was her who _found_ your -dolly for you. Come now, be good!" - -But the patient stamped his foot. "Take her away!" he ordered -peremptorily. "I don't like her hair." - -"Come downstairs," murmured Mrs. Keith, pushing Joan gently out of the -room. "He'll be all right next time he sees you; you be strange to him -just at first, but presently he'll love you dearly, I expects." - - - - -2 - - -In the housekeeper's room the old woman became expansive. Obviously -nervous lest the patient had made a bad impression, she tried clumsily -to correct it by entertaining Joan with details about her predecessors, -of whom Mrs. Keith had apparently known four. Seated in the worn -arm-chair by the fire, Joan listened silently to this depressing -recital. - -At last Mrs. Keith came to Joan's immediate predecessor, Miss King, who -had stayed for twenty years. She had been such a pretty lady when she -first arrived, yellow-haired and all smiles. She had only taken the post -to help her family of little brothers and sisters. But when they were -all grown up and no longer in such pressing need of help, Miss King had -still stayed on, because, as she said, she had grown used to it, -somehow, and didn't feel that she could make a change after all those -years. Master Rupert had loved her dearly, for she had understood all -his little ways and had played with him for hours. She used to read -aloud to him too. He liked fairy stories best, after "Robinson Crusoe"; -Miss Ogden would find that he was never tired of "Robinson Crusoe," it -would be a good book for her to start reading to him. - -Master Rupert used to beg to have his little bed put in Miss King's -room, he was so afraid of the dark. But of course she couldn't consent -to this, for he was a full grown man, after all, though he didn't know -it, "Poor afflicted gentleman, being all innocent like." When Miss King -had had to go in the end, she had been very unhappy at leaving. But her -old father had become bedridden by that time, so her family had sent for -her to look after him. - -"Hard, I calls it," said Mrs. Keith, "for her to have to go home for -that, after all the years of toiling with Master Rupert; but then you -see, miss, her was a spinster like, and so the others thought as how her -was the one to do it." - -From the discussion of Joan's predecessors, Mrs. Keith went on to speak -of Master Rupert himself. She explained that his mind had only grown up -to the age of six. "Retarded something or other," she said the doctor -called it. His parents had died when he was twelve, and his guardian, -not knowing what to do with him, had sent him to a home for deficient -children. But after a time he had grown too old to remain there, and so, -as he had been left quite well off, poor gentleman, his trustees had -bought "The Pines" for him to live in, and there he had lived ever -since. - -Mrs. Keith explained at some length the daily routine that Joan must -follow, and went into the minutest details regarding the patient's menu. - -"He do be greedy, a bit," she remarked apologetically. "Them as is -mentally afflicted often is, the doctor says. The way he eats would -surprise you, considering how little exercise he takes! But his stomach -is that weak, and he's given to vomiting something awful if I'se not -careful what he gets; so the doctor, 'e says to me, 'e says, 'Better -give him light meals in between times,' 'e says, 'so as to fill him up, -like.' He's a poor afflicted gentleman," she repeated once more, with -real regret in her voice. "But he'll be all right with you, miss, never -fear; I knows 'im and he's that fond of I, it's touching. You see, miss, -I'se known 'im for thirty-five years." - -"If I want advice I shall certainly come to you, Mrs. Keith," Joan told -her gratefully. "But I expect I'll get on all right, as you say." - -She felt very tired after the journey and longed painfully to lie down -and rest. Her brain seemed muddled and she was so afraid she might -forget something. - -"Was it Benger's at eleven and beef-tea at four, or the other way -round?" she asked anxiously. - -"It were the other way round, miss; don't you think you'd better write -it down?" - -"Perhaps I had," Joan agreed, fishing in her jacket pocket for her -little notebook. - -"Now, then," she said, trying hard to speak brightly. "Now then, Mrs. -Keith, we'd better make a list. Hot milk coloured with coffee, that's -when he wakes up, I understand; then beef-tea at eleven o'clock, and his -cough mixture at twelve-thirty. He has Benger's at tea-time and again -before going to bed. Oh, I shall soon get into it all, I expect. I'm -used to invalids, you see." - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNLIT LAMP *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The unlit lamp</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69137]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNLIT LAMP ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/unlit_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/unlit_frontispiece.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h1>THE UNLIT LAMP</h1> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>By</h4> - -<h2>RADCLYFFE HALL</h2> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><i>Author of<br /> -"Poems of the Past and Present," "Songs of Three Counties<br /> -and other Poems," "The Forgotten Island,"<br /> -"The Forge.</i>"</h4> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i28">"And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost</span><br /> -<span class="i28">Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin."</span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i32">"<i>The Statue and the Bust</i>"</span><br /> -<span class="i34">(<i>Browning</i>).</span> -</div></div> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - - -<h3>CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD</h3> - -<h4>London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne</h4> - -<p><br /><br /></p> - -<h5>First Published 1924</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="nind"> -<a href="#BOOK_I"><i>BOOK I</i></a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap01">ONE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap02">TWO</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap03">THREE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap04">FOUR</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap05">FIVE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap06">SIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap07">SEVEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap08">EIGHT</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap09">NINE</a><br /> -<a href="#BOOK_II"><i>BOOK II</i></a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap10">TEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap11">ELEVEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap12">TWELVE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap13">THIRTEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap14">FOURTEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap15">FIFTEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap16">SIXTEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap17">SEVENTEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap18">EIGHTEEN</a><br /> -<a href="#BOOK_III"><i>BOOK III</i></a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap19">NINETEEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap20">TWENTY</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap21">TWENTY-ONE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap22">TWENTY-TWO</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap23">TWENTY-THREE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap24">TWENTY-FOUR</a><br /> -<a href="#BOOK_IV"><i>BOOK IV</i></a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap25">TWENTY-FIVE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap26">TWENTY-SIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap27">TWENTY-SEVEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap28">TWENTY-EIGHT</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap29">TWENTY-NINE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap30">THIRTY</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap31">THIRTY-ONE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap32">THIRTY-TWO</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap33">THIRTY-THREE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap34">THIRTY-FOUR</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap35">THIRTY-FIVE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap36">THIRTY-SIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap37">THIRTY-SEVEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap38">THIRTY-EIGHT</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap39">THIRTY-NINE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap40">FORTY</a><br /> -<a href="#BOOK_V"><i>BOOK V</i></a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap41">FORTY-ONE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap42">FORTY-TWO</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap43">FORTY-THREE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap44">FORTY-FOUR</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap45">FORTY-FIVE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap46">FORTY-SIX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap47">FORTY-SEVEN</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap48">FORTY-EIGHT</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap49">FORTY-NINE</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#chap50">FIFTY</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="center">To</p> - -<p class="center"> -MABEL VERONICA BATTEN<br /> -in deep affection, gratitude<br /> -and respect.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p class="center"> -<i>All the Characters represented in<br /> -this book are purely imaginary.</i></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h3>THE UNLIT LAMP</h3> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_I"><i>BOOK I</i></a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap01"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER ONE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE dining-room at Leaside was also Colonel -Ogden's study. It contained, in addition to the mahogany sideboard with -ornamental brackets at the back, the three-tier dumb waiter and the -dining-table with chairs <i>en suite</i>, a large roll-top desk much -battered and ink-stained, and bleached by the suns of many Indian -summers. There was also a leather arm-chair with a depression in the -seat, a pipe-rack and some tins of tobacco. All of which gave one to -understand that the presence of the master of the house brooded -continually over the family meals and over the room itself in the -intervals between. And lest this should be doubted, there was Colonel -Ogden's photograph in uniform that hung over the fireplace; an -enlargement showing the colonel seated in a tent at his writing-table, -his native servant at his elbow. The colonel's face looked sternly into -the camera, his pen was poised for the final word, authority -personified. The smell of the colonel's pipes, past and present, hung in -the air, and together with the general suggestion of food and -newspapers, produced an odour that became the very spirit of the room. -In after years the children had only to close their eyes and think of -their father to recapture the smell of the dining-room at Leaside. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. He pushed back -his chair from the breakfast table, a signal for the family to have done -with eating. -</p> -<p> -He sank into his arm-chair with a sigh; he was fifty-five and somewhat -stout. His small, twinkling eyes scanned the columns of <i>The Times</i> as -if in search of something to pounce on. Presently he had it. -</p> -<p> -"Mary." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, dear." -</p> -<p> -"Have you seen this advertisement of the Army and Navy?" -</p> -<p> -"Which one, dear?" -</p> -<p> -"The provision department. Surely we are paying more than this for -bacon?" -</p> -<p> -He extended the paper towards his wife; his hand shook a little, his -face became very slightly suffused. Mrs. Ogden glanced at the paper; -then she lied quickly. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, my love, ours is twopence cheaper." -</p> -<p> -"Oh!" said Colonel Ogden. "Kindly ring the bell." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden obeyed. She was a small woman, pale and pensive looking; her -neat hair, well netted, was touched with grey, her soft brown eyes were -large and appealing, but there were lines about her mouth that suggested -something different, irritable lines that drew the corners of the lips -down a little. The maid came in; Colonel Ogden smiled coldly. "The -grocer's book, please," he said. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden quailed; it was unfortunately the one day of all the seven -when the grocer's book would be in the house. -</p> -<p> -"What for, James?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden caught the nervous tremor in her voice, and his smile -deepened. He did not answer, and presently the servant returned book in -hand. Colonel Ogden took it, and with the precision born of long -practice turned up the required entry. -</p> -<p> -"Mary! Be good enough to examine this item." -</p> -<p> -She did so and was silent. -</p> -<p> -"If," said Colonel Ogden in a bitter voice, "if you took a little more -trouble, Mary, to consider my interests, if you took the trouble to -ascertain what we <i>are</i> paying for things, there would be less for -me to worry about, less waste of money, less——" He gasped a -little and pressed his left side, glancing at his wife as he did so. -</p> -<p> -"Don't get excited, James, I beg; do remember your heart." -</p> -<p> -The colonel leant back in the chair. "I dislike unnecessary waste, -Mary." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, dear, of course. I wonder I didn't see that notice; I shall write -for some of their bacon to-day and countermand the piece from -Goodridge's. I'll go and do it now—or would you like me to give you -your tabloids?" -</p> -<p> -"Thanks, no," said the colonel briefly. -</p> -<p> -"Do the children disturb you? Shall they go upstairs?" -</p> -<p> -He got up heavily. "No, I'm going to the club." -</p> -<p> -Something like a sigh of relief breathed through the room; the two -children eyed each other, and Milly, the younger, made a secret face. -She was a slim child with her mother's brown eyes. Her long yellow hair -hung in curls down her back; she looked fragile and elfish; some people -thought her pretty. Colonel Ogden did; she was her father's favourite. -</p> -<p> -There were two years between the sisters; Milly was ten, Joan twelve. -They were poles apart in disposition as in appearance. Everything that -Milly felt she voiced instantly; almost everything that Joan felt she -did not voice. She was a silent, patient child as a rule, but could, -under great provocation, display a stubborn will that could not be coped -with, a reasoning power that paralysed her mother and infuriated Colonel -Ogden. It was not temper exactly; Joan was never tearful, never violent, -only coldly logical and self-assured and firm. You might lock her in her -bedroom and tell her to ask God to make her a good child, but as likely -as not she would refuse to say she was sorry in the end. Once she had -remarked that her prayers had gone unanswered, and after this she was -never again exhorted to pray for grace. -</p> -<p> -It was what she considered injustice that roused the devil in Joan. When -the cat had been turned out to fend for itself during the summer -holidays, when a servant had been dismissed at a moment's notice for -some trifling misdemeanour, these and such-like incidents, which were -fortunately of rare occurrence, had been known to produce in Joan the -mood that her mother almost feared. Then it was that Joan had spoken her -mind, and had remained impenitent until finally accorded the forgiveness -she had not asked for. -</p> -<p> -Joan was large-boned and tall for her age, lanky as a boy, with a pale -face and short black hair. Her grey eyes were not large and not at all -appealing, but they were set well apart; they were intelligent and -frank. She escaped being plain by the skin of her teeth; she would have -been plain had her face not been redeemed by a short, straight nose and -a beautiful mouth. Somehow her mouth reassured you. -</p> -<p> -They had cut her thick hair during scarlet fever, and Joan refused to -allow it to grow again. She invariably found scissors and snipped and -snipped, and Mrs. Ogden's resistance broke down at the final act of -defiance, when she was discovered hacking at her hair with a pen-knife. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -As the front door slammed behind Colonel Ogden the sisters smiled at -each other. Mrs. Ogden had gone to countermand the local bacon, and they -were alone. -</p> -<p> -"Rot!" said Joan firmly. -</p> -<p> -"What is?" asked Milly. -</p> -<p> -"The bacon row." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, how dare you!" cried Milly in a voice of rapture. "Supposing you -were heard!" -</p> -<p> -"There's no one to hear me—anyhow, it is rot!" -</p> -<p> -Milly danced. "You'll catch it if mother hears you!" Her fair curls -bobbed as she skipped round the room. -</p> -<p> -"Mind that cup," warned Joan. -</p> -<p> -But it was too late; the cup fell crashing to the floor. Just then Mrs. -Ogden came in. -</p> -<p> -"Who broke that cup?" -</p> -<p> -There was silence. -</p> -<p> -"Well?" she waited. -</p> -<p> -Milly caught Joan's eye. Joan saw the appeal in that look. -"I—I——" Milly began. -</p> -<p> -"It was my fault," said Joan calmly. -</p> -<p> -"Then you ought to be more careful, especially when you know how your -father values this breakfast set. Really it's too bad; what will he say? -What possessed you, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden put her hand up to her head wearily, glancing at Joan as she -did so. Joan was so quick to respond to the appeal of illness. Mrs. -Ogden would not have admitted to herself how much she longed for this -quick response and sympathy. She, who for years had been the giver, she -who had ministered to a man with heart disease, she who had become a -veritable reservoir of soothing phrases, solicitous actions, tabloids, -hot stoups and general restoratives. There were times, growing more -frequent of late, when she longed, yes, longed to break down utterly, to -become bedridden, to be waited upon hand and foot, to have arresting -symptoms of her own, any number of them. -</p> -<p> -India, the great vampire, had not wrecked her, for she was wiry; her -little frame could withstand what her husband's bulk had failed to -endure. Mrs. Ogden was a strong woman. She did not look robust, however; -this she knew and appreciated. Her pathetic eyes were sunken and -somewhat dim, her nose, short and straight like Joan's, looked pinched, -and her drooping mouth was pale. All this Mrs. Ogden knew, and she used -it as her stock-in-trade with her elder daughter. There were days when -the desire to produce an effect upon someone became a positive craving. -She would listen for Joan's footsteps on the stairs, and then assume an -attitude, head back against the couch, hand pressed to eyes. Sometimes -there were silent tears hastily hidden after Joan had seen, or the -short, dry cough so like her brother Henry's. Henry had died of -consumption. Then, as Joan's eyes would grow troubled, and the quick: -"Oh, Mother darling, aren't you well?" would burst from her lips, Mrs. -Ogden's conscience would smite her. But in spite of herself she would -invariably answer: "It's nothing, dearest; only my cough," or "It's only -my head, Joan; it's been very painful lately." -</p> -<p> -Then Joan's strong, young arms would comfort and soothe, and her firm -lips grope until they found her mother's; and Mrs. Ogden would feel mean -and ashamed but guiltily happy, as if a lover held her. -</p> -<p> -And so, when in addition to the fuss about the bacon, a cup of the -valued breakfast set lay shattered on the floor, Mrs. Ogden felt, on -this summer morning, that life had become overpowering and that a -headache, real or assumed, would be the relief she so badly needed. -</p> -<p> -"It's very hard," she began tremulously. "I'm quite tired out; I don't -feel able to face things to-day. I do think, my dear, that you might -have been more careful!" Tears brimmed up in her soft brown eyes and she -went hastily to the window. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, darling, don't cry." Joan was beside her in an instant. "I am -sorry, darling, look at me; I will be careful. How much will it cost? A -new one, I mean. I've still got half of Aunt Ann's birthday money; I'll -get a cup to match, only please don't cry." -</p> -<p> -The slight gruffness that was characteristic of her voice grew more -pronounced in her emotion. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden drew her daughter to her; the gesture was full of soft, -compelling strength. -</p> -<p> -"It's a shame!" -</p> -<p> -"What is, dear?" said Mrs. Ogden, suddenly attentive. -</p> -<p> -"Father!" cried Joan defiantly. -</p> -<p> -"Hush, hush, darling." -</p> -<p> -"But it is; he bullies you." -</p> -<p> -"No, dear, don't say such things; your father has a weak heart." -</p> -<p> -"But you're ill, too, and Father's heart isn't always as bad as he makes -out. This morning——" -</p> -<p> -"Hush, Joan, you mustn't. I know I'm not strong, but we must never let -him know that I sometimes feel ill." -</p> -<p> -"He ought to know it!" -</p> -<p> -"But, Joan, you were so frightened when he had that attack last -Christmas." -</p> -<p> -"That was a real one," said Joan decidedly. -</p> -<p> -"Oh well, dearest—but never mind, I'm all right again now—run -away, my lamb. Miss Rodney must have come; it's past lesson time." -</p> -<p> -"Are you sure you're all right?" said Joan doubtfully. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden leant back in the chair and gazed pensively out of the -window. "My little Joan," she murmured. -</p> -<p> -Joan trembled, a great tenderness took hold of her. She stooped and -kissed her mother's hand lingeringly. -</p> -<p> -But as the sisters stood in the hall outside, Joan looked even paler -than usual, her face was a little pinched, and there was a curious -expression in her eyes. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Joan, it was jolly of you," Milly began. -</p> -<p> -Joan pushed her roughly. "You're a poor thing, Milly." -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" -</p> -<p> -"What you are, a selfish little pig!" -</p> -<p> -"But——" -</p> -<p> -"You haven't got any guts." -</p> -<p> -"What are guts?" -</p> -<p> -"What Alice's young man says a Marine ought to have." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want them then," said Milly proudly. -</p> -<p> -"Well, you ought to want them; you never <i>do</i> own up You <i>are</i> a -poor thing!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap02"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWO -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">S</span>EABOURNE-ON-SEA was small and select. The -Ogdens' house in Seabourne was small but not particularly select, for it -had once been let out in apartments. The landlord now accepted a reduced -rent for the sake of getting the colonel and his family as tenants. He -was old-fashioned and clung to the gentry. -</p> -<p> -In 1880 the Ogdens had left India hurriedly on account of Colonel -Ogden's health. When Milly was a baby and Joan three years old, the -family had turned their backs on the pleasant luxury of Indian life. -Home they had come to England and a pension, Colonel Ogden morose and -chafing at the useless years ahead; Mrs. Ogden a pretty woman, wide-eyed -and melancholy after all the partings, especially after one parting -which her virtue would have rendered inevitable in any case. -</p> -<p> -They had gone to rooms somewhere in Bayswater; the cooking was -execrable, the house dirty. Mrs. Ogden, used to the easy Indian service -and her own comfortable bungalow, found it well-nigh impossible to make -the best of things; she fretted. That winter there had been bad fogs -which resulted in a severe heart attack for Colonel Ogden. The doctor -advised a house by the sea, and mentioned Seabourne as having a suitable -climate. The result was: Leaside, The Crescent, Seabourne. There they -had been for nearly nine years and there they were likely to remain, in -spite of Colonel Ogden's grumbling and Mrs. Ogden's nerves. For Leaside -was cheap and the air suited Colonel Ogden's heart; anyhow there was no -money to move, and nowhere in particular to go if they could move. -</p> -<p> -Of course there was Blumfield. Mrs. Ogden's sister Ann had married the -now Bishop of Blumfield, but the Blanes were, or so the Ogdens thought, -never quite sincere when they urged them to move nearer to them. They -decided not to try crumb-gathering at the rich man's table in Blumfield. -</p> -<p> -It was her children's education that now worried Mrs. Ogden most. Not -that she cared very much what they learnt; her fetish was how and where -they learnt it. She had been a Routledge before her marriage, a fact -which haunted her day and night. "Poor as rats, and silly proud as -peacocks," someone had once described them. "We Routledges"—"The -Routledges never do that"—"The Routledges never do this!" -</p> -<p> -Round and round like squirrels in a cage, treading the wheel of their -useless tradition, living beyond their limited means, occasionally -stooping to accept a Government job, but usually finding all work -<i>infra dig</i>. Living on their friends, which somehow was not -<i>infra dig.</i>, soothing their pride by recounting among themselves -and to all who would listen the deeds of valour of one Admiral Sir -William Routledge, said to have been Nelson's darling—hanging -their admiral's picture with laurel wreaths on the anniversary of some -bygone battle and never failing to ask their friends to tea on that -occasion—such were the Routledges of Chesham, and such, in spite -of many reverses, had Mary Ogden remained. -</p> -<p> -True, Chesham had been sold up, and the admiral's portrait by Romney -bought by the docile Bishop of Blumfield at the request of his wife Ann. -True, Ann and Mary had been left penniless when their father, Captain -Routledge, died of lung hæmorrhage in India. True, Ann had been glad -enough to marry her bishop, then a humble chaplain, while Mary followed -suit with Major Ogden of The Buffs. True, their brother Henry had failed -to distinguish himself in any way and had bequeathed nothing to his -family but heavy liabilities when his haemorrhage removed him in the -nick of time—true, all true, and more than true, but they were still -Routledges! And Admiral Sir William still got his laurel wreaths on the -anniversary of the battle. He had moved from the decaying walls of -Chesham to the substantial walls of the bishop's palace, and perhaps he -secretly liked the change—Ann his descendant did. In the humbler -drawing-room at Leaside he received like homage; for there, in a -conspicuous position, hung a print of the famous portrait, and every -year when the great day came round, Mary, his other descendant, -dutifully placed her smaller laurel wreath round the frame, and asked -her friends to tea as tradition demanded. -</p> -<p> -"Once a Routledge always a Routledge," Mrs. Ogden was fond of saying on -such occasions. And if the colonel happened to feel in a good temper he -would murmur, "Fine old chap, Sir William; looks well in his laurels, -Mary. Who did you say was coming in this afternoon?" But if on the other -hand his heart had been troubling him, he might turn away with a -scornful grunt. Then Mary, the ever tactless, would query, "Doesn't it -look nice then, dear?" And once, only once, the colonel had said, "Oh, -hell!" -</p> -<p> -The school at Seabourne was not for the Routledge clan, for to it went -the offspring of the local tradespeople. Colonel Ogden was inclined to -think that beggars couldn't be choosers, but Mary was firm. Weak in all -else, she was a flint when her family pride was involved, a -knight-errant bearing on high the somewhat tattered banner of Routledge. -The colonel gave way; he would always have given way before a direct -attack, but his wife had never guessed this. Even while she raised her -spiritual battle-cry she thought of his weak heart and her conscience -smote her, yet she risked even the colonel's heart on that occasion; -Joan and Milly must be educated at home. The Routledges never sent their -girls to school! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -In the end, it was Colonel Ogden who solved the difficulty. He -frequented the stiff little club house on the esplanade, and in this -most unlikely place he heard of a governess. -</p> -<p> -Every weekday morning you could see him in the window. <i>The Times</i> -held in front of him like a shield, his teeth clenched on his favourite -pipe; a truculent figure, an imperial figure, bristling with an -authority that there were now none to dispute. -</p> -<p> -Into the club would presently saunter old Admiral Bourne who lived at -Glory Point, a lonely man with a passion for breeding fancy mice. He had -a trick of pulling up short in the middle of the room, and peering over -his spectacles with his pleasant blue eyes as if in search of someone. -He was in search of someone, of some tolerant fellow member who would -not be too obviously bored at the domestic vagaries of the mice, who -constantly disappointed their owner by coming into the world the wrong -colour. If Admiral Bourne could be said to have an ambition, then that -ambition was to breed a mouse that should eclipse all previous records. -</p> -<p> -Other members would begin to collect, Sir Robert Loo of Moor Park, whose -shooting provided the only alternative to golf for the male population -of Seabourne. There was Major Boyle, languid and malarial, with a -doleful mind, especially in politics; and Mr. Pearson, the bank manager, -who had found his way into the club when its funds were alarmingly low, -and had been bitterly resented ever since. Then there was Mr. Rodney the -solicitor, and last but not least, General Brooke, Colonel Ogden's hated -rival. -</p> -<p> -General Brooke looked like Colonel Ogden, that was the trouble; they -were often mistaken for each other in the street. They were both under -middle height, stout, with grey hair and small blue eyes, they both wore -their moustaches clipped very short, and they both had auxiliary -whiskers in their ears. Added to this they both wore red neckties and -loose, light home-spuns, and they both had wives who knitted their -waistcoats from wool bought at the local shop. They both wore brown -boots with rubber studded soles, and, worst of all, they both wore brown -Homburg hats, so that their backs looked exactly alike when they were -out walking. The situation was aggravated by the fact that neither could -accuse the other of imitation. To be sure General Brooke had lived in -Seabourne eighteen months longer than Colonel Ogden and had never been -seen in any other type of garments; but then, when Colonel Ogden had -arrived in his startling replicas, his clothes had been obviously old -and had certainly been worn quite as long as the general's. -</p> -<p> -It was Mr. Rodney, the solicitor, who offered Colonel Ogden a solution -to his wife's educational difficulties. Mr. Rodney, it seemed, had a -sister just down from Cambridge. She had come to Seabourne to keep house -for him, but she wanted to get some work, and he thought she would -probably be glad to teach the Ogdens' little girls for a few hours every -day. The colonel engaged Elizabeth Rodney forthwith. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap03"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THREE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE schoolroom at Leaside was dreary. You -came through the front door into a narrow passage covered with brown -linoleum and decorated with trophies from Indian bazaars. On one side -stood a black carved wood table bearing a Benares tray used for visiting -cards, beside the table stood an elephant's foot, adapted to take -umbrellas. To your right was the drawing-room, to your left the -dining-room, facing you were the stairs carpeted in faded green -Brussels. If you continued down the passage and passed the kitchen door, -you came to the schoolroom. Leaside was a sunny house, so that the -schoolroom took you by surprise; it was an unpleasant room, always a -little damp, as the walls testified. -</p> -<p> -It was spring and the gloom of the room was somewhat dispelled by the -bright bunch of daffodils which Elizabeth had brought with her for the -table. At this table she sat with her two pupils; there was silence -except for the scratching of pens. Elizabeth Rodney leant back in her -chair; what light there was from the window slanted on to her strong -brown hair that waved persistently around her ears. Her eyes looked -inattentive, or rather as if their attention were riveted on something a -long way away; her fine, long hands were idly folded in her lap; she had -a trick of folding her hands in her lap. She was so neat that it made -you uncomfortable, so spotless that it made you feel dirty, yet there -was something in the set of her calm mouth that made you doubtful. Calm -it certainly was, and yet ... one could not help wondering.... -</p> -<p> -Just now she looked discouraged; she sighed. -</p> -<p> -"Finished!" said Joan, passing over her copy-book. Elizabeth examined -it. "That's all right." -</p> -<p> -Milly toiled, the pen blotted, tears filled her eyes, one fell and made -the blot run. -</p> -<p> -"Four and ten and fifteen and seven, that makes——" -</p> -<p> -"Thirty-six," said Elizabeth. "Now we'll go out." -</p> -<p> -They got up and put away the books. Outside, the March wind blew -briskly, the sea glared so that it hurt your eyes, and around the coast -the white cliffs curved low and distinct. -</p> -<p> -"Let's go up there," said Elizabeth, pointing to the cliffs. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, Joan!" called Mrs. Ogden from the drawing-room window, "where is -your hat?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, not to-day, Mother. I like the feel of the wind in my hair." -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense, come in and get your hat." -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed. "I suppose I must," she said. "You two go on, I'll catch -you up." She ran in and snatched a tam-o'-shanter from the hall table. -</p> -<p> -"Don't forget my knitting wool, dear." -</p> -<p> -"No, Mother, but we were going on to the downs." -</p> -<p> -"The downs to-day? Why, you'll be blown away!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, Miss Rodney and I love wind." -</p> -<p> -"Well, as you come home, then." -</p> -<p> -"All right. Good-bye, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye, darling." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan ran after the retreating figures. "Here I am," she said -breathlessly. "Is it Cone Head or the Golf Course?" -</p> -<p> -"Cone Head to-day," replied Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -There was something in her voice that attracted Joan's attention, a -decision, a kind of defiance that seemed out of place. It was as if she -had said: "I <i>will</i> go to Cone Head, I want to get out of this beastly -place, to get up above it and forget it." Joan eyed her curiously. To -Milly she was just the governess who gave you sums and always, except -when in such a mood as to-day, saw that you did them; but to Joan she -was a human being. To Milly she was "Miss Rodney," to Joan, privately at -all events, "Elizabeth." They walked on in silence. -</p> -<p> -Milly began to lag. "I'm tired to-day, let's go into the arcade." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" demanded Joan. -</p> -<p> -"Because I like the shops." -</p> -<p> -"We don't," said Joan. Milly lagged more obviously. -</p> -<p> -"Come, Milly, walk properly, please," said Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -They had passed the High Street by now and were trudging up the long -white road to Cone Head. Over the point the wind raged furiously, it -snatched at their skirts and undid Milly's curls. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! oh!" she gasped. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth laughed, but her laughter was caught up and blown away before -it could reach the children; Joan only knew that she was laughing by her -open mouth. -</p> -<p> -"It's glorious!" shouted Joan. "I want to hit it back!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth battled her way towards an overhanging rock. "Sit here," she -motioned; the rock sheltered them, and now they could hear themselves -speak. -</p> -<p> -"This is hateful," said Milly. "When I'm famous I shall never do this -sort of thing." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Miss Rodney," exclaimed Joan, "look at that sail!" -</p> -<p> -"I have been looking at it ever since we sat down—I think I should -like to be under it." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, going, going, going, you don't know and you don't care -where—just anywhere, so long as it isn't here." -</p> -<p> -"Already?" Elizabeth murmured. -</p> -<p> -"Already what?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing. Did I say already?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"Then I was thinking aloud." -</p> -<p> -She looked at the child curiously; she had taught the girls now for -about two years, yet she was not even beginning to understand Joan. -Milly was reading made easy. Delicate, spoilt by her father and entirely -self-centred; yet she was a good enough child as children go, easier far -to manage than the elder girl. Milly was not stupid either. She played -the violin astonishingly well for a girl of ten. Elizabeth knew that the -little man who taught her thought that she had genius. Milly was easy -enough, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Elizabeth suspected that -she'd always get it. Milly wanted music and more music. When she played -her face ceased to look fretful, it became attentive, animated, almost -beautiful. This then was Milly's problem, solved already; music, -applause, admiration, Elizabeth could see it all, but Joan?—Joan -intrigued her. -</p> -<p> -Joan was so quiet, so reserved, so strong. Strong, yes, that was the -right word, strong and protective. She loved stray cats and starving -dogs and fledgelings that had tumbled out of their nests, such things -made her cry; stray cats, starving dogs, fledgelings and Mrs. Ogden. -Elizabeth laughed inwardly. Mrs. Ogden was so exactly like a lost -fledgeling, with her hopeless look and her big eyes; she was also rather -like a starving dog. Elizabeth paused just here to consider. Starving, -what for? She shuddered. Had Mrs. Ogden always been so hungry? She was -positively ravenous, you could feel it about her, her hunger came at you -and made you feel embarrassed. Poor woman, poor woman, poor -Joan—why poor Joan? She was brilliant; Elizabeth sighed; she -herself had never been brilliant, only a very capable turner of sods. -Joan was quietly, persistently brilliant; no flash, no sparks, just a -steady, glowing light. Joan at twelve was a splendid pupil; she thought -too. When you could make her talk she said things that arrested. Joan -would go—where would she go? To Oxford or Cambridge probably; no -matter where she went she would made her mark—Elizabeth was proud -of Joan. She glanced at her pupil sideways and sighed again. Joan -worried her, Mrs. Ogden worried her, they worried her separately and -collectively. They were so different, so antagonistic, these two, and -yet so curiously drawn together. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth roused Joan sharply: "Come on, it's late! It's nearly tea -time." They hurried down the hill. -</p> -<p> -"I must get that wool at Spink's," said Joan. -</p> -<p> -"What wool?" -</p> -<p> -"Mother's—for her knitting." -</p> -<p> -"Won't to-morrow do?" -</p> -<p> -"No." -</p> -<p> -"But it's at the other end of the town." -</p> -<p> -"Never mind, you and Milly go home. I'll just go on and fetch it." -</p> -<p> -They parted at the front door. -</p> -<p> -"Don't be long," Elizabeth called after her. -</p> -<p> -Joan waved her hand. Half an hour later she was back with the wool. In -the hall Mrs. Ogden met her. -</p> -<p> -"My darling!" -</p> -<p> -"Here it is, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"But, my darling, it's not the same thickness!" -</p> -<p> -"Not the same——" Joan was tired. -</p> -<p> -"It won't do at all, dearest, you must ask for double Berlin." -</p> -<p> -"But I did!" -</p> -<p> -"Then they must change it. Oh, dear; and I wanted to get that waistcoat -finished and put away to-night; it only requires such a little wee bit -of wool!" Mrs. Ogden sighed. -</p> -<p> -Her face became suddenly very sad. Joan did not think that it could be -the wool that had saddened her. -</p> -<p> -"What is it, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing, Joan——" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, you're unhappy, darling; I'll go and change the wool before -lessons to-morrow." -</p> -<p> -"It's not the wool, dear, it's—— Never mind, run and get your -tea." They kissed. -</p> -<p> -In the schoolroom Joan relapsed into silence; she looked almost morose. -Her short, thick hair fell angrily over her eyes—Elizabeth watched -her covertly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap04"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FOUR -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE five months between March and August -passed uneventfully, as they always did at Seabourne. Joan was a little -taller, Milly a little fatter, Mrs. Ogden a little more nervous and -Colonel Ogden a little more breathless; nearly everything that happened -at Leaside happened "little," so Joan thought. -</p> -<p> -But on this particular August morning, the usual order was, or should -have been, reversed. One was expecting confusion, hurry and triumph, for -to-day was sacred to the memory of Admiral Sir William Routledge, -gallant officer and Nelson's darling. To-day was the day of days; it was -Mrs. Ogden's day; it was Joan's and Milly's day—a little of it might -be said to be Colonel Ogden's day, but very little. For upon this glorious -Anniversary Mrs. Ogden rose as a phoenix from its ashes. She rose, she -grew, she asserted herself, she dictated; she was Routledge. The colonel -might grunt, might sneer, might even swear; the over-worked servants -might give notice, Mrs. Ogden accepted it all with the calm indifference -befitting one whose ancestor had fought under Nelson. Oh, it was a -wonderful day! -</p> -<p> -But this year a cloud, at first no larger than a man's hand, had floated -towards Mrs. Ogden before she got up. She woke with the feeling of -elation that properly belonged to the occasion, yet the elation was not -quite perfect. What was it that oppressed her, that somehow took the -edge off the delight? She sat up in bed and thought. Ah! She had it! -Assuredly this was the longed-for Anniversary, but—it was also -Book Day, Wednesday and Book Day! Could anything be more unjust, more -unbearable? Here she had waited a whole year for this, her one moment of -triumph, and it had come on Book Day. Ruined—spoilt—utterly -spoilt and ruined—the thing she dreaded most was upon her; the -household books would be waiting on her desk to be tackled directly -after breakfast, to be gone over and added up, and then met somehow out -of an almost vanished allowance; it was scandalous! We Routledges! She -leapt out of bed. -</p> -<p> -"What the devil is it?" asked Colonel Ogden irritably. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden began to hurry. She pattered round the room like a terrier on -a scent; garments fell from her nerveless fingers, the hair-brush -clattered on to the floor. She eyed her husband in a scared way; her -conscience smote her, she had felt too tired to use proper economy last -week. The books, the books, the books, what would they come to? She -began cleaning her teeth. Colonel Ogden watched her languidly from the -bed. His red, puffy face looked ridiculous against the pillow; a little -smile lifted his moustache. She turned and saw him, and stopped with the -tooth-brush half way to her mouth. She felt suddenly disgusted and -outraged and shy. In a flash her mind took in the room. There on the -chair lay his loose, shabby garments, some of them natural coloured -Jaeger. And then his cholera belt! It hung limply suspended over the arm -of the chair, like the wraith of a concertina. On the table by his side -of the bed lay a half-smoked pipe. His bath sponge was elbowing her as -she washed; his masculine personality pervaded everything; the room -reeked of it. -</p> -<p> -She went on cleaning her teeth mechanically, taking great care to do as -her dentist bade her—up and down and then across and get the brush -well back in your mouth; that was the way to preserve your teeth. Up and -down and then across—disgusting! What she was doing was ugly and -detestable. Why should he lie in the bed and smile? Why should he be in -the bed at all—why should he be in the room at all? Why hadn't -they taken a house with an extra bedroom, or at least with a room large -enough for two beds? What was he doing there now? He ought not to be -there <i>now</i>; that sort of thing was all very well for the -young—but for people of their age! The repellent familiarities! -</p> -<p> -She gathered her dressing-gown more tightly around her; she felt like a -virgin whose privacy has suffered a rude intrusion. Turning, she made to -leave the room. -</p> -<p> -"Where are you going, Mary?" Colonel Ogden sat up. -</p> -<p> -"To have my bath." -</p> -<p> -"But I haven't shaved yet." -</p> -<p> -"You can wait until I have had <i>my</i> bath." -</p> -<p> -She heard herself and marvelled. Would the heavens fall? Would the -ground open and swallow her up? She hurried away before her courage -failed. -</p> -<p> -In the bath-room she slipped the bolt and turned the key, and sighed a -sigh of relief. Alone—she was alone. She turned on the water. A -reckless daring seized her; let the hot water run, let it run until the -bath was full to the brim; for once she would have an injuriously hot -bath; she would wallow in it, stay in it, take her time. She never got -enough hot water; now she would take it <i>all</i>—let his bath be -tepid for once, let him wait on her convenience, let him come thumping -at the door, coarse, overbearing, foolish creature! -</p> -<p> -What a life—and this was marriage! She thought of Colonel Ogden, -of his stertorous breathing, his habits; he had a way of lunging over on -to her side of the bed in his sleep, and when he woke in the morning his -face was a mass of grey stubble. Why had she never thought of all these -things before? She <i>had</i> thought of them, but somehow she had never -let the thoughts come out; now that she had ceased to sit on them they -sprang up like so many jacks-in-the-box. -</p> -<p> -And yet, after all, her James was no worse than other men; better, she -supposed, in many respects. She believed he had been faithful to her; -there was something in that. Certainly he had loved her once—if that -sort of thing was love—but that was a long time ago. As she lay -luxuriously in the brimming bath her thoughts went back. Things had been -different in India. Joan had been born in India. Joan was thirteen now; -she would soon be growing up—there were signs already. Joan so quiet, -so reserved—Joan married, a year, five years of happiness perhaps and -then this, or something very like it. Never! Joan should never marry. -Milly, yes, but she could not tolerate the thought of it for Joan. Joan -would just go on loving her; it would be the perfect relationship, -Mother and Child. -</p> -<p> -"Mary!" -</p> -<p> -"What is it?" -</p> -<p> -"Are you going to stay there all day?" The handle of the door was -rattled violently. -</p> -<p> -"Please don't do that, James; I'm still in my bath." -</p> -<p> -"The devil you are!" Colonel Ogden whistled softly. Then he remembered -the date and smiled. "Poor old Mary, such a damned snob, poor dear—oh -well! We Routledges!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Breakfast was late. How could it be otherwise? Had not Mrs. Ogden sat in -the bath for at least half an hour? There had been no hot water when at -last Colonel Ogden got into the bath-room, and a kettle had had to be -boiled. All this had taken time. Milly and Joan watched their mother -apprehensively. Joan scented a breakdown in the near offing, for Mrs. -Ogden's hands were trembling. -</p> -<p> -"Your father's breakfast, Joan; for heaven's sake ring the bell!" -</p> -<p> -Joan rang it. "The master's breakfast, Alice?" -</p> -<p> -"The kidneys aren't done." -</p> -<p> -"Why not, Alice?" -</p> -<p> -"There 'asn't been time!" -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense, make haste. The colonel will be down in a minute." -</p> -<p> -Alice banged the door, and Mrs. Ogden's eyes filled. Her courage had all -run away with the bath water. She had been through hell, she told -herself melodramatically; she had at last seen things as they were. -Thump—thump and then thump—thump—that was James putting -on his boots! Oh, where was the breakfast! Where were James's special -dishes, the kidneys and the curried eggs; what <i>was</i> Alice doing? -Thump—thump—there it was again! She clasped her hands in an -agony. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, Joan, do go and see about breakfast." -</p> -<p> -"It's all right, Mother, here it is." -</p> -<p> -"Put it on the hot plate quickly—now the toast. Children, make -your father's toast—don't burn it whatever you do!" -Thump—thump—thump—that was three thumps and there -ought to be four; would James never make the fourth thump? She thought -she would go mad if he left off at three. Ah! There it was, that was the -fourth thump; now surely he must be coming. The toast was made; it would -get cold and flabby. James hated it flabby. If they put it in the grate -it would get hard; James hated it hard. Where was James? -</p> -<p> -"Children, put the toast in the grate; no, don't—wait a minute." -</p> -<p> -Now there was another sound; that was James blowing his nose. He must be -coming down, then, for he always blew his nose on his soiled pocket -handkerchief with just that sound, before he took his clean one. What -was that—something broken! -</p> -<p> -"Joan, go and see what Alice has smashed. Oh! I hope it's not the new -breakfast dish, the fire-proof one!" -</p> -<p> -Thump, thump, on the stairs this time; James was coming down at last. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, never mind about going to the kitchen; stay here and see to your -father's breakfast." -</p> -<p> -The door opened and Colonel Ogden came in. He was very quiet, a bad -sign; there was blood from a scratch on his chin, to which a pellet of -cotton wool adhered. -</p> -<p> -"Coffee, dear?" -</p> -<p> -"Naturally. By the way, Mary, you'll oblige me by leaving a teacupful of -hot water for me to shave with another time." He felt his scratch -carefully. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, get your father the kidneys. Will you begin with kidneys or -curried eggs?" -</p> -<p> -"Kidneys. By the way, Mary, I don't pay a servant to smear my brown -boots with pea soup; I pay her to clean them—to clean them, do you -hear? To clean them properly." The calm with which he had entered the -room was fast disappearing; his voice rose. -</p> -<p> -"James, dear, don't excite yourself." -</p> -<p> -The colonel cut a kidney viciously; as he did so, tell-tale stains -appeared on the plate. -</p> -<p> -"Damn it all, Mary! Do you think I'm a cannibal?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, James!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh James, oh James! It's sickening, Mary. No hot water, not even to -shave with, and now raw kidneys; disgusting! You know how I hate my food -underdone. Damn it all, Mary, I don't run a household for this sort of -thing! Give me the eggs!" -</p> -<p> -"Joan, fetch your father the eggs!" -</p> -<p> -"What's the matter with the toast, Mary? It's stone cold!" -</p> -<p> -"You came down so late, dear." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't get into the bath-room until twenty minutes past eight. I -can't eat this toast." -</p> -<p> -"Joan, make your father some fresh toast; be quick, dear, and Milly, -take the kidneys to Ellen and ask her to grill them a little more. Now, -James, here's some nice hot coffee." -</p> -<p> -"Sit down!" thundered the colonel. -</p> -<p> -Joan and Milly sat down hastily. "Keep quiet; you get on my nerves, -darting about all round the table. Upon my word, Mary, the children -haven't touched their breakfast!" -</p> -<p> -"But, James——" -</p> -<p> -"That's enough I say; eat your bacon, Milly. Joan, stop shuffling your -feet." -</p> -<p> -Milly, her face blotched with nervousness, attempted to spear the cold -and stiffening bacon; it jumped off her fork on to the cloth as though -possessed of a malicious life energy. Colonel Ogden's eyes bulged with -irritation, and he thumped the table. -</p> -<p> -"Upon my word, Mary, the children have the table manners of Hottentots." -</p> -<p> -Now by all the laws of the Medes and Persians, Mrs. Ogden, on this Day -of Days, should have remained calm and disdainful. But to-day had begun -badly. There had been that little cloud which had grown and grown until -it became the household books; it was over her now, enveloping her. She -could not see through it, she could not collect her forces. "We -Routledges!" It didn't ring true, it was like a blast blown on a cracked -trumpet. She prayed fervently for self-control, but she knew that she -prayed in vain. Her throat ached, she was going fast, slipping through -her own fingers with surprising rapidity. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden began again: "Well, upon my——" -</p> -<p> -"Don't, don't!" shrieked Mrs. Ogden hysterically. "Don't say it again, -James. I can't bear it!" -</p> -<p> -"Well, upon my word——" -</p> -<p> -"There! You've said it! Oh, Oh, Oh!" She suddenly covered her face with -her table napkin and burst into loud sobs. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden was speechless. Then he turned a little pale, his heart -thumped. -</p> -<p> -"Mary, for heaven's sake!" -</p> -<p> -"I can't help it, James! I can't, I can't!" -</p> -<p> -"But, Mary, my dear!" -</p> -<p> -"Don't touch me, leave me alone!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, all right; but I say, Mary, don't do this!" -</p> -<p> -"I wish I were dead!" -</p> -<p> -"Mary!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes I do, I wish I were dead and out of it all!" -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense—rubbish!" -</p> -<p> -"You'll be sorry when I am dead!" -</p> -<p> -He stretched out a plump hand and laid it on her shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"Go away, James!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, all right! Joan, look after your mother, she don't seem well." He -left the room, and they heard the front door bang after him. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked over the table napkin. "Has he gone, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother. Oh, you poor darling!" They clung together. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes; then she poured out some coffee and drank it. -</p> -<p> -"I'm better now, dear." She smiled cheerfully. -</p> -<p> -And she was better. As she rose from the table the dark cloud lifted, -she saw clearly once more; saw the Routledge banner streaming in the -breeze. -</p> -<p> -"And now for those tiresome books," she said almost gaily. She went away -to the drawing-room and Joan collapsed; she felt sick, scenes always -upset her. -</p> -<p> -She thought: "I wish I could hide my head in a table napkin and cry like -Mother did." Then she thought: "I wonder how Mother manages it. I -wouldn't have cried, I'd have hit him!" -</p> -<p> -She could not eat. In the drawing-room she heard her mother humming, -yes, actually humming over the books! -</p> -<p> -"That's all right," thought Joan, "they must be nice and cheap this -week, that's a comfort anyhow." -</p> -<p> -Presently Mrs. Ogden looked into the dining-room. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"No lessons to-day, dear." -</p> -<p> -"No, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Come and help me to place the wreath." -</p> -<p> -They fetched it, carrying it between them; a laurel wreath large enough -to cover the frame of the admiral's picture. -</p> -<p> -"Tell Alice to bring the steps, Joan. Now, dear, you hold them while I -get up. How does it look?" -</p> -<p> -"Lovely, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Joan, never forget that half of you is Routledge. Never forget, my -dear, that the best blood in your veins comes from my side of the -family. Never forget who you are, Joan; it helps one a great deal in -life to have something like that to cling to, something to hold on to -when the dark days come." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -All day long the house hummed like a beehive. There was no luncheon; the -children snatched some bread and butter in the kitchen, and if Mrs. -Ogden ate at all, she was not observed to do so. Colonel Ogden, wise -man, had remained at the club. Alice, her mouth surreptitiously full, -hastened here and there with dust-brushes and buckets; Milly begged to -do the flowers, and cut her finger; Joan manfully polished the plate, -while Mrs. Ogden, authoritative and dignified, reviewed her household as -the colonel had once reviewed his regiment. -</p> -<p> -Presently Alice was ordered to hasten away and dress. "And," said Mrs. -Ogden, "let me find your cap and apron spotless, if you please, Alice." -</p> -<p> -At last Joan and Milly went upstairs to put on their white cashmere -smocks, and Mrs. Ogden, left to herself, took stock of the preparations. -Yes, it was all in order, the trestle table hired from Binnings', -together with the stout waiter, had both arrived, so had the coffee and -tea urns and the extra cups and saucers. On the sideboard stood an array -of silver. Cups won at polo by Colonel Ogden, a silver tray bearing the -arms of Routledge, salvage this from the family wreck, and numerous -articles in Indian silver, embossed with Buddhas and elephants' heads. -The table groaned with viands, the centre piece being a large sugar cake -crowned with a frigate in full sail. This speciality Binnings was able -to produce every year; the cake was fresh, of course, but not the -frigate. -</p> -<p> -But the drawing-room—that was what counted most. The drawing-room on -what Mrs. Ogden called "Anniversary Day" was, in every sense of the -word, a shrine. Within its precincts dwelt the image of the god, the -trophies of his earthly career set out about him, and Mary, his -handmaiden, in attendance to wreathe his effigy with garlands. -</p> -<p> -Poor old Admiral Sir William, a good fellow by all accounts, an honest -sailor and a loyal friend in his day. Possibly less Routledge than his -descendants, certainly, according to his biographer, a man of a retiring -disposition; one wonders what he would have thought of the Ancestor -Worship of which he had all unwittingly become the object. -</p> -<p> -But Mary was satisfied. The drawing-room, which always appeared to her -to be a very charming room, was of a good size. The colour scheme was -pink and white, broken by just a splash of yellow here and there where -the white chrysanthemums had run out and had been supplemented by yellow -ones. The wall-paper was white with clusters of pink roses; the curtains -were pink, the furniture was upholstered in pink. The hearth, which was -tiled in turquoise blue, was lavish in brass. Mrs. Ogden drew the -curtains a little more closely together over the windows in order to -subdue the light; then she touched up the flowers, shook out the -cushions for the fifth time and stood in the door to gauge the effect. -</p> -<p> -"Now," said Mrs. Ogden mentally, "I am Lady Loo, I am entering the -drawing-room, how does it strike me?" -</p> -<p> -The first thing that naturally riveted the attention was the -laurel-wreathed print of Admiral Sir William. What a pity James had been -too poor to buy the painting—for a moment she felt dashed, but -this phase passed quickly, the room looked so nice. The colour, so clean -and dainty, just sufficiently relieved by the blue tiled grate and the -Oriental piano cover; this latter and the Benares vases certainly seemed -to stamp the room as belonging to people who had been in the Service. On -the whole she was glad she had married James and not the bishop. The -flowers too—really Milly had arranged them quite nicely. But what -a pity that it would be too light to light the lamp; still, the shade -certainly caught the eye, she was glad she had taken the plunge and -bought it at that sale. It was very effective, pleated silk with bunches -of artificial iris. Still, she was not sure that a plain shade would not -have looked better after all. When one has so unusually fine a stuffed -python for a standard lamp, one did not wish to detract from it in any -way. She considered the photographs next; there was a goodly assortment -of these in silver frames; she had carefully selected them with a view -to effect. The panel of herself in court dress, that showed up well; -then James in his full regimentals—James looked a trifle stout in -his tunic, still, it all showed that she had not married a nobody. Then -that nice picture of her brother Henry taken with his polo -team—poor Henry! Oh, yes, and the large photograph of the -bishop—really rather imposing. And Chesham—the prints of -Chesham on the walls; how dignified the dear old place looked, very much -a gentleman's estate. -</p> -<p> -But there was more to come; Mrs. Ogden had purposely left the best to -the last. She drew in her breath. There, on an occasional table, lay the -relics of Admiral Sir William Routledge, gallant officer and Nelson's -darling. In the middle of the table lay his coat and his gloves, across -the coat, his sword. To right and left hung the admiral's decorations -mounted on velvet plaques. In front of the coat lay the oak-framed -remnants of Nelson's letter to the admiral, and in front of this again -the treasured Nelson snuff-box bearing the inscription "From Nelson to -Routledge." -</p> -<p> -She paused beside the table, touching the relics one by one with -reverent fingers, smiling as she did so. Then she crossed the room to -where a shabby leather covered arm-chair looked startlingly incongruous -amid its surroundings. Very carefully she lowered herself into the -chair; a small brass plate had been screwed on to the back, bearing the -inscription "Admiral Viscount Nelson of Trafalgar sat in this chair when -staying at Chesham Court with Admiral Sir William Routledge." Mrs. Ogden -spread her thin hands along the slippery arms, and allowed her head to -rest for a moment where supposedly Nelson's head had once rested. The -chair was her special pride and care; perhaps because its antecedents -were doubtful. Colonel Ogden had once reminded her that there never had -been any proof worth mentioning that Nelson had stayed at Chesham, much -less that he had sat in that infernally uncomfortable old chair, and -Mrs. Ogden had retorted hotly that Routledge tradition was good enough -for her. Nevertheless, from that moment the Nelson chair had, she felt, -a special claim upon her. She was like a mother defending the doubtful -legitimacy of a well-loved son; the Nelson chair had been threatened -with a bar sinister. -</p> -<p> -She gave the arms a farewell stroke, and rising slowly left the room to -dress. She trod the stairs with dignity, the aloof dignity that belonged -to the occasion, which she would maintain during the rest of the day. -Her lapse from Routledge in the morning but added to her calm as -tea-time approached. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap05"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FIVE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>DMIRAL BOURNE was the first to arrive. He -liked the children, and Milly sidled up and stood between his knees, -certain of her welcome. -</p> -<p> -"Pretty hair!" he remarked thoughtfully, stroking her curls, "and how is -Miss Joan getting on? You haven't let your hair grow yet, Miss Joan." -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed. "It's more comfortable short," she said. -</p> -<p> -"So it is," agreed the admiral. "Capital, capital!" -</p> -<p> -"You must come and see my cream mice, dozens of them——" he -began. But at that moment Elizabeth and her brother were announced and -Joan hurried to meet them. She examined Mr. Rodney with a new interest, -for now he was not just father's friend at the club, but he was -Elizabeth Rodney's brother. She thought: "He looks old, old, old, and -yet I don't believe he is very old. His eyes are greenish like -Elizabeth's, only somehow his eyes look timid like Mother's, and -Elizabeth's remind me of the sea. I wonder what makes his back so -humped, his coat goes all in ridges——" Then she suddenly -felt very sorry for him, he looked so dreadfully humble. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, tall and erect, was dressed in some soft green material; she -appeared a little unnatural to the children, who had grown accustomed to -her tailor-made blouses and skirts. Her strong brown hair was carefully -dressed as usual, but as usual a curl or two sprang away from the -hair-pins, straying over her ears and in the nape of her neck. Elizabeth -was always pale, but to-day she looked very vital; she was conscious of -looking her best, of creating an effect. Then she suddenly wondered -whether Joan liked her dress, but even as she wondered she remembered -that Joan was only thirteen. -</p> -<p> -Joan was thinking: "She looks like a tree. Why haven't I noticed before -how exactly like a tree she is; it must be the green dress. But her eyes -are like water, all greeny and shadowy and deep looking—a tree near a -pool, that's what she's like, a tall tree. A beech tree? No, that's too -spready—a larch tree, that's Elizabeth; a larch tree just greening -over." -</p> -<p> -The rooms began to fill, and people wandered in and out; it was really -quite like a reception. There was a pleasant babble of conversation. -James had come in; he had said to himself: "Must look in and share the -Mem-Sahib's little triumph—poor Mary!" He really looked quite -distinguished in his grey frock coat and black satin tie. Here were -General and Mrs. Brooke. By common consent the two old war horses buried -their feud on "Anniversary Day." It was: "How are you, Ogden?" -</p> -<p> -"Glad to see you, General!" -</p> -<p> -They would beam at each other across their black satin ties; after -all—the Service, you know! -</p> -<p> -Sir Robert and Lady Loo were shown in; good, that they had arrived when -the rooms were at their fullest. Lady Loo came forward with her vague -toothy smile. She looked like a very old hunter, long in the face, long -in the leg and knobbly, distinctly knobbly. Her dress hung on her like -badly fitting horse-clothing. To her spare bosom a diamond and sapphire -crescent clung with a kind of desperation as if to an insufficient -foothold; you felt that somehow there was not enough to pin it to, that -there never would be enough to pin anything to on Lady Loo. But for all -this there was something nice about her; the kind of niceness that -belongs to old dogs and old horses, and that had never been entirely -absent from Lady Loo. -</p> -<p> -As she sat down by Mrs. Ogden, her bright brown eyes looked -inquisitively round the room, resting for an instant on the admiral's -portrait, and then on the relics upon the occasional table. Mrs. Ogden -watched her, secretly triumphant. -</p> -<p> -"Dear Lady Loo. How good of you to come to our little gathering. -<i>My</i> Day I call it—very foolish of me—but after -all—— Oh, yes, how very kind of you—— But then, -why rob your hothouses for poor little me? You forgot to bring them? Oh, -never mind, it's the thought that counts, is it not? Your speaking of -peaches makes me feel quite homesick for Chesham—we had such acres -of glass at Chesham!—Yes, that is Joan—come here, Joan dear! -Naughty child, she will insist on keeping her hair short. You think it -suits her? Really? Clever? Well—run away, Joan darling—yes, -frankly, very clever, so Miss Rodney thinks. Attractive? You think so? -Now fancy, my husband always thinks Milly is the pretty one. Shall I ask -Joan to recite or shall Milly play first? What do you think? Joan first, -oh, all right—Joan, dear!" -</p> -<p> -The dreaded moment had arrived; Joan, shy and awkward, floundered -through her recitation. -</p> -<p> -"Capital, capital!" cried Admiral Bourne, who had taken a fancy to her. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth felt hot; why in heaven's name make a fool of Joan like that? -Joan couldn't recite and never would be able to. And then the child's -dress—what possessed Mrs. Ogden to make her wear white? Joan was too -awful in white, it made her skin look yellow. Then the dress was too -short; Joan's dresses always were; and yet she was her mother's -favourite. Curious—perhaps Mrs. Ogden wanted to make her look young; -well, she couldn't keep her a baby for ever. When would Joan begin to -assert her individuality? When she was fifteen, seventeen, perhaps? -Elizabeth felt that she could dress Joan; she ought to wear dark -colours, she knew exactly what she ought to wear. At that moment Joan -came over to her, she was flushed and still looked shy. -</p> -<p> -"Beastly rot, that poem!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth surveyed her: "Oh, Joan, you're so like a colt." And she -laughed. -</p> -<p> -Joan wanted to say: "You're like a larch tree that's just greening over, -a tree by the side of a pool." But she was silent. -</p> -<p> -The noise of conversation broke out afresh. Milly, longing to be asked -to play, was pretending to adjust the clasp of her violin case. -Elizabeth looked from one child to the other and could not help smiling. -Then she said: "Joan, do you like my dress?" -</p> -<p> -"Like it?" Joan stammered; "I think it's beautiful." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth wanted to say, "Do you think me at all beautiful, Joan?" But -something inside her began to laugh at this absurdity, while she said: -"I'm so glad you like it, it was new for to-day." -</p> -<p> -"Now, Milly, play for us," came Mrs. Ogden's voice. "Miss Rodney will -accompany you, I'm sure." -</p> -<p> -Milly did not blush, she remained cool and pale—small and cool and -pale she stood there in her white cashmere smock, making lovely sounds -with as much ease and confidence as if she had been playing by herself -in an empty room. -</p> -<p> -Extraordinary child. She looked almost inspired, coldly inspired—it -was queer. When she had finished playing, her little violin master came out -of the corner in which he had been hidden. -</p> -<p> -"Very good—excellent!" he said, patting her shoulder; and Milly -smiled quite placidly. Then she grew excited all of a sudden and skipped -around the room for praise. -</p> -<p> -Joan sat beside her mother; very gently she squeezed her hand, looking -up into Mrs. Ogden's face. She saw that it was animated and young, and -the change thrilled her with pleasure. Mrs. Ogden looked down into her -daughter's eyes. She whispered: "Do you like my dress, darling; am I -looking nice?" -</p> -<p> -"Lovely, Mother—so awfully pretty!" But Joan thought: "The same -thing, they both wanted to know if I liked their dresses, how funny! But -Mother doesn't look like a tree just greening over—what does -Mother look like?" She could not find a simile and this annoyed her. -Mrs. Ogden's dress was grey, it suited her admirably, falling about her -still girlish figure in long, soft folds. No one could say that Mary -Ogden never looked pretty these days, that was quite certain; for she -looked pretty this afternoon, with the delicate somewhat faded -prettiness of a flower that has been pressed between the pages of a -book. Suddenly Joan thought: "I know—I've got it, Elizabeth is -like a tree and Mother's like a dove, a dove that lights on a tree. No, -that won't do, I don't believe somehow that Mother would like to light -on Elizabeth, and I don't think Elizabeth would like to be lit on. What -is she like then?" -</p> -<p> -People began to go. "Good-bye, such a charming party." -</p> -<p> -"So glad you could come." -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye—don't forget that you and Colonel Ogden are lunching with -us next Saturday." -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not, so many thanks." -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye——" -</p> -<p> -"Over at last!" Mrs. Ogden leant back in her chair with a sigh that -bespoke complete satisfaction. She beamed on her husband. -</p> -<p> -He smiled. "Went off jolly well, Mary!" He was anxious to make up for -the morning. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it was a great success, I think. Don't you think it went off very -well, James?" -</p> -<p> -The colonel twitched; he longed to say: "Damn it all, Mary, haven't I -just told you that I think it went off well!" But he restrained himself. -</p> -<p> -Mary continued: "Well, dear, the Routledges always did have a -talent for entertaining. I can remember at Chesham when I was Joan's -age——" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Sir Robert and Lady Loo were driving swiftly towards Moor Park behind -their grey cobs. "Talent that youngster has for fiddle playing, Emma!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I suppose so. The mother's a silly fool of a woman, no more brains -than a chicken, and what a snob!" -</p> -<p> -"Ugly monkey, the elder daughter." -</p> -<p> -"Joan? Oh, do you think so?" -</p> -<p> -"Awful!" -</p> -<p> -"Wait and see!" said Lady Loo with a thoughtful smile. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth walked home between her brother and the little violin master; -she was depressed without exactly knowing why. The little violin master -waved his hands. -</p> -<p> -"Milly is a genius; I have got a real pupil at last, at last! You wait -and see, she will go far. What tone, what composure for so young a -child?" -</p> -<p> -"Joan is like a young colt!" said Elizabeth to herself. "Like a young -colt that somehow isn't playful—Joan is a solemn young colt, a -thoughtful colt, a colt wise beyond its months." And she sighed. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap06"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER SIX -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">E</span>LIZABETH sat alone in her brother's study. -Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling; Ralph's books and some of -her own that she had brought with her from Cambridge. -</p> -<p> -This was Sunday. Ralph had gone to church. "Such a good little man," -thought Elizabeth to herself; but she had not gone to church, she had -pleaded a fictitious cold. Ralph Rodney was still youngish, not more -than forty-five, and doing fairly well in the practice which he had -inherited from his uncle. But there was nothing beyond Seabourne—just -Seabourne, nothing beyond. Ralph would probably live and die neither -richer nor poorer than he was at present; it was a drab outlook. Yet it -was Ralph's own fault, he might have done better, there had been a time -when people thought him clever; he might have started his career in -London. But no, he had thought it his duty to keep on the business at -Seabourne. Elizabeth mused that it must either be that Ralph was very -stupid or very good, she wondered if the terms were synonymous. -</p> -<p> -Their life history was quite simple. They had been left orphans when she -was a year old and he was twenty. She had been too young to know -anything about it, and Ralph had never lived much with his parents in -any case. He had been adopted by their father's elder brother when he -was still only a child. After the death of her parents, Elizabeth had -been carried off by a cousin of their mother's, a kind, pleasant woman -who divided her time between Elizabeth and Rescue Work. -</p> -<p> -They had been very happy together, and when Elizabeth was twenty and her -cousin had died suddenly, she had felt real regret. Her cousin's death -left her with enough money to go up to Cambridge, and very little to -spare, for the bulk of Miss Wharton's fortune had gone to found -Recreation Homes for Prostitutes, and not having qualified to benefit by -the charity, Elizabeth was obliged to study to earn her living. -</p> -<p> -Her brother Ralph she had scarcely seen, he had gone so completely away. -This was only natural; and the arrangement must have suited their -parents very well, for their father had not been an earner and their -mother had never been strong. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was now twenty-six. The uncle had died eighteen months ago, -leaving Ralph his small fortune and the business. Ralph was a confirmed -bachelor; he had felt lonely after the old man's death, had thought of -his sister and had besought her to take pity on him; there it had begun -and there so far, it had ended. -</p> -<p> -Yet it need not have ended as it had done for Ralph, but Ralph was a -sentimentalist. He had loved the old uncle like a son, and had always -made excuses for not cutting adrift from Seabourne. Uncle John was -growing old and needed him in the business; Uncle John was failing—he -had been failing for years, thought Elizabeth bitterly, a selfish, -cranky old man—Uncle John begged Ralph not to leave him, he had a -presentiment that he would not last much longer. Ralph must keep an eye -on the poor old chap. After all, he'd been very decent to him. Ralph -wanted to know where he'd have been without Uncle John. -</p> -<p> -Always the same excuses. Had Ralph never wanted a change; had he never -known ambition? Perhaps, but such longings die, they cannot live on a -law practice in Seabourne and an ailing Uncle John; they may prick and -stab for a little while, may even constitute a real torment, but -withstand them long enough and you will have peace, the peace of the -book whose leaves are never turned; the peace of dust and cobwebs. Ralph -was like that now, a book that no one cared to open; he was covered with -dust and cobwebs. -</p> -<p> -At forty-five he was old and contented, or if not exactly contented, -then resigned. And he had grown timid, perhaps Uncle John had made him -timid. Uncle John was said to have had a will of his own—no, -Elizabeth was not sure that it was all Uncle John, though he might have -contributed. It was Seabourne that had made Ralph timid; Seabourne that -had nothing beyond. Seabourne was so secure, how could it be otherwise -when it had nothing beyond; whence could any danger menace it? Ralph -clung to Seabourne; he was afraid to go too far lest he should step off -into space, for he too must feel that Seabourne had nothing beyond. -Seabourne had him and Uncle John had him. It was all of a piece with -Uncle John to leave a letter behind him, begging Ralph to keep the old -firm together after he was dead. Sentiment, selfish sentiment. Who cared -what happened to Rodney and Rodney! Even Seabourne wouldn't care much, -there were other solicitors. But Ralph had thought otherwise; the old -man had begged him to stick by the firm, Ralph couldn't go back on him -now. Ralph was humbly grateful; Ralph felt bound. Ralph was resigned -too, that was the worst of it. And yet he had been clever, Elizabeth had -heard it at Cambridge; but Cambridge that should have emancipated him -had only been an episode. Back he had come to Seabourne and Uncle John, -Uncle John much aged by then, and needing him more than ever. -</p> -<p> -When they had met at Seabourne, her brother had been a shock to her. His -hair had greyed and so had his skin, and his mind—that had greyed -too. Then why had she stayed? She didn't know. There was something about -the comfortable house that chained you, held you fast. They were velvet -chains, they were plush chains, but they held. -</p> -<p> -Then there was Uncle John. Uncle John's portrait looked down from the -dining-room wall—Uncle John young, with white stock and keen eyes. -That Uncle John seemed to point to himself and say: "I was young too, -and yet I never strayed; what was good enough for my father was good -enough for me and ought to be good enough for my nephew and for you, -Elizabeth." Then there was Uncle John's later portrait on the wall of -the study—Uncle John, old, wearing a corded black tie, his eyes -rather dim and appealing, like the eyes of a good old dog. That Uncle -John was the worse of the two; you felt that you could throw a plate at -the youthful, smug, self-assertive Uncle John in the dining-room, but -you couldn't hurt this Uncle John because he seemed to expect you to -hurt him. This Uncle John didn't point to himself, he had nothing to -say, but you knew what he wanted. He wanted to see you living in the old -house among the old things; he wanted to see Ralph at the old desk in -the old office. He needed you; he depended on you, he clung to you -softly, persistently; you couldn't shake him off. He had clung to Ralph -like that, softly, persistently; for latterly the strong will had broken -and he had become very gentle. And now Ralph clung to Elizabeth, and -Uncle John clung too, through Ralph. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth got up. She flung open the window—let the air come in, let -the sea come in! Oh! If a tidal wave would come and wash it all away, -sweep it away; the house, Uncle John and Elizabeth to whom he clung -through Ralph! Tradition! She clenched her hands; damn their tradition; -another name for slavery, an excuse for keeping slaves! What was she -doing with her life? Nothing. Uncle John saw to that. Yes, she was doing -something, she was allowing it to be slowly and surely strangled to -death, soon it would be gone, like a drop squeezed into the reservoir of -Eternity; soon it would be lost for ever and she would still be -alive—and she was so young! A lump rose in her throat; her hopes had -been high—not brilliant, perhaps—still she had done well at -Cambridge, there were posts open to her. -</p> -<p> -She might have written, but not at Seabourne. People didn't write at -Seabourne, they borrowed the books that other people had written, from -Mr. Besant of the Circulating Library, and talked foolishly about them -at their afternoon teas, wagging their heads and getting the foreign -names all wrong, if there were any. Oh! She had heard them! And Ralph -would get like that. Get? He was like that already; Ralph had -prejudices, timid ones, but there was strength in their numbers. Ralph -approved and disapproved. Ralph shook his head over Elizabeth's smoking -and nodded it over her needlework. Ralph liked womanly women; well, -Elizabeth liked manly men. If she wasn't a womanly woman, Ralph wasn't a -manly man. Oh, poor little Ralph, what a beast she was! -</p> -<p> -What did she want? She had the Ogden children, they were an interest and -they represented her pocket money—if only Joan were older! After all, -better a home with a kind brother at Seabourne than life on a pittance -in London. But something in her strove and rent: "Not better, not -better!" it shouted. "I want to get out, it's I, I, I! I want to live, -I want to get out, let me out I tell you, I want to come out!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -"Elizabeth, dear, how are you?" Her brother had come in quietly behind -her. -</p> -<p> -"Better, thank you. You're not wet, are you, Ralph? It's been raining." -</p> -<p> -"No, not a bit. I wish you'd been there, Elizabeth. Such a fine sermon." -</p> -<p> -"What was the text," she inquired. One always inquired what the text had -been; the question sprang to her lips mechanically. -</p> -<p> -"'Cast thy bread upon the waters for thou shalt find it after many -days!' A beautiful text, I think." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, very beautiful," Elizabeth agreed. "Curious that being the text -to-day." -</p> -<p> -"Why?" he asked her, but his voice lacked interest; he didn't really -want to know. -</p> -<p> -She thought: "I suppose I've cast my bread upon the waters, it must be a -long way out at sea by now." Then she began to visualize the bread and -that made her want to laugh. A crust of bread? A fat slice? A thin -slice? Or had she cast away a loaf? Perhaps there were shoals of sprats -standing upright on their tails in the water under the loaf and nibbling -at it, or darting round and round in a circle, snatching and quarrelling -while the loaf bobbed up and down—there were plenty of sprats just -off the coast. Anyhow, her bread must be dreadfully soggy if it had been in -the water for more than two years. "For thou shalt find it after many -days!" Yes, but how many days? And if you did find it, if the sprats -left even a crumb to be washed up on the beach, how would it taste, she -wondered. How many days, how many days, how many Seabourne days, how -many Ralph and Uncle John days; so secure, so decent, so colourless! The -text said, "Many days;" it warned you not to grow impatient, it was like -young Uncle John in the dining-room, taking it for granted that time -didn't count—Uncle John had never been in a hurry. And yet they were -beautiful words; she knew quite well what they meant, she was only -pretending to misunderstand, it was her misplaced sense of humour. -</p> -<p> -Ralph had cast his bread upon the waters, and no doubt he expected to -retrieve it on the shores of a better land; if he went hungry meanwhile, -she supposed that was his affair. But perhaps he was expecting a more -speedy return, perhaps when Ralph looked like old Uncle John his bread -would be washed back to him; perhaps that was how it was done. She -paused to consider. Perhaps your bread was returned to you in kind; you -gave of your spirit and body, and you got back spirit and body in your -turn. Not yours, but someone else's. When Ralph was sixty she would be -forty-one; there was still a little sustenance left in you when you were -forty-one, she supposed, though not much. Perhaps she was going to be -Ralph's return for the loaf that had floated away. -</p> -<p> -It was all so pigeon-holed and so tidy. She was tidy, she had a tidy -mind, but the mind that had thought out this bread scheme was even more -tidy than hers. The scheme worked in grooves like a cogwheel, clip, -clip, clip, each cog in its appointed place and round and round, always -in a circle. Uncle John and his forbears before him had cast away their -loaves turn by turn; it was the obvious thing to do; it was the -Seabourne thing to do. Father to son, uncle to nephew, brother to -sister; a slight difference in consanguinity but none in spirit. Uncle -John's bread had gone for his father and the firm; Ralph's bread had -gone for Uncle John and the firm, and she supposed that her bread had -gone for Ralph and the firm. But where was her return to come from? In -what manner would she find it, "after many days?" Would the spell be -broken with her? She wondered. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap07"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER SEVEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was a blazing July, nearly a year later. -Seabourne, finding at first a new topic for conversation in the heat -wave, very soon wearied of this rare phenomenon, abandoning itself to -exhaustion. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden wilted perceptibly but Mrs. Ogden throve. The heat agreed -with her, it made her expand. She looked younger and she felt younger -and said so constantly, and her family tried to feel pleased. Lessons -were a torment in the airless schoolroom; Joan flagged, Milly wept, and -Elizabeth grew desperate. There was nowhere to walk except in the glare. -The turf on the cliffs was as slippery as glass; on the sea-front the -asphalt stuck to your shoes, and the beach was a wilderness peopled by -wilting parents and irritable, mosquito-bitten children. Then, when -things were at their worst at Leaside, there came from out the blue a -very pleasant happening; old Admiral Bourne met the Ogden children out -walking and asked them to tea. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The admiral's house was unique. He had built it after his wife's death; -it had been a hobby and a distraction. Glory Point lay back from the -road that led up to Cone Head, out beyond the town. To the casual -observer the house said little. From the front it looked much as other -houses, a little stronger, a little whiter perhaps, but on the whole not -at all distinctive except for its round windows; and as only the upper -windows could be seen from the road they might easily have been mistaken -for an imitation of the Georgian period. It was not until the house was -skirted to the left and the shrubbery passed that the character of Glory -Point became apparent. -</p> -<p> -A narrow path with tall bushes on either side wound zigzag for a little -distance. With every step the sound of the sea came nearer and nearer, -until, at an abrupt angle, the path ceased, and shot you out on to a -cobbled court-yard, and the wide Atlantic lay before you. The path had -been contrived to appear longer than it was in reality, the twists and -turns assisting the illusion; the last thing you expected to find at the -end was what you found; it was very ingenious. -</p> -<p> -To the left and in front this court-yard appeared to end in space, and -between you and the void stood apparently nothing but some white painted -posts and chains. But even as you wondered what really lay below, a -sharp spray would come hurtling over the chains and land with a splash -almost at your feet, trickling in and out of the cobbles. Then you -realized that the court-yard was built on a rock that ran sheer down to -the sea. -</p> -<p> -At the side of this court-yard stood a fully rigged flagstaff with an -old figure-head nailed to its base. The figure-head gazed out across the -Atlantic, it looked wistful and rather lonely; there was something -pathetic about the thing. It had a grotesque kind of dignity in spite of -its faded and weather-stained paint. The ample female bosoms bulged -beneath the stiff drapery, the painted eyes seemed to be straining to -see some distant object; where the figure ended below the waist was a -roughly carved scroll showing traces of gilt, on which could be -deciphered the word "Glory." -</p> -<p> -From this side the house looked bigger, and one saw that all the windows -were round and that a veranda ran the length of the ground floor. This -veranda was the admiral's particular pride, it was boarded with narrow -planks scrubbed white and caulked like the deck of a ship; the admiral -called it his "quarter-deck," and here, in fine weather or foul, he -would pace up and down, his hands in his pockets, his cigar set firmly -between his teeth, his rakish white beard pointing out in front. -</p> -<p> -Inside the house the walls of the passages were boarded and enamelled -white, the rooms white panelled, and the steep narrow stairs covered -with corrugated rubber, bound with brass treads. Instead of banisters a -piece of pipe-clayed rope ran through brass stanchions on either side; -and over the whole place there brooded a spirit of the most intense -cleanliness. Never off a man-of-war did brass shine and twinkle like the -brass at Glory Point; never was white paint as white and glossy, never -was there such a fascinating smell of paint and tar and brass polish. It -was an astonishing house; you expected it to roll and could hardly -believe your good fortune when it kept still. Everyone in Seabourne made -fun of Glory Point; the admiral knew this but cared not at all, it -suited him and that was enough. If they thought him odd, he thought most -of them incredibly foolish. Glory Point was his darling and his pride; -he and his mice lived there in perfect contentment. The brass shone, the -decks were as the driven snow, the white walls smelt of fresh paint, and -away beyond the posts and chains of the cobbled court-yard stretched the -Atlantic, as big and deep and wholesome as the admiral's kind heart. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Through the blazing sunshine of the afternoon, Joan and Milly toiled up -the hill that led to Glory Point. Now, however, they did not wilt, their -eyes were bright with expectation, and they quickened their steps as the -gate came in sight. They pushed it open and walked down the pebbled -path. -</p> -<p> -"It's all white!" Joan exclaimed. She looked at the round white stones -with the white posts on either side and then at the white door. They -rang; the fierce sun was producing little sham flames on the brass -bell-pull and knocker. The door was opened by a manservant in white -drill and beyond him the walls of the hall showed white. "More white," -thought Joan. "It's like—it looks—is honest the word? No, -truthful." -</p> -<p> -They were shown into a very happy room, all bright chintz and mahogany. -In one of the little round windows a Hartz Mountain Roller ruffled the -feathers on his throat as he trilled. The admiral came forward to meet -them, shaking hands gravely as if they were grown up. He, too, was in -white, and his eyes looked absurdly blue. Joan thought he matched the -Delft plates on the mantelpiece at his back. -</p> -<p> -"This is capital; I'm so glad you could come." He seemed to be genuinely -pleased to see them. They waited for him to speak again, their eyes -astray for objects of interest. -</p> -<p> -"This is my after cabin," said the admiral, smiling. "What do you think -of it?" -</p> -<p> -"It's the drawing-room," said Milly promptly. Joan kicked her. -</p> -<p> -"We call it a cabin on a ship," corrected the admiral. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I see," said Milly. "But this isn't a ship!" -</p> -<p> -"It's the only ship I've got now," he laughed. -</p> -<p> -Joan thought: "I wish she wouldn't behave like this, what can it matter -what he calls the room? I wish Milly were shy!" -</p> -<p> -But Milly, quite unconscious of having transgressed, went up and nestled -beside him. He put his arm round her and patted her shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"It's a very nice ship," she conceded. -</p> -<p> -Above the mantelpiece hung an oval portrait of a girl. Joan liked her -pleasant, honest eyes, blue like the admiral's, only larger; her face -looked wide open like a hedge rose. -</p> -<p> -Joan had to ask. She thought, "It's cheek, I suppose, but I do want to -know." Aloud she said: "Please, who is that?" -</p> -<p> -The admiral followed the direction of her gaze. "Olivia," he answered, -in a voice that took it for granted that he had no need to say more. -</p> -<p> -"Olivia?" -</p> -<p> -"My wife." -</p> -<p> -"Oh!" breathed Joan, feeling horribly embarrassed. She wished that she -had not asked. Poor admiral, people said that he had loved her a great -deal! -</p> -<p> -"Where is she?" inquired Milly. -</p> -<p> -Joan thought: "Of all the idiotic questions! Has she forgotten that he's -a widower?" She was on tenterhooks. -</p> -<p> -The admiral gave a little sigh. "She died a long time ago," he said, and -stared fixedly at the portrait. -</p> -<p> -Joan pulled Milly round. "Oh, look, what a pet of a canary!" she said -foolishly. She and Milly went over to the cage; the bird hopped twice -and put his head on one side. He examined them out of one black bead. -</p> -<p> -The admiral came up behind them. "That's Julius Cæsar," he volunteered. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned with relief; he was smiling. He opened the door of the cage -and thrust in a finger, whistling softly; the canary bobbed, then it -jumped on to the back of his hand, ignoring the finger. Very slowly and -gently he with drew his hand and lifted the bird up to his face. It put -its beak between his lips and kissed him, then its mood changed and it -nipped his thumb. He laughed, and replaced it in the cage. -</p> -<p> -"Shall we go over the ship?" he inquired. -</p> -<p> -The children agreed eagerly. He stalked along in front of them, hands in -jacket pockets. He took them into the neat dining-room, opening and -shutting the port-holes to show how they worked, then into the -smoking-room, large, long, and book-lined with the volumes of his naval -library. Then up the rubber-covered stairs and along the narrow white -passage with small doors in a row on either side. A man in more white -drill was polishing the brass handles, there was the clean acrid smell -of brass polish; Joan wondered if they polished brass all day at Glory -Point, this was such a queer time to be doing it, at four in the -afternoon. The admiral threw open one of the doors while the children -peered over his shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"This is my sleeping cabin," he said contentedly. -</p> -<p> -The little room was neat as a new pin; through the open port-holes came -the sound and smell of the sea—thud, splash, thud, splash, and the -mournful tolling of a bell buoy. The admiral's bunk was narrow and -white, Joan thought that it looked too small for a man, like the bed of -a little child, with its high polished mahogany side. Above it the -porthole stood wide open—thud, splash, there was the sea again; the -sound came with rhythmical precision at short intervals. Milly had found -the washstand, it was an entrancing washstand! There was a stationary -basin cased in mahogany with fascinating buttons that you pressed -against to make the water flow; Milly had never seen buttons like this -before, all the taps at Leaside turned on in a most uninteresting way. -Above the washstand was a rack for the water bottle and glass, and the -bottle and glass had each its own hole into which it fitted with the -neatest precision. The walls of the cabin were white like all the others -in this house of surprises, white and glossy. Thud, splash, thud, -splash, and a sudden whiff of seaweed that came in with a breath of air. -</p> -<p> -Joan thought, "Oh it is a truthful house, it would never deceive you!" -Aloud she said, "I like it!" -</p> -<p> -The admiral beamed. "So do I," he agreed. -</p> -<p> -"I like it all," said Joan, "the noises and the smell and the whiteness. -I wish we lived in a ship-house like this, it's so reassuring." -</p> -<p> -"Reassuring?" he queried; he didn't understand what she meant, he -thought her a queer old-fashioned child, but his heart went out to her. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, reassuring; safe you know; you could trust it; I mean, it wouldn't -be untruthful." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I see," he laughed. "I built it," he told her with a touch of -pride; "it was entirely my own idea. The people round here think I'm a -little mad, I believe; they call me 'Commodore Trunnion'; but then, dear -me, everyone's a little mad on one subject or another—I'm mad on the -sea. Listen, Miss Joan! Isn't that fine music? I lie here and listen to -it every night, it's almost as good as being on it!" -</p> -<p> -Milly interrupted. "Tell us about your battles!" she pleaded. -</p> -<p> -"My <i>what</i>?" said the admiral, taken aback. -</p> -<p> -"The ones you fought in," said Milly coaxingly. -</p> -<p> -"Bless the child! I've never been in a battle in my life; what battles -have there been in my time, I'd like to know!" -</p> -<p> -Milly looked crestfallen. "But you were on a battleship," she protested. -</p> -<p> -The admiral opened his mouth and guffawed. "God bless my soul, what's -that got to do with it?" -</p> -<p> -They had made their way downstairs again now and were walking towards -the garden door. Milly clung to her point. -</p> -<p> -"It ought to have something to do with it, I should suppose," she said -rather pompously. -</p> -<p> -The admiral looked suddenly grave. "It will, some day," he said. -</p> -<p> -"When will it be?" asked Joan; she felt interested. -</p> -<p> -"When the great war comes," he replied; "though God grant it won't be in -your time." -</p> -<p> -No one spoke for a minute; the children felt subdued, a little cloud -seemed to have descended among them. Then the admiral cheered up, and -quickened his steps. "Tea!" he remarked briskly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -Over the immaculate lawn that stretched to the right of the house, came -the white-clad manservant carrying a tray; the tea-table was laid under -a big walnut tree. This was the sheltered side of the house, where, as -the admiral would say, you could grow something besides seaweed. The old -clipped yews were trim and cared for; peacocks and roosters and stately -spirals. Between them the borders were bright with homely flowers. The -admiral had found this garden when he bought the place; he had pulled -down the old house to build his ship, but the garden he had taken upon -himself as a sacred trust. In it he worked to kill the green fly and the -caterpillar, and dreamed to keep memory alive. They sat down to tea; -from the other side of a battlemented hedge came the whirring, sleepy -sound of a mowing machine, someone was mowing the bowling green. They -grew silent. A wasp tumbled into the milk jug; with great care the -admiral pulled it out and let it crawl up his hand. -</p> -<p> -"Silly," he said reprovingly, "silly creature!" -</p> -<p> -It paused in its painful milk-logged walk to stroke its bedraggled wings -with its back legs, then it washed its face ducking its jointed head. -The old man watched it placidly presently it flew away. -</p> -<p> -"It never said 'Thank you,' did it?" he laughed. -</p> -<p> -"No, but it didn't sting," said Joan. -</p> -<p> -"They never sting when you do them a good turn, and that's more than you -can say of some people, Miss Joan." -</p> -<p> -Tea over, they strolled through the garden; at the far end was a small -low building designed to correspond with the house. -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" they asked him. -</p> -<p> -"We're coming to that," he answered. "That's where the mice live." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, may we see them, please let us see them all!" Joan implored. -</p> -<p> -"Of course you shall see them, that's what I brought you here for; there -are dozens and dozens," he said proudly. -</p> -<p> -Inside the Mousery the smell was overpowering, but it is doubtful if any -of the three noticed it. Down the centre of the single long room ran a -brick path on either side of which were shelves three deep, divided into -roomy sections. -</p> -<p> -The admiral stopped before one of them. "Golden Agouti," he remarked. -</p> -<p> -He took hold of a rectangular box, the front of which was wired; very -slyly he lifted a lid set into the top panel, and lowered the cage so -that the children might look in. Inside, midway between floor and lid -was a smaller box five inches long; a little hole at one end of this -inner box gave access to the interior of the cage, and from it a -miniature ladder slanted down to the sawdust strewn floor. In this box -were a number of little heaving pink lumps, by the side of which -crouched a brownish mouse. Her beady eyes peered up anxiously, while the -whiskers on her muzzle trembled. -</p> -<p> -The admiral touched her gently with the tip of his little finger. "She's -a splendid doe," he said affectionately; "a remarkably careful mother -and not at all fussy!" He shut the door and replaced the cage. "There's -a fine pair here," he remarked, passing to a new section; "what about -that for colour!" -</p> -<p> -He put his hand into another cage and caught one of the occupants deftly -by the tail. Holding the tail between his finger and thumb he let the -mouse sprawl across the back of his other hand, slightly jerking the -feet into position. -</p> -<p> -The children gazed. "What colour is that?" they inquired. -</p> -<p> -"Chocolate," replied the admiral. "I rather fancy the Self varieties, -there's something so well-bred looking about them; for my part I don't -think a mouse can show his figure if he's got a pied pelt on him, it -detracts. Now this buck for instance, look at his great size, graceful -too, very gracefully built, legs a little coarse perhaps, but an -excellent tail, a perfect whipcord, no knots, no kinks, a lovely taper -to the point!" -</p> -<p> -The mouse began to scramble. "Gently, gently!" murmured the admiral, -shaking it back into position. -</p> -<p> -He eyed it with approbation, then dropped it back into its cage, where -it scurried up the ladder and vanished into its bedroom. They passed -from cage to cage; into some he would only let them peep lest the does -with young should get irritable; from others he withdrew the inmates, -displaying them on his hand. -</p> -<p> -"Now this," he told them, catching a grey-blue mouse. "This is worth -your looking at carefully. Here we have a champion, Champion Blue -Pippin. I won the Colour Cup with this fellow last year. Of course I -grant you he's a good colour; very pure and rich, good deep tone too, -and even, perfectly even, you notice." He turned the mouse over deftly -for a moment so that they might see for themselves that its stomach -matched its back. "But so clumsy," he continued. "Did you ever see such -a clumsy fellow? Then his ears are too small, though their texture is -all right; and I always said he lacked boldness of eye; I never really -cared for his eyes, there's something timid about them, not to be -compared with Cocoa Nibs, that first buck you saw. But there it is, this -fellow won his championship; of course I always say that Cary can't -judge a mouse!" -</p> -<p> -Champion Blue Pippin was replaced in his cage; the admiral shook his -finger at him where he sat grooming his whiskers against the bars. -</p> -<p> -"A good mouse," he told Joan confidentially. "Very tame and affectionate -as you see, but a champion, no never! As I told them at the National -Mouse Club." -</p> -<p> -They turned to the shelves on the other side. Here were the Pied and -Dutch varieties. -</p> -<p> -"I don't care for them, as you know," said Admiral Bourne. "Still I keep -a few for luck, and they are rather pretty." -</p> -<p> -He showed them the queer Dutch mice, half white, half coloured. Then the -Variegated mice, their pelts white with minute streaks or dots of colour -evenly distributed over body and head. There were black and tan mice and -a bewildering assortment of the Pied variety which the admiral declared -he disliked. Last of all, in a little cubicle by itself, was a larger -cage than any of the others, a kind of Mouse Palace. This cage contained -a number of neat boxes, each with its ladder, and in addition to the -ordinary outer compartment was a big bright wheel. Up and down the -ladders ran the common little red-eyed white mice; while they watched -them a couple sprang into the wheel and began turning it. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! The white mice that you buy at the Army and Navy!" said Milly in a -disappointed voice. -</p> -<p> -"That's all," the admiral admitted. "I just have this cage of them, you -know, nice little chaps." And then, as the children remained silent, -"You see, Olivia liked them; she used to say they were such friendly -people." -</p> -<p> -He spoke as though they had known Olivia intimately, as though he -expected the children to say: "Yes, of course, Olivia was so fond of -animals!" -</p> -<p> -Reluctantly they left the Mousery and strolled towards the gates; three -tired children, one of eleven, one of thirteen and one of sixty-eight. -The sun was setting over the sea, it was very cool in the garden after -the mousery. -</p> -<p> -The admiral turned to Joan. "Come again," he said simply. "Come very -often, there may be some more young ones to show you soon." -</p> -<p> -And so they parted on the road outside the gates. The children turned -once to look back as they walked down the hill; Admiral Bourne was still -standing in the road, looking after them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap08"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER EIGHT -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span> NEW family had come to Conway House under -Cone Head. The place had stood vacant for years; now, at length, it was -sold, and Elizabeth knew who the new people were. When Elizabeth, -meaning to be amiable, had remarked one afternoon that the Bensons had -been old friends of her cousin in London, and that she herself had known -them all her life, Mrs. Ogden had drawn in her lips, very slightly -raised an eyebrow and remarked: "Oh, really!" in what Joan had grown to -recognize as "the Routledge voice." It was true that Mrs. Ogden was -annoyed; there was no valid reason to produce against Elizabeth having -known the Bensons, yet she felt aggrieved. Elizabeth appeared to Mrs. -Ogden to be—well—not quite "governessy" enough. She had been -thinking this for the last few months. You did not expect your governess -to be an old friend of people who had just bought one of the largest -places in your neighbourhood, it was almost unseemly. Elizabeth, when -closely questioned, had said that the family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. -Benson, a son of twenty-two, another of seventeen, and one little girl -of fourteen. And just at the very end, mark you at the end, and then -only after a pressing cross-examination as to who they were, Elizabeth -had said quite vaguely that Mr. Benson was a banker, but that his mother -had been Lady Sarah Totteridge before her marriage, and that the present -Mrs. Benson was a daughter of Lord Down. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden had made it clear that she could not quite understand how -Elizabeth's cousin had come to know the Bensons, and Elizabeth had said -in a casual voice that her cousin and Mrs. Benson had had a great mutual -interest; and when Mrs. Ogden had inquired what this interest had been, -Elizabeth had replied, "Prostitutes," and had laughed! Of course the -children had not been in the room—still, "Prostitutes." Such a coarse -way to put it. Mrs. Ogden had spoken to Colonel Ogden about it -afterwards and had found him unsympathetic. All he had said was, "Well, -what else would you have her call them? Don't be such a damn fool, -Mary!" -</p> -<p> -However, there it was; Elizabeth did know the Bensons and would, Mrs. -Ogden supposed, contrive to continue knowing them now that they had come -to Conway House. She could not understand Elizabeth; it was "Elizabeth" -now at Elizabeth's own request; she had said that Rodney sounded so like -Ralph and not at all like her. Did anyone ever hear such nonsense! -However, the children had hailed the change with delight and so far it -did not appear to have undermined discipline, so that Mrs. Ogden -supposed it must be all right. She had to confess that it was a most -unexpected advantage for Milly and Joan to have such a woman to teach -them. Cambridge women did not grow on gooseberry bushes in Seabourne. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Her criticisms of Elizabeth afforded Mrs. Ogden a rather tepid -satisfaction for a time, but they never quite convinced her, and one day -her thoughts stopped short in the very middle of them. She had a moment -of clear inward vision; and in that moment she realized the exact and -precise reason why, in the last few months, she had grown irritated with -Elizabeth. So irritated in fact that nothing that Elizabeth said or did -could possibly be right. It was not Elizabeth's familiarity, not the -fact that Elizabeth knew the Bensons, not Elizabeth's rather frank -English, it was none of these things—it was Joan. -</p> -<p> -Joan was fourteen now, she was growing—growing mentally out of -Mrs. Ogden. There was so much these days that they could not discuss -together. Joan was a student, a tremendously hard worker; Mrs. Ogden had -never been that sort of girl. Even James could help Joan better than she -could—James was rather well up in history, for example. But she -was not well up in anything; this fact had never struck her before. -"Don't be such a damn fool, Mary!" James had said that for so many years -that it had ceased to mean anything to her, but now it seemed fraught -with dreadful, new possibilities. Would Joan ever come to think her a -fool? Would she ever come to think Elizabeth a fool? No, not -Elizabeth—wait—there was the menace. Elizabeth had goods for -sale that Joan could buy; how was she buying them, that was the -question? Was she paying in the copper coin of mere hard work, content -if she did Elizabeth credit? Or would she, being Joan, slip in a golden -coin of love and admiration, a coin stolen from her almost bankrupt -mother? -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, that happy, clever young creature, with her self-assurance -and her interest in Joan, what was she doing with Joan—what did she -mean to do with Joan's mother? How much did she want Joan—the real -Joan? And if she wanted her, could she get her? Mean, oh, mean! When -Elizabeth had everything on her side—when she had youth so obviously -on her side—surely she had enough without Joan, surely she need -not grow fond of Joan? -</p> -<p> -She had fancied lately that Elizabeth had become ever so slightly -possessive, that she took it for granted that she would have a say in -Joan's future, would be consulted. Then there was the question of a -university—who had put that idea into Joan's head? Who, but -Elizabeth! Where would it end if Joan went to Cambridge—certainly -not in Seabourne. But James would never consent, he was certain to draw -the line at that; besides, there was no money—but there were -scholarships; suppose Elizabeth was secretly working to enable Joan to -win a scholarship? How dare she! How dare either of them have any -secrets from Joan's mother! She would speak to Elizabeth—she would -assert herself at once. Joan should never be allowed to waste her youth -on dry bones. Elizabeth might think that women could fill men's posts, -but she knew better. Yet, after all, Joan was so like a boy—one -felt that she was a son sometimes. Hopeless, hopeless, she was afraid of -Elizabeth! She would never be able to speak her mind to her; she was too -calm, too difficult to arouse, too thick-skinned. And Joan—Joan -was moving away, not very far, only a little away. Joan was becoming a -spectator, and Joan as an audience might be dangerous. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden trembled; she strove desperately to scourge her mentality -into some semblance of adequacy. She tried, sincerely tried, to face the -situation calmly and wisely and with understanding. But her efforts -failed pathetically; through the maze of her struggling thoughts nothing -took shape but the desperate longing, the desperate need that was Joan. -She thought wildly: "I'll tell her how I want her, I'll tell her what my -life has been. I'll tell her the truth, that I can't, simply can't, live -without her, and then I shall keep her, because I can make her pity me." -Then she thought: "I must be mad—a child of fourteen—I must -be quite mad!" But she knew that in her tormenting jealousy she might -lose Joan altogether. Joan loved the little mother, the miserable, put -upon, bullied mother, the mother of headaches and secret tears; she -would not love the self-assertive, unjust mother—she never had. -No, she must appeal to Joan, that was the only way. Joan was as -responsive as ever; then of what was she afraid? Oh, Joan, Joan, so -young and awkward and adorable! Did she find her mother too old? After -all, she was only forty-two, not too old surely to keep Joan's love. She -would try to enter into things more, she would go for walks, she would -bathe, anything, anything—where should she begin? But supposing -Joan suspected, supposing she saw through her, supposing she laughed at -her—she must be careful, dreadfully careful. Joan was excited -because Conway House was sold, and had implored her to go and call on -Mrs. Benson; very well then, she would go, and take Elizabeth with -her,—yes, that would be gracious, that would please Joan. And she -would try not to hate Elizabeth, she would try with all the will-power -she had in her to see Elizabeth justly, to be grateful for the interest -she took in the child. She would try not to <i>fear</i> Elizabeth. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap09"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER NINE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE windows of Conway House glowed, and the -winter twilight was creeping in and out among the elms in the avenue. -The air was cold and dry, the clanking of the skates that Joan and -Elizabeth were carrying made a pleasant, musical sound as they walked. A -boy joined them; he was tall and lanky and his blunt freckled face was -flushed. -</p> -<p> -"Here I am. I've caught you up!" he said. -</p> -<p> -They turned; he was a jolly boy and they liked him. Richard Benson, the -younger son of the Bensons now of Conway House, was enjoying his -Christmas holidays immensely; for one thing he had been delighted to -find Elizabeth established at Seabourne; they were old friends, and now -there was the nice Ogden girl. Then the skating was the greatest luck, -so rare as to be positively exciting. Elizabeth and Joan were very good -sorts. Elizabeth skated very well, and Joan was learning—he hoped the -ice would hold. He was the most friendly of creatures, rather like a -lolloping puppy; you expected him to jump up and put his paws on your -shoulders. They walked on together towards the house, where tea would be -waiting; they all felt happily tired—it was good to be young. -</p> -<p> -The house had been thoroughly restored, and was now a perfect specimen -of its period. The drawing-room was long and lofty, and panelled in pale -grey, the curtains of orange brocade, the furniture Chippendale—a -gracious room. Beside the fire a group of people sat round the -tea-table, over which their hostess presided. Mrs. Benson was an ample -woman; her pleasant face, blunt and honest like that of her younger son, -made you feel welcome even before she spoke, and when she spoke her -voice was loud but agreeable. Joan thought: "She has the happiest voice -I've ever heard." The three skaters having discarded their wraps had -entered the drawing-room together. Mrs. Benson looked up. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth dear!" Elizabeth went to her impulsively and kissed her. -</p> -<p> -Joan wondered; Elizabeth was not given to kissing, she felt that she too -would rather like to know Mrs. Benson well enough to kiss her. As they -shook hands Mrs. Benson smiled. -</p> -<p> -"How did the skating go to-day, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, not badly, only one tumble." -</p> -<p> -"She got on splendidly!" said Richard with enthusiasm. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth should be a good teacher," his mother replied. "She used to -skate like an angel. Elizabeth, do you remember that hard winter we had -when the Serpentine froze?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson laughed as though the memory amused her; she and Elizabeth -exchanged a comprehending glance. -</p> -<p> -"They know each other very well," thought Joan. "They have secrets -together." -</p> -<p> -She felt suddenly jealous, and wondered whether she was jealous because -of Mrs. Benson or because of Elizabeth; she decided that it was because -of Elizabeth; she did not want anyone to know Elizabeth better than she -did. This discovery startled her. The impulse came to her to creep up to -Elizabeth and take her hand, but she could visualize almost exactly what -would probably happen. Very gently, oh, very gently indeed, Elizabeth -would disengage her hand, she would look slightly surprised, a little -amused perhaps, and would then move away on some pretext or another. -Joan could see it all. No, assuredly one did not go clinging to -Elizabeth's hand, she never encouraged clinging. -</p> -<p> -The group round the tea-table chattered and ate. Mrs. Ogden was among -them, but Joan had not noticed her, for she was sitting in the shadow. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, I didn't see you." She moved across and sat by her mother's -side, but her eyes followed Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden watched her. She wanted to say something appropriate, -something jolly, but she felt tongue-tied. There was the skating, why -not discuss Joan's tumble—but Elizabeth skated "like an angel." Joan -would naturally not expect her mother to be interested in skating, since -she must know that she had never skated in her life. Lawrence, the -eldest Benson boy, came towards them. He looked like his father, dark -and romantic, and like his father he was the dullest of dull good men. -He liked Mrs. Ogden, she had managed to impress him somehow and to make -him feel sorry for her. He thought she looked lonely in spite of her -overgrown daughter. -</p> -<p> -He pulled up a chair and made conversation. "It's ripping finding you -all down here, Mrs. Ogden. I never thought that Elizabeth would settle -at Seabourne." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, always Elizabeth! Mrs. Ogden forced herself to speak -cordially. "It was the greatest good fortune for us that she did." -</p> -<p> -"Yes—I suppose so. Elizabeth's too clever for me; I always tell her -so, I always chaff her." -</p> -<p> -"Do you? Do you know, I never feel that I dare chaff Elizabeth, no—I -should never dare." -</p> -<p> -"Not dare—why not? I used to tease the life out of her." -</p> -<p> -"Well, you are different perhaps; you knew her before she -was—well—so clever. You see I'm not clever, not in that way. -I'm very ignorant really." -</p> -<p> -"I don't believe it; anyhow, I like that kind of ignorance. I mean I -hate clever women. No, I don't mean I hate Elizabeth, she's a dear, but -I'd like her even more if she knew less. Oh, you know what I mean!" -</p> -<p> -"But Elizabeth is so splendid, isn't she? Cambridge, and I don't know -what not; still, perhaps——" -</p> -<p> -"But surely a woman doesn't need to go to Cambridge to be charming? -Personally I think it's a great mistake, this education craze; I don't -believe men really care for such things in women; do you, Mrs. Ogden?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden smiled. "That depends on the man, I suppose. Perhaps a really -manly man prefers the purely feminine woman——" -</p> -<p> -He was very young. At twenty-two it is gratifying to be thought a manly -man; yes, decidedly he liked Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't think that——" It was Richard who spoke, he had -strolled up unperceived. His brother looked annoyed. -</p> -<p> -"Don't you?" queried Mrs. Ogden. She caught Lawrence's eye and smiled. -</p> -<p> -Richard blushed to his ears, but he went on doggedly: "No, I don't, -because I think it's a shame that women should be shut out of things, -bottled up, cramped. Oh, I can't explain, only I think if they've got -the brains to go to college, we ought not to mind their going." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps when you're older you'll feel quite differently, most <i>men</i> -do." Mrs. Ogden's voice was provoking. -</p> -<p> -Richard felt hot and subsided suddenly, but before he did so his eyes -turned to Joan where she sat silent at her mother's side. She wondered -whether he thought that the conversation could have any possible bearing -on her personally, whether perhaps it had such a bearing. She glanced -shyly at her mother; Mrs. Ogden looked decidedly cross. -</p> -<p> -"I hope," she said emphatically, "that neither of <i>my</i> girls will want -to go to a university; they would never do so with my approval." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, but——" Richard began, then stopped, for he had caught -the warning in Joan's eye. "I came to say," he stammered, "that if -you'll come into the library, Joan, I'll show you those prints of -Father's, the sporting ones I told you about." He stood looking awkward -for a moment, then turned as if expecting her to follow him. -</p> -<p> -"May I go, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -But Joan was already on her feet, what was the good of saying "No" since -she so obviously wanted to go? Mrs. Ogden sighed, she looked at Lawrence -appealingly. "They are so much in advance of me," she said as Joan -hurried away. -</p> -<p> -Sympathy welled up in him; he let it appear in his eyes, together with a -look of admiration; as he did so he was thinking that the touch of grey -in her hair became Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -She thought: "How funny, the boy's getting sentimental!" A little -flutter of pleasure stirred her for a moment. After all she was not so -immensely old and not so <i>passée</i> either, and it was not unpleasant to -have a young male creature sympathizing with you and looking at you as -though he admired and pitied you—in fact it was rather soothing. Then -she thought: "I wonder where Joan is," and suddenly she felt tired of -Lawrence Benson; she wished that he would go away so that she might have -an excuse for moving; she felt restless. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -In the library Joan was listening to Richard. He stood before her with -his hair ruffled, his face flushed and eager. -</p> -<p> -"Joan! I don't know you awfully well, and of course you're only a kid as -yet, but Elizabeth says you're clever—and don't you let yourself be -bottled." -</p> -<p> -"Bottled?" she queried. -</p> -<p> -"Don't you get all cramped up and fuggy, like one does when one sits -over a fire all day. I know what I mean, it sounds all rot, only it -isn't rot. You look out! I have a presentiment that they mean to bottle -you." -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed. -</p> -<p> -"It's no laughing matter," he said in an impressive voice. "It's no -laughing matter to be bottled; they want to bottle me, only I don't mean -to let them." -</p> -<p> -"Why, what do you want to do that makes them want to bottle you?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm going in for medicine—Father hates it; he hopes I'll get sick of -it, but it's my line, I know it; I'm studying to be a doctor." -</p> -<p> -"Well, why not? It's rather jolly to be a doctor, I should think; -someone's got to look after people when they're ill." -</p> -<p> -"That's just it. I'm keen as mustard on it, and I shan't let anyone stop -me." -</p> -<p> -"But what's that got to do with me?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing, not the doctor part, but the other part has; if you're clever, -you ought to do something." -</p> -<p> -"But I'm not a boy!" -</p> -<p> -"That doesn't matter a straw. Look at Elizabeth; she's not a boy, but -she didn't let her brain get fuggy; though," he added reflectively, "I'm -not so sure of her now as I was before she came here." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" said Joan; she liked talking about Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, just Seabourne, it's a bottling place. If Elizabeth don't look out -she'll be bottled next!" -</p> -<p> -At that moment Elizabeth came in. "We were talking about you," said -Joan, but Elizabeth was dreadfully incurious. -</p> -<p> -"Your mother is waiting; it's time to go," was all she said. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -In the fly on the way home the silence was oppressive. Mrs. Ogden seemed -to be suffering, she looked wilted. "What is it, darling?" Joan -inquired. She had enjoyed herself, and now somehow it was spoilt. She -had hoped that her mother was enjoying herself too. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden leant towards her and took her hand. "My dear little girl," -she murmured, "have you been happy, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, very; haven't you, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -There was a pause. "I'm not as young as you are, dearest." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, sitting beside Mrs. Ogden, smiled bitterly in the dark. "Wait -a while," she said to herself. "Wait a while!" Her own emotions -surprised her, she was conscious of a feeling of acute anger. As if by a -simultaneous impulse the two women suddenly drew as far apart as the -narrow confines of the cab permitted. To Elizabeth it seemed as if -something so intense as to be almost tangible leapt out between -them—a naked sword. -</p> -<p> -Sitting with her back to the driver, Joan was lost in thought; she was -thinking of the utter hopelessness of making her mother really happy. -But with another part of her mind she was pondering Richard's sudden -outburst in the library. She liked him, she thought what a satisfactory -brother he would be. Why was he so afraid of being caught and bottled? -Lawrence, she felt, must be bottled already; he liked it, she was sure -that Lawrence would think it the right thing to be. She wondered how -Richard would manage to escape—if he did escape. A picture of him -rose before her eyes; he made her laugh, he was so emphatic. She -resolved to talk him over with Elizabeth. Of course it was all -nonsense—still, he seemed dreadfully afraid. What was it really -that he was afraid of, and why was he so afraid for her? -</p> -<p> -The cab jolted abruptly, Joan's thoughts jolting with it. The driver had -pulled up to drop Elizabeth at her brother's house. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_II"><i>BOOK II</i></a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap10"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE summer in which Joan's fifteenth -birthday occurred was particularly anxious and depressing because of -Colonel Ogden's health. -</p> -<p> -One morning in July he had woken up with a headache and a cough; -bronchitis followed, and the strain on his already flagging heart made -the doctor uneasy. Undoubtedly Colonel Ogden was very ill. Joan, working -hard for her Junior Local, was put to it to know what to do; whether to -throw up the examination for the sake of helping her mother or to -continue to cram for the sake of not disappointing Elizabeth. In the end -the doctor solved this difficulty by sending in an experienced nurse. -</p> -<p> -Just about this time a deep depression settled on Joan, a kind of heavy -melancholy. She wondered what the origin of this might be; she was too -honest to pretend to herself that it was caused by anxiety about her -father. She wanted to grieve over him. She thought: "Poor thing, he -can't breathe; he's lying in a kind of lump of pillows upstairs in bed; -his face looks dreadfully ugly and he can't help it." But the picture -that she drew left her cold. Then a hundred little repulsive details of -the illness crowded in on her imagination; when she was with her father -she would watch for them with apprehension. She forced herself to show -him an exaggerated tenderness, which he, poor man, did not want; it was -Milly he was always asking for—but Milly was frightened of illness. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden, who was sharing the duties of the nurse, looked worn out, an -added anxiety to Joan. They would meet at meals, kiss silently and part -again, Mrs. Ogden to relieve the nurse, Joan to go back to her books. -She thought: "How <i>can</i> I sit here grinding away while she does all -the beastly things upstairs? But I can't go up and help her, I simply -<i>can't</i>!" And one day, almost imperceptibly, a new misery reared its -head; she began to analyse her feelings for her mother. -</p> -<p> -She tried to be logical; she argued that because she wanted to work for -an exam, there was no reason to suppose that she loved her mother less; -she thought that she looked the thing squarely in the eyes, turned it -round and surveyed it from all sides and then dismissed it. But a few -moments later the thought would come again, this time a little more -insistent, requiring a somewhat longer effort of reasoning to argue it -away. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -One evening during this period, Joan heard her own Doubt voiced by her -mother. They had been sitting side by side on the little veranda at the -back of the house; the night was warm and from a neighbouring garden -something was smelling sweet. Neither of them had spoken for a long -time; Mrs. Ogden was the first to break the silence. Quite suddenly she -turned her face to Joan; the movement was almost lover-like. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, do you love me, dearest?" It had come. This was the thing Joan -had been dreading for weeks, perhaps it was all her life that she had -been dreading it. She felt that time had ceased to exist, there were no -clear demarcations; past, present and future were all one, welded -together in the furnace of her horrible doubt. Did she love her mother, -did she—did she? Her mother was waiting; she had always been waiting -just like this, and she always would wait, a little breathlessly, a -little afraid. She stared out desperately into the darkness—the -answer; it must be found quickly, but where—how? -</p> -<p> -"Joan, do you love me, dearest?" The answer must be somewhere, only it was -not in her tired brain—it was somewhere else, then. In her mother's -brain? Was that why her mother was a little breathless, a little afraid? -She pressed her cold cheek against Mrs. Ogden's, rubbing it gently up -and down, then suddenly she folded her in her arms, kissing her lips, -seeking desperately to awaken her dulled emotions to the response that -she knew was so painfully desired. -</p> -<p> -When at last they released each other, they sat for a long time hand in -hand. To Joan there was an actual physical distaste for the hand-clasp, -yet she dared not, could not let go. She was conscious in a vague way -that her mother's hand felt different. Mechanically she began to finger -it, slipping a ring up and down; the ring came off unexpectedly, it was -loose, for the hand had grown thinner. Her mind seized on this with -avidity; here was the motive she needed for love: her mother's hand, -small and white, was thinner than it had been before, it was now -terribly thin. There was pathos in this, there was something in this to -make her feel sorry; she stooped and fondled the hand. But did she love -her? No, assuredly not, for this was not love, this was a stupendous and -exhausting effort of the will. When you loved you just loved, and all -the rest followed as a matter of course—and yet, if she did not love -her, why did she trouble to exert this effort of will at all, why did -she feel so strongly the necessity for protecting her mother from the -hurt of discovery? Deception; was it ever justifiable to deceive, was it -justifiable now? And yet, even if she were sure that she did not love -her, could she find the courage to push her away? To say: "I don't love -you, I don't want to touch you, I dislike the feel of you—I dislike -above all else the <i>feel</i> of you!" How terrible to say such a thing to -any living creature, and how more than terrible to say it to her mother! -The hydra had grown another head; what would her mother do if she knew -that Joan loved her less? -</p> -<p> -Away out in the darkness a bell chimed ten o'clock; Mrs. Ogden got up -wearily. "I must see to nurse's supper." Inside Joan's brain a voice -said: "Go and help her, she's tired; go and get the supper yourself." -But another and more insistent voice arose to drown it: "Do I love her, -do I, do I?" Mrs. Ogden went into the house, but Joan remained sitting -on the veranda. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap11"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER ELEVEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE weeks dragged on; Colonel Ogden might -recover, but his illness would of necessity be a long one, for his -heart, already weak, was now disposed to stop beating on the least -provocation. -</p> -<p> -Joan worked with furious energy. Elizabeth, confident of her pupil, -protested that this cramming was unnecessary, but Joan, stubborn as -always, took her own line. She felt that work was her only refuge, the -only drug that, temporarily at all events, brought relief. -</p> -<p> -It was now the veriest torture to her to be in her mother's presence, to -be forced to see the tired body going on its daily rounds, to hear the -repeated appeals for sympathy, to see the reproach in the watchful eyes. -</p> -<p> -But if the days were unendurable, how much worse were the nights, the -nights when she would wake with a sudden start in a cold sweat of -terror. Why was she terrified? She was terrified because she feared that -she did not love her mother, and one night she knew that she was -terrified because, if she could not love her mother, she might grow to -love someone else instead—Elizabeth for instance. The hydra grew -another head that night. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, the ever watchful, became alarmed at her condition. Joan, -haggard and pale, distressed her; she could not get at the bottom of the -thing, for now Joan seemed to avoid her. Yet she felt instinctively that -this avoidance did not ring true; there was something very like dumb -appeal in the girl's eyes as they followed her about. What was it she -wanted? There was something unnatural about Joan these days—when she -talked now, she always seemed to have a motive for what she said, she -seemed to hope for something from Elizabeth, from Milly even; to hang on -their words. Elizabeth got the impression that she was for ever skirting -some subject of which she never came to the point. She felt that -something was being demanded of her, she did not know what. -</p> -<p> -There were good days sometimes, when Joan would get up in the morning -feeling restored after a peaceful night. Her troubles would seem vague -like a ship on a far horizon. Then the reaction would be exaggerated. -Elizabeth was not reassured by a boisterously happy Joan, and was never -surprised when a few hours would exhaust this blissful condition. -Something, usually a mere trifle, would crop up to suggest the old -Horror. Very quietly, as a rule, Joan's torments would begin, a -thought—flimsy as a bit of thistledown, would light for an instant in -her brain to be quickly brushed aside, but like thistledown it would -alight again and cling. Gradually it would become more concrete; now it -was not thistledown, it was a little stone, very cold and hard, that -pressed and was not so easy to brush aside. And the stone would grow -until it seemed to Joan to become a physical burden, crushing her under -an unendurable load, more horrible than ever now because of those hours -of respite. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth coaxed and cajoled; she wanted at all hazards to stop Joan -from working. She let down the barrier of her calm aloofness and showed -a new aspect of herself to her pupil. She entreated, she begged, for it -seemed to her that things were becoming desperate. At last she played -her trump card, she played it suddenly without warning and without tact, -in a way that was characteristic of her in moments of deep feeling. One -day she closed her book, folded her hands and said: -</p> -<p> -"Joan! If you loved me you couldn't make me unhappy about you as you do. -Joan, don't you love me?" -</p> -<p> -For answer Joan fled from the room as if pursued by a fiend. -</p> -<p> -"Do I love her? Do I? Do I?" There it was again—this time for -Elizabeth. Did she love Elizabeth and was that why she did not love her -mother? Here was a new and fruitful source of self-analysis; if she -loved Elizabeth she could not love her mother, for one could not really -love more than one person at a time, at least Joan was sure that she -could not. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Alone in the schoolroom Elizabeth clasped her slim hands on her lap; she -sat very upright in her chair. Suddenly she rose to her feet; she knew -what was the matter with her pupil, she had had an illuminating thought -and meant to lose no time in acting upon it. She went upstairs and -knocked softly on the door of Colonel Ogden's bedroom. Mrs. Ogden opened -it; she looked surprised. -</p> -<p> -"May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Ogden?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden glanced at the bed to make certain that this intrusion had -not wakened the sleeping patient, then she closed the door noiselessly -behind her and the two faced each other on the landing. Something in -Elizabeth's eyes startled her. -</p> -<p> -"Is anything wrong?" she faltered. -</p> -<p> -"I think we had better talk in the dining-room," was all that Elizabeth -would say. -</p> -<p> -They went into the dining-room and shut the door; neither of them sat -down. -</p> -<p> -"It's about Joan," Elizabeth began, "I'm worried about her." -</p> -<p> -"Why, is anything the matter?" -</p> -<p> -"I think," said Elizabeth, "that a great deal is going to be the matter -unless something is done very soon." -</p> -<p> -"You frighten me, Elizabeth; for goodness' sake explain yourself." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want to frighten you, but I'm beginning to be frightened myself -about Joan; she's been very queer for weeks, she looks terribly ill, and -I think something is preying on her mind." -</p> -<p> -"Preying on her mind?" -</p> -<p> -"I think so—she seems unnatural—she isn't like Joan, somehow." -</p> -<p> -"But, I haven't noticed all this!" Mrs. Ogden's voice was cold. "Are you -sure that you're not over-anxious, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm sure I'm right. If you haven't noticed that Joan's ill, it must be -because you have been so worried about Colonel Ogden." -</p> -<p> -"Really, Elizabeth, I cannot think it possible that I, the child's -mother, should not have noticed what you say, were it true." -</p> -<p> -"Still, you haven't noticed it," said Elizabeth stubbornly. -</p> -<p> -"No, I have not noticed it, but I'm glad to have an opportunity of -telling you what I have noticed; and that is that you systematically -encourage the child to overwork." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth stiffened. "She does overwork, though I have begged her not -to, but I don't think it's that, entirely." -</p> -<p> -"Then what do you think it is?" -</p> -<p> -"Do you really want me to tell you?" -</p> -<p> -"Certainly—why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Because, when I do tell you, you'll get angry. Because it is a -presumption on my part, I suppose, to say what I am going to say; -because—oh! because after all I'm only the governess and you are her -mother, but for all that I ought to tell you what I think." -</p> -<p> -"You bewilder me, Elizabeth, I can't imagine what all this means; I -didn't know, you see, that Joan made you her confidante." -</p> -<p> -"She doesn't, and possibly that's a pity; I've never encouraged her to -confide in me, and now I'm beginning to wonder whether I haven't been a -fool." -</p> -<p> -"I think that I, and not you, Elizabeth, would be the person in whom -Joan would confide." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, of course," said Elizabeth, but her voice lacked conviction. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth! I don't like all this; I should be sorry if we couldn't get -on together; it would, I frankly admit, be a disadvantage for the -children to lose you, but you must understand at once that I cannot, -will not, allow you to usurp my prerogatives." -</p> -<p> -"I've never done so, knowingly, Mrs. Ogden." -</p> -<p> -"But you are doing it now. You appear to want to call me to book, at -least your manner suggests it. I cannot understand what it is you are -driving at; I wish you would speak out, I detest veiled hints." -</p> -<p> -"You don't like me, Mrs. Ogden; if I speak out you will like me even -less——" Elizabeth's mind was working quickly; this might mean -losing Joan—still, she must speak. -</p> -<p> -She continued: "Well, then, I think it's a mistake to play on the -child's emotions as you do; Joan's not so staid and quiet as she seems. -You may not realize how deeply she feels things, but she feels them -horribly deeply—when you do them. I've watched you together and I -know. You've done it for years, Mrs. Ogden, perhaps unconsciously, I don't -know, but for years Joan has had a constant strain on her emotions. She -loves you in the only way that Joan knows how to love, that is with -every ounce of herself; there aren't any half tones about Joan, she sees -things black or white but never grey, and I think, I feel, that she -loves you too much. Oh, I know that what I'm saying must seem -inexcusable, perhaps even ridiculous, but that's just it: I think Joan -loves you too much. I think that underneath her quiet outside there is -something very big and rather dangerous; an almost abnormally developed -capacity for affection, and I think that it is this on which you play -without cease, day in and day out. I feel as if you were always poking -the fire, feeding it, blowing it until it's red hot, and I can't think -it's right, Mrs. Ogden, that's all; I think it will be Joan's ruin." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Elizabeth!</i>" -</p> -<p> -"Wait, I <i>must</i> speak. Joan is brilliant, you know that she's -brilliant, and that she ought to do something with her life. You must -surely feel that she can't stay here in Seabourne for ever? She -must—oh! if I could only find the right words—she must -fulfil herself in some way—either marriage or work, at all events -some interest outside of and beyond you. She's consuming herself even -now, and what will she do later on? Yet, how can she come to fruition if -she's drained dry before she begins to live at all? I don't know how I -dare to speak to you like this, but I want your help. Joan is such -splendid material; don't let her worry about you as she does, don't let -her see that you are not a happy woman, don't let her <i>spend</i> -herself on you!" -</p> -<p> -She paused, her knees shook a little, she felt that in another moment -she would begin to cry, and emotions with her came hard. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden blanched. So it had come at last! This was what she had -always known would happen; Elizabeth had dared to criticize her handling -of Joan. She felt a blind rage towards her, a sudden longing to strike -her. The barriers went down with a crash, primitive invectives sprang to -her lips and she barely checked them in time. She choked. -</p> -<p> -"You dare to say this, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"I love Joan." -</p> -<p> -"<i>What!</i>" -</p> -<p> -"I love Joan, and I must save her, Mrs. Ogden." -</p> -<p> -"<i>You</i>? How dare you suggest that the child is more to you than she is -to me; do you realize what Joan means to me?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it's because I do realize it——" -</p> -<p> -"Then be silent." -</p> -<p> -"I dare not." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden stamped her foot. "You <i>shall</i> be silent. And understand, -please, that you will leave us when your notice expires; but in the -meantime you will not interfere again between Joan and me, I will not -tolerate it! I refuse to tolerate it!" She burst into a violent fit of -weeping. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth grew calm at the sight of her tears. "I am going to ask you to -reconsider your decision to dismiss me," she said. "I want to go on -teaching Joan, I shall not accept my notice to leave unless you give it -me again, which I hope for my sake you will not do; what I have said, I -have said from a conviction that it was my duty to speak plainly." Then -she played skilfully in self-defence. "You see, Joan simply adores you." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden sobbed more quietly and became attentive. Elizabeth pressed -her advantage home; she could not endure to lose Joan, and she didn't -intend to lose her. -</p> -<p> -"Can't you see that Joan's love for you is no ordinary thing, that it's -the biggest thing about her, that it is her, and that's why everything -you do or say, however unintentional, plays on her feelings to an -abnormal extent?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden drew herself up. "I hope," she said stiffly, "that I'm quite -capable of judging the depth of my child's affection. But I shall have -to think over your request to remain with us, Elizabeth. I hardly -think——" she paused. -</p> -<p> -"I am anxious to stay," said Elizabeth simply. -</p> -<p> -"Whether you stay or go, I consider that you owe me an apology." -</p> -<p> -"I'll give it very gladly, for a great deal that I've said must have -seemed to you unwarrantable," Elizabeth replied. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was silent. She longed to tell Elizabeth to go now at once, -but her rage was subsiding. Colonel Ogden was still ill and governesses -were not to be found easily or cheaply in Seabourne, at least not with -Elizabeth's qualifications. There were many things to consider, so many -that they rushed in upon her, submerging her mind in a tide of -difficulties—perhaps, after all, she would accept the apology for the -moment, and bide her time, but forgive Elizabeth? <i>Never</i>! -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth left the room. "She won't dismiss me," she thought, "I'm -cheap, and she won't find anyone else to take my post at my salary; but -I shall have to be more careful in future, it won't do to play with -cards on the table. I behaved like an impetuous fool this afternoon. -What is it about Joan that makes a fool of one? I shall stop on here -until Joan breaks free—I must help her to break free when the time -comes." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -That night when the doctor called to see the colonel, Mrs. Ogden asked -him to examine Joan. -</p> -<p> -"My governess is rather inclined to overwork the child," she told him, -"but I don't think you will find much wrong with her." -</p> -<p> -Joan, dutifully stripping to the waist, was sounded and pronounced by -the doctor to be in practically normal health. Too thin and a little -anæmic, perhaps, and the heart action just a little nervous, but Mrs. -Ogden was assured that she had no grounds for anxiety. The doctor -advised less study and more open air; he patted Joan's shoulder and -remarked comfortingly that he only wished all his patients were such -healthy specimens. Then he gave her a mild nerve tonic, told her to eat -well and go to bed early, shook hands cordially with Mrs. Ogden and -departed. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap12"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWELVE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">C</span>OLONEL OGDEN was convalescent. -</p> -<p> -Every morning now when it was fine he went out in a bath chair, dragged -by a very old man. The dreadful bend of the old man's shoulders as he -tugged weakly with his hands behind him, struck Joan as an outrage. The -old man shuffled too, he never seemed able to quite lift his feet; she -wondered how many pairs of cheap boots he wore out in the year. It was -the starting of the bath chair that was particularly horrible, the first -strain; after that it went more easily. Muffled to the eyes and swathed -in rugs, his feet planted firmly on the footstool, his hat jammed on -vindictively, Colonel Ogden sat like a statue of outraged dignity, the -ridiculous leather apron buttoned over his knees. Above his muffler his -small blue eyes tried hard to glare in the old way, but the fire had -gone out of them, and his voice coming weakly through the folds of his -scarf, had already acquired the irritable whine of the invalid. Mrs. -Ogden would stand, fussy and solicitous, on the steps to see him off, -sometimes she would accompany him up and down the esplanade, adjusting -his cushion, tucking in his rug, inquiring with forced solicitude -whether he felt the wind cold, whether his chest ached, whether his -heart was troublesome. The colonel endured, puffing out his cheeks from -time to time as though an explosion were imminent, but it never came, or -at least if it did come it was such a melancholy ghost of its former -self as to be almost unrecognizable. And very deaf, a little rheumy in -the eyes, and terribly bent in the back, the old bath-chair man tugged -and tugged with his head shot forward at a tortoise-like angle, the -dirty seams standing out on the back of his neck. -</p> -<p> -But though Colonel Ogden required a great deal of attention now that the -nurse was gone, his wife's immediate anxiety regarding him was relieved, -which gave her the time to brood constantly over Joan. The girl was -seldom from her thoughts, she began to loom even larger than she had -done before in her mother's life, to appear ten times more valuable and -more desirable, now that Mrs. Ogden felt that a serious rival had -declared herself. Elizabeth's words burnt and rankled; she rehearsed the -scene with the governess many times a day in her mind and went to sleep -with it at nights. She felt Elizabeth's personality to be well-nigh -unendurable; she could never look at her now without remembering the -grudge which she must always bear her, though a veneer of civility was -absolutely necessary, for she did not intend to lose her just yet. She -told herself that she kept her because she was still too tired to look -for a successor, who must be found as soon as she recovered from the -strain of the colonel's illness; but in her heart of hearts she knew -that this was not her reason—she knew that she kept her because she -was afraid of the stimulus to Joan's affection for Elizabeth that might -result from an unconsidered action on her part. She was afraid to let -Elizabeth go and afraid to let her stay, afraid of Elizabeth and -mortally afraid of Joan. -</p> -<p> -She watched the girl with ever increasing suspicion, and what she saw -convinced her that she was less responsive than she used to be. Joan had -grown more silent and more difficult to understand. Now, the mother and -daughter found very little to say to each other; when they were together -their endearments were strained like those of people with a guilty -secret. Yet even now there were moments when the mother thought that she -recognized the old Joan in the almost exasperated flood of affection -that would be poured out upon her. But she was not satisfied; these -moments were of fleeting duration, spoilt by uncertainty, by lack of -comprehension. There was something almost tragic about these two at this -time, bound together as they were by a subtle and unrecognized tie, -struggling to find each for herself and for the other some compensation, -some fulfilment. But if Mrs. Ogden was deceived, even for a moment, her -daughter was not. Joan knew that they never found what they sought and -never would find it now, any more. She could not reason it out, she had -nothing wherewith to reason, she was too young to rely on anything but -instinct, but that told her the truth. -</p> -<p> -The Horror was still with her; she wanted to love Mrs. Ogden, she felt -empty and disconsolate without that love. She longed to feel the old -quick response when her mother bent towards her, the old perpetual -romance of her vicinity. She was like a drug-taker from whom all -stimulant has been suddenly removed; the craving was unendurable, -dangerous alike to body and mind. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Now began a period of petty irritations, petty tyrannies and miseries. -Mrs. Ogden watched! She was gentle and overtired and pathetic, but oh! -so terribly watchful. Joan could feel her watching, watching her, -watching Elizabeth. Things happened, only the merest trifles, yet they -counted. One day it was a hat, another a pair of shoes or a pattern of -knitting wool. Perhaps Elizabeth would say: -</p> -<p> -"Put your black hat on this afternoon, Joan; it suits you." Then Joan -would look up and see Mrs. Ogden standing inside the dining-room door. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, dearest?" -</p> -<p> -"I dislike you in that hat, put the blue one on, darling." -</p> -<p> -A thousand little unexpected things were always cropping up to give rise -to these thinly veiled quarrels. Even Milly began to feel uncomfortable -and ill at ease, but with I characteristic decision she solved the -problem for herself. -</p> -<p> -"I shan't stay here when I'm bigger, Joan; I shall go away," she -announced one day. -</p> -<p> -Joan was startled; the words made her uneasy, they reopened the eternal -question, presenting a new facet. She began to ask herself whether she -too did not long to go away, whether she would want to stay at Seabourne -when she was older, and above all whether she loved her mother enough to -stay for ever in Seabourne. They were sitting in the school-room, and -Joan's eyes sought Elizabeth, who answered the unspoken thought. She -turned to Joan with a quick, unusual gesture. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, you mustn't stay here always either." -</p> -<p> -"Not stay here, Elizabeth? Where should I go?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't know; to Cambridge perhaps, and then—oh, well, then you -must work, do things with your life." -</p> -<p> -"But, Mother——" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was silent. Joan pressed her. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth, do you think Mother would ever consent?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know; you have the brain to do it if you choose." -</p> -<p> -"But suppose it made her unhappy?" -</p> -<p> -"Why should it? She'll probably be very proud of you if you make -good—in any case you'll have to leave her if you marry." -</p> -<p> -"But it might—oh! can't you see that it might make her unhappy, -dreadfully unhappy?" -</p> -<p> -"What do you feel about it yourself, Joan; are you ambitious, I mean?" -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent for a moment, then she said: "I don't think I am really -ambitious. I mean I don't think that I could ever push everything aside -for the sake of some big idea; I hate being hurt and hurting, and I -think you've got to do that if you're really ambitious; but I want to go -on working, frightfully." -</p> -<p> -"Well, you'll probably get through your exam, all right." -</p> -<p> -"And if I do, what then?" -</p> -<p> -"Then your Oxford Local, I suppose." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but then?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, then we shall have to consider. I should think Cambridge for you, -Joan—though I don't know; perhaps Oxford is better in some respects." -She paused and appeared to reflect. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her fixedly. She thought: "This is said to me in direct -opposition to Mother; it's being said on purpose. Elizabeth hates her -and I ought to hate Elizabeth, but I <i>don't</i>!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap13"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">R</span>ICHARD BENSON came home towards the end of -August after a visit to friends in Ireland. To Elizabeth's -disappointment, Joan showed no pleasure at his return. However, it -appeared that Richard had not forgotten her, for Mrs. Benson wrote -insisting that she and Elizabeth should come to luncheon, as he had been -asking after them. -</p> -<p> -They went to Conway House on the appointed day. Joan was acquiescent, -she never offered much opposition to anything at this time unless it -were interference with her self-imposed and ridiculous cramming. After -all it was a pleasant luncheon, and Elizabeth, at all events, enjoyed -it. -</p> -<p> -Joan thought: "I'm glad she looks happy and pleased, but I wish they'd -asked Mother; I wonder why they didn't ask Mother?" Her mother's absence -weighed upon her. Not that Mrs. Ogden had withheld a ready consent, she -was glad that her girls had such nice neighbours, but Joan knew -instinctively that she had felt hurt; she was beginning to know so much -about her mother by instinct. She divined her every mood; it seemed to -her to be like looking through a window-pane to look at Mrs. Ogden, and -the view you saw beyond was usually deeply depressing. Mrs. Ogden had -smiled when she kissed her good-bye, but the smile had been a little -rueful, a little tremulous; it had seemed to say: "I know I'm not as -young as I used to be, I expect they find me dull." Joan wondered if -they did find her dull, and her heart ached. -</p> -<p> -She was thinking of her now as she tried to eat. Richard, more freckled -and blunt-faced than ever, talked and joked in a kind of desperation; it -seemed to him that something must be seriously wrong with Joan. Mrs. -Benson's keen eyes watched the girl attentively, and what she saw -mystified her. She took Elizabeth into the drawing-room after lunch, -having first ordered Richard and Joan into the garden. When she and -Elizabeth were alone together she began at once. -</p> -<p> -"What on earth's the matter with Joan, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know—why? Do you think she looks ill?" -</p> -<p> -"Don't you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"I was quite shocked to-day. I always feel interested in that child, and -I should be dreadfully anxious if she belonged to me." -</p> -<p> -"Well, she's at a difficult age, you know." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my dear, it's more than that; have you been letting her work too -hard?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh!" said Elizabeth violently, "I'm sick to death of being asked that; -of course she works too hard, but it isn't that, it's——" -</p> -<p> -"Yes?" queried Mrs. Benson. -</p> -<p> -"It's—oh! I don't know, Mrs. Benson, I can't put it into words, but -it's an awful responsibility, somehow; I can't tell you how it worries -me." Her voice shook. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson patted her hand reassuringly. "Whatever it is, it's got on -your nerves too, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked at her a little startled. Yes, it had got on her -nerves, it was horribly on her nerves and had been for weeks. She longed -to talk frankly and explain to this kind, commonplace woman the -complicated situation as she saw it, to ask her advice. She began: -"Joan's got something on her mind——" Then stopped. -</p> -<p> -"But of course she has," said Mrs. Benson. -</p> -<p> -"And she's growing—mentally, I mean. Oh, and physically -too——" -</p> -<p> -"They all do that, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but—I don't understand it; at least, yes, I do understand it, -only I can't see my way." -</p> -<p> -"Your way?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, my way with Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Can't you try to rouse her? She seems to me to be getting very morbid." -</p> -<p> -"No, she's not—at least not in the way you mean. Don't think I'm mad, -but Joan gives me such a queer feeling. I feel as though she'd been -fighting, fighting, fighting to get out, to be herself, and that now -she's not fighting any more, she's too tired." -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear child, what is it all about?" -</p> -<p> -"I think I know, in fact I'm sure I do, and yet I can't help her. I want -her to go away from here some day, I want her to have a life of her own. -Can't you see how it is? She's so much her mother's favourite—they -adore each other." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson did not speak for a little while, then she said: "I don't -know Mrs. Ogden very well, but I think she might be a very selfish -mother; but then, poor soul, she hasn't had much of a life, has she?" -</p> -<p> -Then Elizabeth let herself go, she heard her voice growing louder, but -could not control it. -</p> -<p> -"I don't care, she has no right to make it up to herself with Joan. -Joan's young and clever, and sensitive and dreadfully worth while. -Surely she has a right to something in life beyond Seabourne and Mrs. -Ogden? Joan has a right to love whom she likes, and to go where she -likes and to work and be independent and happy, and if she can't be -happy then she has a right to make her own unhappiness; it's a thousand -times better to be unhappy in your own way than to be happy in someone -else's. Joan wants something and I don't know what it is, but if it's -Mrs. Ogden then it ought not to be, that's all. The child's eating her -heart out and it's wrong, wrong, wrong! She dare not be herself because -it might not be the self that Mrs. Ogden needs. She wants to go to -Cambridge, but will she ever go? Why she's even afraid to be fond of me -because Mrs. Ogden is jealous of me." She paused, breathless. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson looked grave. "My dear," she said very quietly, "I -sympathize, and I think I understand; but be careful." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth thought: "No, you don't understand; you're a kind, good woman, -but you don't understand in the least." -</p> -<p> -Aloud she said: "I'm afraid I seem violent, but I'm personally -interested in Joan's possibilities, she's very clever and lovable." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson assented. "Why not encourage her to come here more often," -she suggested. "She and Violet are about the same age, and Violet's -nearly always here in the holidays. Richard and Joan seemed to get on -very well last year. Oh, talking of Richard; you know, I suppose, that -he insists upon being a doctor?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth laughed. "Well, as long as he's a good doctor I suppose he -won't kill anyone!" They both smiled now as they thought of Richard. -"His father's furious," Mrs. Benson told her, "but it's no good being -furious with Richard; you might as well get angry with an oak tree and -slap it." -</p> -<p> -"Does he work well?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I believe so; you wouldn't think it to look at him, would you? but -I hear that he's rather clever. Anyhow, he's a perfect darling, and what -<i>does</i> it matter whether he's a doctor or a cabinet minister, so long -as he's respectable!" -</p> -<p> -"Will he specialize eventually, do you think?" -</p> -<p> -"He wants to, if he can get his father to back him." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, but he will do that, of course. Does Richard say what he wants to -specialize in?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson smiled again. "He does," she remarked with mock grimness. -"He says he means to specialize in medical psychology—nerves, I -believe is what it boils down to. <i>Can</i> you see Richard as a nerve -specialist, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, if having no nerves oneself goes to the making of a good nerve -doctor, I should think he would succeed." -</p> -<p> -"He tells me he's certain to succeed, my dear; he takes it as a matter -of course. If you could see the books he leaves about the house! Do you -know, Elizabeth, I'm almost afraid for my Richard sometimes; it would be -so awfully hard for him if he failed to make good, he's so sure of -himself, you know. And it's not conceit; I don't know what it is—it's -a kind of matter-of-fact self-confidence—it's almost impressive!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Richard and Joan were walking up and down the path by the tennis lawn; -they looked very young and lanky and pathetic, the one in his eagerness, -the other in her resignation. Joan, as she listened to the enthusiastic -sentences, wondered how anyone could care so much about anything. -</p> -<p> -He was saying: "It's ripping the feeling it gives you to know that you -can do a thing, and to feel that you're going to do it well." -</p> -<p> -"But how can you be certain that you will do it well?" Joan inquired. -</p> -<p> -"I don't know, but one is certain—at least, I am." -</p> -<p> -"Will you live in Seabourne when you've taken your degree?" -</p> -<p> -"Good Lord, no, of course not! No one who wants to get on could do -anything in a place like this!" -</p> -<p> -"It's not such a bad place," she protested. She felt an urgent need to -uphold Seabourne just then. -</p> -<p> -"It's not a bad place for old people and mental deficients; no, I -suppose it's not." -</p> -<p> -"But your mother isn't old and she isn't mentally deficient." -</p> -<p> -"Of course not; but she doesn't stick here. She goes up to London for -months on end sometimes; besides, she's different!" -</p> -<p> -"I don't see how she's different. How is she different from my mother, -for instance? And my mother never gets away from Seabourne." -</p> -<p> -It was on the tip of his tongue to say: "Oh! but she is different!" but -he checked himself and said: "Well, perhaps some people can stick here -and remain human; only I know I couldn't, that's all." -</p> -<p> -She longed to ask him about Cambridge, but she felt shy; his -self-confidence was so overpowering, though she liked him in spite of -it. It struck her that he had grown more self-confident since last -Christmas; she remembered that then he had been dreadfully afraid of -being "bottled "; now he didn't seem afraid of anything, of Seabourne -least of all. She wondered what he would say if she told him her own -trouble; it was difficult to imagine what effect her confidences would -have on him; he would probably think them ridiculous and dismiss them -with an abrupt comment. -</p> -<p> -"I suppose," she said drearily, "some people have to stick to -Seabourne." -</p> -<p> -"There's no '<i>have to</i>,'" he replied. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, there is; that's where you don't know. Look at Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth doesn't have to stay here; she's lazy, that's all that's the -matter with her." -</p> -<p> -Joan flared at once: "If you think Elizabeth's lazy you can't know much -about her; she's staying on here because of her brother. He's delicate, -and he can't live alone, and he needs her; I think she's splendid!" -</p> -<p> -"Rot! He isn't a baby to need dry nursing. If Elizabeth had the will I -expect she'd find the way. If Elizabeth stops here it's because she's -taken root, it's because she likes it; I'm disappointed in Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"She <i>hates</i> it!" said Joan with conviction. -</p> -<p> -He turned and stared at her. "Then why in heaven's name——" he -began. -</p> -<p> -"Because everyone doesn't think only of themselves!" She was angry now; -she had not been angry for so long that she quite enjoyed the -excitement. "Because Elizabeth thinks of other people and wants to be -decent to them, and doesn't talk and think only of her own career and of -the things that she wants to do. She sacrifices herself, that's why she -stays here, and if you can't understand that it's because you're not -able to understand the kind of people that really count!" -</p> -<p> -They stopped and faced each other in the path; her eyes glowered, but -his were twinkling though his mouth was grave. "If you're talking at me, -Joan," he said solemnly, "then you may spare your breath, because you -see I know I'm right; I know that even if Elizabeth is splendid and -self-sacrificing and all the rest of it, she's dead wrong to waste it on -that little dried up brother of hers. She ought to get out and do -something for the world at large, or if she can't rise to that then she -ought to do something for herself. <i>I</i> think it's a sin to let -yourself get drained dry by anyone, I don't care who it is; that wasn't -the sort of thing God gave us our brains for; it wasn't why He made us -individuals." -</p> -<p> -Joan interrupted him: "But Elizabeth isn't drained dry; she's the -cleverest woman I know." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, now, perhaps." -</p> -<p> -"She always will be," said Joan coldly. -</p> -<p> -He felt that he had gone too far; he didn't want to quarrel with her. -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "It's my fault, I suppose. I mean I daresay -I'm selfish and self-opinionated, and perhaps I'm not such great shakes, -after all. Anyhow, you know I'm awfully fond of Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Joan was pacified. "One does get fond of her," she told him. "She's so -calm and neat and masterful, so certain of herself and yet so awfully -kind." -</p> -<p> -He changed the subject. "I'm swatting at Cambridge," he announced. -</p> -<p> -"Are you?" -</p> -<p> -He heard the interest in her voice and wondered why his casual remark -had aroused it. -</p> -<p> -"Yes; when I've taken my science degree I shall go up to London for -hospital work—and then "—he gave a sigh of contentment—"I -shall get my Medical—and then Germany. You ought to go to Cambridge, -Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Is it expensive? Does it cost much?" she asked him. -</p> -<p> -"Well, that depends. Why, are you really going?" -</p> -<p> -She hesitated. "Elizabeth would like me to." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, she was there, wasn't she? Well, you won't be there when I am, -I'm afraid; we'll just miss it by a year." -</p> -<p> -"I don't suppose I shall go at all." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, lots of reasons. We're poor, you know." -</p> -<p> -"Then try for a scholarship." -</p> -<p> -"I'd probably fail if I did." -</p> -<p> -"Why on earth should you fail; you're very clever, aren't you?" -</p> -<p> -She began to laugh. "I don't know if I'm what you would call clever; you -see you think yourself clever, and I'm not a bit like you. I like -working, though, so perhaps I'd get through." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, coming towards them across the lawn, heard the laugh and -blessed Richard. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap14"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FOURTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T is strange in this world, how events of -momentous importance happen without any warning, and do not, as is -commonly stated, "Cast their shadows before." Moreover, they reach us -from the most unexpected quarters and at a time when we are least -prepared, and such an event dropped out of space upon the Ogden -household a few days later. -</p> -<p> -The concrete form which it took was simple enough—a small business -envelope on Colonel Ogden's breakfast tray; he opened it, and as he read -his face became suffused with excitement. He tried to get up, but the -tea spilt in his efforts to remove the heavy tray from his lap. -</p> -<p> -"Mary!" he shouted, "Mary!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden, who was presiding at the breakfast table, heard him call, -and also the loud thumping of the stick which he now kept beside the -bed. He used it freely to attract his family's attention to his -innumerable needs. She rose hastily. -</p> -<p> -Joan and Milly heard the quick patter of her steps as she hurried -upstairs, followed, in what seemed an incredibly short time, by her -tread on the bedroom floor, and then the murmur of excited conversation. -Joan sighed. -</p> -<p> -"Is it the butter or the bacon?" queried Milly. -</p> -<p> -Milly had come to the conclusion that her parents were unusually -foolish; had she been capable of enough concentration upon members of -her family, she would have cordially disliked them both; as it was they -only amused her. At thirteen Milly never worried; she had a wonderful -simplicity and clarity of outlook. She realized herself very completely, -and did not trouble to realize anything else, except as it affected her -monoideism. She was quite conscious of the strained atmosphere of her -home, conscious that her father was intolerable, her mother nervous and -irritating, and Joan, she thought, very queer. But these facts, while -being in themselves disagreeable, in no way affected the primary issues -of her life. Her music, her own personality, these were the things that -would matter in the future so far as she was concerned. She had what is -often known as a happy disposition; strangers admired her, for she was a -bright and pretty child, and even friends occasionally deplored the fact -that Joan was not more like her sister. -</p> -<p> -Upstairs in the bedroom the colonel, tousled and unshaven, was sitting -very bolt upright in bed. -</p> -<p> -"It's Henrietta!" he said, extending the solicitor's letter in a hand -which shook perceptibly. -</p> -<p> -"Your sister Henrietta?" inquired Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"Naturally. Who else do you think it would be?—Well, she's dead!" -</p> -<p> -"Dead? Oh, my dear! I am sorry; why, you haven't heard from her for -ages." -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden swallowed angrily. "Why the deuce can't you read the -letter, Mary? Read the letter and you'll know all about it." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden took it obediently. It was quite brief and came from a firm -of solicitors in London. It stated that Mrs. Henrietta Peabody, widow of -the late Henry Clay Peabody, of Philadelphia, had died suddenly, leaving -her estate, which would bring in about three hundred a year, to be -equally divided between her two nieces, Joan and Mildred Ogden. The -letter went on to say that Colonel and Mrs. Ogden were to act as -trustees until such time as their children reached the age of twenty-one -years or married, but that the will expressly stated that the income was -not be accumulated or diverted in any way from the beneficiaries, it -being the late Mrs. Peabody's wish that it should be spent upon the two -children equally for the purpose of securing for them extra advantages. -The terms of the letter were polite and tactful, but as Mrs. Ogden read -she had an inkling that her sister-in-law Henrietta had probably made -rather a disagreeable will. She glanced at her husband apprehensively. -</p> -<p> -"It means——" she faltered, "it means——" -</p> -<p> -"It means," shouted the colonel, "that Henrietta must have been mad to -make such a will; it means that from now on my own children can snap -their fingers under my nose; it means that I have ceased to have any -control over members of my own family. A more outrageous state of -affairs I never heard of! What have I ever done, I should like to know, -to be insulted like this? Why should this money be left over my head? -One would think Henrietta imagined I was the sort of man to neglect the -interests of my own children; she hasn't even left the income to me for -life! Did the woman wish to insult me? Upon my word, a pretty state of -affairs! Think of it, I ask you; Milly thirteen and Joan fifteen, and a -hundred and fifty a year to be spent at once on each of 'em. It's -bedlam! And mark you, I am under orders to see that the money is spent -entirely upon them; I, the father that bred them, I have no right to -touch a penny of it!" He paused and leant back on his pillows exhausted. -</p> -<p> -Through the myriads of ideas that surged into her brain Mrs. Ogden was -conscious of one dominating thought that beat down all the others like a -sledge-hammer: "Joan—how would this affect Joan?" -</p> -<p> -She tried to calculate hastily how much she could claim for the children -in her housekeeping; she supposed vaguely that Elizabeth's salary would -come out of the three hundred a year; that would certainly be a relief. -Then there were doctors and dentists, clothes and washing. Somewhere at -the back of her mind she was conscious of a faint rejoicing that never -again would she have to shed so many tears over current expenses, and a -faint sense of pride in the knowledge that her daughters were now -independent. But, though these thoughts should have been consoling, they -could not push their way to the foreground of her consciousness, which -was entirely occupied at that moment by an immense fear; the fear of -independence for Joan. Colonel Ogden was looking at her; clearly he -expected her to sympathize. She pulled herself together. -</p> -<p> -"After all, James," she ventured, "it's a great thing for Joan and -Milly, and it will make a difference in our expenses." -</p> -<p> -He glared. "Oh, naturally, Mary, I could hardly expect you to see the -situation in its true light; I could hardly expect you to realize the -insult that my own sister has seen fit to put on me." -</p> -<p> -"Really, James," said Mrs. Ogden angrily, stung into retort by this -childish injustice, "I understand perfectly all you're saying, but I do -think you ought to be grateful to Henrietta. I certainly am, and even if -you don't approve of her will, I don't see that there's anything to do -but to look on the bright side of things." -</p> -<p> -"Bright side, indeed!" taunted the colonel. "A pretty bright side you'll -find developing before long. Not that I begrudge my own children any -advantages; I should think Henrietta ought to have known that. No, what -I resent, and quite rightly too, is the public lack of confidence in me -that she has been at such pains to show; that's the point." -</p> -<p> -"The point is," thought Mrs. Ogden, "whether Joan will now be in a -position to go to Cambridge. This business will play directly into -Elizabeth's hands." Aloud she said: "Am I to tell the children, James?" -</p> -<p> -"You can tell them any damn thing you please. If you don't tell them -they'll hear about it from somebody else, I suppose; but I warn you -fairly that when you do tell them, you can add that I intend to preserve -absolute discipline in my household, I'll have no one living under the -roof with me who don't realize that I'm the master." -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear James," his wife protested, "they're nothing but children -still; I don't suppose for a moment they'll understand what it means. I -don't suppose it would ever enter their heads to want to defy you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -She turned and left the room, going slowly downstairs. The children were -still at breakfast when she reached the dining-room. As they looked up, -something in their mother's expression told them of an unusual -occurrence; it was an expression in which pride, apprehension and -excitement were oddly mingled. Mrs. Ogden sat down at the head of the -table and cleared her throat. -</p> -<p> -"I have very serious news for you, children," she began. "Your Aunt -Henrietta is dead." -</p> -<p> -The children evinced no emotion; they had heard of their Aunt Henrietta -in America, but she had never been more than a name. Mrs. Ogden glanced -from one to the other of her daughters; she did not quite know how to -explain to them the full significance of the news, and yet she did not -wish to keep it back. Her maternal pride and generosity struggled with -her outraged dignity. She felt the situation to be quite preposterous, -and in a way she sympathized with her husband's indignation; she was of -his own generation, after all. Yet knowing him as she did, she felt a -guilty and secret understanding of Henrietta Peabody's motive. She told -herself that if only she were perfectly certain of Joan, she could find -it in her to be grateful to the departed Henrietta. She began to speak -again. -</p> -<p> -"I have something very important to tell you. It's something that -affects both of you. It seems that your Aunt Henrietta, apart from her -pension, had an income of three hundred pounds a year, and this three -hundred a year she has left equally divided between you. That means that -you will have one hundred and fifty pounds a year each from now on." -</p> -<p> -Her eyes were eagerly scanning Joan's face. Joan saw their appeal, -though she did not understand it; she left her place slowly and put her -arm round her mother. -</p> -<p> -Milly clapped her hands. "A hundred and fifty a year and all my own!" -she cried delightedly. -</p> -<p> -"Shut up!" ordered Joan. "Who cares whether you've got a hundred and -fifty a year or not? Besides, anyhow, you're only a kid; you won't be -allowed to spend it now." -</p> -<p> -"It isn't now," said Milly thoughtfully. "It's afterwards that I care -about." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden ignored her younger daughter. What did it matter what Milly -felt or thought? She groped for Joan's hand and squeezed it. -</p> -<p> -"I think I ought to tell you," she said gravely, "that your father is -very much upset at this news; he's very much hurt by what your aunt has -done. I can understand and sympathize with his feelings. You see he -knows that he has always been a good father to you, and it would have -been more seemly had this money been left to him, though, of course, -your father and I have control of it until you each become twenty-one -years old or get married." -</p> -<p> -Something prompted her to make the situation quite clear to her -children. She had another motive for telling them, or at all events for -telling Joan, exactly how things stood; she wanted to know the worst at -once. She knew anything would be more endurable than uncertainty as to -how this legacy would affect Joan. -</p> -<p> -The children were silent; something awkward in the situation impressed -them; they longed to be alone to talk it over. Mrs. Ogden left the room -to interview the cook; she had had her say, and she felt now that she -could only await results. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -As the door closed behind her they stared at each other incredulously. -Joan was the first to speak. -</p> -<p> -"What an extraordinary thing!" she said. -</p> -<p> -Milly frowned. "You are queer; I don't believe you're really pleased. I -believe you're almost sorry." -</p> -<p> -"I don't know quite what I am," Joan admitted. "It seems to worry -Mother, though I don't see why it should; but I have a feeling that -that's going to spoil it." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, you always find something to spoil everything. Why should it worry -Mother? It doesn't worry me; I think we're jolly lucky. I know what I'm -going to do, I'm going to talk to Doddsie this very day about going to -the Royal College of Music." -</p> -<p> -Joan scented trouble. Would Milly's little violin master side with her -when he knew of his pupil's future independence? -</p> -<p> -"You'd better look out," she warned. "You talk as though you had the -money now. Father won't agree to your going up to London, and anyhow -you're much too young. For goodness' sake go slow; one gets so sick of -rows!" -</p> -<p> -Milly smiled quietly; she felt that it was no good arguing with Joan; -Joan was always apprehensive and on the look-out for trouble. Milly knew -what she wanted to do and she intended to do it; after all, she -reckoned, she wouldn't remain thirteen years old for ever, and when the -time came for her to go to London to London she meant to go, so there -was no good fussing. A glow of satisfaction and gratitude began to creep -over her; she thought almost tenderly of Aunt Henrietta. -</p> -<p> -"Poor Aunt Henrietta!" she remarked in a sympathetic voice. "I hope it -didn't hurt her—the dying, I mean." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked across at her sister; she thought: "A lot you really care -whether it hurt her or not!" -</p> -<p> -The front door bell rang; they knew that decided ring for Elizabeth's, -and leaving the table they hurried to the schoolroom. Elizabeth was -unpinning her hat; she paused with her arms raised to her head, divining -some unusual excitement. She looked at Joan, waiting for her to speak. -Joan read the unvoiced question in her eyes. But before she could -answer, words burst from Milly's lips in a flood; Elizabeth had heard -all about it in less than a minute, including all Milly's plans for the -future. During this recital Elizabeth smiled a little, but her eyes were -always on Joan's face. Presently she said: -</p> -<p> -"This will help you too, Joan." -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent; she understood quite well what was meant. Elizabeth had -put into words a feeling against which she had been fighting ever since -her mother had told her the news—a triumphant, possessive kind of -feeling, the feeling that now there was no valid reason why she should -not go to Cambridge or anywhere else for that matter. She looked at -Elizabeth guiltily, but there was no guilt in Elizabeth's answering -smile; on the contrary, there was much happiness, a triumphant happiness -that made Joan feel afraid. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap15"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FIFTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER all, the novelty of the situation -wore off very quickly. In a few weeks' time the children had got quite -accustomed to the thought of a future hundred and fifty a year; it did -not appear to make any difference to their everyday lives. To be sure an -unknown man arrived from London one day and remained closeted with -Colonel Ogden for several hours. The children understood that he had -come from the solicitors in order to discuss the details of their -inheritance, but what took place at that interview was never divulged, -and they soon ceased to speculate about it. -</p> -<p> -Could they but have known it the colonel had raged at considerable -length over what he considered the gross insult that his sister had put -upon him. It had been revealed to him as he read the will that a direct -slight had been intended, that Henrietta had not scrupled to let him -know, with as much eloquence as the legal phraseology permitted, that -she was sorry for her nieces, and that she knew a trick worth two of -making them dependent on their father for future benefits. The lawyer -from London did not appear to see any way out of the difficulty; he had -been politely sympathetic, but had in the main contented himself with -pointing out the excellence of the late Mrs. Peabody's investments. The -estate could be settled up very quickly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan was conscious that she had changed somehow, and was working with a -new zest. She realized that whereas before her aunt's death she had -worked as an antidote to her own unhappiness, she was now working for a -much more invigorating purpose, working with a well-defined hope for the -future. The examination for which she had slaved so long now loomed very -near, but she was curiously free from apprehension, filled with a quiet -confidence. Her brain was clearing; she slept better, ate better and -thought of Mrs. Ogden less. She felt quite certain that she would pass, -and the nearer the examination came the less she worked; it was as -though some instinct of self-preservation in her had asserted itself at -last. Elizabeth encouraged her new-found idleness to the full; it was a -lovely autumn, warm and fine, and together they spent the best part of -their days on the cliffs. Milly rejoiced in the general slackness; it -gave her the time she needed for practising her violin. Sometimes she -would go with them, but more often now Elizabeth let her off the -detested walks, wanting to be alone with Joan. -</p> -<p> -Joan was surprised to find that she was gradually worrying less about -her mother, that it seemed less important, less tragic when Mrs. Ogden -complained of a headache. With this new-found normality her affection -did not lessen; on the contrary, she ceased to doubt it, but together -with other things it had begun to change in quality. It seemed to her as -though she had acquired an invisible pair of scales, on to which she -very gently lifted Mrs. Ogden's words and actions. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes, according to her ideas, Mrs. Ogden would be found wanting, -but this neither shocked nor estranged her, for at other times her -mother would give good measure and overflowing. But this weighing -process was not romantic; it killed with one blow a vast deal of -sentimentality. Joan began to realize that Mrs. Ogden's cough did not -necessarily point to delicate lungs, that her headaches were largely the -outcome of a worrying disposition, and occasionally a comfortable way -out of a difficult situation; in fact, that Mrs. Ogden was no more -tragic and no more interesting, and at the same time no less -interesting, than many other people. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -A new factor entered into Joan's life at this period, and may have been -responsible for partially detaching her interest from her mother. Joan -had begun to mature—she was growing up. It was impossible to study -as she had done without gradually realizing that life offered many -aspects which she did not understand. It would have been unlike her to -dismiss a problem once she had become conscious of it. This new problem -filled her with no shyness and no excitement, but she realized that -certain emotional experiences played an immensely important part in the -universal scheme. She had been considering this for some time, gradually -realizing more and more clearly that there must be a key to the riddle, -which she did not possess. It was not only her books that had begun to -puzzle her—there were people—their lives—their -emotions—above all their unguarded words, dropped here and there -and hastily covered up with such grotesque clumsiness. She felt -irritated and restless, and wanted to know things exactly as they stood -in their true proportion one to the other. She shrank from questioning -her mother; something told her that this ought not to be the case, but -she could not bring herself to take the plunge. However, she meant to -know the truth about certain things, and having dismissed the thought of -questioning Mrs. Ogden she decided that Elizabeth should be her -informant. -</p> -<p> -There was no lack of opportunity; the long warm afternoons of idleness -on the cliffs encouraged introspection and confidences. Joan chose one -of these occasions to confront Elizabeth with a series of direct -questions. Elizabeth would have preferred to shirk the task that her -pupil thrust upon her. Not that the facts of life had ever struck her as -repulsive or indecent; on the contrary, she had always taken them as a -matter of course, and had never been able to understand why free -discussion of them should be forbidden. With any other pupil, she told -herself, she would have felt completely at her ease, and she realized -that her embarrassment was owing to the fact that it was Joan who asked. -She fenced clumsily. -</p> -<p> -"I can't see that these things enter into your life at all, at the -present moment," she said. "I can't see the necessity for discussing -them." -</p> -<p> -But Joan was obdurate. "I see it," she replied, "and I'd like to hear -the truth from you, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth knew that she must make up her mind quickly; she must either -refuse to discuss these things with Joan, or lie to her, or tell her the -truth, which was after all very simple, and she chose the latter course. -She watched the effect of her words on her pupil a little -apprehensively, but Joan did not seem disturbed, showing very little -surprise and no emotion. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -That long and intimate talk on the cliffs had not left Joan unmoved, -however; underneath the morbidity and exaggerated sensitiveness of her -nature flowed a strong stream of courage and common sense. The knowledge -that Elizabeth had imparted acted as a stimulant and sedative in one; -Joan felt herself to be in possession of the truth and thus endowed with -a new dignity and new responsibility towards life. She began to put -everyday things to the touchstone of her new knowledge, to try to the -best of her ability to see them and people in their true proportion, and -then to realize herself. Material lay near her hand for this entrancing -study; there was Elizabeth, for instance, and her mother. Shyly at -first, but with ever growing courage, she began to analyse Mrs. Ogden -from this fresh aspect, to select a niche for her and then to put her in -it, to decide the true relativity which her mother bore to life in -general. Joan, although she could not have put it into words, had begun -to realize cause and effect. Mrs. Ogden did not suffer by this analysis, -but she stood revealed in her true importance and her true -insignificance, it deprived her for ever of the power of imposing upon -her daughter. If she lost in this respect she gained in another, for -Joan's feelings for her now became more stable and, if anything, more -protective. She saw her divested of much romance, it is true, but not -divested of her claim to pity. She saw her as the creature of -circumstances, as the victim of those natural laws which, while being -admirably adapted for the multitude, occasionally destroyed the -individual. She realized as she had never been able to realize before -the place that she herself held in her mother's life; it was borne -slowly in upon her that she represented a substitute for all that Mrs. -Ogden had been defrauded of. -</p> -<p> -A few months ago such a realization would have tormented her, would have -led to endless self-analysis, to innumerable doubts and fears lest she -in return could not give enough, but Joan's mind was now too fully -occupied for morbidity, it was busy with the realization of her own -personality. She knew herself as an individual capable of hacking out a -path in life, capable, perhaps, of leading a useful existence; and this -knowledge filled her with a sense of importance and endeavour. She found -herself able to face calmly the fact that her mother could never mean to -her what she meant to her mother; to her mother she was a substitute, -but she, Joan, was not conscious of needing a substitute. She did not -formulate very clearly what she needed, did not know if she really -needed anything at all except work, but one thing she did know and that -was that her mental vision stretched far beyond Seabourne and away into -the vistas of the great Untried. -</p> -<p> -Things were as they were, people were as they were, she was as she was -and her mother was as she was. And Elizabeth? Elizabeth she supposed was -as she was and that was the end of it. You could not change or alter the -laws that governed individual existence, but she meant to make a success -of life, if she could; her efforts might be futile, they probably would -be; nevertheless they were worth making. She concluded that individual -effort occasionally did succeed, though the odds were certainly against -it; it had failed in Mrs. Ogden's case, and she began to realize that -hitherto it had failed in Elizabeth's; but would Elizabeth always fail? -She saw her now as a creature capable of seizing hold of life and using -it to the full. Elizabeth, so quiet, so painfully orderly, so -immaculately neat, and in her own way so interesting, suddenly became -poignantly human to Joan; she speculated about her. -</p> -<p> -And meanwhile the examination drew nearer. Now it was Elizabeth who grew -nervous and restless, and Joan who supported her; it was extraordinary -how nervous Elizabeth did grow, she could neither control nor conceal -it, at all events from her observant pupil. Joan began to understand how -much it meant to Elizabeth that she should do well, and she was touched. -But she herself could not feel any apprehension; she seemed at this time -to have risen above all her doubts and fears. It is possible, however, -that Elizabeth's perturbation might in time have reacted on her pupil -had fate not interposed at the psychological moment. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap16"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER SIXTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">S</span>URELY the last place in the world where -anyone would have expected to meet a tragedy was in the High Street of -Seabourne. There never was a street so genteel and so lacking in -emotion; it was almost an indecency to associate emotion with it, and -yet it was in the High Street that a thing happened which was to make a -lasting impression on Joan. She was out with Elizabeth and Milly early -one afternoon; they were feeling dull, and conversation flagged; their -minds were concentrated on innumerable small commissions for Mrs. Ogden. -It was a bright and rather windy day, having in the keen air the first -suggestion of coming winter. The High Street was very empty at that -hour, and stretched in front of them ugly and shabby and painfully -unimportant. Hidden from sight just round the corner, a little bell went -clanging and tinkling; it was the little bell attached to the cart of -the man who ground knives and scissors every Thursday. A tradesman's boy -clattered down the street on a stout unclipped cob, a basket over his -arm, and somewhere in a house near by a phonograph was shouting loudly. -</p> -<p> -Then someone screamed, not once but many times. It was an ungainly -sound, crude with terror. The screams appeared to be coming from Mrs. -Jenkins's, the draper's shop, whither Elizabeth was bent; and then -before any of them realized what was happening, a woman had rushed out -into the street covered in flames. The spectacle she made, horrible in -itself, was still more horrible because this was the sort of thing that -one heard of or read of but never expected to see. Through the fire -which seemed to engulf her, her arms were waving and flapping in the -air. Joan noticed that her hair, which had come down, streamed out in -the wind, a mass of flame. The woman, still screaming, turned and ran -towards them, and as she ran the wind fanned the flames. Then Elizabeth -did a very brave thing. She tore off the long tweed coat she was -wearing, and running forward managed somehow to wrap it round the -terrified creature. It seemed to Joan as though she caught the woman and -pressed her against herself, but it was all too sudden and too terrible -for the girl to know with any certainty what happened; she was conscious -only of an overwhelming fear for Elizabeth, and found herself tearing at -her back, trying to pull her away; and then suddenly something, a mass -of something, was lying on the pavement with Elizabeth bending over it. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. "Are you there, Joan?" The voice -sounded very matter of fact. -</p> -<p> -Joan sprang to her side. "Oh, Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"I want you to run to the chemist and tell him what's happened. Get him -to come back with you at once; he'll know what to bring, and send his -assistant to fetch the doctor, while I see to getting this poor soul -into the house." -</p> -<p> -Joan turned to obey. A few moments ago the street had been practically -empty, but now quite a throng of people were pressing forward towards -Elizabeth. Joan shouldered her way through them; half unconsciously she -noticed their eager eyes, and the tense, greedy look on their faces. -There were faces there that she had known nearly all her life, -respectable middle-class faces, the faces of Seabourne tradespeople, but -now somehow they looked different; it was as though a curtain had been -drawn aside and something primitive and unfamiliar revealed. She felt -bewildered, but nothing seemed to matter except obeying Elizabeth. As -she ran down the street she saw Milly crying in a doorway; she felt -sorry for her, she looked so sick and faint, but she did not stop to -speak to her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -When she returned with the chemist the crowd was denser than ever, but -all traces of the accident had disappeared. She supposed that Elizabeth -must have had the woman carried into the shop. -</p> -<p> -Inside, all was confusion; somewhere from the back premises a child -wailed dismally. A mass of unrolled material was spread in disorder upon -the counter, behind which stood an assistant in tears. She recognized -Joan and pointed with a shaking finger to a door at the back of the -shop. The door opened on to a narrow staircase, and Joan paused to look -about her; the old chemist was hard on her heels, peering over her -shoulders, his arms full of packages. A sound reached them from above, -low moaning through which, sharp and clear, came Elizabeth's voice: -</p> -<p> -"Is that you, Joan? Hurry up, please." -</p> -<p> -They mounted the stairs and entered a little bedroom; on the bed lay the -servant who had been burnt. Elizabeth was sitting beside her, and in a -corner of the room stood Mrs. Jenkins, looking utterly helpless. -Elizabeth looked critically at Joan; what she saw appeared to satisfy -her, for she beckoned the girl to come close. -</p> -<p> -"We must try and get the burnt clothes off her," she said. "Have you -brought plenty of oil, Mr. Ridgway?" -</p> -<p> -The chemist came forward, and together the three of them did what they -could, pending the doctor's arrival. As they worked the smell of burnt -flesh pervaded the air, and Mrs. Jenkins swayed slightly where she -stood. Elizabeth saw it and sent her downstairs; then she looked at -Joan, but Joan met her glance fearlessly. -</p> -<p> -"Are you equal to this?" -</p> -<p> -Joan nodded. -</p> -<p> -"Then do exactly what we tell you." -</p> -<p> -Joan nodded again. They worked quickly and silently, almost like people -in a dream, Joan thought. There was something awful in what they did, -something new and awful in the spectacle of a mutilated fellow-creature, -helpless in their hands. Into Joan's shocked consciousness there began -to creep a wondering realization of her own inadequacy. Yet she was not -failing; on the contrary, her nerve had steadied itself to meet the -shock. After a little while she found that her repulsion was giving way -to a keen and merciful interest, but she knew that all three of them, so -willing and so eager to help, were hampered by a lack of experience. -Even Mr. Ridgway's medical knowledge was inadequate to this emergency. -Apparently Elizabeth realized this too, for she glanced at the window -from time to time and paused to listen; Joan knew that she was waiting -in a fever of impatience for the doctor to arrive. The woman stirred and -moaned again. -</p> -<p> -"Will she die?" Joan asked. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked at the chemist; he was silent. At last he said: "I'm -afraid she's burnt in the third degree." -</p> -<p> -Joan thought: "I ought to know what that means, but I don't." -</p> -<p> -Then she thought: "The poor thing's suffering horribly, she's probably -going to die before the doctor comes, and not one of us really knows how -to help her; how humiliating." -</p> -<p> -At that moment they heard someone hurrying upstairs. As the doctor came -into the room they stood aside. He examined the patient, touching her -gently, then he took dressings from his bag. He went to work with great -care and deftness, and Joan was filled with admiration as she watched -him. She had no idea who he was; he was not the Ogdens' doctor, this was -a younger man altogether. Then into her mind flashed the thought of -Richard Benson. She wondered why she had laughed at Richard when he had -talked of becoming a doctor. Was it because he was so conceited? But -surely it was better to be conceited than inadequate! -</p> -<p> -The doctor was unconscious of her scrutiny; from time to time he spoke -to Elizabeth, issuing short, peremptory orders. Elizabeth stood beside -him, capable and quiet, and Joan felt proud of her because even in this -extremity she managed somehow to look tidy. -</p> -<p> -"I think I've done all that I can, for the moment," he said. "I'll come -again later on." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth nodded, her mouth was drawn down at the corners and her arms -hung limply at her sides. Something in her face attracted the doctor's -attention and his glance fell to her hands. -</p> -<p> -"Let me look at your hands," he said. -</p> -<p> -"It's nothing," Elizabeth assured him, but her voice sounded far away. -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid I disagree with you; your hands are badly burnt, you must -let me dress them." He turned to the dressings on the table. -</p> -<p> -She held out her hands obediently, and Joan noticed for the first time -that they were injured. The realization that Elizabeth was hurt -overwhelmed her; she forgot the woman on the bed, forgot everything but -the burnt hands. With a great effort she pulled herself together, -forcing herself to hold the dressings, watching with barely concealed -apprehension, lest the doctor should inflict pain. She had thought him -so deft a few minutes ago, yet now he seemed indescribably clumsy. But -if he did hurt it was not reflected on Elizabeth's face; her lips -tightened a little, that was all. -</p> -<p> -"Anywhere else?" the doctor demanded. -</p> -<p> -"Nowhere else," Elizabeth assured him. "I think my hands must have got -burnt when I wrapped my coat round her." -</p> -<p> -The doctor stared. "It's a mystery to me," he said, "how you managed to -do all you did with a pair of hands like that." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't feel them so much at first," she told him. -</p> -<p> -The doctor called Mrs. Jenkins and gave her a few instructions; then he -hurried Elizabeth downstairs into the little shop, leaving her there -while he went to find a cab. -</p> -<p> -Joan stood silently beside her; neither of them spoke until the fly -arrived, then Joan said: "I shall come home with you, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"I'll send in two nurses," said the doctor. "Your friend here will want -help too." -</p> -<p> -Joan gave him Elizabeth's address. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -During the drive they were silent again, there didn't appear to be -anything to say. Joan felt lonely; something in what had happened seemed -to have put Elizabeth very far away from her; perhaps it was because she -could not share her pain. The fly drew up at the door; she felt in -Elizabeth's coat pocket for her purse and paid the man; then she rang. -There was no one in the house but the young general servant, who looked -frightened when she saw the bandaged hands. Joan realized that whatever -there was to do must be done by her; that Elizabeth the dominating, the -practical, was now as helpless as a baby. The thought thrilled her. -</p> -<p> -They went slowly upstairs to the bedroom. Joan had been in the house -before but never in that room; she paused instinctively at the door, -feeling shy. Something told her that by entering this bedroom she was -marking an epoch in her relations with Elizabeth, so personal must that -room be; she turned the handle and they went in. As she ministered to -Elizabeth she noticed the room, and a feeling of disappointment crept -over her. Plain white painted furniture, white walls and a small white -bed. A rack of books and on the dressing-table a few ivory brushes and -boxes. The room was very austere in its cold whiteness; it was like -Elizabeth and yet it was not like Elizabeth; like the outward Elizabeth -perhaps, but was it like the real Elizabeth? Then her eyes fell upon a -great tangle of autumn flowers, standing in a bright blue jar on the -chest of drawers; something in the strength and virility of their -colouring seemed to gibe and taunt the prim little room; they were there -as a protest, or so the girl felt. She wondered what it was in Elizabeth -that had prompted her to choose these particular flowers and the bright -blue jar that they stood in. Perhaps Elizabeth divined her thoughts, for -she smiled as she followed the direction of Joan's eyes. -</p> -<p> -"A part of me loves them, needs them," she said. -</p> -<p> -Very gently Joan helped her to undress; it was a painful and tedious -business. Joan noticed with surprise that Elizabeth's clothes were finer -than Mrs. Ogden's; it gave her a pleasure to touch them. Her nightgown -was of fine lawn, simple in design but very individual. Strange, oh! -strange, how little she really knew Elizabeth. She looked entirely -different with her hair down. Joan felt that in this new-found intimacy -something was lost and something gained. Never again could Elizabeth -represent authority in her pupil's eyes; that aspect of their -relationship was lost for ever; and with it a prop, a staff that she had -grown to lean on. But in its place there was something else, something -infinitely more intimate and interesting. As she helped her into bed, -she was conscious of a curious embarrassment. Elizabeth glanced at the -clock; it was long past tea-time. -</p> -<p> -"Good Heavens, Joan, you simply must go! And do see your mother at once, -and tell her what's happened. Do go; the nurse will be here any moment." -</p> -<p> -Joan stood awkwardly beside the bed; she wanted to do something, to say -something; a lump rose in her throat, but her eyes remained dry. She -moved towards the door. Elizabeth watched her go, but at that moment she -was conscious of nothing but pain and was thankful that Joan went when -she did. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap17"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">M</span>RS. OGDEN had been waiting at the -dining-room window and ran to open the front door as Joan came down the -street. The girl looked worn out and dispirited; she walked slowly and -her head was slightly bowed as she pushed open the gate. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden, who had heard from Milly of the accident, had not intended -to remonstrate at Joan's prolonged absence. On the contrary, while she -had been waiting anxiously for her daughter's return, she had been -planning the manner in which she would welcome her, fold her in her -arms; poor child, it was such a dreadful thing for her to have seen! As -the time dragged on and Joan did not come a thousand fears had beset -her. Had Joan perhaps been burnt too? Had she fainted? What had -happened, and why had Elizabeth not let her know? -</p> -<p> -Milly's account had been vague and unsatisfactory; she had rushed home -in a panic of fear and was now in bed. Her sudden and dramatic -appearance had upset the colonel, and he too had by now retired to his -room, so that Mrs. Ogden, who had longed to go and ascertain for herself -the true state of affairs, had been compelled to remain in the house, a -prey to anxiety. -</p> -<p> -At the sight of her daughter safe and sound, however, she temporarily -lapsed from tenderness. The reaction was irresistible; she felt angry -with Joan, she could have shaken her. -</p> -<p> -"Well, really!" she began irritably, "this is a nice time to come home; -I must say you might have let me know where you were." -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed and pushed past her gently. -</p> -<p> -"I'm so sorry," she said, "but you see there was so much to do. Oh, I -forgot, you haven't heard." She paused. -</p> -<p> -"Milly has told me; at least, she has told me something; the child's -been terrified. I do think Elizabeth must be quite mad to have allowed -either of you to see such a horrible thing." -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth put out the fire," said Joan dully. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth put out the fire? What <i>do</i> you mean?" -</p> -<p> -"She wrapped the woman in her coat and her hands got burnt." -</p> -<p> -"Her hands got burnt? Where is she now, then?" -</p> -<p> -"At home in bed; I've just come from her." -</p> -<p> -"Is <i>that</i> where you've been all these hours? I see, you've been home -with Elizabeth, and you never let me know!" -</p> -<p> -"I couldn't, Mother, there was no one to send." -</p> -<p> -"Then why didn't you come yourself? You must have known that I'd be -crazy with anxiety!" -</p> -<p> -Joan collapsed on a chair and dropped her head on her hand. She felt -utterly incapable of continuing the quarrel, it seemed too futile and -ridiculous. How could her mother have expected her to leave Elizabeth; -she felt that she should not have come home even now, she should have -stayed by her friend and refused to be driven away. She looked up, and -something in her tired young eyes smote her mother's heart; she knelt -down beside her and folded her in her arms. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my Joan, my darling," she whispered, pressing the girl's head down -on her shoulder. "It's only because I was so anxious, my dearest—I -love you too much, Joan." -</p> -<p> -Joan submitted to the embrace quietly with her eyes closed; neither of -them spoke for some minutes. Mrs. Ogden stretched out her hand and -stroked the short, black hair with tremulous fingers. Her heart beat -very fast, she could feel it in her throat. Joan stirred; the gripping -arm was pressing her painfully. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden controlled herself with an effort; there was so much that she -felt she must say to Joan at that moment; the words tingled through her, -longing to become articulate. She wanted to cry out like a primitive -creature; to scream words of entreaty, of reproach, of tenderness. She -longed to humble herself to this child, beseeching her to love her and -her only, and above all not to let Elizabeth come between them. But even -as the words formed themselves in her brain she crushed them down, -ashamed of her folly. -</p> -<p> -"I hope Elizabeth was not much burnt," she forced herself to say. -</p> -<p> -Joan sat up. "It's her hands," she answered unsteadily. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden kissed her. "You must lie down for a little; this thing has -been a great shock, of course, and I think you've been very brave." -</p> -<p> -Joan submitted readily enough; she was thankful to get away; she wanted -to lie on her bed in a darkened room and think, and think and think. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The days that followed were colourless and flat. Joan took to wandering -about the house, fidgeting obviously until the hour arrived when she -could get away to Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -On the whole Elizabeth seemed glad of her visits, Joan thought. No doubt -she was dull, lying there alone with her hands on a pillow in front of -her. The nurse went out every afternoon, and Joan was careful to time -her visits accordingly. But it seemed to the girl that Elizabeth had -changed towards her, that far from opening up new fields of intimacy -Elizabeth's condition had set up a barrier. She was acutely conscious of -this when they were alone together. She felt that whatever they talked -about now was forced and trivial, that they might have said quite -different things to each other; then whose fault was it, hers or -Elizabeth's? She decided that it was Elizabeth's. Her hurried visits -left her with a feeling of emptiness, of dissatisfaction; she came away -without having said any of the clever and amusing things that she had so -carefully prepared, with a sense of having been terribly dull, of having -bored Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth assured her that the burns were healing, but she still looked -very ill, which the nurse attributed to shock. Joan began to dislike the -nurse intensely, without any adequate reason. Once Joan had taken some -flowers; she had chosen them carefully, remembering that one part of -Elizabeth loved bright flowers. It had not been very easy to find what -she wanted, and the purchase had exhausted her small stock of money. But -when she had laid them shyly on the bed Elizabeth had not looked as -radiantly pleased as she had expected; she had thanked her, of course, -and admired the flowers, but something had been lacking in her reception -of the offering; it was all very puzzling. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden said nothing; she bided her time and secretly recorded -another grudge against Elizabeth. She was pleased with a new scheme -which she had evolved, of appearing to ignore her. Acting upon this -inspiration, she carefully forbore to ask after her when Joan came home, -and if, as was usually the case, information was volunteered, Mrs. Ogden -would change the subject. Colonel Ogden was not so well, and this fact -gave her an excuse for making the daily visit to Elizabeth difficult if -not impossible. The colonel needed constant attention, and a thousand -little duties were easily created for Joan. Joan was not deceived, she -saw through the subterfuge, but could not for the life of her find any -adequate excuse for shirking the very obvious duty of helping with the -invalid. -</p> -<p> -When she was not kept busy with her father, her mother would advise her -to study. She had been in the habit of discouraging what she called -"Elizabeth's cramming system," yet now she seemed anxious that Joan -should work hard, reminding her that the examination was only two weeks -distant, and expressing anxiety as to the result. Colonel Ogden made no -secret of his preference for his younger daughter. It was Milly's -company that he wanted, and because she managed cleverly to avoid the -boredom of these daily tasks, the colonel's disappointment was vented on -Joan. He sulked and would not be comforted. At this time Mrs. Ogden's -headaches increased in frequency and intensity, and she would constantly -summon Joan to stroke her head, which latter proceeding was supposed to -dispel the pain. Joan felt no active resentment at what she recognized -as a carefully laid plot. Something of nobility in her was touched and -sorry. Sometimes, as she sat in her mother's darkened bedroom stroking -the thin temples in silent obedience, she would be conscious of a sense -of shame and pity because of the transparency of the deception -practised. -</p> -<p> -In spite of Mrs. Ogden, she managed to see Elizabeth, who was getting -better fast; she was down in the study now, and Joan noticed that her -hands were only lightly bandaged. She asked to be allowed to see for -herself how they were progressing, but Elizabeth always found some -trifling excuse. However, it was cheering to know that she would soon be -back at Leaside, and Joan's spirits rose. Elizabeth seemed more natural -too when they were able to meet, and Joan decided that the queer -restraint which she had noticed in the early days of her illness had -been the outcome of the shock from which the nurse said she was -suffering. She argued that this in itself would account for what she had -observed as unusual in Elizabeth's manner. She had told her why the -daily visits had ceased to be possible, explaining the hundred little -duties that had now fallen to her share, and Elizabeth had said nothing -at all. She had just looked at Joan and then looked away, and when she -did speak it had been about something else. Joan would have liked to -discuss the situation, but Elizabeth's manner was not encouraging. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth had told her that the servant had died of her burns; according -to the doctor it had been a hopeless case from the first, and Joan -realized that, after all, Elizabeth's courage had been in a sense -wasted. She looked at her lying so quietly on the sofa with her helpless -hands on their supporting pillow, and wondered what it was in Elizabeth -that had prompted her to do what she had done; what it was in anyone -that occasionally found expression in such sudden acts of -self-sacrifice. Elizabeth had tried to save a life at the possible loss -of her own, and yet she was not so unusual a creature so far as Joan -could judge, and the very fact that she was just an everyday person made -her action all the more interesting. She herself appeared to set no -store by what she had done; she took it for granted, as though she had -seen no other alternative, and this seemed to Joan to be in keeping with -the rest of her. Elizabeth would refuse to recognize melodrama; it did -not go with her, it was a ridiculous thing to associate with her at all. -There had been a long article in the local paper, extolling her -behaviour, but when Joan, full of pride and gratification, had shown it -to her, she had only laughed and remarked: "What nonsense!" -</p> -<p> -But Joan had her own ideas on the subject; she neither exaggerated nor -minimized what Elizabeth had done. She saw the thing just as it was; a -brave thing, obviously the right thing to do, and she was glad that -Elizabeth should have been the person to do it. But quite apart from -this, the accident had been responsible for starting a train of thought -in the girl's mind. She had long ago decided that she wanted to make a -career, and now she knew exactly what that career should be. She wanted -to be a doctor. She knew that it was not easy and not very usual; but -that made it seem all the more desirable in her eyes. She thought very -often of Richard Benson, and was conscious of wishing that he were at -home so that she could talk the matter over with him. She was not quite -sure how Elizabeth would take her decision, and she expected opposition -from her mother and father, but she felt that Richard could and would -help her. She felt that something in his sublime confidence, in his -sublime disregard for everything and everybody, would be useful to her -in what she knew to be a crisis in her life. She scarcely glanced at her -books; the examination was imminent, but she knew that she would not -fail. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -When at length the great moment arrived it found Joan calm and -self-possessed; she breakfasted early and took the train for a -neighbouring town in which the examination was to be held. The weather -was oppressive, the atmosphere of the crowded room stifling, seeming to -exude the tension and nervousness of her fellow competitors; yet, while -recognizing these things, she felt that they were powerless to affect -her. She glanced calmly over the examination paper that lay upon her -desk; it did not seem very formidable, and she began to write her -answers with complete assurance. -</p> -<p> -On her return home that evening she went in to see Elizabeth for a few -moments. She found her more perturbed and nervous than she could have -conceived possible. Joan reassured her as best she could and hastened on -to Leaside. Her mother also seemed anxious; something of the gravity of -the occasion appeared to have affected even Mrs. Ogden, for she -questioned her closely. Joan wondered why they lacked confidence in her, -why they seemed to take it for granted that she would have found the -examination difficult; she felt irritated that Elizabeth should have -entertained doubts. She had always expressed herself as being certain -that Joan would pass, yet now at the last moment she was childishly -nervous; perhaps her illness had something to do with it. Joan wished -for their sakes that the examination could have been completed in one -day and the result made known that first evening, but for herself she -felt indifferent. What lay ahead of her was unlikely to be much more -formidable than what she had coped with already, so why fear? She smiled -a little, thinking of Richard Benson—was she, too, growing -conceited—was she growing rather like him? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap18"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE usual time elapsed and then Joan knew -she had passed her examination with honours. There was a grudging pride -in Mrs. Ogden's heart in spite of herself, and even the colonel revived -from his deep depression to congratulate his elder daughter. Joan was -happy, with that assured and peaceful happiness that comes only to those -who have attained through personal effort; she felt now very confident -about the future, capable of almost anything. It was a red-letter day -with a vengeance, for Elizabeth was coming back to Leaside that same -afternoon to take up her work again. She would not have heard the news, -and Joan rejoiced silently at the prospect of telling her. She pictured -Elizabeth's face; surely the calm of it must break up just this once, -and if it did, how would she look? There were flowers on the school-room -table; that was good. Mrs. Ogden had put them there to celebrate Joan's -triumph, she had said. Joan wished that they had been put there to -welcome Elizabeth back. The antagonism between these two had never -ceased to worry and distress her, not so much on their behalf as because -she herself wanted them both. At all times, the dearest wish of her -heart was that they should be reconciled, lest at any time she should be -asked to choose between them. But on this splendid and fulfilling -morning no clouds could affect her seriously. -</p> -<p> -The hours dragged; she could not swallow her lunch; at three o'clock -Elizabeth would arrive. Now it was two o'clock, now a quarter past, then -half past. Joan, pale with excitement, sat in the schoolroom and waited. -Upstairs, Milly was practising her violin; she was playing a queer -little tune, rather melancholy, very restrained, as unlike the child who -played it as a tune could well be; this struck Joan as she listened and -made her speculate. How strange people were; they were always lonely and -always strange; perhaps they knew themselves, but certainly no one else -ever knew them. There was her mother, did she really know her? And -Elizabeth—she had begun to realize that there were unexpected things -about her that took you by storm and left you feeling awkward; you could -never be quite certain of her these days. Was it only the shock of the -illness, she wondered, or was it that she was just beginning to realize -that there was an Elizabeth very different from that of the schoolroom; -a creature of moods, like herself? -</p> -<p> -Somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour, and as it did so the -door-bell rang. Joan jumped up, she laughed aloud; how like Elizabeth to -ring just as the clock was striking, exactly like her. The schoolroom -door opened and she came in. She was a little thinner perhaps, but -otherwise the great experience seemed to have made no impression on her -outward appearance. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth, I've passed with honours!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was midway between the door and the table; she opened her lips -as if to speak, but paused. -</p> -<p> -"I knew you would, Joan," was all she said. -</p> -<p> -Somewhere deep down in herself, Joan smiled. "That's not what you wanted -to say," she thought. "You wanted to say something very different." -</p> -<p> -But she fell in with Elizabeth's mood and tried to check her own -enthusiasm. What did it matter if Elizabeth chose to play a part, she -knew what this news meant to her; she could have laughed in her face. -</p> -<p> -"But what really matters is that you've come back," she said. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I suppose that is what really matters," replied Elizabeth, her -calm eyes meeting Joan's for an instant. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Elizabeth, it's been too awful without you, dull and awful!" -</p> -<p> -"I know," she answered quietly. -</p> -<p> -"And suppose I'd failed you, Elizabeth, suppose I'd failed in the -examination," Joan's voice trembled. "Suppose I had had to tell you -that!" -</p> -<p> -"I should still have been coming back." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I know, and that's all that really matters; only it's better as it -is, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -"You would never fail me, Joan. I think it's not in you to fail, -somehow; in any case I don't think you'll fail me." She -hesitated—then, "I don't feel that we ought to fail each other, -you and I." -</p> -<p> -She took off her hat and coat and drew off her gloves with her back -turned; when she came back to the table her hands were behind her. She -sat down quickly and folded them in her lap. In the excitement of the -good news and the reunion, Joan had forgotten to ask to see her hands. -</p> -<p> -"Where's Milly?" said Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -Joan smiled. "Can't you hear? She's at her fiddle." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked relieved. "Don't call her," she said. "Let me see your -examination report." Joan fetched it and put it on the table in front of -her. For a moment or two Elizabeth studied it in silence, then she -looked up. -</p> -<p> -"It's perfectly excellent," she remarked. -</p> -<p> -In her enthusiasm, she picked up the paper to study it more closely, and -at that moment the sun came out and fell on her hands. -</p> -<p> -Joan gasped, a little cry of horror escaped her in spite of herself. -Elizabeth looked up, she blanched and hid her hands in her lap, but Joan -had seen them; they were hideously seamed and puckered with large, -discoloured scars. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Elizabeth—your hands! Your beautiful hands! You were so proud of -them——" -</p> -<p> -Joan laid her head down on the table and wept. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -After supper that night Joan took the plunge. She had not intended doing -it so quickly, but waiting seemed useless, and, besides, she was filled -with a wild energy that rendered any action a relief. Colonel Ogden was -dozing over the evening paper; from time to time he jumped awake with a -stifled snort; as always the dining-room smelt of his pipe smoke and -stale food. At Joan's quick movement he opened his eyes very wide; he -looked like an old baby. -</p> -<p> -She began abruptly, "Mother, I want to tell you that I'm going to study -to be a doctor." -</p> -<p> -It was characteristic of her to get it all out at once without any -prelude. Mrs. Ogden laid down her knitting, and contrary to all -expectations did not faint; she did not even press her head, but she -smiled unpleasantly. -</p> -<p> -She said: "Why? Because Elizabeth has burnt her hands?" -</p> -<p> -It was the wrong thing to say—a thoroughly stupid and heartless -remark, and she knew it. She would have given much for a little of the -tact which she felt instinctively to be her only weapon, but for the -life of her she could not subdue the smouldering anger that took hold of -her at the moment. She never for an instant doubted that Elizabeth was -in some way connected with this mad idea; it pleased her to think this, -even while it tormented her. The mother and daughter confronted each -other; their eyes were cold and hard. -</p> -<p> -"What's that?" said Colonel Ogden, leaning a little forward. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned to him. "I was telling Mother that I've decided on a career. -I'm going in for medicine." -</p> -<p> -"For <i>what</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"For medicine. Other girls have done it." -</p> -<p> -Her father rose unsteadily to his feet; he helped himself up by the arms -of his chair. Very slowly he pointed a fat, shaking finger at his wife. -</p> -<p> -"Mary, what did I tell you, what did I tell you, Mary? This is what -comes of Henrietta's iniquitous will. My God! Did I ever think to hear a -girl child of fifteen calmly stating what she intends to do? Does she -ask my permission? No, she states that she intends to be a doctor. A -doctor, my daughter! Good God! What next?" He turned on Joan: "You must -be mad," he told her. "It's positively indecent—an unsexing, indecent -profession for any woman, and any woman who takes it up is indecent and -unsexed. I say it without hesitation—indecent, positively immodest!" -</p> -<p> -"Indecent, Father?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, and immodest; it's an outrageous suggestion!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden took up her knitting again; the needles clicked irritatingly. -Once or twice she closed her eyes, but her hands moved incessantly. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" She swallowed and spoke as if under a great restraint. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"If you were a boy I would say this to you, and since you seem to have -chosen to assume an altogether ridiculous masculine role, listen to me. -There are things that a gentleman can do and things he cannot; no -gentleman can enter the medical profession, no Routledge has ever been -known to do such a thing. Our men have served their country; they have -served it gloriously, but a Routledge does not enter a middle-class -profession. I wish to keep quite calm, Joan. I can understand your -having acquired these strange ideas, for you have naturally been thrown -very much with Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is—well, not quite one of us; -but you will please remember who you are, and that I for one -will never tolerate your behaving other than as a member of my family. -I——" -</p> -<p> -The colonel interrupted her. "Listen to me," he thundered. In his anger -he seemed to have regained some of his old vitality. "You listen to me, -young woman; I'll have none of this nonsense under my roof. You think, I -suppose, that your aunt has made you independent, but let me tell you -that for the next six years you're nothing of the kind. Not one penny -will I spend on any education that is likely to unsex a daughter of -mine. I'll have none of these new-fangled woman's rights ideas in my -house; you will stay at home like any other girl until such time as you -get married. You will marry; do you hear me? <i>That's</i> a woman's -profession! A sawbones indeed! Do you think you're a boy? Have you gone -stark, staring mad?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I'm not mad," Joan said quietly, "but I don't think I shall marry, -Father." -</p> -<p> -"Not marry, and why not, pray?" -</p> -<p> -She did not attempt to explain, for she herself did not know what had -prompted her. -</p> -<p> -"I can wait," she told him. "It wouldn't be too late to begin when I'm -twenty-one." -</p> -<p> -He opened his mouth to roar at her, but the words did not come; instead -he fell back limply in his chair. Mrs. Ogden rushed to him. Joan stood -very still; she had no impulse to help him; she felt cold and numb with -anger. -</p> -<p> -"I think you've killed your father," said Mrs. Ogden unsteadily. -</p> -<p> -Joan roused herself. She looked into her mother's working face; they -stared at each other across the prostrate man. -</p> -<p> -"No," she said gravely, "it's you, both of you, who are trying to kill -me." -</p> -<p> -She went and fetched brandy, and together they forced some between the -pallid lips. After a little he stirred. -</p> -<p> -"You see, he's not dead," said Joan mechanically. "I'll go for the -doctor." -</p> -<p> -When the doctor came he shook his head. -</p> -<p> -"How did this happen?" he inquired. -</p> -<p> -"He got angry," Mrs. Ogden told him. -</p> -<p> -"But I warned you that he mustn't be excited, that you ought not to -excite him under any circumstances. Really, Mrs. Ogden, if you do, I -won't answer for the consequences." -</p> -<p> -"It was not <i>I</i> who excited him," she said, and she looked at Joan. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "Will he die, Doctor Thomas?" She could hear herself that her -voice was unnaturally indifferent. -</p> -<p> -The doctor looked at her in surprise. "Not this time, perhaps; in fact, -I'm pretty sure he'll pull round this time, but it mustn't happen -again." -</p> -<p> -"No," said Joan, "I understand; it mustn't happen again." -</p> -<p> -"Quite so," said the doctor dryly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_III"><i>BOOK III</i></a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap19"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER NINETEEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N the two years that elapsed before Joan's -seventeenth birthday nothing occurred in the nature of a change. Looking -back over that time she was surprised to find how little had happened; -she had grown accustomed to monotony, but the past two years seemed to -have been more monotonous than usual. The only outstanding event had -been when she and Milly joined the tennis club. Mrs. Ogden did not -encourage her daughters to take part in the more public local -festivities, which were to a great extent shared with people whom she -considered undesirable, but in this case she had been forced to yield to -combined entreaties. -</p> -<p> -The tennis club meant less after all to Joan than she had anticipated, -though she played regularly for the sake of exercise. The members were -certainly not inspiring, nor was their game challenging to effort. They -were divided into two classes; those who played for the sake of their -livers and those who played for the sake of white flannels and -flirtation. To the former class belonged General Brooke, a boisterous -player, very choleric and invariably sending his balls into neighbouring -gardens. His weight had increased perceptibly since the colonel's -illness; perhaps because there was now no one to cause him nervous -irritation. When he played tennis his paunch shook visibly under his -flannel shirt. The latter class was made up principally of youths and -maidens from adjacent villas. To nearly every member of this younger -generation was supposed to belong some particular stroke which formed an -ever fruitful topic for discussion and admiration. Mr. Thompson, the new -assistant at the circulating library, sprang quickly into fame through -volleying at the net. He was a mean player and had an odious trick of -just tipping the ball over, and apologizing ostentatiously when he had -done it. There was usually a great deal of noise, for not only was there -much applause and many encouraging remarks, but the players never failed -to call each score. Joan played a fairly good game, but contrary to all -expectation she never became really proficient. Milly, on the other -hand, developed a distinct talent for tennis, and she and young Mr. -Thompson, who was considered a star player, struck up a friendship, -which, however, never penetrated beyond the front door of Leaside. -</p> -<p> -At fifteen Milly was acutely conscious of her femininity. She was in all -respects a very normal girl, adoring personal adornment and distinctly -vain. The contrast between the two sisters was never more marked than at -this period; they made an incongruous couple, the younger in her soft -summer dresses, the elder in the stiff collars and ties which she -affected. In spite of all Mrs. Ogden's entreaties Joan still kept her -hair short. Of course it was considered utterly preposterous, and the -effect in evening dress was a little grotesque, but she seemed -completely to lack personal vanity. At seventeen she suggested a well -set-up stripling who had borrowed his sister's clothes. -</p> -<p> -The life of the schoolroom continued much as usual. Mrs. Ogden, now two -years older and with an extra two years of the colonel's heart and her -own nervous headaches behind her, had almost given up trying to -interfere with Joan's studies. She went in for her examinations as a -matter of course, and as a matter of course was congratulated when she -did well, but the subject of her career was never mentioned; it appeared -to have been thrust into the background by common consent. Elizabeth -looked older; at times a few new lines showed on her forehead, and the -curious placidity of her mouth was disturbed. Something very like -discontent had gathered about the firmly modelled lips. -</p> -<p> -But if Joan was given more freedom to study, she was to some extent -expected to pay for that freedom. Seabourne could be quite gay according -to its own standards; there were tennis and croquet parties in the -summer and a never-ending chain of whist drives in the winter, to say -nothing of tea parties all the year round. To these festivities Joan, -now seventeen, was expected to go, and it was not always possible to -evade them, for, as Mrs. Ogden said, it was a little hard that she -should have to go everywhere alone when she had a daughter who was -nearly grown up. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The Loos gave a garden party at Moor Park. Poor Joan! She felt horribly -out of place, dressed for the occasion in a muslin frock, her cropped -head, crowned by a Leghorn hat, rising incongruously from the collarless -bodice. Sir Robert thought her a most unattractive young woman, but his -wife still disagreed with him. She had always admired Joan, and now the -fact that there was something distinctly unfeminine about the girl was -an added interest in her hostess's eyes. For Lady Loo, once the best -woman to hounds in a hard riding hunt, had begun to find life too -restful at Moor Park. She had awakened one day filled with the -consciousness of a kind of Indian summer into which she had drifted. -Some stray gleam of youth had shot through her, filling her with a -spurious vitality that would not for the moment be denied. And since the -old physical activity was no longer available, she turned in -self-defence to mental interests, and took up the Feminist Movement with -all the courage, vigour and disregard of consequences that had -characterized her in the hunting-field. It was a nine-days' wonder to -see Lady Loo pushing her bicycle through the High Street of Seabourne, -clad in bloomers and a Norfolk jacket, a boat-shaped hat set jauntily on -her grey head. It is doubtful whether Lady Loo had any definite ideas -regarding what it was that she hoped to attain for her sex; it certainly -cannot have been equality, for in spite of her bloomers, Sir Robert, -poor man, was never allowed to smoke his cigar in the drawing-room to -the day of his death. -</p> -<p> -Lady Loo's shrewd eyes studied Joan with amusement; she took in at a -glance the short hair and the wide, flat shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"Will you ever let it grow?" she asked abruptly. -</p> -<p> -"Never," said Joan. "It's so little trouble as it is." -</p> -<p> -"Quite right," said her hostess. "Now why on earth shouldn't women be -comfortable! It's high time men realized that they ain't got the sole -prerogative where comfort is concerned." She chuckled. "I suppose," she -remarked reflectively, "that people think it's rather odd for a young -woman of your age to have short hair. I suppose they think it's rather -odd for an old woman like me to bicycle in bloomers; but the odd thing -about it is that they, the women I mean, should think it odd at all. It -must be that all the centuries of oppression have atrophied their brains -a little, poor dears. When they get equal rights with men it'll make all -the difference to their outlook; they'll be able to stretch themselves." -</p> -<p> -"Do you think so, Lady Loo?" said Mrs. Ogden. "I should never know what -to do with that sort of liberty if I had it, and I'm sure Joan -wouldn't." -</p> -<p> -Lady Loo was not so sure, but she said: "Well, then, she must learn." -</p> -<p> -"I think there are many other things she had better learn first," -rejoined Mrs. Ogden tartly. -</p> -<p> -Lady Loo smiled. "What, for instance? How to get married?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden winced. "Well, after all," she said, "there are worse things -for a girl than marriage, but fortunately Joan need not think of that -unless she wants to; she's got her——" she paused—" her -home." -</p> -<p> -Lady Loo thought. "You mean she's got you, you selfish woman." Aloud she -said: "Well, times are changing and mothers will have to change too, I -suppose. I hear Joan's clever; isn't she going to <i>do</i> something?" -</p> -<p> -Joan flushed. "I want to," she broke in eagerly. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden drew her away and Lady Loo laughed to herself complacently. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! the new generation," she murmured. "They're as unlike us as chalk -from cheese. That girl don't look capable of doing a quiet little job -like keeping a house or having a baby; she's not built for it mentally -or physically." -</p> -<p> -At that moment a young man came across the lawn. "Joan!" he called. It -was Richard Benson. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned with outstretched hands in her pleasure. "I didn't know you -were in England," she said. -</p> -<p> -"I got back from Germany last week. It's ripping your being here -to-day." -</p> -<p> -He shook hands politely with Mrs. Ogden and then, as if she did not -exist, turned and drew Joan after him. -</p> -<p> -"Now then," he began, "I want to hear all about it." -</p> -<p> -"All about what? There's nothing to tell." -</p> -<p> -"Then there ought to be. Joan, what have you been doing with yourself?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing," she answered dully, and then, quite suddenly, she proceeded -to tell him everything. She was surprised at herself, but still she went -on talking; she talked as though floodgates had been loosed, as though -she had been on a desert island for the past two years and he were the -man who had come to rescue her. He did not interrupt until she fell -silent, and then: "It's all wrong," he said. -</p> -<p> -She stood still and faced him. "I don't know why I told you; it can't be -helped, so there's no use in talking." -</p> -<p> -His keen grey eyes searched her face. "My dear, it's got to be helped; -you can't be a kind of burnt sacrifice!" -</p> -<p> -She said: "I sometimes think we're all sacrifices one to the other; -that's what Elizabeth says when she's unhappy." -</p> -<p> -"Then Elizabeth's growing morbid," he remarked decidedly. "It's the -result of being bottled." -</p> -<p> -At the old familiar phrase she laughed, but her eyes filled with tears. -</p> -<p> -"Richard," she said, "it's utterly, utterly hopeless; they don't mean -it, poor dears, but they can't help being there, and I can't help -belonging to them or they to me. If I worry Mother, she gets a batch of -nervous headaches that would move a stone to compassion. And her cough -takes several turns for the worse. But if I worry <i>Father</i>, and make -him really angry, the doctor says he'll die of heart disease, and I know -perfectly well that he would, he's just that kind of man. What do you -suggest, that I should be a parricide?" She smiled ruefully. "I ought to -go up to Cambridge next year, if I'm to be any good, and then to the -hospitals in London, but can you see what would happen if I were to -suggest it, especially the latter part of the programme? I don't think -I'd have to carry it out to kill my father, I think he'd die of fury at -the mere idea." -</p> -<p> -"He'll die anyhow quite soon," said Richard quietly. "No man can go on -indefinitely with a heart like his." -</p> -<p> -"That may be," she agreed, "but I can't be a contributory cause. There's -one side of me that rages at the injustice of it all and just wants to -grab at everything for itself; but there's another side, Richard, that -simply can't inflict pain, that can't bear to hurt anything, not even a -fly, because it hurts itself so much in doing it. I'm made like that; I -can't bear to hurt things, especially things that seem to lean on me." -</p> -<p> -"I understand," he said. "Most of us have that side somewhere; maybe -it's the better side and maybe it's only the weaker." -</p> -<p> -"Tell me about yourself," said Joan, changing the subject. -</p> -<p> -"Well, this is my last year at Cambridge, you know, and then the real -work begins—Joan, life's perfectly glorious!" -</p> -<p> -She looked at him with interest; he had not changed much; he was taller -and broader and blunter than ever, but the keenness in his grey eyes -reminded her still of the bright inquiring look of a young animal. -</p> -<p> -"Look here," he said impetuously, "I'll send you some medical books; -study as well as you can until you come of age, and then—cut loose! -Ask Elizabeth to help you, she's clever enough for anything; and anyhow I -won't send things that are too difficult at first, I'll just send -something simple." -</p> -<p> -Her eyes brightened. "Oh, will you, Richard?" -</p> -<p> -"You bet I will. And, Joan, do come over more often, now I'm home, then -we can talk." -</p> -<p> -"I will," she promised, and she meant it. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -They had scarcely met for two years, for Richard had spent most of his -vacations abroad; there was little in common between him and his father. -His decision to take up medicine had shocked Mr. Benson, but he was a -just man in spite of the fact that he completely failed to understand -his younger son. He and Richard had thrashed things out, and it had been -decided that Richard's allowance should continue until he had taken his -medical degree, after which his father would make him a present of a -lump sum of money to do as he liked with, but this was to be final, and -Richard was well content. His self-confidence never failed. He talked -Joan over with his mother that evening. -</p> -<p> -"She's an awfully jolly girl," he said. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson demurred at the adjective. "Jolly is hardly the way I should -express her," she replied. "I think she's a solemn young creature." -</p> -<p> -"No wonder," he said hotly. "Her life must be too awful; a mother who's -an hysteric, and a father——" He paused, finding no words -adequate to describe Colonel Ogden. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson laughed. "Oh, Richard! You never change. Don Quixote tilting -at windmills—and yet you're probably right; the girl's life must be -rather hard, poor child. But there are thousands like her, my son." -</p> -<p> -"Millions," he corrected bitterly. "Millions all over England! They -begin by being so young and fine, like Joan perhaps; and, Mother, how do -they end?" -</p> -<p> -"But, Richard dear, I'm afraid it's the lot of women. A woman is only -complete when she finds a good husband, and those who don't find one are -never really happy. I don't believe work fulfils them; it takes children -to do that, my dear; that's nature, and you can't get beyond nature." -</p> -<p> -"No," he said. "You're mostly right, and yet they can't all find -husbands—and some of them don't want to," he added reflectively. -</p> -<p> -"Joan will marry," said Mrs. Benson. "She ought to let her hair grow." -</p> -<p> -He burst out laughing. "Bless you, you old darling," he exclaimed. "It's -what's inside the head that decides those things, not what's outside -it!" -</p> -<p> -She took his hand and stroked it. "I'm glad I had you," she said. -</p> -<p> -He stooped and kissed her cheek. "So am I," he told her. They wandered -into the garden, arm in arm. -</p> -<p> -"It's lovely here," he said. "But it's not for me, Mother; I don't think -lovely things were meant for me, so I must make the ugly ones beautiful -somehow." -</p> -<p> -"My dear, you've chosen an ugly profession; and yet the healing of the -sick is beautiful." -</p> -<p> -"I think so," he said simply. -</p> -<p> -Presently she said: "I want to talk to you about Lawrence." -</p> -<p> -"Fire away! You don't mean to tell me that Lawrence has been sowing -anything like wild oats? Your voice sounds so serious." -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not, you goose; can you see Lawrence knee-deep in a field -of anything but—well—the very best Patna rice?" They laughed. -"No, it's very far from wild oats—I think he's fallen in love with -Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"With Elizabeth? But, good Lord! Lawrence hates clever women!" -</p> -<p> -"I know; he always said he did, and that's what makes it so astounding; -and yet I'm sure I'm right, I can see it in his eye." -</p> -<p> -Richard whistled. "Will she have him, do you think?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know. Elizabeth is not an ordinary woman; sometimes I think -she's rather strange. I love her, but I don't understand her—she's -not very happy, I think." -</p> -<p> -"Will Lawrence make her happy, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -She paused. "Well—he'll make her comfortable," she compromised. -</p> -<p> -They laughed again. -</p> -<p> -"Poor old Lawrence," he said. "He's the best fellow in the world, but -quite the very dullest; I can't think how you produced him, darling." -</p> -<p> -"I can't think how I produced you!" she retorted. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap20"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">D</span>URING the weeks that followed, Joan -managed to visit the Bensons on every available opportunity, or so it -seemed to her mother. Mrs. Benson, lavish in invitations, encouraged the -intimacy between Joan and Richard, and watched with amusement the rather -pathetic and clumsy efforts of her elder son to win Elizabeth. Mrs. -Ogden searched her heart and found no consolation. She had very little -doubt that Joan and Richard were falling in love; they were very young -of course, especially Joan, but she felt that Joan had never really been -young, that she was a creature with whom age did not count and could not -be relied upon to minimize or intensify a situation. She became -retrospective, looking back into her own dim past, recalling her own -courtship and mating. The burning days of Indian sunshine, the deep, -sweet-smelling Indian nights with their melodramatic stars, the garden -parties, the balls, the picnics, and the thin young Englishmen who had -thought her beautiful; she remembered their tanned faces, serious with -new responsibilities. -</p> -<p> -She remembered the other English girls and her own sister Ann, with -their constant whispers of love and lovers, their vanities, their -jealousies, their triumphs and their heart-breaks. She, too, had been -like that, whispering of love and lovers, dreaming queer, uneasy dreams, -a little guilty, but very alluring. And then into the picture came -striding James Ogden, a square young man with a red moustache and cold, -twinkling blue eyes. They had danced together, and almost any man looked -his best in the full dress uniform of the Buffs. They had ridden in the -early mornings, and James was all of a piece with his Barb, a goodly -thing to behold. He had never troubled to court her properly, she knew -that now. Even then he had just been James, always James, James for all -their lives; James going to bed, James getting up, James thinking of -James all day long. No, he had not wasted much time on courtship; he had -decided very quickly that he wanted to marry her and had done so. She -remembered her wedding night; it had not been at all like her slightly -guilty dreams; it had been—she shuddered. Thinking back now she knew -that she herself, that part of her that was composed of spirit, had been -rudely shaken free, leaving behind but a part of the whole. It had not -been <i>her</i> night, but all James's, a blurred and horrible experience -filled with astonished repugnance. -</p> -<p> -Then their married life in the comfortable bungalow; after all, that had -had compensations, for Joan had come as a healer, as a reason, an -explanation. She had found herself promoted to a new dignity as a young -married woman and mother, the equal of the other married women, the -recipient of their confidences. Ann had married her chaplain, now a -bishop, but Ann neither gave nor received confidences, she had become -too religious. By the death of their father the two sisters had found -themselves very much alone; they were stranded in a strange, new -continent with strange, new husbands, and Mary Ogden would have given -much at that time could she have taken her secret troubles to her -sister. But Ann had discouraged her coldly, and had recommended prayer -as the only fitting preliminary to marital relations. -</p> -<p> -Then another man had come into her life, quite different from James; a -tall man with white hair and a young face. Unlike James, he took nothing -for granted; on the contrary, he was strangely humble, considering his -brilliant career. He was James's very good friend, but he fell in love -with James's wife; she knew it, and wondered whether, after all, what -men called love was as gross and stupid and distasteful as James made -it. She let him kiss her one night in the garden, but that kiss had -broken the spell for them both; they had sprung apart filled with a -sense of guilt; they were good, conventional creatures, both of them. -They were not of the stuff that guilty lovers are made of. But in their -way they were almost splendid, almost heroic, for having at one time -bidden fair to throw their prejudices to the wind, they had made of them -instead a coat of mail. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden searched her heart; it ached, but she went on prodding. What -would happen to Joan if she married—did she love Richard? Did she -know what it meant? What was her duty towards the girl, how much should she -tell her, how much did she know? She had been afraid of Joan going to -Cambridge. She laughed bitterly; what was Cambridge in comparison to -this? What was anything in comparison to the utter desolation of Joan in -love, Joan giving herself utterly to another creature! She felt weak and -powerless to stop this thing, and yet she told herself she was not quite -powerless; one thing remained to her, she could and would tell Joan the -facts of her own married life, she would keep back nothing. Yet she -would be careful to be just, she would point out that all men were not -like James, and at the same time make it clear that James was, as men -go, a good man. Was it not almost her duty to warn Joan of the sort of -thing that might happen, and to implore her to think well before she -took an irrevocable step? Yes, she told herself, it was a duty too long -delayed, a duty that must be fulfilled at once, before it was too late. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -As Mrs. Ogden came to her momentous decision, Richard was actually -proposing to Joan. They stood together in the paddock beyond the -orchard, some colts gambolled near by. He went at it with his head down, -so to speak, in the way he had of charging at things. -</p> -<p> -He said, seizing her astonished hand: "Joan, I know you only come here -to pick my brain about medicine and things, but I've fallen in love with -you; will you marry me?" -</p> -<p> -She left her hand in his, because she was so fond of him and because his -eyes looked a little frightened in spite of his usual self-confidence, -but she said: -</p> -<p> -"No, I can't marry you, Richard." -</p> -<p> -He dropped her hand. "Why can't you?" he demanded. -</p> -<p> -"Because I don't feel like that," she told him. "I don't feel like that -about you." -</p> -<p> -"But, Joan," his voice was eager, "we could do such splendid things -together; if you won't have me for myself will you have me because of -the work? I can help you to get away; I can help you to make a career. -Oh, Joan, do listen! I know I could do it; I'll be a doctor and you'll -be a doctor, we'll be partners—Joan, do say 'Yes.'" -</p> -<p> -She almost laughed, it struck her that it was like a nursery game of -make-believe. "I'll be a doctor and you'll be a doctor!" It sounded so -funny; she visualized the double plate on their door front: "Doctor -Richard Benson," and underneath: "Doctor Joan Benson." But she reached -again for his hand and stroked it gently as if she were soothing a -little brother whose house of bricks she had inadvertently knocked down. -</p> -<p> -"I'm not the marrying sort," she said. -</p> -<p> -"God knows <i>what</i> you are, then!" he burst out rudely. Then his eyes -filled with tears. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Richard!" she implored, "don't stop being my friend, don't refuse -to help me just because I can't give you what you want." -</p> -<p> -Now it was his turn to laugh ruefully. "You may not be the marrying -sort," he said, "but you're a real woman for all that; you look at -things from a purely feminine point of view." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps I do," she acquiesced. "And that means that I'm being utterly -selfish, I suppose; but I need your friendship—can I have it?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I suppose so," he said with some bitterness. "But you won't really -need it, you know, for you never mean to break away." -</p> -<p> -She flushed. "Don't say it!" she exclaimed. "I forbid you to say it!" -</p> -<p> -"Well," he told her, "if you mean to, it's time you began to get a move -on. If you won't take me, then for God's sake take something, anything, -only don't let Seabourne take you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -On the way home Joan told Elizabeth. They stopped and faced each other -in the road. -</p> -<p> -"And you said——?" Elizabeth asked. -</p> -<p> -"I said 'No,'" replied Joan. "What did you think I'd say?" -</p> -<p> -"No!" said Elizabeth, and she smiled. Then, "I wonder if you'll be -surprised to hear that I had a proposal too, last week?" -</p> -<p> -Joan opened her lips but did not speak. Elizabeth watched her. -</p> -<p> -"Yes," she said. "I had a proposal from Lawrence. It seems to run in the -family, but mine was very impressive. I felt it carried the weight of -the whole Bank of England behind it. It sounded very safe and -comfortable and rich, I was almost tempted——" She paused. -</p> -<p> -"And what did you say, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth came a step nearer. "I said I was too busy just now to get -married; I said I was too busy thinking of someone I cared for very much -and of how they could get free and make a life of their own." -</p> -<p> -"You said that, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. Does it surprise you? That's what I said—so you see, Joan, you -mustn't fail me." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her. She stood there, tall and neat, in the road; the -dust on her shoes seemed an impertinence, as though it had no right to -blemish the carefully polished leather. Her eyes were full of an -inscrutable expression, her lips a little parted as though about to ask -a question. -</p> -<p> -"If it's devotion you want," said Joan gruffly, "then you've got all -I've got to give." -</p> -<p> -There was a little silence, and when Elizabeth spoke it was in her -matter-of-fact voice. She said, "I not only want your devotion but I -need it, and I want more than that; I want your work, your independence, -your success. I want to take them so that I can give them back to you, -so that I can look at you and say, 'I did this thing, I found Joan and I -gave her the best I had to give, freedom and——'" she paused, -"'and happiness.'" -</p> -<p> -They turned and clasped hands, walking silently home towards Seabourne. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was watching from the dining-room window as she often watched -for Joan. Her pale face, peering between the lace curtains, had grown to -fill the girl with a combined sense of irritation and pity. She called -Joan into the room and closed the door. Joan knew from her mother's -manner that something was about to happen, it was full of a suppressed -excitement. Without a word she led Joan to the sofa and made her sit -beside her; she took the girl's face between her two cold hands and -gazed into her eyes. -</p> -<p> -Then she began. "Joan, darling, I want to talk to you. I've wanted to -have a serious talk with you for some time. You're not a child any -longer, you're nearly a woman now; it seems so strange to me, for -somehow I always think of you as my little Joan. That's the way of -mothers, I suppose; they find it difficult to realize that their -children can ever grow up, but you have grown up and it's likely that -you'll fall in love some day—perhaps want to marry, and there are -things that I think it my duty to tell you——" She paused. -"Facts about life," she concluded awkwardly. -</p> -<p> -Her conscience stirred uneasily, she felt almost afraid of what she was -about to do, but she thrust the feeling down. "It <i>is</i> my duty, I'm -doing it for Joan's sake," she told herself. "I'm doing it for her sake -and <i>not</i> for my own." -</p> -<p> -Joan sat very still, she wondered what was coming; her mother's eyes -looked eager and shy and she was a little flushed. Mrs. Ogden began to -speak again in quick jerks, she turned her face slightly aside showing -the delicate line of her profile, her hands moved incessantly, plaiting -and unplaiting the fringed trimming on her dress. -</p> -<p> -"When I was not very much older than you, in India," she went on, "I was -like you, little more than a child. I was not clever as you are—I -never have been clever, my dear, but I was beautiful, Joan, really -beautiful. Do you remember, you used to think me beautiful?" The voice -grew wistful and paused, then went on without waiting for a reply. "I -had no mother to tell me anything, and what I learnt about things I -learnt from other girls of my own age; we speculated together and came -to many wrong conclusions." Another pause. "About the facts of life, I -mean—about men and marriage and—what it all meant. Men made -love to me, dearest, they admired your mother in those days, but their -love-making was restrained and respectful, as the love-making of a man -should be to a young unmarried girl, and——" she hesitated, -"it told me nothing—nothing, Joan, of what was to come. Then I met -your father, I met James, and he proposed to me and I married him. He -was good looking then, in a way—at least I thought so—and a -wonderful horseman, and that appealed to me, as you may guess, for we -Routledges have always been fond of horses. Well, dear, that's what I -want to tell you about—not the horses, my married life, I mean." -</p> -<p> -She went on quickly now, the words tumbled over each other, her voice -gathered volume, growing sharp and resentful. As she spoke she felt -overwhelmed with the relief that came with this crude recital of long -hidden miseries. Joan watched her, astonished; watched the refined, worn -face, the delicate, peevish lips that were uttering such incongruous -things. Something of her mother's sense of outrage entered into her as -she listened, filling her with resentment and pity for this handicapped -and utterly self-centred creature, for whom the natural laws had worked -so unpropitiously. She thought bitterly of her father, breathing heavily -on his pillows upstairs, of his lack of imagination, his legally -sanctified self-indulgence, his masterful yet stupid mind, but she only -said: -</p> -<p> -"Why have you told me all this, dearest?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden took her hand. "Why have I told you? Oh, Joan, because of -Richard Benson, because I think you're falling in love for the first -time." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her in amazement. "You think that?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -"Well, isn't it so? Joan, tell me quickly, isn't it so?" -</p> -<p> -"No," said Joan emphatically, "it isn't. Richard asked me to marry him -to-day and I refused." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden burst into tears; her weeping was loud and unrestrained; she -hid her head on the girl's shoulder. "Oh, Joan—my Joan——" -she sobbed. "Oh, Joan, I am so glad!" -</p> -<p> -Now she did not care what she said, the years of unwilling restraint -melted away; she clung to the girl fiercely, possessively, murmuring -words of endearment. Joan took her in her arms and rocked her like a -child. "There, there!" she whispered. -</p> -<p> -Presently Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes, her face was ugly from weeping. -"It's the thought of losing you," she gasped. "I can't face the thought -of that—and other things; you know what I mean, the thought of your -being maltreated by a man, the thought that it might happen to you as it -happened to me. You see, you've always seemed to make up for it all, -what I missed in James I more than found in you. I know I'm tiresome, my -darling, I know I'm not strong and that I often worry you, but, oh Joan, -if you only knew how much I love you. I've wanted to tell you so, often, -but it didn't seem right somehow, but you do understand, don't you, my -darling? Joan, say you understand, say you love me." -</p> -<p> -Somewhere in the back of Joan's mind came a faint echo: did she love -her? But it died almost immediately. -</p> -<p> -"You poor, poor darling," she said, "of course I understand, and love -you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap21"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">R</span>ICHARD was faithful to his promise. Large -brown paper parcels of books began to arrive from Cambridge; Joan and -Elizabeth studied them together. The weariness of the days was gone for -Joan; with the advent of her medical books she grew confident once more, -she felt her foot already on the first rung of the ladder. -</p> -<p> -At this time Elizabeth strove for Joan as she had never striven before. -Joan did not guess how often her friend sat up into the small hours of -the morning struggling to master some knotty point in their new studies. -How she wrestled with anatomy, with bones and muscles and circulatory -systems, with lobes and hemispheres and convolutions, until she began to -wonder how it could be possible that anyone retained health and sanity, -considering the delicate and complicated nature of the instrument upon -which they depended. A good many of the books dealt with diseases of the -nerves and brain, and Joan found them more fascinating and interesting -than she had imagined possible. Poor Elizabeth had some ado to keep pace -with her pupil's enthusiasm. She strained every nerve to understand and -be helpful; she joined a library in London and started a line of private -study, the better to fit her for the task in hand. She gloried in the -difficulties to be surmounted, and felt that this work was invested with -a peculiar significance, almost a sanctity. It was as though she were -helping Joan towards the Holy Grail of freedom. -</p> -<p> -At the end of six months Elizabeth paused for breath, and together the -two students reviewed their efforts. They were very well pleased with -themselves and congratulated each other. But in spite of all this -Elizabeth was dissatisfied and apprehensive at moments. She told herself -that she was growing fanciful, nervy, that she was hipped about life and -particularly about Joan, that she needed a change, that she had been -overworking recklessly; she even consulted their text books with a view -to personal application, only to throw them aside with a scornful -exclamation. Theories, all theories! Those theories might conceivably -apply to other people, to Mrs. Ogden for instance, but not to Elizabeth -Rodney! She was not of the stuff in which neurosis thrives; she was just -a plain, practical woman taking a plain, practical interest in, and -having a plain, practical affection for, a brilliant pupil. But her -state of mental unrest increased until it became almost physical—at -last she broke—— -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" she exclaimed irritably one day, flinging a text book on to a -chair, "what, in Heaven's name, are we doing this for?" -</p> -<p> -Joan looked up in bewilderment. "Out of scientific interest, I suppose," -she ventured. -</p> -<p> -"Interest!" Elizabeth's eyes gleamed angrily. "Interest! Scientific -interest—yes, that's it! I'm sitting up half the night out of mere -scientific interest in a subject that I personally don't care a button -about, except inasmuch as it affects your future. I'm trying to take a -scientific interest in the disgusting organs of our disgusting bodies, -to learn how and why they act, or rather how and why they don't act, to -read patiently and sympathetically about a lot of abnormal freaks, who -as far as I can see ought all to be shut up in a lunatic asylum, to -understand and condone the physical and mental impulses of hysterics, -and I'm doing all this out of scientific interest! Scientific interest! -That's why I'm slaving as I never slaved at Cambridge—out of pure -scientific interest! Well, I tell you, you're wrong! I don't like -medical books and I particularly dislike neurotic people, but it's been -enough for me that you do like all this, that you feel that you want to -be a doctor and make good in that way. It's not out of scientific -interest that I've done it, Joan; it's because of you and your career, -it's because I'm mad for you to have a future—I've been so from the -first, I think—I don't care what you do if only you do something and -do it well, if only you're not thrown on the ash-heap——" She -paused. -</p> -<p> -Joan felt afraid. Through all the turbulent nonsense of Elizabeth's -tirade she discerned an undercurrent of serious import. It was -disconcerting to find that Elizabeth could rage, but it was not that -which frightened her, but rather a sudden new feeling of responsibility -towards Elizabeth, different in quality from anything that had gone -before. She became suddenly aware that she could make or mar not only -herself but Elizabeth, that Elizabeth had taken root in her and would -blossom or fade according to the sustenance she could provide. -</p> -<p> -"It's you, <i>you</i>, Joan!" she was saying. "Are you serious, are you -going to break away in the end, or is it—am I—going to be -all wasted?" -</p> -<p> -"You mean, am I going to leave Seabourne?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, that is what I mean; are you going to make good?" -</p> -<p> -"Good God!" Joan exclaimed bitterly. "How can I?" -</p> -<p> -"You can and you must. Haven't you any character? Have you no -personality worthy to express itself apart from Seabourne. No will to -help yourself with? Are you going to remain in this rut all the rest of -your life, or at least until you're too old to care, simply because -you've not got the courage to break through a few threads of ridiculous -sentiment? Why it's not even sentiment, it's sentimentality!" Her -voice died down and faltered: "Joan, for my sake——" -</p> -<p> -They stared at each other, wide-eyed at their own emotions. They -realized that all in a moment they had turned a sharp corner and come -face to face with a crisis, that there was now no going back, that they -must go forward together or each one alone. For a long time neither -spoke, then Joan said quietly: -</p> -<p> -"You think that I'm able to do as you wish, that I'm able to break -through what you call 'the threads of sentimentality,' and you despise -me in your heart for hesitating; but if you knew how these threads eat -into my flesh you might despise me less for enduring them." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth stretched out a scarred hand and touched Joan timidly; her -anger had left her as suddenly as it had come, she felt humble and -lonely. -</p> -<p> -"You see," she said, "I'm a woman who has made nothing of life myself -and I know the bitterness that comes over one at times, the awful -emptiness; but if I can see you happy it won't matter ever again. I -don't want any triumphs myself, not now; I only want them for you. I -want to sit in the sun and warmth of your success like a lizard on an -Italian wall; I want positively to bask. It's not a very energetic -programme, perhaps, and I never thought I'd live to feel that way about -anything; but that's what it's come to, you see, my dear, and you can't -have it in you to leave me shivering in the cold!" -</p> -<p> -Joan clung to the firm, marred hand like a drowning man to a spar; she -felt at that moment that she could never let it go. In her terror lest -the hand should some day not be there she grew pale and trembled. She -looked into Elizabeth's troubled eyes. -</p> -<p> -"What do you want of me?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -"If I told you, would you be afraid?" -</p> -<p> -"No, I'm only afraid of your taking your hand away." -</p> -<p> -"Then listen. I want you to work as we are doing until you come of age, -then I want you to go to Cambridge, as I've often told you, but after -that—I want you to make a home with me." -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I have a little money put by, not very much, but enough, and I -want you to come to London and live there with me. We could jog along -somehow; I'd get a job while you studied at the hospital; we'd have a -little flat together, and be free and very happy. I've wanted to say -this to you for some time and to-day somehow it's all come out; it had -to get said sooner or later. Joan, I can't stand Seabourne for many more -years, and yet as long as you're here I can't get away. I tell you there -are times when I could dash myself to bits on the respectable -mud-coloured wall of our house, when I could lay a trail of gunpowder -down the middle of the High Street and set light to the fuse, when I -could hurl Ralph's woollen socks in his face and pull down the plush -curtains and stamp on them, when I could throw all the things out of the -study window, one by one, at the heads of the people on the parade, when -I could—oh, Joan!—when I could swim a long way out to sea -and never come back; I nearly did that once, and then I thought of you -and I came back, and here I am. But how long will you make me stay here, -Joan? How long shall I have to endure the sight of you growing weaker -instead of stronger, as you mature, and some day perhaps the sight of -you growing old and empty and utterly meaningless, with all the life and -blood sucked out of you by this detestable place, when we might get free -and hustle along with life, when we might be purposeful and tired and -happy because we mean something." -</p> -<p> -Joan got up. -</p> -<p> -"Listen," she said. "When I'm twenty-one I <i>will</i> go to Cambridge and -after that I shall come to you in London; we'll find a little flat and -be very happy, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked straight into her eyes with a cold, searching scrutiny. -"Is that a promise, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it's a promise." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan's medical studies went almost unnoticed by Mrs. Ogden, whose mind -was occupied with more pressing worries. Milly had suddenly announced -her intention of going to the Royal College of Music, and her master had -backed her up; there had been a scene, recriminations. The colonel had -put his foot down and had not on this occasion had a heart attack, so -that the scene had been painfully prolonged. In the end he had said -quite bluntly that there was no money for anything of the kind. This had -surprised Mrs. Ogden and had made her feel vaguely uncomfortable; she -began to remember certain documents that James had asked her to sign -lately; he had told her that they concerned the investment of the -children's money. And then, to her who knew him so well, it was all too -evident that something was preying on his mind; she fancied that -recently there had been more in his morose silences than could be -accounted for by ill-health. He had grown very old, she thought. -</p> -<p> -Milly had not stormed, nor did she appear to have gone through much -mental perturbation; in fact she had smiled pleasantly in her father's -face. It never occurred to her for one moment that she would not get her -own way in the end; it hardly seemed worth worrying about. She did not -believe that there was no money to send her to the College; she told -Joan afterwards that this sort of remark was on a par with all the rest -of the lies their father told when he did not wish to be opposed. -</p> -<p> -"After all," she said, "there is my hundred and fifty a year, and of -course I should take a scholarship. It's only Father's usual tactics, -and it's all on a par with him to like the feeling of holding on to my -money as long as he can; he thinks it gives him the whip hand. But I'm -going up to the College, and I'm not going to wait until I'm twenty-one. -I shall manage it, you'll see; I'm not in the least worried about it -really; if necessary I shall run away." -</p> -<p> -But Mrs. Ogden was not so confident; she questioned her husband timidly. -</p> -<p> -"James, dear—of course I understand your not wishing Milly to go to -the College at her age; she's only a child, that in itself is a reason -against it; but to say there's no money! Surely, dear——" -</p> -<p> -He cut her short. "At the moment there is not," he said gruffly. -</p> -<p> -"James!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, what is it, Mary?" -</p> -<p> -"I ought to understand. Am I spending too much on the household? Surely -I haven't bought Milly too many new clothes, have I, dear? I thought -perhaps that hundred and fifty a year of hers would have gone a long way -towards helping her expenses in London; they say she'd certainly take a -scholarship, and there's no doubt she has very real talent. With Joan -it's different. I don't consider that she has very marked talent in any -particular direction; she's an all round good student and that's all; -but Milly is certainly rather remarkable in her playing, don't you think -so?" -</p> -<p> -The colonel did not answer for a full minute, and when he spoke a -pleading note had come into his voice, a note so unusual that his wife -glanced quickly at him. -</p> -<p> -"Mary, it's these doctors and things, this damned long illness of mine -has been the very deuce. If it hadn't been for that money of Henrietta's -I don't know where we'd have been, but I'm not the man to spend my -children's money on myself." He drew himself up painfully and his face -flushed. "No, Mary, if Henrietta wished to make me feel that I'd no -right to it, I wouldn't touch a penny that I couldn't pay back. If the -damned unsisterly old devil is able to understand anything at all in the -next world, I hope she understands that!" -</p> -<p> -"But, James, have we borrowed some of the children's money?" -</p> -<p> -"A little," he admitted. "We've had to. After all, the children would be -in a bad way without their father. I consider it my duty to keep myself -alive for their sakes. Where would you all be without me?" he concluded -with some return of his old manner. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked at him; he was a very broken man. A faint pity stirred -in her, a faint sense of shock as though there were something indecent -in what she was now permitted to see. She had been little better than -this man's slave for over twenty years, the victim of his lusts, his -whims, his tempers and his delicate heart, the peg on which to hang his -disappointments, the doormat for him to kick out of the way in his -rages. She had lost youth and hope and love in his ungrateful service; -at times she almost hated him, and yet, now that the hand was weakening -on the reins, now that she realized that she could, if she would, take -the bit between her teeth, she jibbed like a frightened mare; it was too -late. There had been something in his almost humble half-explanation -that brought his illness home to her as no fits of irritability or -silence could have done. -</p> -<p> -"Never mind, my dear," she said gently; "you've done everything for the -best." -</p> -<p> -He looked at her with frightened eyes and edged nearer. -</p> -<p> -"I've done what I hope was for the best," he said uncertainly. "Some of -their money we had to take to keep going. I didn't want to tell you that -funds were pretty low. I suppose I ought to have told you not to spend so -much on clothes, but—oh, well, damn it all! A man has his pride, and -I hated to have to touch a penny of Henrietta's money after the way she -treated me; God knows I hated it! It must come all right, though. I've -changed some of the investments and put the money into an excellent -concern that I heard about quite by chance through Jack Hicks—a mine -out in Rhodesia—they say there's a fortune in it. Mary, listen and do -try to understand; it's a new mine and it's not paying yet, that's why -we're short at the moment, but it ought to begin paying next year, and -by the time the children come of age it'll be in full swing. It paid for -a bit, jolly well, of course, otherwise I wouldn't have put the money -into it, but I hear they're sinking a new shaft or something, and can't -afford any dividends just at present. It's only a matter of time, a few -months perhaps. There can't be a question about it's being all right; I -realize that from what Jack told me. And then, as you know, Mary, I -always fancy myself as a bit of an expert in mineralogy. From what I can -see the children ought to get a fortune out of it; don't suppose they'll -be grateful to me though, not likely, these days. Of course you -understand, Mary, that I didn't depend entirely upon my own opinion. If -it had been our own money I shouldn't have hesitated, for I've never -found any one whose opinion I'd rather take than my own on financial -matters; but being the children's money I went into it thoroughly with -Hicks, and between us we came to the conclusion that as an investment -it's as safe as the Bank of England." -</p> -<p> -"I see," said Mrs. Ogden, trying to keep all traces of doubt from her -voice. She did not see in the least and, moreover, gold mines in -Rhodesia reminded her unpleasantly of some of her poor brother Henry's -ventures, but her head felt suddenly too tired to argue. "Shall I -economize?" she asked him. -</p> -<p> -He hesitated. "Well, perhaps——" His voice shook a little, then -he pulled himself together. "No, certainly not," he said loudly. "Go on -just as you are, there's no reason whatever to economize in reasonable -expenditure. Of course this crack-brained scheme of Milly's is quite -another matter; there's no money for that sort of thing and never will -be, as I told Joan pretty plainly when she began expounding her theories -of a career. But in all reasonable matters go on just the same." -</p> -<p> -He reached out his hand and took hers, patting it affectionately. "I -think I'll go to bed," he said. "I feel rather tired." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Milly had hit upon a course of action diametrically opposed to her real -feelings, which were placid and a little amused. She intended to go to -London, and it occurred to her that the best way to achieve this might -be to make herself dispensable; at all events it was worth trying. She -therefore sulked and wept to an abnormal extent, and took care that -these fits of weeping should not go unobserved. Whenever possible she -shut herself up with her violin, ignoring the hours of meals. Her family -became alarmed and put a tray outside her door, which she mostly left -untouched, having provided herself with a surreptitious supply of rolls -and potted meat. Her father looked at her glumly, but through his angry -eyes shone an uneasy, almost wistful expression, when forced to meet his -favourite daughter face to face. At the end of a fortnight he could bear -it no longer and began to make tentative efforts at reconciliation. -</p> -<p> -"That's a pretty dress you have on, Milly; going out to give the -neighbours a treat?" -</p> -<p> -Milly turned away. "No," she said shortly. -</p> -<p> -"Coming out with your old father this morning, when he goes for a drive -in his perambulator? It's devilish dull with no one to talk to." -</p> -<p> -She stared at him coldly. "I have my violin to practise; I'm sorry I -can't come." -</p> -<p> -The colonel winced; she was more than a match for him now, this impudent -daughter of his, perhaps because he loved her as deeply as he was -capable of loving. Once, when she had been unusually rude, snubbing his -advances with the sharp cruelty of youth, Joan had seen his bulgy eyes -fill with tears. She waited until they were alone together and then she -turned on her sister. -</p> -<p> -"Beast!" she said emphatically. -</p> -<p> -"I don't know what you mean," retorted Milly. -</p> -<p> -"I think you're a perfect beast to treat Father the way you do lately. -Anyone can see he's terribly ill and you speak to him as though he were -a dog." -</p> -<p> -"Well, he's treated me as though <i>I</i> were a dog—no, worse; -he'd give a dog a sweet biscuit any day, but he denies me the only thing -I long for, that I'm ready to work for—my music. It's my whole -life!" she added melodramatically. -</p> -<p> -"Rot!" said Joan. "That's no reason for speaking to him as you do; I -can't stand it, it makes me feel sick and cold; his eyes were full of -tears to-day." -</p> -<p> -"Well, my eyes are almost blind from crying—I cry all night long." -</p> -<p> -"That's a whopper, you snored all last night." -</p> -<p> -"Oh!" exclaimed Milly, angrily. "How I do <i>hate</i> sharing a room with -you, there's no privacy!" -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed rudely. "You are an ass, Milly, you try so hard to be grown -up and you're nothing but a silly kid." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps if you knew all," Milly hinted darkly, "you'd realize that some -people think me grown up." -</p> -<p> -"Do they?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mr. Thompson does, if you must know." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't say I wanted to know." -</p> -<p> -"Well, Mr. Thompson doesn't treat me as though I were a little girl; -he's very attentive." -</p> -<p> -"Do you mean the young man at the library, who smells of hair oil?" -</p> -<p> -"I mean Mr. Thompson the tennis player." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes," said Joan vaguely, "I remember now, he does play tennis." -</p> -<p> -"Considering he's the best player we've got," said Milly flushing, "it's -not at all likely that you didn't know who I meant." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, shut up!" Joan exclaimed, growing suddenly impatient. "I don't care -what Mr. Thompson thinks of you. I think you're a beast!" -</p> -<p> -Joan tried clumsily to make it up to her father; she tore herself away -from her books to walk beside his bath chair, but all to no avail, he -was silent and depressed. He wanted Milly, with her fair curls and -doll's eyes, not this gawky elder daughter with her shorn black locks. -He fretted for Milly; they all saw how it was with him. Milly saw too, -but continued to treat him with open dislike. In the midst of this -welter of illness and misery Mrs. Ogden flapped like a bird with a -broken wing; she reproached Milly, but not as one having authority. All -day long the sounds of a violin could be heard all over the house; it -was almost as though Milly played loudest when the colonel went upstairs -to rest; he would doze, and start up suddenly, wide awake. -</p> -<p> -"What's that? What's that?" And then, "Oh, it's Milly; will the child -never think of anyone but herself!" -</p> -<p> -The doctor came more often. "I'm not satisfied," he told Mrs. Ogden. "I -think you must take him to London for the Nauheim cure. It's too late to -go to the place itself, but he can do the cure in a nursing home." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked worried. "He'll never go," she said. -</p> -<p> -"He must, I'm afraid," the doctor replied firmly. "But before moving him -we must have Sir Thomas Robinson down in consultation." -</p> -<p> -They told the colonel together. "I absolutely refuse!" he began. -"There's no money for that sort of nonsense. Good God, man, do you think -I'm a millionaire!" -</p> -<p> -The doctor said soothingly: "I'll speak to Sir Thomas and ask him to -reduce his fee, he's a charming fellow." -</p> -<p> -"I won't have him!" thundered the colonel. "I refuse to be ordered about -like a child." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Thomas motioned Mrs. Ogden to leave the room; presently he called -her in again. -</p> -<p> -"He's promised to be good," he told her with an assumption of -playfulness. -</p> -<p> -The colonel was sitting very upright in his chair, his face was paler -than usual but his little moustache bristled angrily above his parted -lips. -</p> -<p> -"Well, I must be off," said the doctor, hastily picking up his hat. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -Mary Ogden laid her hand on her husband's arm. "I'm sorry if this annoys -you," she said. -</p> -<p> -For a moment he did not speak, then he cleared his throat and swallowed. -"He tells me, Mary, that it's my one chance of life, always providing -that the specialist man consents to my being moved." She was silent, -finding nothing to say. He had died so many times already in all but the -final act, that now, if Death had moved one step nearer, she scarcely -perceived that it was so. Her mind was busy with a thousand pressing -problems, the money difficulty, how to manage about her girls, who to -leave in charge of the house if she went to London, and where she -herself would stay; it would all cost a very great deal. She thought -aloud. "It will cost a lot——" she murmured. -</p> -<p> -He turned towards her. "They say it's my only chance," he repeated, and -there was something pathetic in his eyes. -</p> -<p> -She pulled herself up. "Of course, my dear, we must go, no matter what -it costs. And as it's certain to cure you the money will be well spent." -</p> -<p> -He looked at her doubtfully. "Not certain; there's just a chance, Thomas -said. And after all, Mary, I suppose a man has a right to take his last -chance? I'm not so very old, you know." -</p> -<p> -He seemed to expect her to say something; she felt his need but could -not fill it. -</p> -<p> -"Not so very old," he repeated, "and I come of a good sound stock; my -father lived to be eighty-five. Not that I aspire to that, my dear, but -still, a few years more, just to look after you and the children? What?" -</p> -<p> -His lips were shaking. "Mary!" he broke out suddenly; "damn it all, -Mary, I've got to go if my time has come, but do for God's sake show a -little feeling, say something; it's positively unnatural the way you -take it!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap22"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">J</span>OAN took two letters from her jacket -pocket; one was from Elizabeth, the other from her mother. Aunt Ann had -come to the rescue in the end, and Joan and Milly had been sent to the -palace during Mrs. Ogden's absence in London; they had been there now -for three weeks. There was peace up here in the large, airy bedroom; -peace from her dominating, patronizing aunt, peace from the kind, but -talkative bishop. -</p> -<p> -She looked at the letters, undecided as to which to open first. Her -fingers itched to open Elizabeth's, but she put it resolutely aside. -Mrs. Ogden wrote from the family hotel in South Kensington where she had -taken up her abode. -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"My own darling Joan," she began. "At last I hear from you; I had begun -to fear that you must be ill. Surely a postcard every day would not be -too much trouble for you to send? If only you knew how I watch and wait -for news, you would be more regular in writing, my darling. As for me, I -write this from my bed. I am utterly worn out and suppose that my -general condition is accountable for my having caught a cold which has -gone down on to my chest. The doctor says I must be really careful, and -my heart has been troubling me again lately, especially at night when I -try to sleep on my left side. I have had the strangest sensation in my -throat and all down my left arm. However, I must get up as soon as I -feel able to stand, as your poor father has no one else to look after -him. I do not myself think the nurses are very kind or the food at all -good at the Nursing Home; I spoke to the matron about it just before I -went to bed, she is an odious person and was inclined to be offensive. -This hotel is very uncomfortable, my bed hard and unsympathetic in the -extreme, and the servants far from attentive. I rang my bell six times -yesterday before anybody came near me. I shall have to complain. I -cannot attempt to eat their eggs, which is very trying as I am kept on a -light diet. Your father varies from day to day. The doctor assures me -that he is quite satisfied with his progress, but I think the cure -altogether too severe. Oh! my Joan, how cruel it seems that there was -not enough money for you to come to London with me. I feel that if only -I could have you to talk things over with, I could bear it so much -better. I am such a child in moments of anxiety, and my loneliness is -terrible; I sit alone all the evenings and think of you and of how much -I need you—as never before! I feel utterly lost; your poor, little -mother in this big, big city, and her Joan so far away and probably not -thinking of her mother at all, probably forgetting——" -</p></blockquote> -<p> -"Oh, I can't read any more now!" Joan thought desperately. "It's always -the same; she's never contented, and always sees the darkest side of -things, and I know there's nothing really wrong with her heart or her -chest!" -</p> -<p> -Her poor mother, so small and so inadequate! Why did her mother love her -so much? She oughtn't to love her so much; it was all wrong. Or if the -love was there, then it ought to be a patient, waiting, unchanging love; -the kind that went with making up the fire and sitting behind the -tea-tray awaiting your return. The love that wrote and told you that you -were expected home for Christmas, and that when you arrived your -favourite pudding would be there to greet you. Yes, that was the ideal -mother-love; it never waned, but it never exacted. It was a beautiful -thing, all of one restful colour. It belonged to rooms full of old -furniture and bowls of potpourri; it went with gentle, blue-veined hands -and a soft, old voice. It was a love that kissed you quietly on both -cheeks, too sure of itself to need undue demonstration. She sighed, and -thrusting the letter away, opened Elizabeth's. She smiled a little as -she saw the small, neat handwriting. Elizabeth always left a margin down -one side of the paper. -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"Well, Joan, I have been waiting to answer your last letter until I had -something of interest to write about. Will you be surprised to hear that -I have been up to London? Do you remember my telling you about a friend -of mine at Cambridge, Jane Carruthers? Well, I heard from her the other -day after having lost sight of her for ages. She has some job or another -at the Royal College of Science and lives in London permanently now, and -as in her letter she asked me to look her up, I struck while the iron -was hot and went straight off, via a cheap excursion. -</p> -<p> -"But it's really about her service flat that I want to tell you. She -lives in a large building called 'Working Women's Flats' or -'Gentlewomen's Dwellings,' I can't remember which, but I prefer the -former, in a street just off one of those dignified old squares in -Bloomsbury. The street itself is not dignified, but if you walk just to -the end of it you are surrounded at once by wonderful Georgian houses -with spreading fanlights and link extinguishers and wide shallow -front-door steps. They are the most quietly friendly houses in the -world, Joan; a little reserved, but then we should like them all the -better for that. -</p> -<p> -"Jane's flat is on the fourth floor, so that instead of seeing the -undignified street you catch a glimpse of the trees in the square, and -of course there are plenty of roofs and chimney-pots, always interesting -things, or so I think. Even in London the roofs have character. It's the -most delightful little flat imaginable, two bedrooms with a study in -between. She has made it very homey with books and brown walls, and she -tells me that it's cheap as rents go in London; only it's difficult to -get in there at all. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Joan, it's the very place for you and me. I felt it the moment I -set foot inside the front door; don't think me an idiot, but I felt -excited, I felt about fifteen. I could see us established in a flat like -Jane's. The whole time I was trying to discuss tea and cakes I found -myself planning a new arrangement of Jane's bookshelves, the better to -hold your books and mine—I should have put the writing-table in the -other corner of the room too. I murmured something to this effect just -as Jane was expounding some new scientific theory she has hit upon; -she looked a little surprised and rather pained, I thought. -</p> -<p> -"I asked her about my chances of finding a job in London. I thought I -might as well, as it will be very necessary, and she says she thinks -that I ought to be able to get quite a decently paid post, with my -fairly good Cambridge record. -</p> -<p> -"And now for a confession. I have put my name down for one of the flats. -I saw the agent and he says that there's a long waiting list, but we can -afford to wait for nearly three years, you and I, and if one is -available before that, we must beg, borrow or steal in order to secure -it. We might buy some odds and ends of furniture on the hire system and -let the place furnished until we want it for ourselves. Jane says the -flats let like wildfire, but I think I should try to live there while -you were at Cambridge. I'm sure I could make both ends meet, and then -you could come there for part of your vacations. But if that were not -possible it wouldn't matter much for I could always put up at Ralph's. -</p> -<p> -"I am beginning to laugh all by myself as I write, for I can see your -astonished face. Oh, yes, I know, I have acted on impulse, but it's -glorious to be reckless of consequences sometimes, and then think how -un-Seabournish I have been. Can you hear Ralph's consternation if I told -him?—which I shan't. I think we will keep it as a secret between us, -at all events for the present. Never cross a Seabourne bridge until you -come to it. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, I am missing you." -</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan folded the letter and sat staring in front of her. So it had really -come very near; her freedom, her life with Elizabeth. The flat would -have a study with shelves for their books; they would go out of it every -morning to jostle with crowds, to work and grow tired; and come back to -it every evening to talk, study, or perhaps to rest. They would cook -their own supper, or sometimes go out to one of the little Italian -restaurants that Richard had told her about, queer little restaurants -with sanded floors and coarse linen tablecloths. Sometimes, when they -could afford it, they would go to cheap seats at the theatre or to the -gallery at Covent Garden, and afterwards find their way home in the -'bus, or the Underground, discussing what they had seen and heard. They -would unlock their front door with their own latch-key and hang up their -coats in their own front hall; then they would laugh and joke together -over the old days in Seabourne, which, by then, would seem very far -away. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" came her aunt's voice with a note of irritation; "Joan, I asked -you to do those flowers for the drawing-room. Have you forgotten?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap23"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">M</span>RS. OGDEN wrote yet again: "I brought your -father home yesterday; the doctor thought he would be better in his own -house. God knows if the cure has helped him at all, I do not think so; -but, Joan, my dearest, come back to me at once, for I am so longing to -see you." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked into the fire; she did not care whether her father was -better or worse, and now she did not care whether she cared or not. From -Seabourne to Blumfield, from Blumfield to Seabourne! And that was just -life; not a tragedy at all, only life, a simple and monotonous business. -</p> -<p> -As their train drew in to the familiar station the tall figure of -Elizabeth was waiting on the platform. She was standing very still, like -a statue of Fate; a porter, pushing a truck of luggage towards her, -called out: "By your leave, miss!" and seemed to expect her to move; but -the tall, impassive figure appeared not to notice him and he pulled up -abruptly, skirting it as best he could. -</p> -<p> -Milly said: "Hallo, Elizabeth!" and then: "What a beastly station this -is. I hate the bare flower-beds and the cockle-shells!" -</p> -<p> -They collected the luggage, Elizabeth unusually silent. It was not until -they drove off in the fly that she began to talk. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, your father is very ill; Mrs. Ogden told me to meet you, she -couldn't leave him to-day. He's no better for the cure—they say he's -worse; but you'll judge for yourself when you see him." -</p> -<p> -They bumped down the High Street and on to the esplanade. A weak, watery -sunshine played over the sea and the asphalt. Walking stiffly, with his -hands behind his back, General Brooke was taking the air. A smell of -seaweed and dried fish came in through the open windows and mingled with -the pungent, musty smell of the fly. The cliffs that circled the bay -looked white and spectral, and far away they could just discern the -chimneys of Glory Point, sticking up in a fold of green. Joan roused -herself from a deadly lethargy that had been creeping over her. -</p> -<p> -"How is Mother?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. "Just the same," she said. "Very -worried about your father, of course, but just the same as usual." She -was staring at Joan with hard, anxious eyes, her lips a little -compressed. "I'm glad you've come back, Joan, because——" She -did not finish her sentence, and the cab drew up at Leaside. -</p> -<p> -They got out, tugging at their bags. Milly rang the bell impatiently. -Elizabeth pulled Joan back. -</p> -<p> -"Look here," she said in a low voice, "I'm not coming in, but, -Joan—remember your promise to me." And before Joan could answer she -had turned and walked quickly away. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Mrs. Ogden met them in the hall; her eyes were red. She flung her arms -around Joan's neck and began to cry again. -</p> -<p> -"Your poor father, he's very ill. Oh, Joan, it's been so terrible all -alone in London without a soul to speak to or to appeal to! You don't -know what I've been through; don't leave me again, I couldn't bear it!" -</p> -<p> -Joan pushed her gently into the dining-room; it was all in confusion, -with the remnants of luncheon still on the table. "Don't cry, dear," she -said. "Try to tell me what has happened." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes, clinging to Joan's hand the while. Her soft -greyish hair was untidy, escaping from the net. "The cure was too severe -for him; he ought never to have gone to London; he didn't want to go and -they forced him, the brutes! He got worse and they sent him home two -days ago; they said he was quite fit to travel and had better get home, -but he wasn't fit to travel—that's the way they get rid of their -responsibilities. And the nurses at that home were inhuman devils. I -told them so; he hated them all. He seemed better yesterday, but this -morning he fainted, and when the doctor came he put him to bed. He's -there now, and oh, Joan, he's groaning! They say he's not in pain, but -of course he must be, and sometimes he knows me, and sometimes he's -delirious and thinks he's back in India." -</p> -<p> -"Come upstairs," said Joan drearily. "I want to see him." -</p> -<p> -The familiar bedroom was not familiar any longer; it looked strange and -austere as Joan entered. The blinds were down, flapping in the draught -from the windows. A large fire blazing in the grate added to the sense -of something important and portentous that hung about the place. On the -bed lay a strange figure; someone whom Joan felt she had never seen -before. Its face was unnaturally pale and shrunken and so were the -wandering hands extended on the coverlet. This stranger moaned -incessantly, and turned his head from side to side; his eyes were open -and blank. -</p> -<p> -Joan took one of the wandering hands in hers: "Father!" she said softly. -</p> -<p> -He looked through her and beyond, breathing with an effort. -</p> -<p> -A quiet tap came on the door and the nurse, hastily summoned from the -Cottage Hospital, came in. She was a pink-faced, competent-looking girl, -and wore her cloak and bonnet. She took in the situation at a glance. -</p> -<p> -"I'll just take off my things," she said, "and be back in a minute." -</p> -<p> -Presently the doctor came again. He said very little, and pressing Mrs. -Ogden's limp hand, departed. The nurse, now in charge, had rendered the -bedroom still more unfamiliar, with her temperature chart, and a table -covered with a clean white towel, upon which she had set out strange -little appliances that they did not know the use of. When she spoke she -did so in a loud whisper, glancing ever and anon towards the figure on -the bed. Her cuffs creaked and so did her shoes. A smell of disinfectant -was everywhere; they wondered what it was, it was unfriendly, but no one -dared to question this empress ruling over the kingdom of Death. -</p> -<p> -The colonel belonged to her now; they all felt it, and submitted without -a protest. He was hers to do as she pleased with, to turn in the bed or -to leave in discomfort, to raise up or lay down. She it was who -moistened his lips with cotton wool, soaked in a solution of her own -making. Sometimes she opened his mouth and moistened his tongue as well. -He lay there utterly helpless and unable to protest, while she subjected -him to countless necessary indignities. Her trained hands, hard and -deft, permitted of no resistance, doing their work quietly and without -emotion. It seemed horrible to Joan to see him brought so low, but she, -like the rest of the household, stood back respectfully, bowing to the -realization that only three beings had any control over her father now: -the doctor, the nurse—and Death. -</p> -<p> -Just before he died, on the afternoon of the fifth day, he knew his wife -and called her: "Mary!" His voice was unexpectedly loud. -</p> -<p> -She went and put her arms round him. -</p> -<p> -"Mary!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, James?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm going to die—it's funny my going to die—wish I knew more -about it." -</p> -<p> -"Hush, dearest, don't talk." -</p> -<p> -"Mary." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, James?" -</p> -<p> -"Sorry—if I've been hard on you—but you see——" -</p> -<p> -"Hush, my dear, you mustn't try to talk." -</p> -<p> -But the colonel had ceased to try to do anything any more in this world. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap24"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HEY buried him in the prim cemetery which -had somehow taken upon itself the likeness of Seabourne, holding as it -did so many of the late occupants of Seabourne's bath chairs and -shelters. Everyone attended the funeral. Admiral Bourne, General Brooke -wearing a top hat, the despised bank manager, Ralph Rodney, in fact all -the members of the club, and most of the local tradespeople. Sir Robert -and Lady Loo sent a handsome wreath, but Mr. and Mrs. Benson came in -person. -</p> -<p> -Colonel Ogden had never been really liked in his lifetime; an ignorant -and over-bearing man at best. But now that he was a corpse he had for -the time being attained a new importance, almost a popularity, in the -eyes of Seabourne. His death had provided an excitement, something to -do, something to talk about. The four days of his final illness had been -more interesting than usual, in consequence of the possibility of -tragedy. People would not have admitted it even to themselves, but had -he recovered they would have felt flat; it would have been an -anti-climax. -</p> -<p> -It was not until the funeral had been over for a week that Mrs. Ogden -could be persuaded to think of ways and means. At first she had given -way to a grief so uncontrollable that no one had dared to mention the -family solicitor. But now there were bills to be paid and plans to be -made for the future, and at last Joan persuaded her mother to write to -the firm in London who had attended to Colonel Ogden's affairs. -</p> -<p> -When the quiet man in a frock coat came down to Leaside, Joan was -present at the interview, which was short and to the point. The point -being that there was very little left of the three hundred a year that -should have been hers and Milly's. The quiet man made a deprecating -gesture, explaining that, against his firm's advice, the colonel had -persisted in changing the trust investments. The firm had refused to act -for him in this, it seemed, whereupon he had flown into a rage and acted -without them. They had inquired at the bank, on Mrs. Ogden's authority, -and had discovered that the bulk of the trust moneys had been put into a -mine which was paying nothing at present and seemed unlikely ever to pay -again. But Mrs. Ogden must surely be aware of this, as she was the -co-trustee? Had she not had papers to sign for the sale of securities -and so on? Ah, yes, of course, she naturally did not like to question -her husband's judgment—just signed whatever he told her to; -still—she should have been more cautious, she should have insisted -upon knowing what was being done. But then ladies were proverbially -ignorant of such things. Well, well, it was very sad, very distressing; -there would be her pension, of course, and about fifty pounds a year -left of the trust moneys—No, not more, unfortunately, but that -fifty pounds came from a sound investment, thank goodness. The two young -ladies would have twenty-five pounds a year each; that was better than -nothing, still—— -</p> -<p> -They thanked him, and when he had gone sat looking at each other -helplessly. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "This is the end for Milly and me, now we shall never get -away." -</p> -<p> -Her own words astonished her, they were so cruel; she had not meant to -think aloud. Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. "Oh, James, James!" she sobbed -hysterically; "listen to her, she wants to get away! Oh, what shall I -do, now that you've left me; what shall I do, what shall I do?" -</p> -<p> -"Stop crying, Mother, I'm sorry I said that, only you see—but don't -let's talk now, by this evening we shall both feel more able to decide -things." -</p> -<p> -She left the room, closing the door quietly, and snatching up a hat went -out of the house. A black anger was slowly surging up in her, anger and -a feeling of desperation. What had they done to her and her sister, the -overbearing, self-willed father and this weak, inadequate mother with -her exaggerated grief? For now that the colonel was dead Mrs. Ogden -elected to mourn him as though he had been the love of her life; she -gave herself up to an orgy of sorrow that permitted of no interruption. -It had puzzled Joan, remembering as she did the things her mother had -told her. Through it all her mother could not bear to have her out of -her sight for an instant, it was as though she craved her as an -audience. She thought of all this as she strode along, the fine drizzle -soaking her shoulders. -</p> -<p> -It was not so much for herself that she cared as for Milly, and above -all for Elizabeth; how could she ever tell Elizabeth the truth, that now -there would be no money for Cambridge or for their little flat in -London? But, yes, it was for herself that she cared too. Oh, horribly, -desperately she cared for herself. She clenched her hands in her -pockets, a pain almost physical possessed her; she could not give it up -like this, all in a moment. She realized as never before how much that -future with Elizabeth had meant to her, and now it had been snatched -away. What would she do, what could she do? Nothing, if her mother would -not help her to get free—and of course she would not; she could not -even if she would; she was poor, poor, poor, they all were, poorer than -they had ever been. What would Milly do now? What would Elizabeth do? -Milly would rage, she would metaphorically stamp on their father's -grave. And Elizabeth? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Elizabeth was alone in the schoolroom when Joan got back. As she came -in, pale and drenched with rain, Elizabeth held out her hand. -</p> -<p> -"I've been waiting for you; come here, Joan." -</p> -<p> -Joan took the proffered hand and pressed it. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, I know what it is you want to tell me, I've known for some time." -</p> -<p> -"You know—but how?" -</p> -<p> -"My dear, all Seabourne knows that your father had been speculating -before he died. Do you think there's ever anything that all Seabourne -doesn't know? I heard something about it from Ralph; he told me." -</p> -<p> -Joan snatched her hand away, she spoke bitterly: "All Seabourne knew and -you knew, it seems; I see—only Milly and I were kept in the dark!" -</p> -<p> -"Don't be angry. What was the good of making you unhappy before it was -absolutely necessary; surely you know soon enough as it is?" -</p> -<p> -"But I don't understand, Elizabeth; do you realize what this means to -you and me?" -</p> -<p> -"You mean that now you have no money you can't go to Cambridge?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Cambridge, but above all the flat. I was thinking of our plans for -our life together." -</p> -<p> -"Go up and change and then we'll talk," said Elizabeth quietly. "You're -wet through." -</p> -<p> -Joan obeyed. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -"And now," Elizabeth began, when Joan, wrapped in a dressing-gown, had -sunk into a chair. "Let's thrash this thing out from clue to earring. -How much has he left you?" -</p> -<p> -"Twenty-five pounds a year each." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth considered. "It might be done," she said. "With care and -scraping, I think it might be done, providing of course you take a -scholarship, which you can do. You remember I told you that I could get -a job in London? Well, I'm more sure of that now than I was when I -wrote, I'm practically certain it can be managed. Don't interrupt, -please. This is my plan: you will go to Cambridge when you're twenty-one -and I shall take the flat. If it's available sooner we'll let it. While -you're at Cambridge I shall find a P.G. That oughtn't to be difficult, -and the little money that I've saved will go to help with Cambridge. Oh, -don't argue, you can pay me back when you get into harness. And there's -another thing I never told you; I have a relation from whom I must -inherit something, a most disagreeable relation of my father's who can't -help leaving me his little all, because it's entailed. Well, I propose -to raise a loan on my expectations, 'borrowing on reversion' is what -they call it, I think, and with that loan we're going to make a doctor -of you, so you see it's all arranged." -</p> -<p> -Joan stared at her, bewildered. "But, Elizabeth, I could never pay you -back, perhaps." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, well," said Elizabeth laughing; "then you'll have to work for me, -you may even have to keep me in my old age." -</p> -<p> -Joan began to cry, with the suddenness of a child; she cried openly, not -troubling to hide her face. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, for God's sake, Joan, don't do that!" -</p> -<p> -"It's you," sobbed Joan, choking. "It's you—just <i>you</i>." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth got up, she hesitated and then went to the door, she did not -look at Joan. -</p> -<p> -"Think it over," she said. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's hands fluttered helplessly over the litter of papers that -lay among the plates on the half-cleared supper table; the eyes that she -raised to Joan were vague. -</p> -<p> -"Can you make all this out?" she said drearily. "I shall never be able -to understand legal terms." -</p> -<p> -Joan picked up a letter and read it through. "There's your small life -interest under grandpapa Ogden's will, and then there'll be your -pension, Mother, but it's very little, I'm afraid; we shall obviously -have to leave this house." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I can't do that," she said, with an -unexpected note of firmness in her voice. "Where could I go and pay less -rent than I do here? Only thirty-five pounds a year." -</p> -<p> -"But you see, dear, there are other expenses, servants and light and -coal." Joan spoke patiently. "And then the rates and taxes; a tiny flat -in London would cost so much less to run." -</p> -<p> -"How can you suggest London to me now, after all I went through there -with my James's illness?" Her lips began to tremble. "I should never be -able to face the noise and the dirt and the fearful climate, with my -heart as it is. You're cruel, Joan." -</p> -<p> -"But, Mother, we have to face things as they are." -</p> -<p> -"I can't," said Mrs. Ogden faintly. "I'm too ill." -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed. "You must, darling; you can't stay here, you haven't got -the money, we none of us have now. It'll be all right, truly it will, if -you'll let me help to straighten things out." -</p> -<p> -A sly, stubborn expression came over Mrs. Ogden's face; she wiped the -tears from her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. "Tell me exactly -what I have got," she asked quietly. -</p> -<p> -Joan told her. -</p> -<p> -"And then there's the fifty pounds a year, dearest, that your poor -father saved from the wreck; surely with that as well we can get on here -quite comfortably." -</p> -<p> -Joan dropped the letter, something seemed to turn very cold inside her. -Even that, then! She meant to take even that from them. "But, Mother, -there's Milly's future and—and mine," she finished lamely. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden flushed. "I don't understand you," she said. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, don't make it all so terribly difficult, you know what I -mean; you know quite well that Milly and I want to work for our living. -We shall need the little he's left us if we're ever to make good; it's -bad enough, God knows, but we might manage somehow. Oh, Mother, dear! -won't you be reasonable?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's mouth tightened. "I see," she said; "you and Milly wish to -leave home, to leave me now that I have no one else to care for me. You -want to hide me away in a tenement house, while you two lead the life -that seems amusing to you. This home is to be broken up and I am to go to -London—my health doesn't matter. Well, I suppose I'd be better dead -and then you'd be rid of the trouble of me. Your father must be turning -in his grave, I should think, feeling as he did about your ridiculous -notions. And what a father he was, devoted to you both; he killed -himself working and striving to make money for you, and this is the -gratitude he gets." She began to sob convulsively. "Oh, James!" she -wailed, "James, James, why did you ever leave me!" -</p> -<p> -Joan got up. "Stop it!" she said harshly. "Stop it at once, Mother. You -know you're unjust and that you're not telling the truth, and as for my -father, he had—— Oh, never mind, I won't say it, but stop -crying and listen to me. Milly and I are young, we've got all our lives -before us and we're unhappy here, don't you understand? We are not -happy, we want to go out into the world and do something; we must, I -tell you, we can't stay here and rot. It's our right to go and no one -has any business to stop us; you least of all, who brought us into the -world. Did we ask to be born? No, you and father had us for your own -pleasure. Very well, then, now you must let us go for ours; it's your -duty to help us because you are our mother and we need your help. If you -won't help us we shall go just the same, because we must, because this -thing is stronger than we are, but——" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden clutched at Joan's hand, she dragged her to her, kissing her -again and again. "You fool!" she said passionately. "Can't you -understand that it's not Milly I care about, or the money, but <i>you</i>; -will you never see that I love you more than anything else in the -world?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_IV"><i>BOOK IV</i></a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap25"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE two years that elapsed after Colonel -Ogden's death were years of monotonous uncertainty. There was no charm -about this uncertainty, no spirit of possible high adventure raised it -from the level of Seabourne; like everything else that came under the -spell of the place, it was dull. Mrs. Ogden had sunk into a deep -depression, which expressed itself in the wearing of melodramatic -widow's weeds; when she roused herself now it was usually to be -irritable. There was a servant less in the house, for they could no -longer afford to keep a house-parlourmaid, and things had already begun -to look dingy and ill cared for. The overworked generals provided a -certain periodical variety by leaving at a moment's notice, for Mrs. -Ogden was fast developing the nagging habit, and spent hours every day -in examining the work that had been left undone. And then there was the -money. Always a difficult problem, it had now become acute. Released -from the domestic tyranny of her husband, Mrs. Ogden lapsed into partial -invalidism. She scarcely did more than worry along somehow. The books -went unchecked and sometimes unpaid, and in consequence the tradespeople -were less respectful in their manner, or so she imagined. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth still crammed Joan, but for this she received no payment, and -they studied at Ralph Rodney's house during his office hours. In his -plush-hung study, beneath the portrait of Uncle John grown old, they sat -and worked and made plans; sometimes they were happy and sometimes -inexplicably sad. Elizabeth knew that Mrs. Ogden hated her, had always -hated her with the stubborn hatred of a weak nature. In the old days she -had not cared, except inasmuch as it might separate her from Joan, but -now she had become acutely sensitive to the atmosphere of antagonism -that she met at Leaside. It had begun to depress her, while at the same -time her will rose up to meet the emergency; it was "pull Devil, pull -baker" more than ever before. Between these two passionately determined -women stood Joan, miserable and young, longing for things to come to a -head, for something that she felt ought to happen; she didn't know what. -She was conscious of a sense of emptiness, of unfulfilment; she was -sleeping badly again, tormented by dreams that were only half -remembered, the shadow of which haunted her throughout the day. She -longed for peace; when she was away from Elizabeth she was restless -until they met again, yet when they were together now their -companionship was spoilt by Joan's consciousness of her mother's -disapproval. Elizabeth had swift gusts of anger now that came up -suddenly like a thunderstorm; she, too, was changing, breaking a little -under the strain. These two had begun to act as an irritant on each -other, and the hours of study would be interrupted by quarrels that had -no particular beginning or end, and reconciliations that were only -partial because so much seemed to be left unsaid. -</p> -<p> -Joan became scrupulously neat; she found relief in grooming herself. Her -hair no longer tumbled over her forehead, but was parted and brushed -till it shone, and she took an unconscionable time over her ties and the -polishing of her brown shoes. If she had had the money, she would -certainly have bought silk stockings to match her ties, a pair for every -new tie. The more unhappy she felt the more care did she lavish on her -appearance; it was a kind of bravado, a subtle revenge for some nameless -injustice that fate had inflicted on her. Elizabeth secretly approved -the change, but was silent; in vain did Joan wait for words of -approbation; they never came. She longed for praise, with a childish -desire that Elizabeth should admire her. Elizabeth did admire her, but a -new perverseness that had sprung up in her lately made her refrain from -saying so. -</p> -<p> -Events were moving slowly, but all the more surely for that, perhaps. -Less than a year now and Joan would be of age, and then what? The -unspoken question looked out of Elizabeth's eyes. Joan saw it there; it -seemed to materialize and stand between them. They could not evade the -hungry, restless thing; it made them feel self-conscious and afraid of -each other. -</p> -<p> -It was summer now and still Mrs. Ogden wore her heavy mourning; she -looked frailer than ever in the long crape veil, and her pathetic eyes -seemed to have grown dim with too much weeping. Seabourne elected to -pity her, and looked askance at Joan. Not that Mrs. Ogden ever accused -her daughter of heartlessness; she only implied it, together with her -own maternal devotion. People thought her a helpless little woman, -worthy of better treatment at the hands of that queer, cranky girl of -hers. They began to talk at Joan rather than to her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The loss of her money had had an entirely unexpected effect on Milly, -who had not raged after all, but had just smiled disagreeably. "I knew -he'd do something devilish," she said, "and how like him to die and -leave us to bear the brunt." -</p> -<p> -If she fretted she did so silently, taking no one into her confidence; -it was curiously unlike the old Milly. At eighteen she was beautiful, -with the doll-like beauty that would some day become distressing, the -beauty that would never weather pleasantly. -</p> -<p> -Her little violin master had wrung his hands at the news of her -misfortune; to him the disaster meant the end of his hopes, the end of a -life-long ambition. Tears had stood in his eyes when Milly told him what -had happened; he had put his arm around her, thinking that she must be -in need of consolation, but she had flung away from him with a laugh. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden behaved as though her younger daughter were non-existent, and -Elizabeth, though she saw that all was very far from well, had become -absorbed in her own troubles and held her peace. Joan, on the other -hand, watched her sister with increasing apprehension; she felt that -this unnatural calm could not go on. -</p> -<p> -In the circumstances, it was too foreign to Milly's nature, an alien and -unwholesome thing that might some day give place to a whirlwind. -</p> -<p> -Milly still played her violin, but lately there was something defiant, -almost cruel, in her playing; she played now because she must and not -because she wanted to. She appeared to have grown calmly frivolous, but -there was no joy in her frivolity, or so it seemed to Joan; it was -premeditated. The society of Seabourne welcomed her advent with -enthusiasm; it found her bright and amusing. Her principal pleasure was -now lawn tennis, which absorbed her during the summer months; she was -bidding fair to become a star player, and she and Mr. Thompson of the -circulating library vied with each other in amiable competition. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Thompson was sleeker than ever, and slightly impertinent in his -manner, Joan thought; his hair shone and his flannels were immaculate. -"No, reely now, Miss Milly, reely now!" he protested, failing to take -her service after an exaggerated effort. It became quite usual for him -to see her home in the evenings, carrying her racket confidentially -under his arm. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "I can't understand you, Milly; why on earth do you treat -that bounder as if he were one of us?" -</p> -<p> -But Milly only smiled and held her peace. -</p> -<p> -She seemed to spend hours every Saturday afternoon at Mr. Dodds'. "He's -teaching me some new German music," she told Joan, when questioned. -</p> -<p> -Milly had become a great letter writer; she was always writing letters -these days, and always receiving them. She made a practice of collecting -her post before the family came down to breakfast, slipping out of the -bedroom on any transparent pretext. -</p> -<p> -But gradually a subtle change began to come over Milly; some of the -bravado left her, its place being taken by a queer, resentful desire to -please; it was almost as though she were frightened. She offered to run -errands for Joan, but was quick to take offence if her offer were -refused. She was no longer so secretive either, and seemed to welcome -occasions for confidential talks. When they were in bed at nights she -tossed and complained of sleeplessness; she was constantly hinting at -some secret that she would gladly divulge if pressed. But Joan did not -press her; she was growing sick of Milly. -</p> -<p> -One morning it happened that Joan herself went early to the letter-box; -Milly had overslept, and was in her bath. Among some circulars and a few -bills, there was a letter addressed to "Miss Ogden" in a neat clerical -hand. She opened it and read, turning white with anger as she did so. -</p> -<p> -The letter was fulsome in its details, leaving nothing to the -imagination. So this was how Milly spent her Saturday afternoons! Not in -learning new music with innocent little Mr. Dodds, but hiding guiltily -in an old sand-pit on the downs, with Mr. Thompson of the circulating -library. Indulging herself in vulgar sensuality like any kitchen-maid -courting disaster. Here then was the explanation of the man's -impertinence, of her sister's new-found desire to propitiate; this then -was Milly's revenge for her wrong, this low intrigue with a common -tradesman in their own town. She tore upstairs with the letter in her -hand. Milly was only half dressed and looked round in surprise as the -door burst open. -</p> -<p> -Joan held the letter out towards her. "This!" she panted. "This -<i>beastly</i> thing!" -</p> -<p> -Milly saw the handwriting and turned pale. "How dare you open my -letters, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"<i>I</i> open your letters? Look at the envelope; he forgot to put your -Christian name; it came addressed to me." -</p> -<p> -Milly snatched the letter away. "You beast!" she said furiously, "you -cad! you needn't have read it all through." -</p> -<p> -"I didn't read it all through, but I read enough to know what you've -been doing. Good God! You—you common little brute!" -</p> -<p> -Milly turned and faced her; her eyes were wild but resolute, like an -animal's at bay. "Go on!" she said, "go on, Joan, call me anything you -like, but at the same time suppose you try to realize that I'm also a -human being. Do you imagine that I really mind your knowing about Jack -and me? I don't care! I've wanted to tell you scores of times. Yes, we -do meet each other in the sand-pit every Saturday, and he makes love to -me and I like it; do you hear? I enjoy it; I like being kissed and all -the rest. I love Jack because he gives me what I want; if he's common I -don't care, he's all I've got or am ever likely to get. You stand there -calling me names and putting on your high and mighty air as though I -were some low creature that had defiled you; and why? Only because I'm -natural and you're not. You're a freak and I'm just a normal woman. I -like men they mean a lot to me, and there aren't so many men in -Seabourne that a girl can afford to pick and choose. How am I going to -find the sort of man you would approve of in Seabourne; tell me that? -And where's the harm? Lots of other girls like men too, but they go to -dances and things and meet what you, I suppose, would call gentlemen. -But it's all one; they do very much what Jack and I have done, only you -don't know it, you with your books and your doctoring and your -Elizabeth! Well, if I'd had a chance given me to meet your precious -gentleman, perhaps I'd be engaged to be married by now, instead of -having to be satisfied with Jack in a sand-pit." She began to laugh -hysterically. "Jack in a sand-pit, how funny it sounds; Jack in a -sand-pit!" She stopped suddenly and stared into Joan's eyes. "Listen," -she said seriously, "listen, you queer creature; haven't you learnt -anything from all your medical books? Don't you know that some people's -natures are like mine, and that they can't help giving way sometimes to -their impulses; and after all, Joan, where's the harm; tell me that? -Where's the harm to anyone in what Jack and I have done? Perhaps I'll -marry him—he wants me to—but meanwhile where's the harm in our -being happy, even if it is in a sand-pit on Saturday afternoons?" -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her in amazement. This was Milly, beside whom she had -slept for years; this was her sister, talking like some abandoned woman, -quite without shame, glorying in her lapse. This was the real Milly; all -the others had been unreal, this was the natural Milly. Something in her -own thoughts made her pause. Natural, yes, natural. This was Milly -upholding the nature she had inherited, fighting for its pleasures, its -gratifications; Milly was only being natural, being herself. Were other -people like that when they were themselves? Was that why a housemaid -they had had years ago had left because she was going to have a baby? -Had she, too, been just natural? And what was being natural? Was it -being like Milly, or like the housemaid with her sin great and heavy -within her? What gave people these impulses which they would not or -could not resist? Was it nature working on them for her own ends? Milly -and the housemaid, she coupled them together in her mind. They were both -human beings and what they had done was very human, too; very pitiful -and sordid, like most human happenings. -</p> -<p> -She looked at her sister where she stood half dressed, her head drooping -a little now, her cheeks flushed. She was so thin. It was touching the -way her thin arms hung down from the short sleeves of her vest; they -were like young twigs waiting to complete their growth. Seen like this -there was so little of Milly to upbraid, she looked so childish. Yet she -was not childish; she was wiser than Joan, she had probed into some -secret. How funny! -</p> -<p> -"Come here," Joan said unsteadily; "come here to me, Milly." -</p> -<p> -Milly went to her, hiding her head on her shoulder. She began to cry. -"Joan, listen, I didn't mean half I said just now, all the beastly, -coarse things, I didn't mean any of them I know it's wrong, it's -awful—and I've been so horribly ashamed—only I couldn't help -it. I just couldn't help it!" -</p> -<p> -Joan thought quickly; she knew instinctively that her moment had come. -It was now or never with Milly. -</p> -<p> -"Do you want to marry him?" she asked quietly. -</p> -<p> -Milly looked up, a little smile trembling over her tear-stained face. -</p> -<p> -"Of course not," she said. "Would you want to marry Jack?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, then, look here; do you still want to go to the Royal College, or -have you lost all interest in your fiddle?" -</p> -<p> -"Lost interest? Why, I want it more than anything on earth; you know I -do." -</p> -<p> -"Right!" said Joan; "then you shall go. I'll speak to Mother to-morrow." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap26"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">"I</span>T'S no good, Mother," said Joan firmly. -"Things like this can happen, they do happen; it's human nature, I -suppose." -</p> -<p> -"It's not my idea of <i>human</i> nature," Mrs. Ogden replied in a -trembling voice. -</p> -<p> -"Well, in any case it seems to have been Milly's nature, and the point -is now that she ought to be sent to London." -</p> -<p> -"To think," Mrs. Ogden burst out suddenly, "to think that a daughter of -mine could stoop to a vulgar intrigue with a common young man in a shop! -Could—oh! I simply can't bring myself to say it—but -could—well, go to such lengths that he ought to marry her. It's -too horrible! It's on a par with our servant Rose, years ago; that was -the milkman, and now it's my own flesh and blood—a Routledge!" -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed impatiently. "Good Lord! Mother, what does it matter who it -is, a Routledge or a Rose Smith, it's all the same impulse." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden winced. "Please, <i>please</i>; surely there's no need to be so -coarse, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"I'm not coarse, Mother. Life may be, but I'm not; I'm just looking -things squarely in the face. It seems to me that people have different -temperaments. Some are pure because they can't help it, and some are -impure because they can't help it. Milly likes men too much, and I like -them too little, but here we are, we're your daughters, Routledges if -you like, and all you can do is to make the best of it. It's horribly -hard on you, Mother, but the only way that I see out of it for Milly is -for her to go to the College. She'll probably forget this miserable -business when she has her music again." She paused. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden voiced a sudden, fearful thought. "Joan," she said faintly, -"will there—is there going to be a child?" -</p> -<p> -"No," said Joan. "I don't think you need fear that, from what Milly -tells me." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden fell back in her chair. "I think I'm going to faint," she -whispered, wiping her lips with trembling fingers. Joan went to her and, -lifting her bodily, sat down with her mother on her knee. "You can't -faint," she told her with the ghost of a smile. "We've no time for -fainting, dear; we must go into the accounts and see where the money's -to come from." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Milly took her scholarship and went to London. As the train moved slowly -from the platform, Joan had an overwhelming sense of something that -mattered. Was it Milly's departure? Perhaps. Milly's face had looked -very small and young peering from the window of the third-class -carriage, it had stirred Joan's protective instinct; yet her sister had -smiled and waved happily, filled with joy at her new-found independence. -But something had happened that did really matter, there was a change at -last; change for Milly, it must be that Milly had got out of the cage. -Why was Milly free while she, Joan, remained a prisoner? Was it because -Milly was heartless, a callous egoist? Milly did not submit, she took -the bit between her teeth and went at her own pace no matter who pulled -on the reins. And her own pace had led her not to destruction, as by all -the laws of morality it should have done, but to the actual goal of her -heart's desire; surely this was immoral, somehow? -</p> -<p> -Milly's letters were full of enthusiasm. She wrote: -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"I can't begin to tell you, Joan, how ripping it all is up here. I like -Alexandra House; some of the others kick at the rules, but I don't mind -them. Good Lord! After Leaside it seems Paradise to me. And I'm going -ahead with my playing; I'm in the College orchestra, which is jolly -good, I think; of course it's only a students' orchestra, but it's -splendid practice. The students are quite good sorts, I've made one or -two friends already. I never tell a soul about Jack; you said not to and -I'm being cautious, for once. He keeps on writing, but I don't answer; -what's the good? I hope he'll soon leave Seabourne, as it will be so -awkward to have him there when the holidays come. By the way, he says -he's going to try to get work in London, but don't worry, I shan't see -him if he does; that's all over and I'm very busy." -</p></blockquote> -<p> -It had worked better than Joan had dared to hope. Milly, absorbed in her -music, had apparently submerged the other side of her nature, at all -events for the time being. Joan could not help thinking of herself as a -benefactress, a very present help in trouble. She had saved the -situation, and perhaps her sister, and yet she felt discontented. No -clouds of glory trailed for her, there was no spiritual uplift; she was -conscious of nothing but a great restlessness that swept over her like a -wind. -</p> -<p> -She would soon be of age; Elizabeth never let her forget this, for -Elizabeth was restless too. She urged and drove to work; once she had -held Joan back, but now she thrust her on and on. They slaved like two -creatures possessed, working well on into the evenings. If Ralph turned -them out of his study they went upstairs to Elizabeth's bedroom; work, -always work and more work. On Saturday afternoons they tore themselves -away from their books, and tired and dispirited walked slowly up to the -Downs and sat there, looking out to sea. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth said once: "You were little when I first knew you, Joan." -</p> -<p> -And Joan answered: "Yes, I was little then." -</p> -<p> -It seemed as though they had uttered a momentous statement, they quailed -at the solemnity of their own words. It was like that now; their -overstrained nerves tanged sharply to every commonplace. -</p> -<p> -"Next year," said Elizabeth thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -"Next year," Joan repeated with a sinking heart. -</p> -<p> -"I'm growing old, Joan, but you'll make me young again." -</p> -<p> -And Joan's eyes filled with tears. "You're not old; don't say things -like that, Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, I shall be old quite soon, and so we mustn't wait too long. -Joan, I can't wait much longer." -</p> -<p> -She turned her tired eyes on Joan. "Good God!" she said passionately, -"I've waited long enough." -</p> -<p> -And Mrs. Ogden complained. She always complained now; about her health, -her house, the servant, her daughters. She was indefinitely ill, never -quite normal, yet the doctor came and pronounced her to be sound. She -complained of feeling lonely because Joan left her so much, pointing out -that even their evenings together were broken into by the prolonged -hours of study. She cried a good deal, and when she cried the evidences -of it remained with her for hours; her eyes were becoming permanently -red-rimmed. She said that she cried nearly every night in bed. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth, far beyond being able to control her feelings, now expressed -open dislike of her. "A selfish, hysterical woman," she called her; Joan -winced, but remained silent, and alone with her mother was forced in -turn to listen to elaborate tirades against Elizabeth. That was the way -they spent their short evenings now, in bickering about Elizabeth. Mrs. -Ogden said that she was a thief, a thief who had stolen her child from -her, and occasionally Joan's self-control would go with alarming -suddenness and a scene would follow, deplorably undignified and all -quite futile. It would end by Mrs. Ogden going slowly upstairs, clinging -to the banister, probably to cry herself to sleep, while Joan, her head -buried in her hands, sat on far into the night. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap27"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">O</span>N Joan's twenty-first birthday it poured -with rain. She woke early, conscious of a sound that she could not place -for a moment, the sound of a gutter overflowing on to the leads outside -her window. She got up and looked out through the streaming panes. The -view was almost completely hidden by mist, and her room felt cold with -the first approach of autumn. She dressed and went down to breakfast, to -find Mrs. Ogden already behind the coffee-pot. -</p> -<p> -Her mother looked up, smiling. "Many happy returns of the day," she -said. -</p> -<p> -There were two parcels and two letters on Joan's plate. She opened the -parcels first; one contained a writing-case, from her mother, the other -a book, from Milly. Her letters were from Richard and Elizabeth. She -recognized Elizabeth's writing on the unusually large envelope, and -something prompted her to open Richard's letter first. -</p> -<p> -He wrote: -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"This is to congratulate you on coming of age, that is if there be cause -for congratulation, which, my dear, rests entirely with you. I hope, I -believe, that now at last you have made up your mind to strike out for -yourself; this is your moment, and I entreat you to seize it." -</p></blockquote> -<p> -The letter ended: -</p> -<p> -"Joan, for the fourth time, please marry me!" -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed quietly as she folded this epistle and opened the long -envelope addressed in Elizabeth's hand. It contained no letter of any -kind, only a legal document; the lease of the flat in Bloomsbury. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -She found Elizabeth in Ralph's study, writing letters. As she came in -Elizabeth got up and took both her hands. -</p> -<p> -"My dear," she said, and kissed her. -</p> -<p> -Joan sat down. "So you've done it!" was all she found to say. -</p> -<p> -"You mean the flat? Yes, it's my birthday present to you—aren't you -pleased, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth," Joan tried to speak quietly, "you shouldn't have done this -until we'd talked things over again; when did you sign the lease?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth stiffened. "That's not the point," she said quickly. "The -point is what do you mean about talking things over again? Our plans -were decided long ago." -</p> -<p> -Joan faltered. "Don't get angry, Elizabeth, only listen; I don't know -how to say it, you paralyse me, I'm afraid of you!" -</p> -<p> -"Afraid of <i>me</i>?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, of you; terribly, horribly afraid of you and of myself. Elizabeth, -it's my mother; I don't see how I can leave her, now that Milly's gone. -Wait; you've no idea how helpless she is. She seems ill, and we never -keep a servant, these days—what would she do all alone in the house? -She depends so much on me; why, since Father's death she can't even keep -the tradesmen's books in order, and with no one to look after her I -think she'd ruin herself, she seems to have lost all idea about money. -We must wait just a little longer in any case, say a year. Elizabeth, -don't look like that! Perhaps she'll pull herself together, I don't -know; all I know is that I can't come now——" She paused, -catching her breath. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth had come close and was standing over her, looking down with -inscrutable eyes. "Her eyes look like the sea in a mist," Joan thought -helplessly, reverting to the old habit of drawing comparisons. But -Elizabeth was speaking in a calm, cold voice. -</p> -<p> -"I see," she was saying. "You've changed your mind. You don't want to -come and live with me, after all; perhaps the idea is distasteful to -you? Of course we should be dirt poor." -</p> -<p> -Joan sprang up, shaking with anger. "You know you're lying!" she said. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth smiled. "Am I? Oh no, I don't think so, Joan. It's all quite -clear, surely. I've been a fool, that's all; only I think it would have -been better, worthier, to have been frank with me from the first. I will -not wait a year, or a month, for that matter; either you come now or I -shall go." -</p> -<p> -"Go, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, go!" -</p> -<p> -"But where?" -</p> -<p> -"Anywhere, so long as it's away from Seabourne and you. I've had enough -of this existence; even you, Joan, are not worth it. I'm going before -it's too late to go, before I get so deeply rooted that I can't free -myself." -</p> -<p> -Joan said dully: "If you leave me, I think—I don't think I can bear -it." -</p> -<p> -"Then come with me." -</p> -<p> -"No, I can't." -</p> -<p> -"You can. You're quite free except in your own imagination, and your -mother is not ill except in hers. You'd find that she'd get on all right -once she hadn't got you as an audience; naturally she'll depend on you -as long as you let her. But I say to you, don't let her, she's little -short of a vampire! Well, let her vampire herself for a change, she -shall certainly not vampire me; if you choose to be drained dry, I do -not. Good God! You and she between you are enough to drive anyone -insane!" -</p> -<p> -Joan faced her with bright, desperate eyes. "Elizabeth, you can't go -away, I need you too much." -</p> -<p> -"I must go away." -</p> -<p> -"But I tell you I can't let you go!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, you can, Joan; you need your self-esteem much more than you -need me; you'll be able to look upon yourself as a martyr, you see, and -that'll console you." -</p> -<p> -"Don't, Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -"You'll be able to wallow in a bog of sentimentality and to pat yourself -on the head because you're not as other men. <i>You</i> have a sense of -duty, whereas I—— You'll feel that you are offering yourself -as a sacrifice. Oh, I know it all, and it makes me sick, sick, do you -hear? Positively <i>sick</i>. And you actually expect me to sympathize. -Perhaps you expect me to praise you, to tell you what a really fine -fellow I think you, and that I feel honoured to follow in your trail and -be permitted to offer you a cup of cold water from time to time. Is that -what you want? Well, then, you won't get it from me; you've had too much -from me already, Joan, and what are you giving me in return?" -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "Not much, but all I have." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth laughed. "All you have! Well, it's not enough, not nearly -enough; if this is all you have, then you're too poor a thing for me. -You see, I too have my ideals, and you don't fulfil them. You're the -veriest self-deceiver, Joan! You think you're staying on here because -you can't bring yourself to hurt your mother. It's not that at all; it's -because you can't bear to hurt yourself in the process. It's yourself -you love. Well, I've had enough; it's no good our trying to understand -each other, it's better to make the break here and now." -</p> -<p> -Joan held out her hand. "Good-bye, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth ignored the hand. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap28"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">"W</span>here'S Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Ogden -curiously. "Have you two quarrelled at last?" -</p> -<p> -Joan did not answer; she went on dusting the drawing-room mechanically; -the servant had left and she and her mother were alone. -</p> -<p> -"I must go and put the meat in the oven," she said, leaving the room. -</p> -<p> -She put the joint in the oven and, turning to the sink, began peeling -potatoes; then she rinsed them and put them to boil. The breakfast -things were waiting to be washed up; an incredible lot of them for two -people to have used, Joan thought. She hated the feeling of cold grease -on her fingers; she could not find the mop and the skummed water crept -up her bare wrists. But much as she detested this washing-up process, -she prolonged it intentionally—it was something to do. -</p> -<p> -The potatoes boiled over; she moved the saucepan to a cooler spot and, -finding a broom, swept the kitchen. Where was Elizabeth? She had left -Seabourne for London; so much she had learnt from the porter at the -station, but where was she now? It was a week since they had quarrelled, -but it seemed like years. And Elizabeth did not write; she must be too -angry, too bitterly disillusioned! She fetched the dust-pan and took up -the dust; it lay in great unsightly flakes where she had swept it from -corners neglected by the discontented maid. Elizabeth had sacrificed all -the best years of her life for this, to be deserted, left in the end; -she had offered all that she had to give, and she, Joan, had spurned it, -hurled it back in her face—in Elizabeth's face! -</p> -<p> -The bell clanged. "Milk!" -</p> -<p> -Joan fetched a jug. -</p> -<p> -"How much will you have to-day, miss?" -</p> -<p> -"I don't know," said Joan vaguely. -</p> -<p> -With a look of surprise the man filled the jug. "Fine weather, miss, -after the rain." -</p> -<p> -"Yes—oh, yes, very fine." -</p> -<p> -She would write to her, go to her, anything but this; she would humble -herself, implore forgiveness. If only she knew where she was; she would -ask Ralph. No, what was the good? Elizabeth would not have her now, she -did not want a weak-kneed creature who didn't know her own mind; she -liked dependable, strong people like herself. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" came a voice. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Bring me my nerve tonic, dear." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, and bring me my shawl, I feel cold; you'll find it in my top -right-hand drawer." -</p> -<p> -She obeyed, fetching the shawl, measuring out the tonic in a medicine -glass. -</p> -<p> -"I don't feel it's doing me much good," Mrs. Ogden complained. "I slept -very badly again last night." -</p> -<p> -"You must give it time," said Joan comfortingly. "This is only your -third dose." -</p> -<p> -Where was Elizabeth? Had she found a new friend to share the flat? -</p> -<p> -"You might go and buy me that trimming, some time to-day, darling; it -may be all sold out if we wait." -</p> -<p> -"All right, I'll go when I've tidied the house, Mother; they had plenty -of it yesterday." -</p> -<p> -But Mrs. Ogden persisted: "I have a feeling that it will all be sold out -and I'm short by just half a yard. Can't you finish the house when you -come back?" -</p> -<p> -"I'd rather get on and finish it now, Mother; I'm quite sure it'll be -all right." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden reverted to the subject of the trimming again during lunch, -and several times before tea. "We shall never get it," she complained -querulously. "I feel sure it'll all be sold out!" -</p> -<p> -She allowed herself to be a little monotonous these days, clinging to an -idea with wearying persistence. In her husband's lifetime she would have -been more careful not to irritate, but the restraint of his temper being -removed, she no longer felt the necessity for keeping herself in hand. -</p> -<p> -Joan bought the trimming just before the shop closed, and this done, -they settled down to their high tea. Joan cleared the table wearily, -answered two advertisements of general servants, and finally took her -book to the lamp. It was a new book that Richard had just sent her. -Richard did not yet suspect what she had done; he probably thought she -was busily making plans for her departure; how furious he would be when -he knew. But Richard didn't count; he could think what he liked, for all -she cared. -</p> -<p> -She could not read, the book seemed beyond her comprehension, or was it -all nonsense? -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's voice broke the silence: "Joan, it's ten o'clock!" -</p> -<p> -"Is it, dear?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, shall we go to bed?" -</p> -<p> -"You go, I'll come presently." -</p> -<p> -"Well, don't stay up too late; it makes me nervous, I can't sleep -properly till I know you're in bed." -</p> -<p> -"I shan't wake you coming upstairs." -</p> -<p> -"I never go to sleep at all until I hear your door close. Have you -written about those servants?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I'm going out now to post the letters." -</p> -<p> -"Then I'll wait up until you get back, darling." -</p> -<p> -"No, please not, Mother; I have a key." -</p> -<p> -"But it makes me nervous when I know you're out. Run along, dear; I -shall wait for you." -</p> -<p> -"Very well," said Joan, "I shan't be long." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Mrs. Benson called and talked about Richard, and she looked at Joan as -she spoke. She would have liked her Richard to have this girl, if, as -she had begun to suspect, he had set his heart on her. -</p> -<p> -"You and Richard have so much in common, Joan; he's always writing to me -about you." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden said nothing. -</p> -<p> -"When are you going to Cambridge?" Mrs. Benson continued hurriedly, -bridging an awkward pause. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her mother, but she was still silent. -</p> -<p> -"Aren't you going?" Mrs. Benson persisted. -</p> -<p> -Joan hesitated. "Well, you see, it's rather difficult just -now——" -</p> -<p> -"She doesn't want to leave me," said Mrs. Ogden with a little smile. -"She thinks I'm such a helpless creature!" -</p> -<p> -"But, surely——" Mrs. Benson began, and then stopped. -</p> -<p> -The atmosphere of this house was beginning to depress her, and in a -sudden flash she realized the cause of her depression. There was -something shabby about everything here, both physical and mental. -Inanimate things, and people, were letting themselves go, sliding; Mrs. -Ogden was sliding very fast—and Joan? She let her eyes dwell on the -girl attentively. No, Joan had only begun to slip a little as yet, but -there were signs; her mouth drooped too much at the corners, her lips -were too pale and her strong hands fidgeted restlessly, but otherwise -she was intact so far, and how spruce she looked! Mrs. Benson envied -this talent for tidiness, which had never been hers. Yes, on the whole, -Joan's clothes suited her, it would be difficult to conceive of her -dressed otherwise; still, the short hair was rather exaggerated. She -wondered if Richard would make her let it grow when they were married, -for, of course, she would marry him in the end. -</p> -<p> -"So Elizabeth has gone to London," she said after a silence, feeling -that she had made a bad slip the moment the words were out. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, she went more than a week ago," Joan replied. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked up with interest. "But surely not for long? How queer -of you not to have told me, dear." -</p> -<p> -"I thought I had," said Joan untruthfully. -</p> -<p> -"I heard from her this morning," Mrs. Benson plunged on, feeling that -she might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. "She's got a very -good post as librarian to some society." -</p> -<p> -Then Elizabeth was in London! -</p> -<p> -"Well, of all the extraordinary things!" said Mrs. Ogden, genuinely -surprised. "Joan, you <i>never</i> told me a word!" -</p> -<p> -"I didn't know about the post as librarian, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"No, but you knew that Elizabeth had left Seabourne for good." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I knew that——" -</p> -<p> -"Well then, fancy your not telling me; fancy her not coming here to say -good-bye—extraordinary!" Her voice was shaking a little with -excitement now. "What made her go off suddenly, like that? Surely you -and she haven't quarrelled, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at Mrs. Benson; did she know? Probably, as Elizabeth had -written to her. Mrs. Benson smiled and nodded sympathetically, her -motherly eyes said plainly: "Never mind, dear, it's not so bad as you -think; you've got my Richard." But Joan ignored the comfort. What could -Mrs. Benson know of all this, what could anyone know but Elizabeth and -herself. -</p> -<p> -She said: "I think she was tired of Seabourne, Mother. Elizabeth was -always very clever, and there's nothing to be clever about here." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden smiled quietly. "Elizabeth was certainly very clever; but -what about her interest in you?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, she took a great interest in me; she believed in me, I think, -but—oh, well, she couldn't wait for ever, could she?" -</p> -<p> -She thought: "If they go on like this I shall scream!" -</p> -<p> -"Well, I must be going," said Mrs. Benson uncomfortably. "Come up -to-morrow and lunch with me, Joan; half-past one, and I hope you'll come -too, Mrs. Ogden." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden sighed. "I never go anywhere since James's death. It may be -morbid of me, but I feel I can't bear to, somehow." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, but do come, please. We shall be quite alone and it'll do you -good." -</p> -<p> -The smile that played round Mrs. Ogden's lips was apologetic and sad; it -seemed to repudiate gently the suggestion that anything, however kindly -meant, could do her good, now. -</p> -<p> -"I think not," she said, pressing Mrs. Benson's hand. "But thank you all -the same for wanting such a dull guest." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Benson thought: "A tiresome woman; she's overdoing her bereavement, -poor thing." -</p> -<p> -The door had scarcely closed on the departing guest when Mrs. Ogden -turned to her daughter. "Is this true?" she demanded, holding out her -hands. -</p> -<p> -"Is what true?" -</p> -<p> -"About Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed Joan gruffly, "don't let's go into all -that. Elizabeth has gone away, isn't that enough? Aren't you satisfied?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes," said Mrs. Ogden, and her voice was wonderfully firm and -self-possessed. "I am quite satisfied, Joan." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -At Christmas, Milly came home, a little taller, a little thinner, but -prettier than ever. Joan was glad enough of her sister's brief visit, -for it broke the monotony of the house. -</p> -<p> -Milly was happy, self-satisfied and friendly. She seemed to look upon -the episode of Mr. Thompson as an escapade of her foolish youth; she had -become very grown-up and experienced. She had a great deal to tell of -her life in London; she shared rooms with a girl called Harriet Nelson, -a singer. Harriet was clever and fat. You had to be fat if you wanted to -be an operatic singer, and Harriet had a marvellous soprano voice. She -had taken the principal part in the College opera last year, but -unfortunately she couldn't act, she just lumbered about and sang -divinely. -</p> -<p> -Milly said that Harriet was not a bad sort, but rather irritating and -inclined to show off her French. She did speak French pretty well, -having had a French nurse before her family had lost their money. Her -father had been a manager in some big works up north, they had been -quite well off during his lifetime; Harriet was always bragging about -their big house and the fact that she used to hunt. Milly didn't believe -a word of it. Still, Harriet always seemed to have plenty to spend, even -now. Milly complained of shortness of money, one felt it when it came to -providing teas and things. -</p> -<p> -Then there was Cassy Ryan, another singer who also had a wonderful voice -and was a born actress as well. She was a great darling. Milly would -have liked to chum up with her, her diggings were just above Milly's and -Harriet's. They had high jinks up there occasionally, judging by the row -they made after hours; they had nearly been caught by "Old Scout," the -matron, one night, and had only just had time to empty the coffee down -the lavatory and jump into bed with the cakes. Milly wished that she had -been one of that party, but she didn't know Cassy very well; Harriet -did, but was rather jealous and liked keeping her friends to herself. -Cassy's father had been a butcher; Cassy said that he used to get drunk -and beat her mother; and one day he had got into a frenzy and had thrown -all the carcasses about the shop. One of them had hit Cassy and her lip -had been cut open by a piece of bone; she still had the scar of it. But -it didn't matter about Cassy's father having been a butcher; Cassy -belonged to the aristocracy of brains, that was the only thing that -really counted. -</p> -<p> -The violin students were rather a dull lot with the exception of Renée -Fabre, who was beautiful. She was Andros's favourite pupil. Milly -thought that he pushed her rather to the detriment of the others; but it -really didn't matter, because Renée would be well off hands when Milly -wished to take the field. -</p> -<p> -Andros was a great dear; he wore a pig-skin belt instead of braces, and -when he played his waistcoat hitched up and you saw the belt and buckle; -it was very attractive. He had a blue-black beard, which he combed and -brushed, and really beautiful black eyes. He was very Spanish indeed, -they said that he had cried like a baby over his first London fog, he -missed the sunshine so much. -</p> -<p> -You were allowed to go and see people, and Milly had gone once or twice -to Sunday luncheon with Harriet's family in Brondesbury. Her mother was -a brick; nothing was good enough for Harriet, special dishes were cooked -when it was known that she was bringing friends home. -</p> -<p> -Milly babbled on day after day; when she wasn't talking about her new -life she was making fun of the old one. Seabourne provided great scope -for her wit; she enjoyed walking up and down the esplanade, ridiculing -the inhabitants. -</p> -<p> -"What a queer crew, Joan, just look at them! They think they're alive, -too, and that's the funniest thing about them." -</p> -<p> -Joan tried to enter in and to appear amused and interested, but she was -very heavy of heart. And in addition to this a certain new commonness -about her sister jarred her; Milly had grown second-rate and her sense -of humour was second-rate too. Still, she was happy and, so far as Joan -knew, good, and the other thing mattered so little after all. Mr. -Thompson had left Seabourne, so there was really nothing to worry about -so far as Milly was concerned; she was launched, and if she came to -shipwreck later on it would not be Joan's fault, she had done everything -she could for Milly. -</p> -<p> -There was no mutual understanding between them; Joan felt no temptation -to take her sister into her confidence. Milly had received the news of -Elizabeth's departure much as she always took things that did not -concern her personally—listening with half an ear, while apparently -thinking of something else. She had sympathized perfunctorily: "Poor old -Joan, what a beastly shame!" But her voice had lacked conviction. After -all, it was not so bad for Joan, who had no talent in particular, it was -when you had the artistic temperament that things went deep with you. -Joan had retired into her shell at this obvious lack of interest, and -the subject was not discussed any more. -</p> -<p> -Milly seemed to take it for granted that Joan had given up all idea of -Cambridge. "All I ask," she said laughing, "is that you don't grow to -look like them." -</p> -<p> -"Like who?" Joan asked sharply, nettled by Milly's manner. -</p> -<p> -"Like the rest of the Seabourne freaks." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, don't get anxious about me; I may change my mind and go up next -year, after all." -</p> -<p> -"Not you!" said Milly with disturbing conviction. -</p> -<p> -On the whole, however, the holidays passed peaceably enough. They -avoided having rows, which was always to the good, and when at last -Milly's trunks were packed and on the fly, Joan felt regretful that her -sister was really going; Milly was rather amusing after all. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap29"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE winter dragged on into spring, a late -spring, but wonderfully rewarding when it came. Everything connected -with the earth seemed to burst out into fulfilment all in a night; there -was a feeling of exuberance and intense colour everywhere, which -reflected itself in people's spirits, making them jolly. The milkman -whistled loudly and clanked his cans for the sheer joy of making a -noise. They had a servant again at Leaside, so that Joan no longer -exchanged the time of day with him at the back door, but she stood at -the dining-room window and watched him swinging down the street, pushing -his little chariot in front of him; a red-haired and rosy man, very well -contented with life. -</p> -<p> -"He's contented and I'm miserable," she thought. "Perhaps I should be -happier if I were a milkman, and had nothing to long for because there -was nothing in me to long with." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Far away, in London, Elizabeth strode through Kensington Gardens on her -way to work; her head was a little bent, her nostrils dilated, sniffing -the air. A chorus of birds hailed her with apparent delight. She noticed -several thrushes and at least one blackbird among them. The Albert -Memorial came into sight, it glowed like flame in the sun; a pompous and -a foolish thing made beautiful. -</p> -<p> -"I suppose it's spring in Seabourne too," she was thinking, and then: "I -wonder if Joan is very unhappy." -</p> -<p> -She quickened her steps. "Go on, go on, go on!" sang the spring -insistently, and then: "Go back, go back, go back! There is something -sweeter than ambition." Elizabeth trembled but went on. -</p> -<p> -To Joan the very glory of it all was an added heart-break. Grief is -never so unendurable in suitable company, it finds quite a deal of -consolation in the sorrow of others; it feels understood and at home. -But on this spring morning in Seabourne Joan's grief found no one to -welcome it. Even the servant at Leaside was shouting hymns as she laid -the breakfast; she belonged to the Salvation Army and every now and then -would pause to clap her hands in rhythm to the jaunty tune. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"<i>My sins they were as scarlet!</i></span><br /> -<span class="i2"><i>They are now as white as snow!</i>"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -She carolled, and clapped triumphantly. Joan could hear her from her -bedroom upstairs. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden heard her too. "Ethel!" she called irritably; "not so much -noise, please." She closed her door sharply and kneeling down in front -of a newly acquired picture of The Holy Family, began to read a long -Matinal Devotion—for Mrs. Ogden was becoming religious. The presence -of spring in her room coloured her prayers, giving them an impish vitality. -She entreated God with a new note of sincerity and conviction to cast -all evil spirits into Hell and keep them there for ever and ever. She -made an elaborate private confession, striking her breast considerably -more often than the prescribed number of times. "Through my fault, -through my fault——" she murmured ecstatically. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -An amazingly High Church clergyman had been appointed to a living two -miles away, and something in the incense and candles he affected had -stirred a new emotional excitement in Mrs. Ogden. Her bedside table was -strewn with little purple and white booklets: "Steps towards Eternal -Life," "Guide to Holy Mass," "The Real Catholic Church." They found -their way downstairs at times, and got themselves mixed up with Joan's -medical literature. -</p> -<p> -There appeared to be countless services at "Holy Martyrs," all of which -began at inconvenient hours, for Mrs. Ogden was for ever having the -times of the meals altered so that she might attend. It was wonderful -how she found the strength for these excursions. Two miles there and two -back and early service every Sunday morning, for she had become a -regular Communicant now, and wet or fine went forth fasting. -</p> -<p> -Joan understood that the new "priest," as Mrs. Ogden insisted that he -should be called, was ascetic, celibate and delicate. His name was -Cuthbert Jackson, and he was known to his flock as "Father Cuthbert." -</p> -<p> -It was not at all unusual for Mrs. Ogden to feel faint on her return -from Mass—the congregation called it Mass to annoy the -bishop—and once she had actually fainted in the church. Joan had -been with her on that occasion and had helped to carry her mother into -the vestry; it had been very embarrassing. When, after a severe -application of smelling salts, Mrs. Ogden had opened her eyes, there had -been much sympathy expressed, and she had insisted on leaving the church -via the nave, clinging to her daughter's arm. -</p> -<p> -She remonstrated with her mother about these early services, but to no -effect. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Joan! If only you could find Him too!" -</p> -<p> -"Who?" Joan inquired flippantly; "Father Cuthbert?" -</p> -<p> -"No, my darling. I didn't mean Father Cuthbert—but then you don't -understand!" -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent, she felt that she was getting hard. It worried her at -times, but something in the smug contentment of her mother's new-found -faith irritated her beyond endurance. Mrs. Ogden had become so familiar -with the Almighty; so soppily sentimental over her Redeemer. Joan could -not feel Christianity like this or recognize Christ in this guise. She -suspected that Mrs. Ogden put Him only a very little above Father -Cuthbert: Father Cuthbert to whom she went every few days to confess the -sins that she might have committed but had not. Joan had formed her own -picture of Christ, and in it He did not appear as the Redeemer -especially reserved for elderly women and anæmic parsons, but as a -Being immensely vast and fierce and tender. Hers was a militant, -intellectual Christ; the Leader of great armies, the Ruler over the -nations of the earth, the Companion of wise men and kings, the Friend of -little children and simple people. She felt ashamed and indignant for -Him whenever her mother touched on religion, she was so terrifyingly -patronizing. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden had quickly become the slave of small, pious practices. She -went so far as to keep a notebook lest she should forget any of them. -They affected the household adversely, they made a lot more work for -other people to do. No meat was permitted on Fridays; in fact, they had -very little to eat of any kind. It was all absurd and tiresome and -pathetic, and obviously bad for the health. The only result of it, so -far as Joan could see, was that Mrs. Ogden evinced even less interest -than before in domestic concerns, only descending from her vantage -ground to find fault. She seemed to be living in another world, while -still keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. -</p> -<p> -She found an excellent new grievance in the fact that Joan resisted all -efforts to make her attend church regularly; there was no longer -Elizabeth to worry about, so she worried about Joan's soul. Joan was -patiently stubborn, she refused to confess to Father Cuthbert or to -interest herself in any way in his numerous activities. He came to tea -at Mrs. Ogden's request and tried his best, poor man, to wear down what -he felt to be Joan's prejudice against him. But he was melodramatic -looking and doubtfully clean, and wore a large amethyst cross on his -emaciated stomach, and Joan remained unimpressed. -</p> -<p> -"If you want to be a Catholic," she told her mother afterwards, "why not -be a real one and be done with it." -</p> -<p> -"I am a real one," said Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"Oh no, Mother, you're not, you're only pretending to be. You take the -plums out of other people's religion and disregard the rest. I think -it's rather mean." -</p> -<p> -"If you mean the Pope!——" began Mrs. Ogden indignantly. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I mean the whole thing; anyhow, it wouldn't suit me." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was offended. "I must ask you not to speak disrespectfully of -my religion," she said. "I don't like it." -</p> -<p> -"Then don't keep on pushing it down my throat." -</p> -<p> -They started bickering again. Bickering, always bickering; Joan knew -that it was intolerable, undignified, that she ought to control herself, -but the power of self-control was weakening in her. She was sorry for -her mother, for the past that was so largely responsible for Mrs. -Ogden's present, but the fact that she felt sorry only irritated her the -more. She told herself that if this new religious zeal had been -productive of peace she could have been tolerant, but it was not; on the -contrary the domestic chaos grew. If Mrs. Ogden had tried her servants -before, she did so now ten times more; she nagged with new-found -spiritual vigour; it was becoming increasingly difficult to please her. -</p> -<p> -"It's them meal times, miss," blubbered the latest acquisition to Joan, -one morning. "It's the chopping and the changing that's so wearying; I -can't stand it, no I can't, I feel quite worn out." -</p> -<p> -"Don't say you want to leave, Ethel?" Joan implored with a note of -despair in her voice. -</p> -<p> -"But I do! She's never satisfied, miss; she's at me all the time." -</p> -<p> -"She's at me, too," thought Joan, "and yet I don't seem able to give a -month's notice." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -It was summer again. How monotonously the seasons came round; it was -always spring, summer, autumn, or winter; it could never be anything -else, that made a year. How many years made a lifetime? -</p> -<p> -Joan began playing tennis again; one always played tennis every summer -at Seabourne, but now she disliked the game. Since Milly's affair with -Mr. Thompson the tennis club and its members had become intolerable to -her. The members found her dull and probably disliked her; she was so -sure of this that she grew self-conscious and abashed in their midst. -She wondered sometimes if that was why she found fault with them, -because they made her feel shy. She had never made friends, she had been -too much wrapped up in Elizabeth. No one was interested in her, no one -wanted her. Richard wrote angry letters; she never answered them, but he -went on writing just the same. He seemed to take a pleasure in bullying -her. -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"I shan't come home this summer," he wrote. "I can't see you withering -on your stalk. You can marry me if you like; why not, since nothing -better offers? But what's the good of talking to you? It's hopeless! I -don't know why I waste time in writing; I suppose it's because I'm in -love with you. You've disappointed me horribly; I could have stood aside -for your work, but you don't want to work, and you make your duty to -your mother the excuse. Oh, Joan! I did think you were made of better -stuff. I thought you were a real person and not just a bit of flabby -toast like the rest of the things at Seabourne." -</p></blockquote> -<p> -She had said that she cared less than nothing for his approval or -disapproval, but she found she did care after all; not because she loved -Richard, but because it was being brought home to her that she, like the -rest of mankind, needed approbation. No one approved of her, not even -the mother for whose sake she was sacrificing herself. Self-sacrifice -was unpopular, it seemed, or was it in some way her own fault? She must -be different from other people, a kind of unprepossessing freak. She sat -brooding over this at the school-room table, with Richard's last epistle -crushed in her hand. Her eyes were bent unseeing on the ink-stained -mahogany, but something, perhaps it was a faint sound, made her look up. -Elizabeth was standing in the doorway gazing at her. -</p> -<p> -Joan sprang forward with a cry. -</p> -<p> -"Hallo, Joan," said Elizabeth calmly, and sat down in the arm-chair. -</p> -<p> -Joan's voice failed her. She stood and stared, afraid to believe her -eyes. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth waited; then: "Well?" she queried. -</p> -<p> -Joan found her voice. "You've come back for the holidays? Thank you for -coming to see me." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth said: "There's no need to thank me; I came because I wanted -to; don't be ridiculous, Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"But I thought—I understood that you'd had enough of me. I thought my -failing you had made you hate me." -</p> -<p> -"No, I don't hate you, or I shouldn't be here." -</p> -<p> -"Then I don't understand," said Joan desperately. "Oh! I <i>don't</i> -understand!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth said: "No, I know you don't. I don't understand myself, but -here I am." -</p> -<p> -They were silent for a while, eyeing each other like duellists waiting -for an opening. Elizabeth leant back in the rickety chair, her -enigmatical eyes on the girl's agitated face. She was smiling a little. -</p> -<p> -"What have you come for?" said Joan, flushing with sudden anger. "If you -don't mean to stay, why have you come back to Seabourne? Perhaps you've -come to jeer at me. Even Richard hasn't done that!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth stretched her long legs and made as if to stifle a yawn. "I've -given up my job," she said. -</p> -<p> -"You've given up your job in London?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes." -</p> -<p> -"But why?" -</p> -<p> -"Because of you." -</p> -<p> -"Because of me? You've thrown over your post because of me?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes; it's queer, isn't it? But I've come back to wait with you a little -while longer." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap30"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T was extraordinary how Elizabeth's return -changed the complexion of things for Joan; strange that one human being, -not really beautiful, only a little more than average clever and no -longer very young, could, by her mere presence, make others seem so much -less trying. -</p> -<p> -Now that she had Elizabeth again the people at the tennis club, for -instance, were miraculously changed. She began to think that she had -misjudged them; after all, they were very good sorts and kindly enough, -nor did they really seem to be bored with her; she must have imagined -it. She found herself more tolerant towards Mrs. Ogden's religiosity. -Why shouldn't her mother enjoy herself in her own way! Surely everyone -must find their rare pleasures how and where they could. And, oh! the -joy of using her brain again! The exhilaration of renewed mental effort, -of pitting her mind against Elizabeth's. -</p> -<p> -"We must work a bit to keep you from getting rusty, Joan, but I can't do -much more for you now; you're getting beyond me, and Cambridge must do -the rest," Elizabeth said. -</p> -<p> -Ralph was pleased at his sister's return and welcomed Joan cordially as -the chief cause thereof. The atmosphere at his house had become restful, -because now it contained three happy people. Joan had never known -anything quite like this before; she wondered whether the dead felt as -she did when they met those they loved on the other side of the grave. -A deep sense of peace enveloped her; Elizabeth felt it too, and they sat -very often with clasped hands without speaking, for now their silence -drew them closer together than words would have done. -</p> -<p> -As if by mutual consent they avoided discussing the future. At this time -they thought of neither past nor future, but only of their present. And -they no longer worked very hard; what was the use? Joan was ready, and, -as Elizabeth had said, it was now only a matter of not letting her get -rusty, so they slackened the gallop to a walk and began to look about -them. -</p> -<p> -They ransacked Seabourne and the neighbouring towns for diversion, -visiting such theatres as there were, making excursions to places of -interest that they had lived close to for years yet never seen. They -discovered the joys of sailing, setting out of mornings before it was -quite light, becoming acquainted together for the first time with the -mystery and wonder that is Nature while she still smells drowsy and -sweet after sleep. -</p> -<p> -And they walked. They would go off now for a whole day, lunching -wherever they happened to find themselves. Sometimes it would be at a -little inn by the roadside and sometimes on the summit of a hill, or in -woods, eating biscuits they had stuffed into their pockets before -starting. -</p> -<p> -When Milly came home for her holidays she did not seem surprised to find -Elizabeth back in Seabourne. They were relieved at this, for they had -both been secretly dreading her questions, which, however, did not come. -Milly was not wanted, but they found room for her in their days, -nevertheless; she joined them whenever their programme seemed amusing, -and because they themselves were so happy they made her welcome. -</p> -<p> -At this time Elizabeth did her best to placate Mrs. Ogden; she did it -entirely for Joan's sake, and although her efforts were rebuffed with -coldness, she knew that Joan was the happier for them. Mrs. Ogden was -aggrieved and rude; she could not find it in her, poor soul, to -compromise over Joan. If she had only met Elizabeth half way, had made -even a slight effort to accept things as they were, she would almost -certainly have won from her daughter a lifelong gratitude. But she let -the moment slip, and so for the time being she found herself ignored. -</p> -<p> -Contentment agreed with Joan; she grew handsomer that summer, and people -noticed it. Now they would turn sometimes and look after the Ogden girls -when they passed them in the street, struck by the curious contrast they -made. Joan was burnt to the colour of a gipsy; her constant excursions -in the open air had brightened her eyes and reddened her lips and given -her slim body a supple strength which showed in all her movements. -Milly's beauty was a little marred by an ever-present suggestion of -delicacy. Her skin was too pink and white for perfect health, and of -late dark shadows had appeared under her eyes. However, she seemed in -excellent spirits, and never complained, in spite of the fact that she -coughed a good deal. -</p> -<p> -"It's the dry weather," she explained. "The dust irritates my throat." -</p> -<p> -Her shoulders had taken a slight stoop from the long hours of practice, -which contracted her chest, but her playing had improved enormously; she -was beginning to acquire real finish and style. -</p> -<p> -"I shall be earning soon!" she announced triumphantly. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth could not resist looking at Joan, but she held her tongue and -the dangerous moment passed. -</p> -<p> -Joan began to find it in her to bless Father Cuthbert and Holy Martyrs, -for between them they took up a good deal of Mrs. Ogden's time. To be -sure, her eyes were red with secret weeping, and she lost even that -remnant of appetite that her religious scruples permitted her; but Joan -was happy and selfish to the verge of recklessness. She was like a man -reprieved when the noose is already round his throat; for the moment -nothing mattered except just being alive. She felt balanced and calm, -with the power to see through and beyond the frets and rubs of this -everyday life, from which she herself had somehow become exempt. -</p> -<p> -She and Elizabeth went to tea with Admiral Bourne. It was like the old -days, out there in the garden, under the big tree. The admiral eyed them -kindly. "Capital, capital!" was all he said. After tea they asked to see -the mice, because they knew that it would give him pleasure, and he -responded with alacrity, leading the way to the mousery. But although -they had gone there to please Admiral Bourne, they stayed on to please -themselves; playing with the tame, soft creatures, feeling a sense of -contentment as they watched their swift, symmetrical movements and their -round bright eyes. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -They walked home arm in arm through the twilight. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "Our life seems new, somehow, Elizabeth, and yet it isn't -new. Perhaps it's because you went away. We aren't doing anything very -different, only working rather less; but it all seems so new; I feel new -myself." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth pressed her arm very slightly. "It's as old as the hills," she -said. -</p> -<p> -"What is?" asked Joan. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing—everything. Did you change those library books?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes. But listen to me, Elizabeth. I <i>will</i> tell you how your going -away and coming back has changed things. I'm changed; I feel softer and -harder, more sympathetic and less so. I feel—oh, how shall I put -it? I feel like a tiny speck of God that can't help seeing all round and -through everything. I seem to know the reason for things, somewhere -inside of me, only it won't get right into my brain. I don't think I -love Mother any less than I did, and I don't think I really hate -Seabourne any less; but I can't worry about her or it, and that's where -I've changed. I've got a feeling that Mother had to be and Seabourne had -to be and that you and I had to be, too; that it's all just a necessary -part of the whole. And after all, Elizabeth, if you hadn't gone away and -I hadn't been frightfully unhappy there wouldn't have been your coming -back and my happiness over that. I think it was worth the unhappiness." -</p> -<p> -They stood still, staring at the sunset. A sweet, damp smell was coming -up from the ground; there had been a little shower. The sea lay very -quiet and vast, flecked here and there with afterglow. Down below them -the lights of Seabourne sprang into being, one by one; they looked small -and unnaturally bright. The ugly homes from which they shone were -mercifully hidden in the dusk. Only their lights appeared, elusive, -beckoning, never quite still. Around them little hidden specks of life -were making indefinable noises; a blur of rustlings, chirpings, -buzzings. They were very busy, these hidden people, with their secret -activities. Presently it would be night; already the moon was showing -palely opposite the sunset. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth turned her gaze away from the sky and looked at Joan. The girl -was standing upright with her head a little back. She had taken off her -hat, and the queer light fell slantwise across her broad forehead, and -dipped into her wide open eyes that held in their depths a look of fear. -Her lips were parted as if to speak, but no words came. She stretched -out a hand, without looking at Elizabeth, as though groping for -protection. Elizabeth took the hand and held it firmly in her own. -</p> -<p> -"Are you frightened, Joan?" she asked softly. -</p> -<p> -"A little; how did you know?" -</p> -<p> -"Your eyes looked scared. Why are you frightened? I thought you were so -confident just now." -</p> -<p> -"I don't know, but it's all so strange, somehow. I think it's the -newness I told you about that frightens me, now I come to think of it. -You seem new. Do you feel new, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth dropped the hand and turned away. -</p> -<p> -"Not particularly," she said; "I'm getting rather old for that sort of -thing; if I let myself feel new I might forget how old I'm getting. No, -I don't think I'd better feel too new, or you might get more frightened -still; you told me you were frightened of me once, do you remember?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, rot! I could never be frightened of you, Elizabeth; you're just a -bit of me." -</p> -<p> -"Am I? Well, come on or we'll be late, and I think I'm catching cold." -</p> -<p> -"Let's walk arm and arm again," Joan pleaded, like a schoolgirl begging -a favour, and Elizabeth acquiesced with a short laugh. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Milly was obviously not well; she coughed perpetually, and Joan sent for -the doctor. He came and sounded her chest and lungs, but found no -alarming symptoms. Mrs. Ogden protested fretfully that Joan was always -over-fussy when there was nothing to fuss about, and quite unusually -indifferent when there was real cause for anxiety. She either could not -or would not see that her younger daughter looked other than robust. -</p> -<p> -Joan had a long talk with her sister about the life at the College. They -were pretty well fed, it seemed, but of course no luxuries. Oh, yes, -Milly usually went to bed early; she felt too dead tired to want to sit -up late. She practised a good many hours a day, whenever she could, in -fact; but then that was what she was there for, and she loved that part -of it. Couldn't she slack a bit? Good Lord, no! Rather not; she wanted -to make some money, and that as soon as possible; you didn't get on by -scamping your practising. Joan mustn't fuss, it bored Milly to have her -fussing like an old hen. The cough was nothing at all, the doctor had -said so. How long had it been going on? Oh, about two months, perhaps a -little longer; but, good Lord! it was just a cough! She did wish Joan -would shut up. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was anxious too; she felt an inexplicable apprehension about -this cough of Milly's. She was glad when the holidays came to an end and -Milly and her cough had removed themselves to London. -</p> -<p> -With her sister's departure, Joan seemed to forget her anxiety. She had -fallen into a strangely elated frame of mind and threw off troubles as -though they were thistledown. -</p> -<p> -"Mother seems very busy with her religion," she remarked one day. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth agreed. -</p> -<p> -They fell silent, and then: "Perhaps we can go soon now, Elizabeth; I -was thinking that perhaps after Christmas——" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth bit her lip. Something in her wanted to cry out in triumph, -but she choked it down. -</p> -<p> -"The flat's let until March," she said quietly. -</p> -<p> -"Well then, March. Oh! Elizabeth, think of it!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth said: "I never think of anything else—I thought you knew -that." -</p> -<p> -"But you seem so dull about it, aren't you pleased?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, but I'm afraid!" -</p> -<p> -"Of what?" -</p> -<p> -"Of something happening to prevent it. Don't let's make plans too long -ahead." -</p> -<p> -Joan flushed. "You don't trust me any more," she said, and her voice -sounded as though she wanted to cry. -</p> -<p> -"Trust you? Of course I trust you. Joan, I don't think you know how I -feel about all this; it's too much, almost. I feel—oh, well, I can't -explain, only it's desperately serious to me." -</p> -<p> -"And what do you think it is to me?" demanded Joan passionately. "It's -more than serious to me!" -</p> -<p> -"Joan, you've known me for years now. I was your teacher when you were -quite little. I used to think you looked like a young colt then, I -remember—never mind that—only you've known me too long -really to know me; that can happen I think. I often wish I could get -inside you and know just how I look to you, what sort of woman I am as -you see me, because I don't believe it's the real me. I believe you see -your old teacher, and later on your very good and devoted friend. Well, -that's all right so far as it goes; that's part of me, but only a part. -There's another big bit that's quite different; you saw the edge of it -when I left you to go to London. It's not neat and calm and -self-possessed at all, and above all it's outrageously discontented and -adventurous; it longs for all sorts of things and hates being crossed. -This part of me loves life, real life, and beautiful things and -brilliant, careless people. It feels young, absurdly so for its age, and -it demands the pleasures of youth, cries out for them. I think it cries -out all the more because it's been so long denied. This me could be -reckless of consequences, greedy of happiness and jealous of -competition. It is jealous already of you, Joan, of any interests that -seem to take your attention off me, of any affection that might rob me -of even a hair's-breadth of you. It wants to keep you all to itself, to -have all your love and gratitude, all that makes you; and it wouldn't be -contented with less. Well, my dear, this side of me and the side that -you know are one and indivisible, they're the two halves of the whole -that is Elizabeth Rodney; what do you think of her? Aren't you a little -afraid after this revelation?" -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed quietly. "No," she said, "I'm not a bit afraid. Because, -you see, I think I've known the real Elizabeth for a long time now." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap31"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE tiny study at Alexandra House was -bright with flowers, although it was November. The flowers had been the -gift of one of Harriet Nelson's youthful admirers, Rosie Wilmot, an art -student. The room was littered with a mass of futilities, including torn -music and innumerable signed photographs. The guilty smell of cigarette -smoke hung on the air, although the window had been opened. -</p> -<p> -Harriet, plump and pretty, with her red hair and blue eyes, lolled -ungracefully in the wicker arm-chair; her thick ankles stretched out in -front of her. On a low stool, sufficiently near these same ankles to -express humbleness of spirit, crouched Rosie Wilmot. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Chérie</i>," Harriet was saying with an exaggerated Parisian accent, -"you are a naughty child to spend your money on flowers for me!" -</p> -<p> -"But, darling, you know how I loved buying them!" -</p> -<p> -Rosie's sallow cheeks flushed at her own daring. Her long brown neck -rose up from a band of Liberty embroidery, like the stem of a carefully -coloured meerschaum. She rubbed her forehead nervously with a -paint-stained hand, fixing her irritatingly intense eyes the while on -Harriet's placid face. -</p> -<p> -Harriet stretched out an indolent hand. "There, there," she said -soothingly, "I'm very pleased indeed with the flowers; come and be -kissed." -</p> -<p> -Milly raised scoffing eyes to the ceiling. She made her mouth into a -round O, and proceeded to blow smoke rings. -</p> -<p> -"Let me know when it's all over," she said derisively, "and then we'll -boil the kettle." -</p> -<p> -"You can boil it now," said Harriet, waving Rosie back to her -foot-stool. -</p> -<p> -They proceeded to make tea and toast bread in front of the fire. Milly -fetched some rather weary butter and a pot of "Gentleman's Relish" from -the bedroom, and Rosie produced her contribution in the shape of a bag -of Harriet's favourite cream puffs. She had gone without lunch for two -days in order to afford this offering, but as Harriet's strong teeth bit -into the billowy cream which oozed out over her chin, Rosie's heart -swelled with pleasure; she had her reward. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Méchante enfant</i>!" exclaimed Harriet, shaking her finger, "you -mustn't spend your money like this!" -</p> -<p> -At that moment the door opened and Joan and Elizabeth walked into the -room. -</p> -<p> -"Good Lord, <i>you</i>!" exclaimed Milly in amazement. -</p> -<p> -They laughed and came forward, waiting to be introduced. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes; Harriet, this is my sister Joan, and this is Miss Rodney." -</p> -<p> -Harriet nodded casually. -</p> -<p> -"This is Rosie Wilmot, Joan; Rosie, Miss Rodney." -</p> -<p> -Rosie shook hands with a close, intense grip. Her eyes interrogated the -new-comers as though they alone held the answer to the riddle of her -Universe. Milly dragged up the only remaining chair for Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -"You can squat on the floor, Joan," she said, throwing her sister a -cushion. "That's right. And now, what on earth are you doing here?" -</p> -<p> -It was Elizabeth who answered. "We've come up for a fortnight. We're -staying with the woman who has my flat." -</p> -<p> -"But why? Has anything happened?" -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not. We just thought it would be rather fun." -</p> -<p> -Milly whistled softly; however, she refrained from further comment. -</p> -<p> -Harriet was examining Joan. Joan fidgeted; this self-possessed young -woman made her feel at a disadvantage. -</p> -<p> -"You're musical too?" inquired the singer, still staring. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, not a bit; I don't know one note from another." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Tiens</i>! Then what <i>do</i> you do?" -</p> -<p> -Joan hesitated. "At the present moment, nothing." -</p> -<p> -Harriet turned to Elizabeth. "And you?" she inquired. "I feel sure you -must do something; you look it." -</p> -<p> -"I? Oh, I teach Joan." -</p> -<p> -Milly fidgeted with the tea things; the unexpected arrivals necessitated -more hot water. Her sister's sudden appearance with Elizabeth made her -vaguely uneasy. How on earth had these two managed to escape, and what -did this escape portend? Would it, could it possibly affect her in any -way? And they seemed so calm about it; Joan apparently took it as a -matter of course that she should come up to London for a fortnight's -spree. Milly felt incapable of boiling the kettle again; she poured out -some tepid tea and handed it to her sister. -</p> -<p> -"Is Mother all alone?" she inquired. -</p> -<p> -Joan smiled at the implied reproach. "No, we've got a very good maid at -the moment, though goodness only knows how long she'll stay." -</p> -<p> -Milly was silent; what could she say? Joan's manner was utterly -unconcerned, and in any case, why shouldn't she come up to London for a -bit; everyone else did. She felt a little ashamed of herself; hadn't she -always been the one to rage against the injustice of their existence, to -encourage insubordination? And she owed her own freedom entirely to -Joan; Joan had stuck by her like a brick. -</p> -<p> -"I'm jolly glad you've come," she said, squeezing her sister's hand. -"Jolly glad!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Through the open window drifted the sound of innumerable pianos, string -instruments and singing; a queer, discordant blur that crystallized -every now and then into stray cadences, shrill arpeggios, or snatches of -operatic airs. The distorted melody of some familiar ballad would now -and then be wafted through the misty atmosphere from the adjacent -College. "My dearest heart," sang a loud young voice, only to be -submerged again under the wave of other sounds that constantly ebbed and -flowed. This queer, almost painful inharmony struck Joan as symbolic. It -awed her, as the immense machinery of some steel works she had once seen -as a child had awed her. Then, she had been frightened to tears as the -great wheels spun and ground, whirring their straining belts. And now as -she listened to this other sound she was somehow reminded of her -childish terror, of the pistons and valves and wheels and belts that had -throbbed and ground and strained. Here was no steel and iron, it is -true, but here was a vast machine none the less. Only its parts were -composed of flesh and blood, of striving, living human beings, and the -sound they produced was such pitiable discord! -</p> -<p> -Her thoughts were broken into by the consciousness that eyes were upon -her; she turned to meet Harriet Nelson's stare. -</p> -<p> -Harriet smiled and tapped Rosie's shoulder. "Go and find me a -handkerchief, in my drawer," she ordered. -</p> -<p> -The girl went with alacrity, and Joan was motioned to the vacant -footstool. -</p> -<p> -She protested: "Oh, but surely this is Miss Wilmot's place." -</p> -<p> -"Never mind that, sit down; I want to talk to you." Joan obeyed -unwillingly. -</p> -<p> -"Now tell me about your life. Milly mentions you so seldom, I had no -idea she had such an interesting sister; tell me all about yourself; you -live with your friend Miss—Miss—Rodney, is that her name? Is -she nice? She looks terribly severe." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, I don't live with Miss Rodney; I live with my mother at -Seabourne." -</p> -<p> -"You live there all the year round? <i>Quelle horreur</i>! Why don't you -come to London?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, you see——" began Joan uncomfortably. But at this -stage they were interrupted. For some moments Rosie had been standing -motionless in the doorway, the clean handkerchief crushed in her hand. -Her smouldering eyes had taken in the situation at a glance, and it -seemed to her catastrophic. She stood now, paling and flushing by turns, -biting her under-lip. Her thin neck was extended and shot forward; the -attitude suggested an eagle about to attack. Harriet saw her there well -enough, but appeared to notice nothing unusual and continued to talk to -Joan. In fact her voice grew slightly louder and more intimate in tone. -Rosie drew a quick breath; it was noisy and Harriet looked up -impatiently; then her eyes fell to the crushed handkerchief. -</p> -<p> -"Give it to me, do!" she exclaimed. -</p> -<p> -Rosie took a step forward as if to obey, but instead she raised her arm -and hurled the crumpled linen ball straight at Harriet, then snatching -up her coat she fled from the room. Joan jumped up, Elizabeth looked -embarrassed and Milly laughed loudly; but Harriet only shrugged her -plump shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"<i>Nom d'un nom</i>!" she murmured softly. "Poor Rosie grows -insupportable!" -</p> -<p> -The situation was somewhat relieved by a knock on the door. "Can I come -in?" inquired a pleasant, deep voice. -</p> -<p> -Cassy Ryan looked from one to another of the group gathered near the -tea-table. Her soft brown eyes and over-red lips suggested her Jewish -origin. She was a tall girl and as yet only graciously ample. -</p> -<p> -She turned to Milly. "I've only come for a moment; I want you to try the -violin obbligato over with me to-morrow, Milly; I'm not sure of that -difficult passage." -</p> -<p> -She hummed the passage softly in her splendid contralto voice. "It won't -take you long; you don't mind, do you?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather not!" said Milly, introducing her to Joan and Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -Cassy turned to Harriet. "What's the matter with Rosie?" she inquired. -"I met her on the stairs just now looking as mad as a hatter." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, she's only in one of her tantrums; she's furious with me at the -moment." -</p> -<p> -Cassy shook her head. "Poor kid, she's half daft at times, I think. You -oughtn't to tease her, Harriet." -</p> -<p> -"<i>Bon Dieu</i>!" exclaimed Harriet, flushing with temper. "I shall forbid -her to come here at all if she goes on making these scenes." She pressed -a hand to her throat. "It makes my throat ache; I don't believe I've a -<i>soupçon</i> of voice left." -</p> -<p> -She stood up and deliberately tried an ascending scale, while the rest -sat silent. Up and up soared the pure, sexless voice, the voice of an -undreamt-of choir-boy or an angel; and then, just as the last height was -reached, it hazed, it faltered, it failed to attain. -</p> -<p> -"There you are!" screamed Harriet, forgetting in her agitation how -perfectly she could speak French. "What did I tell you? I knew it! -That's Rosie's fault, damn her! Damn her! She's probably upset my voice -for days to come, and I've got that rehearsal with Stanford to-morrow; -my God, it's too awful!" -</p> -<p> -She paused to try her voice once more, but with the same result. -"Where's my inhaler?" she demanded of the room in general. -</p> -<p> -Milly winked at Cassy as she went into Harriet's bedroom. "Here it is, -on your washstand," she called. -</p> -<p> -Harriet began feverishly to boil up the kettle; she appeared to have -completely forgotten Joan and Elizabeth; she spoke in whispers now, -addressing all her stifled remarks to Cassy. Milly brought in the -inhaler and a bottle of drops; they filled it from the kettle and -proceeded to count out the tincture. Harriet sat down heavily with her -knees apart; she gripped the ridiculous china bottle in both hands and, -applying her lips to the fat glass mouthpiece, proceeded to evoke a -series of bubbling, gurgling noises. -</p> -<p> -Milly drew her sister aside. "You two had better go," she whispered. -"Don't try to say good-bye to her; she's in one of her panics, she won't -notice your going." -</p> -<p> -Cassy smiled across at Elizabeth with a finger on her lips; her eyes -were full of amusement as she glanced in the direction of her friend. -Years afterwards when the names of Cassy Ryan and Harriet Nelson had -become famous, when these two old friends and fellow students would be -billed together on the huge sheets advertising oratorio or opera, Joan, -seeing an announcement of the performance in the papers, would have a -sudden vision of that little crowded sitting-room, with Harriet hunched -fatly in the wicker arm-chair, the rotund inhaler clasped to her bosom. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap32"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE transition from Seabourne to London had -been accomplished so quietly and easily that the first morning Joan woke -up on the divan in the sitting-room of Elizabeth's flat she could hardly -believe that she was there. She thumped the mattress to reassure -herself, and then looked round the study which, by its very strangeness, -testified to the glorious truth. -</p> -<p> -The idea had originated with Elizabeth. "Let's run up to London for a -fortnight," she had said, and Joan had acquiesced as though such a thing -were an everyday occurrence. And, strangest of all, Mrs. Ogden had taken -it resignedly. Perhaps there had been a certain new quality in Joan's -voice when she had announced her intention. Perhaps somewhere at the -back of her mind Mrs. Ogden was beginning to realize that her daughter -was now of an age when maternal commands could be disregarded. Be that -as it may, she consented to Joan's cashing a tiny cheque, and beyond -engineering a severe migraine on the morning of their departure, offered -no greater obstacle to the jaunt than an injured expression and a rather -faint voice. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth had arranged it all. She had persuaded her tenant to take them -in as "paying guests," and had overcome Joan's pride with regard to -finances. "You can pay me back in time," she had remarked, and Joan had -given in. -</p> -<p> -The little flat was all that Elizabeth had said, and more. Miss Lesway -had put in a small quantity of furniture to tide her over; she was only -there until March, when she would move into a flat of her own. But the -things that she had brought with her were good, quiet and unobtrusive -relics of a bygone country house; they suggested a grandfather, even a -great-grandfather for that matter. From the windows of the flat you saw -the romantic chimney-pots and roofs that Elizabeth loved, and to your -right the topmost branches of the larger trees of the Bloomsbury square. -Yes, it was all there and adorable. Miss Lesway had welcomed them as old -friends. Tea had been ready on their arrival and flowers on Elizabeth's -dressing-table. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Beatrice Lesway was a Cambridge woman. She was a pleasant, somewhat -squat, practical creature; contented enough, it seemed, with her lot, -which was that of a teacher in a High School. Her father had been a -hunting Devonshire squire, a rough-and-tumble sort of man having more in -common with his beasts than with his family. A kindly man but a mighty -spendthrift, a paralysing kind of spendthrift; one who, having no vices -on which you could lay your hand, was well-nigh impossible to check. But -that was a long time ago, and beyond the dignified Sheraton bookcase and -a few similar reminders of the past, Miss Lesway allowed her origin to -go unnoticed. Her eyes were so observant and her sense of humour so -keen, that she managed to extract a good deal of fun from her drab -existence. The pupils interested her; their foibles, their follies, -their rather splendid qualities and their less admirable meannesses. She -attributed these latter to their up-bringing, blaming home environment -for most of the more serious faults in her girls. She liked talking -about her work, and had an old-fashioned trick of dropping her "g's" -when speaking emphatically, especially when referring to sport. Possibly -Squire Lesway had said: "Huntin', racin', fishin', shootin';" in any -case his daughter did so very markedly on those rare occasions when she -gave rein to her inherited instincts. -</p> -<p> -"Some of the girls would be all the better for a good day's huntin' on -Exmoor, gettin' wet to the skin and havin' their arms tugged out by a -half-mouthed Devonshire cob; that's the stuff to make men of 'em, that's -the life that knocks the affectation and side out of young females." -</p> -<p> -Once she said quite seriously: "The trouble is I can't give that girl a -sound lickin'; I told her mother it was the only way to cure a liar; but -of course she's a liar herself, so she didn't agree with me." -</p> -<p> -She liked Elizabeth, hence her acceptance of this invasion, and she -liked Joan too, after she got used to her, though she looked askance at -her hair. -</p> -<p> -"No good dotting the 'i's,' my dear," had been her comment. -</p> -<p> -Miss Lesway herself wore Liberty serges of a most unpleasing green, and -a string of turgid beads which clinked unhappily on her flat bosom. Her -sandy hair was chronically untidy, and what holding together it -submitted to was done by celluloid pins that more or less matched her -dresses. Her hands and wrists were small and elegant, but although she -manicured her shapely nails with immense care, and would soak them in -the soap dish while she talked to friends in the evenings, she disdained -all stain or polish. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a -heavy signet ring that had once belonged to her father. Her feet matched -her hands in slimness and breeding, but these she ignored, dooming them -perpetually to woollen stockings and wide square-toed shoes, heelless at -that. -</p> -<p> -"Can't afford pneumonia," she had said once when remonstrated with. -</p> -<p> -The thick-soled, flat shoes permitted full play to the clumping stride -which was her natural walk. Her whole appearance left you bewildered; it -was a mixed metaphor, a contradiction in style, certainly a little -grotesque, and yet you did not laugh. -</p> -<p> -It was impossible to know what Beatrice Lesway thought of herself, much -less to discover what cravings, if any, tore her unfeminine bosom. She -managed to give the impression of great frankness, while rarely -betraying her private emotions. At times she spoke and acted very much -like a man, but at others became the quintessence of old maidishness. If -she did not long for the privileges denied to her sex she took them none -the less; you gathered that she thought these privileges should be hers -by right of some hidden virtue in her own make-up, but that her opinion -of women as a whole was low. The feminist movement was going through a -period of rest, having temporarily subsided since the days, not so very -long ago, when Lady Loo had donned her knickerbockers. But the lull was -only the forerunner of a storm which was to break with great violence -less than twenty years later. Even now there were debates, discussions, -threats, but at these Miss Lesway laughed rudely. -</p> -<p> -"Bless their little hearts," she chuckled, "they must learn to stop -squabbling about their frocks before they sit in Parliament." -</p> -<p> -"But surely," Elizabeth protested, putting down the evening paper, "a -woman's brain is as good as a man's? I cannot see why women should be -debarred from a degree, or why they should get lower salaries when they -work for the same hours, and I don't see why they should be expected to -do nothing more intellectual than darn socks and have babies." -</p> -<p> -Miss Lesway made a sound of impatience. "And who's to do it if they -don't, pray?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was silent, and Joan, who had not joined in this discussion, -was suddenly impressed with what she felt might be the truth about Miss -Lesway. Miss Lesway had the brain of a masterful man and the soul of a -mother. Probably that untidy, art-serged body of hers was a perpetual -battle-ground; no wonder it looked so dishevelled, trampled under as it -must be by these two violent rival forces. -</p> -<p> -"Well, I shall never marry!" Joan announced suddenly. -</p> -<p> -Miss Lesway looked at her. Joan had expected an outburst, or at least a -severe reproof, but, instead, the eyes that met hers were tired, -compassionate and almost tender. -</p> -<p> -Miss Lesway said: "No, I don't think you ever will. God help you!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Everything was new and interesting and altogether delightful to Joan and -Elizabeth during this visit. They played with the zest of truant -schoolboys. No weather, however diabolical, could daunt them; they put -on their mackintoshes and sallied forth in rain, sleet and mud. They got -lost in a fog and found themselves in Kensington instead of Bloomsbury. -They struggled furiously for overcrowded buses, or filled their lungs -with sulphur in the Underground. They stood for hours at the pit doors -of theatres, and walked in the British Museum until their feet ached. -Joan developed a love of pictures, which she found she shared with -Elizabeth, and the mornings that they spent in the galleries were some -of their happiest. To Joan, beauty as portrayed by fine art came as a -heavenly revelation; she knew for the first time the thrill of looking -at someone else's inspired thoughts. -</p> -<p> -"After all, everything is just thought," she said wisely. "They think, -and then they clothe what they've thought in something; this happens to -be paint and canvas, but it's all the same thing; thought must be -clothed in something so that we can see it." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth watched her delightedly. She told herself that it was like -putting a geranium cutting in the window; at first it was just all -green, then came the little coloured buds and then the bloom. She felt -that Joan was growing more in this fortnight than she had done in all -her years at Seabourne; growing, expanding, coming nearer to her -kingdom, day by day. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -The fortnight passed all too quickly; it was going and then it was gone. -They sat side by side in an empty third-class compartment, rushing back -to Seabourne. Everything had changed suddenly for the worse. Their -clothes struck them as shabby, now that it no longer mattered. In -London, where it really had mattered, they had been quite contented with -their appearance. Their bags, on the luggage rack opposite them, looked -very worn and battered. How had they ever dared to go up to London at -all? They and their possessions belonged so obviously to Seabourne. -</p> -<p> -Joan took Elizabeth's hand. "Rotten, it's being over!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it's been a good time, but we'll have lots more, Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Yes—oh, yes!" Why was she so doubtful? Of course they would have -lots more, they were going to live together. -</p> -<p> -She realized now how necessary, how vitally necessary it was that they -should live together. Their two weeks in London had emphasized that -fact, if it needed emphasizing. In the past she had known two -Elizabeths, but now she knew a third; there had been Elizabeth the -teacher and Elizabeth the friend. But now there was Elizabeth the -perfect companion. There was the Elizabeth who knew so much and was able -to make things so clear to you, and so interesting. The Elizabeth who -thought only of you, of how to please you and make you happy; the -Elizabeth who entered in, who liked what you liked, enjoying all sorts -of little things, finding fun at the identical moment when you were -wanting to laugh; in fact who thought your own thoughts. This was a -wonderful person who could descend with grace to your level or -unobtrusively drag you up to hers; an altogether darling, humorous and -understanding creature. -</p> -<p> -The train slowed down. Joan said: "Oh, not already?" -</p> -<p> -They shared the fly as far as the Rodneys' house, and then Joan drove on -alone. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden opened the front door herself. -</p> -<p> -"She's gone!" were her words of greeting. -</p> -<p> -"Who has? You don't mean Ethel?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden sank on to the rim of the elephant pad umbrella stand. "She -walked out this morning after the greatest impertinence. Of course I -refused to pay her. I'm worn out by all I've been through since you -left; I nearly telegraphed for you to come back." -</p> -<p> -"Wait a minute, Mother dear; I must get my trunk in. Yes, please, -cabby—upstairs, if you don't mind; the back room." -</p> -<p> -"She kept the kitchen filthy; I've been down there since she left and -the sink made me feel quite sick! I've thought for some time she was -dishonest and brought men in the evenings, and now I'm sure of it; -there's hardly a grain of coffee left and I can't find the pound of -bacon I bought only the day before yesterday." -</p> -<p> -"Oh! I do wish we hadn't lost her!" said Joan inconsequently. "Have you -been to the registry office?" -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not; what time have I had? You'll have to do that -to-morrow." -</p> -<p> -Joan went upstairs and began unstrapping her trunk. She did not attempt -to analyse her feelings; they were too confused and she was very tired. -She wanted to sit down and gloat over the past two weeks, to recapture -some of their fun and freedom and companionship; above all she did not -want to think of registry offices. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden came into her room. "You haven't kissed me yet, darling." -</p> -<p> -Joan longed to say: "You didn't give me a chance, did you?" But -something in the small, thin figure that stood rather wistfully before -her, as if uncertain of its welcome, made her kiss her mother in -silence. -</p> -<p> -"Have you had any tea?" she asked, patting Mrs. Ogden's arm. -</p> -<p> -"No, I felt too tired to get it, but it might do my head good if you -could make some really strong tea, darling." -</p> -<p> -Joan left her trunk untouched, and turned to the door. "All right, I'll -have it ready in a quarter of an hour," she said. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked at her with love in her eyes. "Oh, Joan, it's so good -to have you home again; I've missed you terribly." -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap33"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HAT Christmas Mrs. Benson invited them to -dinner, and, being cookless, Mrs. Ogden accepted. Milly was delighted to -escape from the dreaded ordeal of Christmas dinner at home. Her holidays -were becoming increasingly distasteful. For one thing she missed the -convivial student life, the companionship of people who shared her own -interests and ambitions, their free and easy talk, their illicit sprees, -their love affairs and the combined atmosphere of animal passion and -spiritual uplift which they managed to create. She dearly loved the -ceaseless activity of the College, the hurrying figures on the stairs, -the muffled thud of the swing-doors. The intent, preoccupied faces of -the students inspired and fascinated her; their hands seemed always to -be clutching something, a violin case, a music roll. Their hands were -never empty. -</p> -<p> -She felt less toleration than ever for her home, now that she had left -it; the fact that she was practically free failed to soften her judgment -of Seabourne; as she had felt about it in the past, so she felt now, -with the added irritation that it reminded her of Mr. Thompson. -</p> -<p> -Milly was not introspective and she was not morbid. A wider experience -of life had not tended to raise her standard of morality, and if she was -ashamed of the episode with Mr. Thompson, it was because of the partner -she had chosen rather than because of the episode itself. She was -humiliated that it should have been Mr. Thompson of the circulating -library, a vulgar youth without ambition, talent, or brain. The memory -of those hours spent in the sand-pit lowered her self-esteem, the more -so as the side of her that had rejoiced in them was in abeyance for the -moment, kept in subjection by her passion for her art. She watched the -students' turbulent love affairs with critical and amused eyes. Some -day, perhaps, she would have another affair of her own, but for the -present she was too busy. -</p> -<p> -In her mind she divided the two elements in her nature by a well-defined -gulf. Both were highly important, but different. Both were good in -themselves, inasmuch as they were stimulating and pleasurable, but she -felt that they could not combine in her as they so often did in her -fellow students, and of this she was glad. -</p> -<p> -Her work was the thing that really counted, as she had always known; but -if the day should come when her work needed the stimulus of her -passions, she was calmly determined that it should have it. She knew -that she would be capable of deliberately indulging all that was least -desirable in her nature, if thereby a jot or tittle could be gained for -her music. -</p> -<p> -Her opinion of her sister was becoming unstable, viewed in the light of -wider experience; she was beginning to feel that she did not understand -Joan. In London Joan had seemed free, emancipated even; but back at -Leaside she was dull, irritable and apparently quite hopeless, like -someone suffering from a strong reaction. -</p> -<p> -It was true enough that the home-coming had been a shock to Joan; why, -it is impossible to say. She had known so many similar incidents; -servants had left abruptly before, especially of late years, so that -familiarity should have softened the effect produced by her arrival at -Leaside. But a condition of spirit, a degree of physical elation or -fatigue, perhaps a mere passing mood, will sometimes predispose the mind -to receive impressions disproportionately deep to their importance, and -this was what had happened in Joan's case. She had felt suddenly -overwhelmed by the hopelessness of it all, and as the days passed her -fighting spirit weakened. It was not that she longed any less to get -away with Elizabeth, but rather that the atmosphere of the house sapped -her initiative as never before. All the fine, brave plans for the -future, that had seemed so accessible with Elizabeth in London, became -nebulous and difficult to seize. The worries that flourished like -brambles around Mrs. Ogden closed in around Joan too, seeming almost -insurmountable when viewed in the perspective of Leaside. -</p> -<p> -Milly watched her sister curiously: "You look like the morning after the -night before! What's the matter, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing," said Joan irritably. "Do let me alone!" -</p> -<p> -"Your jaunt with Elizabeth doesn't seem to have cheered you up much." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I'm all right." -</p> -<p> -"Are you really going to Cambridge, do you think, after all?" -</p> -<p> -"<i>Will</i> you shut up, Milly! I've told you a hundred times I don't -know." -</p> -<p> -Milly laughed provokingly, but the laugh brought on a paroxysm of -coughing; and she gasped, clinging to a chair. -</p> -<p> -Joan eyed her with resentment. Milly's cough made her unaccountably -angry sometimes; it had begun to take on abnormal proportions, to loom -as a menace. Her tense nerves throbbed painfully now whenever she heard -it. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, do stop coughing!" she said, and her voice sounded exasperated. -</p> -<p> -What was the matter with her? She was growing positively brutal! She -fled from the room, leaving Milly to cough and choke alone. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Christmas dinner at the Bensons' was a pleasant enough festivity. Mrs. -Benson was delighted that the Ogdens had come, for Richard was at home. -His stolid determination not to seek Joan out, coupled with his evident -melancholy, had begun to alarm his mother. She tried to lead him on to -talk about the girl, but he was not to be drawn. The situation was -beyond her. If Richard was in love with Joan, why didn't he marry her? -His father couldn't very well refuse to make him a decent allowance if -he married; it was all so ridiculous, this moping about, this pandering -to Joan's fancies. -</p> -<p> -"Marry her, my son, and discuss things afterwards," had been Mrs. -Benson's advice. -</p> -<p> -But Richard had laughed angrily. "She won't marry me, unfortunately." -</p> -<p> -"Then make her, for of course she's in love with you." -</p> -<p> -No good; Mrs. Benson could not cope with the psychology of these two. -She felt that her only hope lay in propinquity, so if Richard would not -go to Joan the roles must be reversed and Joan must be brought to -Richard. She watched their meeting with scarcely veiled eagerness. -</p> -<p> -They shook hands without a tremor; a short, matter-of-fact clasp. -Curious creatures! Mrs. Benson felt baffled, and angry with Richard; -what was he thinking about? He treated Joan like another boy. No wonder -the love affair was not prospering! -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was already there when the Ogdens arrived, and she, too, -watched the little comedy with some interest. She would rather have -liked to talk to Richard about Cambridge, it was so long since she -herself had been there, but Lawrence Benson was for ever at her elbow, -quietly obtrusive. He had taken to wearing pince-nez lately. Elizabeth -wished that he had not chosen the new American rimless glasses; she felt -that any effort to render pince-nez decorative only accentuated their -hideousness. She found herself looking at Lawrence, comparing the shine -on his evening shirt front with the disconcerting shine of his glasses. -He was very immaculate, with violets in his buttonhole, but he had aged. -The responsibility of partnership and riches appeared to have thinned -his sleek hair. Perhaps it made you old before your time to be a member -of one of the largest banking firms in England—old and prim and tidy. -Elizabeth wondered. -</p> -<p> -Lawrence reminded her of an expensive mahogany filing cabinet in which -reposed bundles of papers tied with red tape. Everything about him was -perfectly correct, from the small, expensive pearl that clasped his -stiff shirt, to his black silk socks and patent leather shoes. His -cuff-links were handsome but restrained, his watch-chain was platinum -and gold, not too thick, his watch was an expensive repeater in the -plainest of plain gold cases. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth felt his thin, dry fingers touch her arm as he stooped over -her chair. "You look beautiful to-night," he murmured. -</p> -<p> -She believed him, for she knew that her simple black dress suited her -because of its severity. The fashion that year was for a thousand little -bows and ruches, but Elizabeth had not followed it; she had draped -herself in long, plain folds, from which her fine neck and shoulders -emerged triumphantly white. She was the statuesque type of woman, who -would always look her best in the evening, for then the primness that -crept into her everyday clothes was perforce absent. She smiled across -at Joan, as though in some way Lawrence's compliment concerned her. -</p> -<p> -They went in to dinner formally. Mr. Benson gave his arm to Mrs. Ogden, -Lawrence to Elizabeth, and Richard to Joan. Milly was provided with a -Cambridge friend of Richard's, and Mrs. Benson was pompously escorted by -the local vicar. -</p> -<p> -Something of Mrs. Ogden's habit of melancholy fell away during dinner. -She noticed Lawrence looking in her direction, and remembered with a -faint thrill of satisfaction that although now he was obviously in love -with Elizabeth, some years ago he had admired her. Joan, watching her -mother, was struck afresh by her elusive prettiness that almost amounted -to beauty. It had been absent of late, washed away by tears and -ill-health, but to-night it seemed to be born anew, a pathetic thing, -like a venturesome late rosebud that colours in the frost. -</p> -<p> -Joan's mind went back to that long past Anniversary Day when her mother -had worn a dress of soft grey that had made her look like a little dove. -How long ago it seemed! It had been the last of many. It had ceased to -exist owing to her father's failing health, and now there was no money -to start it again. As she watched her mother she wished that it could be -re-established, for it had given Mrs. Ogden such intense pleasure, -filled her with such a harmless, if foolish, sense of importance. On -Anniversary Day she had been able to rise above all her petty worries; -it had been <i>her</i> Day, one out of the three hundred and sixty-five. -Perhaps, after all, it had done much to obliterate for the time being -the humiliations of her married life. Joan had never thought of this -possibility before, but now she felt that hidden away under the bushel -of affectations, social ambitions and snobbishness that The Day had -stood for, there might well have burnt a small and feeble candle—the -flame of a lost virginity. -</p> -<p> -The same diaphanous prettiness hung about her mother now, and Joan -noticed that her brown hair was scarcely greyer than it had been all -those years ago. She felt a sudden, sharp tenderness, a passionate sense -of regret. Regret for what? She asked herself, surprised at the violence -of her own emotion; but the only answer she could find was too vague and -vast to be satisfactory. "Oh, for everything! for everything," she -murmured half aloud. -</p> -<p> -Richard looked at her. "Did you speak, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"No—at least I don't know. Did I?" -</p> -<p> -Her eyes were on her mother's face, watchful, tender, admiring. Mrs. -Ogden looked up and met those protecting, possessive eyes, full upon -her. She flushed deeply like a young girl. -</p> -<p> -Richard touched Joan's arm. "Have you forgotten how to talk?" he -demanded. -</p> -<p> -She laughed. "You never approve of anything I say, so perhaps silence is -a blessing in disguise." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, rot! Joan, look at my brother making an ass of himself over -Elizabeth. Shall I start looking at you like that? I'm much more in love -than he is, you know." -</p> -<p> -"Richard <i>dear</i>, you're not going to propose again in the middle of -dinner, are you?" -</p> -<p> -"No; but it's only putting off the evil day, I warn you." -</p> -<p> -He was not going to lecture her any more, he decided. Elizabeth had -written him a letter which was almost triumphant in tone; Joan was -making up her mind, it seemed; perhaps after all she would show some -spirit. In any case he found her adorable, with her black, cropped hair, -her beautiful mouth, and her queer, gruff voice. Her flanks were lean -and strong like a boy's; they suggested splendid, unfettered movement. -She looked all wrong in evening dress, almost grotesque; but to Richard -she appeared beautiful because symbolic of some future state—a -forerunner. As he looked at her he seemed to see a vast army of women -like herself, fine, splendid and fiercely virginal; strong, too, capable -of gripping life and holding it against odds—the women of the future. -They fascinated him, these as yet unborn women, stimulating his -imagination, challenging his intellect, demanding of him an explanation -of themselves. -</p> -<p> -He dropped his hand on Joan's where it lay in her lap. "Have you prayed -over your sword?" he asked gravely. -</p> -<p> -She knew what he meant. "No," she said. "I haven't had the courage to -unsheathe it yet." -</p> -<p> -"Then unsheathe it now and put it on the altar rails, and then get down -on your knees and pray over it all night." -</p> -<p> -Their eyes met, young, frank and curious, and in hers there was a faint -antagonism. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap34"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>N the following February Milly was sent -home They wrote from Alexandra House to say that for the present, at all -events, she was too ill to continue her studies. She had had a touch of -pneumonia shortly after her return, with the result that her lungs were -weak. The matron wrote what was meant to be a kind and tactful letter. -It was full of veiled sentences; the sort of letter that distracted Joan -by reason of its merciful vagueness. The letter said that Milly was not -strong, that she was losing weight and was apt to run a little -temperature night and morning; according to the doctor, her lungs -required care and she must be given time to recover, and plenty of open -air. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked across at Mrs. Ogden as she finished reading. -</p> -<p> -"It's tubercle," she said briefly. -</p> -<p> -Her voice sounded calm and cold. "I might be saying 'It's Monday -to-day,'" she thought. She felt stupid with pity for Milly and for -herself. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden tightened her lips; she assumed her stubborn expression. -</p> -<p> -"What nonsense, Joan! We've never had such a thing in our family." -</p> -<p> -"But, good heavens, Mother!—your father and your brother died of -galloping consumption." -</p> -<p> -"Nothing of the kind. Henry died of bronchial pneumonia; you don't know -what you're talking about, my dear." -</p> -<p> -Joan thought. "She's going to refuse to face it, she's going to play -ostrich; what on earth am I to do!" Aloud she said: "Well, I'd better go -up and fetch her; we can't let her travel alone." -</p> -<p> -"Ah! there I agree with you; certainly go up and bring her home. But -whatever you do, don't frighten the life out of the poor child with any -ridiculous talk about consumption." -</p> -<p> -Joan left her gently embroidering a handkerchief. "I must see Elizabeth -at once," she told herself. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -It was already half-past nine in the evening, but Joan rushed round to -the Rodneys' house, to find that Elizabeth had gone to bed with a -headache. -</p> -<p> -"I expect she's asleep," said Ralph doubtfully. -</p> -<p> -He was wearing an old Norfolk jacket and carpet slippers; his grey hair -was ruffled, and an end-of-the-day grey stubble clung like mould to his -chin. His eyes looked heavy and a little pink; he had probably been -asleep himself, or dozing in the arm-chair, under the picture of old -Uncle John. He was certainly too sleepy to be polite, and looked -reproachfully at Joan, as though she had done him some wrong. -</p> -<p> -Oh! the gloom of it all! Of this seaside house with its plush study, of -old Uncle John and his ageing descendant, of the lowered gas-jet in its -hideous globe, that was yet not dim enough to hide the shabby -stair-carpet and the bloodthirsty Landseer engraving on the landing. -</p> -<p> -It was misty outside, and some of the mist had followed Joan into the -house; it made a slight, melancholy blur over everything, including -herself and Ralph. She left him abruptly, climbing the stairs two at a -time. -</p> -<p> -She opened the bedroom door without knocking. The gas had been turned -down to the merest speck, but by its light Joan could see that Elizabeth -was asleep. She turned the gas up full, but still Elizabeth did not -stir. She was lying on her side with her cheek pressed hard into the -pillow; her hair was loosely plaited, thick, beautiful hair that shone -as the light fell across it. One of her scarred hands lay on the white -bedspread, pathetically unconscious of its blemish. -</p> -<p> -Joan stood and looked at her, looked at Elizabeth as she was now, off -her guard. What she saw made her look away and then back again, as if -drawn by some miserable attraction. Elizabeth's lips were closed, gently -enough, but from their drooping corners a few fine lines ran down into -the chin; and the closed eyelids were ever so slightly puckered. Joan -bent nearer. Yes, those were grey hairs close to the forehead; Elizabeth -had a good many grey hairs. Strange that she had never noticed them -before. She flushed with a kind of shame. She was discovering secret -things about Elizabeth; things that hid themselves by day to look up -grimacing out of the night-time and Elizabeth's sleep. Elizabeth would -hate it if she knew! And there lay her beautiful hand, all scarred and -spoilt; a brave hand, but spoilt none the less. Was it only the scars, -or had the texture of the skin changed a little too, grown a little less -firm and smooth? She stared at it hopelessly. -</p> -<p> -She found that she was whispering to herself: "Elizabeth's not so young -any more. Oh, God! Elizabeth is almost growing old." -</p> -<p> -She felt that her sorrow must choke her; pity, sorrow, and still more, -shame. Elizabeth's youth was slipping, slipping; it would soon have -slipped out of sight. Joan stooped on a sudden impulse and kissed the -scarred hand. -</p> -<p> -"Joan! Are you here? You woke me; you were kissing my hand!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I was kissing the scars." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth twitched her hand away. "Don't be a fool!" she said roughly. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her, and something, perhaps the pity in her eyes made -Elizabeth recover herself. -</p> -<p> -"Tell me what's the matter," she asked quietly. "Has anything new -happened?" -</p> -<p> -Joan sat down beside her on the bed. "Come here," she said. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth moved nearer, and Joan's arm went round her with a quiet, -strong movement. She kissed her on the forehead where the grey hairs -showed, and then on the eyelids, one after the other. Elizabeth lay very -still. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "They're sending Milly home; I'm afraid she's in -consumption." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth freed herself with a quick twist of her body. "What?" -</p> -<p> -"Read this letter." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth blinked at the gas-jet. "It's my eyes," she complained almost -fretfully. "Light the candle, will you, Joan? Then we can put the gas -out." -</p> -<p> -Joan did as she wished, and returning to the bed leant over the -foot-rail, watching Elizabeth as she read. Elizabeth had gone white to -the lips; she laid down the letter and they stared at each other in -silence. -</p> -<p> -At last Elizabeth spoke. "She's coming home soon," she said in a flat -voice. -</p> -<p> -"Yes; I must go and fetch her the day after to-morrow." -</p> -<p> -"She'll need—nursing—if she lives." -</p> -<p> -"Yes—if she lives——" -</p> -<p> -"It's February already, Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, next month is March. We called it our March, didn't we, -Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -"There are places—sanatoriums, but they cost money." -</p> -<p> -"We haven't got the money, Elizabeth. And in any case, Mother's decided -that Milly can't be seriously ill." -</p> -<p> -"I have some money, as you know, Joan, but I was saving it for you; -still——" Her voice shook. -</p> -<p> -Joan sat down on the bed again and took Elizabeth's hand. "It's no -good," she said gently. -</p> -<p> -And then Elizabeth cried. She did it with disconcerting suddenness and -complete lack of restraint. It was terrible to Joan to see her thrown -right off her guard like this; to feel her shoulders shake with sobs -while the tears dripped through her fingers on to the bedspread. -</p> -<p> -She said: "Don't, oh, don't!" -</p> -<p> -But Elizabeth took no notice, she was launched on a veritable torrent of -self-indulgence which she had no will to stem. The pent-up unhappiness -of years gushed out at this moment. All the ambitions, the longings, the -tenderness sternly repressed, the maternal instinct, the lover -instinct, all the frustrations, they were all there, finding despairing -expression as she sobbed. She rocked herself from side to side and -backwards and forwards. She lost her breath with little gasps, but found -it again immediately, and went on crying. She murmured in a kind of -ecstatic anguish: "Oh! oh!—Oh! oh!" And then, "Joan, Joan, Joan!" But -not for an instant did her tears cease. -</p> -<p> -Ralph heard the sound of sobbing as he passed on his way to bed, and a -quiet, unhappy voice speaking very low, breaking off and then speaking -again. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should go in, but shook -his head, and sighing, went on to his own room, closing the door -noiselessly after him. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Two days later Joan was waiting in the matron's sitting-room at -Alexandra House. Someone had told her that Miss Jackson wished to speak -to her before she went up to her sister. She remembered that Miss -Jackson was Milly's "Old Scout," and smiled in spite of herself. -</p> -<p> -The door opened and Miss Jackson came in. She held out her hand with an -exaggeratedly bright smile. "Miss Ogden?" -</p> -<p> -Joan thought: "She's terribly nervous of what she has to tell me." -</p> -<p> -"Do sit down, Miss Ogden, <i>please</i>. I hope you had a good journey?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, thank you." -</p> -<p> -The matron looked at her watch. "Your train must have been unusually -punctual; I always think the trains are so very bad on that line. -However, you've been fortunate." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, we were only five minutes late." -</p> -<p> -"You don't find it stuffy in here, do you? I cannot persuade the maids -to leave the window open." -</p> -<p> -"No, I don't feel hot—I think you wanted to speak to me about Milly." -</p> -<p> -"Milly; oh, yes—I thought—the doctor wanted me to tell -you——" -</p> -<p> -"That my sister is in consumption? I was afraid it was so, from your -letter." -</p> -<p> -Miss Jackson moistened her lips. "Oh, my dear, I hope my letter was not -too abrupt! You mustn't run ahead of trouble; our doctor is nervous -about future possibilities if great care is not used—but your -sister's lungs are sound so far, he <i>thinks</i>." -</p> -<p> -"Then I disagree with him," said Joan. -</p> -<p> -Miss Jackson felt a little shocked. Evidently this was a very sensible -young woman, not to say almost heartless; still it was better than if -she had broken down. "We all hope, we all believe, that Milly will soon -be quite well again," she said, "but, as you know, I expect, she's -rather frail. I should think that she must always have been delicate; -and yet what a student! A wonderful student; they're all heart-broken at -the College." There was real feeling in her voice as she continued: "I -can't tell you what an admiration I have for your sister; her pluck is -phenomenal; she's worked steadily, overworked in fact, up to the last." -</p> -<p> -Joan got up; she felt a little giddy and put her hand on the back of the -chair to steady herself. -</p> -<p> -"My dear, wait, I must get you some sal-volatile!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, no, please not; I really don't feel ill. I should like to go to -Milly now and help her to collect her luggage, if I may." -</p> -<p> -"Of course; come with me." -</p> -<p> -They mounted interminable stairs to the rooms that Milly shared with -Harriet. A sound of laughing reached them through the half-open door. It -was Milly's laugh. -</p> -<p> -"She's very brave and cheerful, poor child," Miss Jackson whispered. -</p> -<p> -Joan followed her into the study. -</p> -<p> -"Here's your sister, Milly dear." -</p> -<p> -Milly looked up from the strap of her violin case. "Hullo, Joan! This is -jolly, isn't it?" -</p> -<p> -Joan kissed her and shook hands with Harriet. -</p> -<p> -"I'll leave you now," said Miss Jackson, obviously anxious to get away. -</p> -<p> -Harriet raised her eyebrows. "<i>Vieille grue</i>!" she remarked, scarcely -below her breath. -</p> -<p> -Milly laughed again, she seemed easily amused, and Joan scrutinized her -closely. She was painfully thin and the laugh was a little husky; -otherwise she looked much as usual at that moment. Joan's heart beat -more freely; supposing it were a false alarm after all? Suppose it -should be only a matter of a month or two, at most, before Milly would -be quite well again and she herself free? -</p> -<p> -"How do you feel?" she inquired with ill-concealed anxiety. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, pretty fit, thank you. I think it's all rot myself. I suppose Old -Scout informed you that I was going into a decline, but I beg to differ. -A few weeks at Seabourne will cure me all right. Good Lord! I should -just think so!" and she made a grimace. -</p> -<p> -Harriet began humming a sort of vocal five-finger exercise; Joan glared -at her. Damn the woman! Couldn't she keep quiet? -</p> -<p> -Harriet laughed. "Don't slay me with a glance, my dear!" -</p> -<p> -Joan forced herself to smile. "I was thinking we'd be late for the -train." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, you weren't; but never mind. You amuse me, Joan. May I call you -Joan? Well, in any case, you amuse me. Oh! But you are too funny and -young and gauche, a regular boor, and your grey-green coloured eyes go -quite black when you're angry. I should never be able to resist making -you angry just for the pleasure of seeing your eyes change colour; do -you think you could manage to get really angry with me some day?" -</p> -<p> -Joan felt hot with embarrassment. What was the matter with this woman; -didn't she know that she was in the room with a perfectly awful tragedy, -didn't she realize that here was something that would probably ruin -three people's lives? She wondered if this was Harriet's way of keeping -the situation in hand, of trying to carry the thing off lightly. -Perhaps, after all, she was only making an effort to fall in with -Milly's mood; that must be it, of course. -</p> -<p> -Harriet's decided voice went on persistently. "Come up and see me -sometimes; don't stop away because Milly isn't here, though I expect -she'll be back soon. But in the meantime come up and see me; I shall -like to see you quite often, if you'll come." -</p> -<p> -"Thank you," said Joan, "but I'm never in London." -</p> -<p> -Harriet smiled complacently. "We'll see," she murmured. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned to Milly. "Come on, Milly, we ought to go; it's getting -late." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -In the train Milly talked incessantly; she was flushed now, and the hand -that she laid on Joan's from time to time felt unnaturally hot and dry. -She assured Joan eagerly that the doctor was a fool and an alarmist; -that he had sent a girl home only last year for what he called -"pernicious anæmia," whereas she had been back at College in less than -four months as well as ever. Milly said that if they supposed she was -going to waste much time, they were mistaken; a few weeks perhaps, just to -get over that infernal pneumonia, but no longer at Leaside—no, thank -you! If she stayed at Leaside she was sure she would die, but not of -consumption, of boredom! Her lungs were all right, she never spat blood, -and you always spat blood if your lungs were going. It was quite bad -enough as it was though; jolly hard lines having a set-back at this -critical time in her training. Never mind, she would have to work all -the harder later on to make up for it. -</p> -<p> -She talked and coughed and coughed and talked all the way from London to -Seabourne. She was like a thing wound up, a mechanical toy. Joan's heart -sank. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was at the station and so was Mrs. Ogden. They had come quite -independently of each other. As a rule Elizabeth kept away if she knew -that Mrs. Ogden was meeting one of the girls, anxious these days not to -feed the flame of the older woman's jealousy; but to-day her anxiety had -outweighed her discretion. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden kissed Milly affectionately. "Why, she looks splendid!" she -remarked to the world in general. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth assumed an air of gaiety that she was very far from feeling. -It seemed to her that Milly looked like death, and her eyes sought -Joan's with a frightened, questioning glance. For answer, Joan shook her -head ever so slightly. -</p> -<p> -They all went home to Leaside together. Elizabeth had offered to help -with the unpacking. She was not going to torment herself with any -unnecessary suspense, and she cared less than nothing whether Mrs. Ogden -wanted her or not. She had got beyond that sort of nonsense now, she -told herself. She pressed Joan's hand quite openly in the fly. Why not? -Mrs. Ogden was jealous of any demonstrations of affection towards Joan -other than her own; Elizabeth knew this, but pressed the hand again. -</p> -<p> -She and Joan had no opportunity of being alone together that evening. -They longed to talk the situation over. They were taut with nervous -anxiety; even a quarrel would have been a relief. But Mrs. Ogden was in -a hovering mood, they could not get rid of her; even after Milly had -gone to bed she continued to haunt them. Frail, unobtrusive, but always -there. She seemed to be feeling affable, for she had pressed Elizabeth -to stop to supper and had even thanked her for helping with the -unpacking. It was remarkable; one would have expected tears or at least -depression or irritability over this fresh disaster, for disaster it -was, even though Mrs. Ogden chose to take a cheerful view of Milly's -condition. It was impossible that she should contemplate with equanimity -more doctor's bills, and the mounting tradesmen's accounts for luxuries. -Whatever the outcome, Milly would require milk, beef-tea and other -expensive things; and there was little or no money, as even Mrs. Ogden -must know. And yet she was cheerful; it made Elizabeth feel afraid. -</p> -<p> -She became a prey to a horrible idea that Mrs. Ogden was happy, yes, -positively happy over Milly's illness, because she saw in it a new -fetter wherewith to bind Joan. Perhaps she had suspected all along that -Joan had determined to break away soon. Perhaps she had begun to realize -that her influence over her daughter was waning. And now came Milly's -collapse, with all that it entailed of responsibility, of diminished -finances, of appeal to every generous and unselfish instinct. Elizabeth -shuddered. She did not accuse Mrs. Ogden of consciously visualizing the -cause of her satisfaction; but she knew that no greater self-deceiver -had ever lived, and that although she was probably telling herself that -she was being cheerful and brave in the face of sorrow, and acting with -unselfish courage, she was subconsciously rejoicing in the misfortune -that must bind Joan closer to her than ever. -</p> -<p> -They could hear Milly coughing fitfully upstairs; a melancholy sound, -for it was a young cough. Mrs. Ogden remarked that they must get some -syrup of camphor, which in her experience never failed to clear up a -chest cold. She told Joan to write to London for it next day. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth got up; she felt that she must walk and walk, no matter where. -Her legs and feet seemed terribly alive, they tormented her with their -twitching. -</p> -<p> -"I must go," she said suddenly. -</p> -<p> -Joan followed her into the hall. Their eyes met for an instant in a look -of sympathy and dismay; but Mrs. Ogden was standing in the open doorway -of the drawing-room, watching them, and they parted with a brief good -night. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap35"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>WO weeks elapsed before Mrs. Ogden would -consent to any further examination of Milly's lungs. At first she -refused on the ground that Milly was only in need of rest, and when Joan -persisted, made other excuses, all equally futile. She seemed determined -to prevent Doctor Thomas's visit, and it struck Joan that her mother was -secretly afraid. -</p> -<p> -Doctor Thomas was getting old. He had attended the Ogdens as long as -Joan could remember. He attended most of the residents of Seabourne, -though it was said that the summer visitors preferred a younger man, who -had recently made his appearance. Joan herself would have preferred the -younger man, but on this point Mrs. Ogden was obdurate; she would not -hear of a stranger being called in, protesting that Doctor Thomas would -be deeply hurt. -</p> -<p> -Doctor Thomas came, and rubbed his cold hands briskly together; he -smiled at the assembled family as he had smiled on all serious occasions -throughout his career. A wooden stethoscope protruded from his -tail-pocket; he took it out and balanced it playfully between finger and -thumb. -</p> -<p> -"Let <i>me</i> explain," said Joan peremptorily, as Mrs. Ogden opened her -lips to speak. -</p> -<p> -She had to raise her voice somewhat, for the doctor was a little hard of -hearing. -</p> -<p> -"Eh, what? What was that?" he inquired from time to time. -</p> -<p> -Milly's lip curled. She shrugged her shoulders and complied with an ill -grace when told to remove her blouse. -</p> -<p> -"Take a deep breath." -</p> -<p> -Doctor Thomas pressed his stethoscope to her chest and back; he pressed -so hard with his large, purplish ear that the stethoscope dug into her -bones. -</p> -<p> -"Ow! That hurts," she protested peevishly. -</p> -<p> -"Say 'ninety-nine'!" -</p> -<p> -"Ninety-nine." -</p> -<p> -"Again, please." -</p> -<p> -"Ninety-nine." -</p> -<p> -"Again." -</p> -<p> -"Oh! Ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety-nine!" -</p> -<p> -For a young woman about to be twenty-one years old, Milly was behaving -in an extraordinarily childish manner. The doctor looked at her -reproachfully and began tapping on her back and chest with his notched -and bony fingers. Tap, tap, tap, tap: Milly glanced down at his hand -distastefully. -</p> -<p> -"And now say 'ninety-nine' again," he suggested. -</p> -<p> -Milly flushed with irritation and coughed. "Ninety-nine," she exclaimed -in an exasperated voice. -</p> -<p> -The old doctor straightened himself and looked round complacently. "Just -as I thought, there's nothing seriously wrong here." -</p> -<p> -"Then you don't think——?" began Joan, but her mother -interrupted. -</p> -<p> -"That's just what I thought you'd say, Doctor Thomas; I felt sure there -could be nothing radically wrong with Milly's lungs. Thank God, she -comes from very healthy stock! I suppose a good long rest is all that -she needs?" -</p> -<p> -"Exactly, Mrs. Ogden. A good rest, good food, and plenty of air; and no -more practising for a bit, Miss Milly. You must keep your shoulders back -and your chest well out, and just take things easy." -</p> -<p> -"But for how long?" Milly asked, with a catch in her voice. -</p> -<p> -"How long? Oh, for a few months at least." -</p> -<p> -Milly looked despairingly at Joan, but, try as she would, Joan could not -answer that look with the reassuring smile that it was obviously asking -for. She turned away and began straightening some music on the piano. -</p> -<p> -"I must be off," said the doctor, shaking hands. "I shall come in from -time to time, just to see that Miss Milly is obeying orders; oh, and I -think cod liver oil would prove beneficial." -</p> -<p> -"No; that I will not!" said Milly firmly. -</p> -<p> -"Nonsense! You'll do as the doctor tells you," Mrs. Ogden retorted. -</p> -<p> -"I will <i>not</i> take cod liver oil; it makes me sick!" -</p> -<p> -Joan left them arguing, and followed Doctor Thomas to the front door. -"Look here," she said in a low voice, "surely you'll examine for -tubercle?" -</p> -<p> -He looked at her whimsically through his spectacles. "My dear young -lady, you've been stuffing your head up with a lot of half-digested -medical knowledge," and he patted her shoulder as though to soften his -words. "Be assured," he told her, "that I shall do everything I think -necessary for your sister, and nothing that I think unnecessary." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan went back to the drawing-room. The argument about the cod liver oil -had ceased, and Milly was crying quietly, all by herself, in the window. -She looked up with tearful eyes as her sister took her hand and pressed -it. -</p> -<p> -"Cheer up, old girl!" Joan whispered, her own heart heavy with -forebodings. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden said nothing; her face seemed expressionless when Joan -glanced at her. Ethel's successor brought in the tea and Milly dried her -eyes. It was a silent meal; from time to time Milly's gaze dwelt -despairingly on her violin case where it lay on the sofa, and Joan knew -that she was grieving as a lover for a lost beloved. -</p> -<p> -"It's only for so short a time," she said, answering the unspoken -thought. -</p> -<p> -Milly shook her head and her eyes overflowed again, the tears dripped -into the tea-cup that she held tremulously to her lips. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden pretended not to notice. "More tea, Joan?" she inquired. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her and hated her; and before the hate had time to root, -began to love her again, for the weak thing that she was. There she sat, -quiet and soft and utterly incapable. She was not facing this situation, -not even trying to realize what it meant to her two daughters. -</p> -<p> -"But I could crush her to pulp!" Joan thought angrily. "I could make her -scream with pain if I chose, if I told her that I saw through her, -despised her, hated her; if I told her that I was going to leave her and -that she would never see me again. I could make her cry like Milly's -crying, only worse; oh, how I could make her cry!" But her own thought -hurt her somewhere very deep down, and at that moment Mrs. Ogden looked -up and their eyes met. -</p> -<p> -Joan stared at her coldly. "Milly is fretting," she said. Mrs. Ogden's -glance wavered. "She mustn't do that, after what the doctor has told us. -Milly, dearest, there's nothing to cry about." -</p> -<p> -Milly hid her face. -</p> -<p> -"It's all my life, Mother," she sobbed. -</p> -<p> -"What is, my dear?" -</p> -<p> -"My fiddle!" -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear child, you're not giving up your violin; he only wants you -to rest for a time." -</p> -<p> -Milly sobbed more loudly, she was growing hysterical. "I want to go back -to the College," she wailed. "I hate, hate, <i>hate</i> being here! I hate -Seabourne and all the people in it, and I hate this house! It stifles -me, and I'm not ill and I shan't stop practising and I shan't take cod -liver oil!" She wrenched herself free from Joan's restraining arm. "Let -me go upstairs," she spluttered. "I want to go upstairs!" -</p> -<p> -Joan released her. Alone together, the mother and daughter looked at -each other defiantly. -</p> -<p> -"She ought to see a specialist," Joan said; "Doctor Thomas is an old -fool!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's soft eyes grew bright with rising temper. "Never!" she -exclaimed, raising her voice. "I hate the whole brood; it was a -specialist who killed your father. James would be alive now if it hadn't -been for a so-called specialist!" -</p> -<p> -Joan made a sound of impatience. "Don't be ridiculous, Mother; you don't -know what you're talking about. You're taking a terrible responsibility -in refusing to have a first-class opinion." -</p> -<p> -"I consider Doctor Thomas first-class." -</p> -<p> -"He is <i>not</i>; he's antediluvian and deaf into the bargain! I tell you, -Milly is very ill." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's remaining calm deserted her. "You tell me, <i>you</i> tell me! -And what do you know about it? It seems that you pretend to know more -than the doctor himself. You and your ridiculous medical books! You'll -be asking me to consult your fellow-student Elizabeth next." -</p> -<p> -"I wish to God you would!" -</p> -<p> -"Ah! I thought so; well then, send for your clever friend, your unsexed -blue-stocking, and put her opinion above that of your own mother. How -many children has she borne, I'd like to know? What knowledge can she -have that I as a mother haven't got by natural instinct, about my own -child? How dare you put Elizabeth Rodney above me!" -</p> -<p> -Joan lost her temper suddenly and violently. "Because she is above you, -because she's everything that you're not." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden gave a stifled cry and sank back in her chair. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! my head, it's swimming, I feel sinking, I feel as if I were dying. -Oh! oh! my head!" -</p> -<p> -"Sit up!" commanded Joan. "You're not dying, but I think Milly is." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden began to cry weakly as Joan turned away. "Cruel, cruel!" she -murmured. -</p> -<p> -Joan went up to her and shook her slightly. "Behave yourself, Mother; -I've no time for this sort of thing." -</p> -<p> -"To tell me that a child of mine is dying! You say that to frighten me; -I shall tell the doctor." -</p> -<p> -Joan shrugged her shoulders. "You may tell him what you please. I'm -going up to Milly, now." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Richard had been gone for some weeks and Mr. and Mrs. Benson had moved -back to London when Milly came home. Joan would have given much to have -had Richard to talk to just now, but she could only write and tell him -her fears, which his brief answers did little to dispel. He advised an -immediate consultation and mentioned a first-class specialist; at the -same time he managed to drop a word here and there anent Joan's own -prospects, which he pointed out were becoming more gloomy with every -month of delay. No, Richard was not in a consoling mood these days. -</p> -<p> -Lawrence, on the other had, was full of kindness. He had taken to coming -down to Conway House for the weekends, and he seldom came without a jar -of turtle soup or some other expensive luxury for the invalid. His -constant visits to Leaside might have suggested an interest in one of -its inmates; in fact Mrs. Ogden began to wonder whether Lawrence was -falling out of love with Elizabeth and into love with Milly. But Joan -was not deceived; she felt certain that he only came there in the hopes -of catching a glimpse of Elizabeth if, as sometimes happened, he found -her out when he called at her brother's house; she was amused and yet -vaguely annoyed. -</p> -<p> -"Your admirer's in the drawing-room, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth smiled. "Well, let him stay there with your mother; we'll -sneak out by the back door, for a walk." -</p> -<p> -But Lawrence invariably saw them escaping; it was uncanny how he always -seemed to be standing at the window on such occasions. On a blustery day -in March he hurried after them and caught them at the corner of the -street, as he had already done several times. He always said the same -thing: -</p> -<p> -"Ripping afternoon for a walk, you two; may I join you?" He threw out -his chest and took off his hat. -</p> -<p> -"Jolly good for the hair, Elizabeth!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth's own hat, blown slightly askew, was causing her agony by -reason of the straining hat-pins; and in any case she always suffered -from neuralgia when the wind was in the east. She managed to turn her -head slightly in his direction, but before she had time to snub him, a -gust removed her hat altogether and blew her hair down into her eyes. -</p> -<p> -The hat bowled happily along the esplanade, and after it went Joan, with -Lawrence at her heels. She could hear him pattering persistently behind -her. For some reason the sound of his awkward running infuriated her; -his steps were short for a man's, as though he were wearing tight boots. -She felt suddenly that she must reach the hat first or die; must be the -one to restore it to its owner. She strained her lanky legs to their -limit; her skirts flew, her breath came fast, she was flushed with -temper and endeavour. Now she had almost reached it. No, there it went -again, carried along by a fresh and more spiteful gust. Several people -stood still to laugh. -</p> -<p> -"Two to one on Miss Joan!" cried General Brooke, halting in his strut. -</p> -<p> -Ah! At last! Her hand flew out to capture the hat, which was poised, -rocking slightly for a moment, like a seagull on a wave. She stooped -forward, grabbed the air, tripped and fell flat. Lawrence, who was close -behind her, nearly fell over her, but saved himself just in time. He -pursued the hat a few steps farther, seized it and then returned to help -Joan up; but she had already sprung to her feet with an exclamation of -annoyance. -</p> -<p> -"I've won!" laughed Lawrence provokingly. "You're not hurt, are you?" -</p> -<p> -She was, having slightly twisted her ankle, but she lied sulkily. -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not." -</p> -<p> -It seemed to her that he was smiling all over, not only with his mouth, -but with his eyes and his glasses and the little brass buttons on his -knitted waistcoat. His very shoes twinkled with amusement all over their -highly polished toe-caps. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to -take the hat from him. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no!" he taunted. "No, you don't; that's not fair!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was standing still watching them, with her hands pressed -against her hair. "Thank you," she said, as Lawrence restored her hat to -her; but she looked at Joan and smiled. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned her face away to hide a sudden rush of tears. How ridiculous -and childish she was! Fancy a woman of twenty-three wanting to cry over -losing the game! They walked on in silence, Joan trying not to limp too -obviously, but Elizabeth was observant. -</p> -<p> -"You're hurt," she said, and stood still. Joan denied it. -</p> -<p> -"It's nothing at all; I just twisted my ankle a bit." And she limped on. -</p> -<p> -"Hadn't you better turn back?" suggested Lawrence a little too -hopefully. "Look here, Joan, I'll get you a fly." -</p> -<p> -"I don't want a fly, thank you; I'm all right." -</p> -<p> -"No, you're not; do let me call that cab for you; it's awfully unwise to -walk on a strained ankle." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, for goodness' sake," snapped Joan, "do let me know for myself -whether I'm hurt or not!" -</p> -<p> -She realized that she was behaving badly; she could hear the irritation -in her own voice. Moreover, she knew that she was spoiling the walk by -limping along and refusing to go home; but some spirit of perverseness -was dominating her. She felt that she disliked Lawrence quite -enormously, and at that moment she almost disliked Elizabeth. Why had -Elizabeth accepted her hat from Lawrence's hand? She should have said -something like this: "Give it to Joan, please; I would rather Joan gave -me my hat." Ridiculous! She laughed aloud. -</p> -<p> -"What are you laughing at?" inquired Lawrence. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, nothing, only my thoughts." -</p> -<p> -"Can't we share the joke?" -</p> -<p> -"No, it wouldn't amuse you." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, do go back, Joan," said Elizabeth irritably. "You're hardly able to -walk." -</p> -<p> -"Do you want me to go back, then?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, of course I do; and put on a cold water bandage as soon as you get -home." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her with darkening eyes, and left them abruptly. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -"What on earth's upset her?" asked Lawrence, genuinely concerned. -</p> -<p> -"Nothing—why? She's not upset." -</p> -<p> -"She seemed angry about something." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't think so. Probably her ankle was hurting her rather badly, -only she didn't want to admit it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I thought she was angry. But never mind, let's talk about you." -And he edged a little nearer. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth evaded the hand that hovered in the vicinity of her arm. "I'm -so dull to talk about," she parried. "Let's talk about metaphysics!" -</p> -<p> -He gripped her arm now in a grasp that there was no evading. "Why -<i>will</i> you always make fun of me, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -She was silent, her head drooped, and he, misunderstanding the movement, -tightened his fingers. -</p> -<p> -"I love you!" he said rather loudly in her ear, raising his voice to be -heard through the wind. "When will you marry me, dearest?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Lawrence, don't," she protested. "Some day, perhaps, or never. I -don't know!" -</p> -<p> -"But you <i>do</i> love me a little, Elizabeth, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -"No, not a bit; I don't love you at all." -</p> -<p> -"But you would. I'd make you." -</p> -<p> -"How would you make me?" -</p> -<p> -He considered. "I don't know," he admitted lamely; "but I'd find a way, -try me and see; it's not possible that I shouldn't find a way." -</p> -<p> -He was very sincere, that was the worst of it. His eyes glowed fondly at -her behind his glasses. -</p> -<p> -"And, my dear, I could give you all you want," he added. -</p> -<p> -"All I want, Lawrence?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I mean we'd be rich." -</p> -<p> -She stopped to consider him thoughtfully. A good-looking man, too well -dressed; a dull man, too conscious of worldly success; a shy man, too -shy not to be over-bold at times. A youngish man still, too pompous to -be youthful. -</p> -<p> -"Would you like to marry a woman who doesn't love you?" she asked him -curiously. -</p> -<p> -"I'd like to marry you, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"But why? I can't imagine why anyone should want to marry me." -</p> -<p> -"I want to marry you because you're everything I love. My dear -Elizabeth, if you were seventy I should still love you." -</p> -<p> -"You think so now, because I'm not seventy." -</p> -<p> -"Look here;" he said suddenly. "Is it still Joan that's stopping you?" -</p> -<p> -She stiffened. "I said I didn't love you, isn't that enough?" -</p> -<p> -He continued in his train of thought. "Because if it is Joan, you know, -just think how we could help her, in her career, I mean. She'll need -money and I have at least got that. If you'll marry me, Elizabeth, I -swear I'll do more for that girl than I'd do for my own sister. Say -you'll marry me, Elizabeth——" -</p> -<p> -She pushed his hand away from her arm rather roughly. "If I married -you," she said, "I should have to stop thinking of Joan's career; it -would be your career then, not hers; and in any case money will never -help Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Why not?" -</p> -<p> -"Because she's Joan, I suppose; she's not like anyone else in the -world." -</p> -<p> -He was silent, his rejected hand hanging limply at his side. Presently -he said: "You do love that child. I suppose it's because you've had the -making of her." -</p> -<p> -"I suppose so; she's a very lovable creature." -</p> -<p> -"I know. Well, think it over." -</p> -<p> -"You're a patient man, Lawrence." -</p> -<p> -"There's no help for it." -</p> -<p> -"I wish you'd marry someone else, that is if you want to marry at all; -it may take me such a long time to think it over." -</p> -<p> -He looked at her stubbornly. "I'll wait," he said. "I'm the waiting kind -when I want a thing badly enough." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap36"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">M</span>ILLY'S illness was discussed at every -tea-table in Seabourne, and proved a grateful topic in the stiff little -club as well. If the Ogdens did nothing else, they certainly provided -food for comment. Joan's Short Hair, the Colonel's Death, Mrs. Ogden's -Popish Tendencies and now Milly's Consumption were hailed in turn with -discreet enthusiasm. -</p> -<p> -Major Boyle, the doleful politician, killed Milly off at least a dozen -times that spring. -</p> -<p> -"Family's riddled with it!" he remarked lugubriously. "I happen to know -for a fact that three of the mother's brothers died of it." -</p> -<p> -General Brooke laughed asthmatically. "That's queer," he chuckled, "for -she only had <i>one</i>!" -</p> -<p> -Major Boyle sighed as though this in itself were a tragedy. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, really, only one? Then it must have been a brother and two -cousins—yes, that was it, two cousins—riddled with it!" -</p> -<p> -The little bank manager fidgeted in his chair, his mouth opened and shut -impatiently; if only they would let him get a word in edgeways. At last -he could contain himself no longer. -</p> -<p> -"Miss Joan told me——" he begun. -</p> -<p> -But Sir Robert Loo interrupted with intentional insolence. "You were -saying, Boyle, that two of the cousins died of consumption; which were -they, I wonder? I was at Christ Church with Peter Routledge, a cousin of -the mother's, awfully nice chap he was, but a bit of a wildster." -</p> -<p> -They began tossing the ball of conversation backwards and forwards and -around between themselves, keeping it the while well above the head of -the bank manager. Eton, Christ Church, old days in India, the Buffs, the -Guards, crack shots, shooting parties, phenomenal exploits with the rod -and line, lovely women. They nodded their heads, chewing the ends of -their cigars and murmured "By Gad!" and "My dear fellow!" the while they -exaggerated and romanced about the past. -</p> -<p> -They emptied their glasses and sucked in their moustaches. They lolled -back in the arm-chairs or straddled in front of the smoky fire. Their -eyes glowed with the enthusiasms of thirty or forty years ago. They -forgot that they were grey or white or bald, or mottled about the jowls, -that their stomachs protruded and their legs gave a little at the knees. -They forgot that their sons defied them and their wives thought them -bores, that their incomes were for the most part insufficient, and that -nearly all their careers had been ignominiously cut short by the age -limit. They lived again in their dashing youth, in the glorious days -when they had been heroes, at least in their own estimation; when a -scrap with savages had taken on the dimensions of Waterloo. When fine -girls and blood fillies met with about equal respect and admiration, -when moonlit nights on long verandas meant something other than an -attack of lumbago; and when, above all, they had classified their -fellow-men as being "One of us" or "An outsider." -</p> -<p> -There sat Mr. Pearson the bank manager, with the golden ball flying -around and above him, but never, oh! never within his grasp. He sighed, -he cleared his throat, he smoked a really good cigar that he could ill -afford; he envied. No, assuredly his youth provided no splendours. He -thought distastefully of the Grammar School, he spat mentally when he -remembered the Business College. He felt like a worm who is discovered -in a ducal salad, and he cringed a little and respected. -</p> -<p> -He, too, was bald these days, and his waistcoats gaped sometimes where -they buttoned; in seniority he was the equal of most of them, but in -family, opportunity, knowledge of life and love of fair women, judging -by their reminiscences, he was hopelessly their inferior. -</p> -<p> -He knew that they resented him as a blot on their club, and that time -would never soften this resentment. He knew all about their almost -invisible incomes, he even accorded financial accommodation to one or -another from time to time. He saw their bank books and treated with as -much tact as possible their minute overdrafts. Sometimes he was allowed -to offer advice regarding a change of investments or the best method -whereby to soften the heart of the Inland Revenue. But all this was at -the bank, in his own little office. Behind his roll-top desk he was a -power; in the little office it was they who hummed and hawed and found -it difficult to approach the subject, while he, urbane and smiling, -conscious of his strength, lent a patronizing ear to their doubts and -worries. -</p> -<p> -But positions were reversed in the smoking-room of the club. Securely -entrenched in their worn leather chairs, they became ungrateful, they -forgot, they ignored: "Eton, Christ Church, the Buffs, the Guards!" And -yet he would <i>not</i> resign. He clung to the club like a bastard -clings to the memory of an aristocratic father—desperately, -resentfully, with a shamefaced sense of pride. -</p> -<p> -"My sister tells me," said Ralph Rodney, gently dragging the -conversation back to its original topic. "My sister tells me that -Milly's lungs are absolutely sound." -</p> -<p> -General Brooke snorted and Major Boyle shook his head mournfully. "Can't -be, can't be," he murmured; "the family's riddled with it!" -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry to hear about poor old Peter Routledge," remarked Sir Robert, -pouring himself out another whisky. "I'd lost sight of him of late -years. Damned hard luck popping off like that, must have been fairly -young too; he was one of the best chaps on earth, you know, sound -through and through, if he was a bit of a wildster." -</p> -<p> -Over in a dark corner someone stirred. It was Admiral Bourne, whom they -had thought asleep; now he spoke for the first time. He sat up and, -taking off his glasses, wiped them. -</p> -<p> -"She was such a pretty little girl," he said tremulously. "Such a dear -little girl." And he dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. -</p> -<p> -They pretended not to notice; he was a very old man now and almost -childish, with him tears and laughter had grown to be very near the -surface. -</p> -<p> -"How goes it with the mice, Admiral?" inquired someone kindly, to change -the subject. -</p> -<p> -He smiled through his tears and cheered up immediately. "Capital, -capital! Yes, indeed. And I think I've bred a real wonder at last, I've -never seen such a colour before, it's not Roan and it's not Mauve and -it's not Blue; it's a sort of—a sort of——" He hesitated, -and forgot what he was going to say. -</p> -<p> -They handed him an evening paper. "Thanks, thanks," he said gratefully. -"Thank you very much indeed," and subsided into his corner again. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -In spite of gloomy prognostications Milly's health did nothing -melodramatic or startling as the months dragged on, though her cough -continued and she grew still thinner. At times she was overcome by -prolonged fits of weakness, but any change there was came quietly and -gradually, so that even Elizabeth was deceived. She watched Joan's -anxious face with growing impatience. -</p> -<p> -"Don't let yourself get hipped over Milly," she cautioned. -</p> -<p> -Joan protested. "I'm not a bit hipped, but I'm terribly afraid." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth flared up. "You really are overdoing it a bit, Joan; it's -almost hysterical! Even Doctor Thomas must know his trade well enough to -suspect tubercle if there were any." -</p> -<p> -"I know, but I can't believe in him. Surely you think Milly's looking -terribly ill?" -</p> -<p> -"I think she looks very fagged, but I'm not prepared to know better than -the doctor." -</p> -<p> -They argued for an hour. Elizabeth was exasperated. Why would Joan -persist in taking the most gloomy view of everything? -</p> -<p> -"It's a good excuse for your staying on here," she said bitterly. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I mean that," said Elizabeth. "You find Milly's illness a -ready-made excuse." -</p> -<p> -"I ought to get angry with you, Elizabeth, but I won't let myself. Do -you seriously think that I can leave her? What about Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, what about your mother? Why can't she keep Milly company for a -while; can't they look after each other? Will you never consider -yourself or me?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, what's the good; you don't understand. You know how helpless Mother -is, and then there's Milly. I've promised her not to leave her." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, yes, I do understand; I understand only too well, Joan. You're -twenty-three already, and we're no nearer Cambridge than we were; what I -want to know is how long is this going on?" -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my dear!" said Elizabeth, stretching out her hand. "Won't you come -now?" -</p> -<p> -Joan shook her head. "I can't, I can't." -</p> -<p> -A coldness grew up between them, a coldness unrelieved now by even so -much as bad temper. They met less often and hardly ever worked together. -At times they tried to avoid each other, so painful was this -estrangement to them both. The lines deepened on Elizabeth's face and -her mouth grew hard. She darned Ralph's socks with a shrinking dislike -of the texture and feel of them, and ordered his meals with a sickening -distaste for food. She felt that the daily round of life was growing -more and more unendurable. Breakfast was the worst ordeal, heralding as -it did the advent of another useless day. Ralph liked eggs and bacon, -which he would have repeated <i>ad nauseam</i>. She could remember the time -when she had shared this liking, but now the smell of the frying bacon -disgusted her. Ralph did not always trouble to eat quite tidily, and he -chewed with a slightly open mouth; when he wiped his lips he invariably -left yellow egg-stains on his napkin. She began to watch for those -stains and to listen for his noisy chewing. His face got on her nerves, -too; it was growing daily more like Uncle John's, and not young Uncle -John's either—old Uncle John's. His eyes were acquiring the "Don't -hurt me" look of the portrait in the study. Something in the way his legs -moved lately suggested approaching old age, and yet he was not so old; -it must be Seabourne. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, do let's get away from here!" she burst out one morning. "Let's go -to America, Australia, the Antipodes, anywhere!" -</p> -<p> -Ralph dropped his paper to stare at her, and then he laughed. He thought -she was trying to be funny. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -At Leaside things were little better. A dreariness more tangible than -usual pervaded the house. Milly alternated between moods of exuberant -hopefulness and fits of deep depression, when she would cling to Joan -like a sickly child. "Don't leave me! Oh, Joan, you mustn't leave me," -was her almost daily entreaty. She was difficult to manage, and insisted -on practising in spite of all they could say; but these bursts of -defiance generally ended in tears, for after a short half hour or so the -music would begin to go tragically wrong, as her weak hand faltered on -the bow. -</p> -<p> -"Oh!" she sobbed miserably, whenever this happened; "it's all gone; I -shall never, never play again. I wish I were dead!" -</p> -<p> -Any emotion brought on a violent fit of coughing, which exhausted her to -the verge of faintness, so that in the end she would have to be put to -bed, where Joan would try to distract her by reading aloud. But Milly's -attention was wont to wander, and looking up from the book Joan would -find her sister's eyes turned longingly to the open window, and would -think unhappily: "She's just like a thrush in a cage, poor Milly!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden grew much more affectionate to her younger daughter, and -caressed her frequently; but these caresses irritated rather than -soothed, and sometimes Milly shrank perceptibly. When this happened Mrs. -Ogden's eyes would fill with tears, and her working face would -instinctively turn in Joan's direction for sympathy. "Oh, my God!" Joan -once caught herself thinking, "will neither of them ever stop crying!" -But this thought brought a swift retribution, for she was tormented for -the rest of the day over what she felt to have been her heartlessness. -</p> -<p> -The maidservant left, as maids always did in moments of stress at -Leaside; and once again Joan found herself submerged in housework. After -her, as she swept and dusted, dragged Milly; always close at her heels, -too ill to help, too unhappy to stay alone. -</p> -<p> -It took a long time to find a new servant, for Mrs. Ogden's nagging -proclivities were becoming fairly well known, but at last a victim was -secured and Joan breathed a sigh of relief. They scraped together enough -money to hire a bath chair for Milly; it was the same bath chair that -Colonel Ogden had used, only now a younger man tugged at the handle. -This man was cheerful and familiar, possibly because Milly was so light -a passenger and looked so young and ineffectual. He joked and spat at -frequent intervals—the latter with an astounding dexterity of -aim—and Milly hated him. -</p> -<p> -"I can't bear his spitting," she complained irritably to Joan. "It's -simply disgusting!" -</p> -<p> -It was history repeating itself, for Mrs. Ogden accompanied the bath -chair but seldom, and when she did so she managed to get on the -patient's nerves. The daily task fell, therefore, to Joan, as it had to -a great extent in her father's lifetime. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -At this period Joan's hardest cross lay in the fact that she was never -alone. She had grown accustomed to having her bedroom to herself during -term time, but now there was no term time for Milly, and, moreover, Joan -had moved into her mother's room. Milly complained that if Joan was -there she lay awake trying not to cough, and that this choked her. She -said, truthfully enough, that she had had a room to herself at Alexandra -House for so long now that anyone in the next bed made her nervous, -because she couldn't help listening to their breathing. -</p> -<p> -This change was not for the better so far as Joan was concerned, for -Mrs. Ogden had become abnormally pervading in her bedroom since her -husband's death. During his lifetime he had been the one to dominate -this apartment as he had dominated the rest of the house; but now that -James was corporeally absent there remained only his memory, which took -up very little room; all the rest of the space was purely Mrs. Ogden, -and she filled it to overflowing. -</p> -<p> -Joan did not realize to what an extent her mother had spread until they -came to share a room. There was literally not an available inch for her -things anywhere. The drawers were full, the cupboards were full; on the -washstand was a fearsome array of medicine bottles which, together with -a quantity of unneeded trifles, overflowed on to the dressing-table. And -what was so disheartening was that Mrs. Ogden seemed incapable of making -the necessary adjustments. She was far from resenting Joan's invasion; -on the contrary, she liked having her daughter to sleep with her, and -yet each new suggestion that necessitated the scrapping or the putting -away of some of the odds and ends was met with resistance. "Oh! not -that, darling; that was given to me when I was a girl in India"; or, -"Joan, please don't move that lacquer box; I thought you knew that it -came from the drawing-room at Chesham." -</p> -<p> -Her years of widowhood had developed the acquisitive instinct in Mrs. -Ogden, who was fast becoming that terrible problem, the hoarder in the -small house. With no husband to ridicule her or protest, she was able to -indulge her mania for treasuring useless things. Joan discovered that -the shelves were full of them. Little empty bottles, boxes of various -size and shape, worn out hair-brushes, discarded garments, and even -threadbare bedroom slippers, all neatly wrapped up and put away against -some mythical day when they might be wanted, and all taking up an -incredible amount of space. In the end she decided that she would have -to let her own possessions remain where they were, in Milly's room. -</p> -<p> -Far more oppressive than lack of room, however, was the consciousness of -a continual presence. It seemed to Joan that her mother had begun to -haunt their bedroom. It was not only the exasperating performance of -communal dressing and undressing, but she was never able to have the -room to herself, even during the day; if she went upstairs for a few -minutes' solitude, her mother was sure to follow her, on some pretext or -another. -</p> -<p> -In spite of the hoarding instinct Mrs. Ogden was exaggeratedly tidy, and -spent a great deal of time in straightening up after her daughter, with -the result that the most necessary articles had a maddening way of -disappearing. Mrs. Ogden had the acute kind of eye to which a crooked -line is a torture; a picture a little out of the straight or a brush -askew on the table was all that was required to set her off. Once -launched, she fidgeted about the room, touching first this and then -that, drawing the curtains an inch more forward, fiddling with the -obdurate roller until the blind just skimmed the division in the sash -window, putting a mat straight with the toe of her slipper, or running -her fingers across the mantelpiece, which never failed to yield the -expected harvest of dust. Sharing a bedroom, Joan found herself doing a -hundred little odd jobs for her mother that she had never done before. -It was not that Mrs. Ogden asked to be waited on in so many words, but -she stood about and looked the request. Rather than endure this -plaintive, wandering glance, Joan sewed on the skirt braid or found the -lost handkerchief, or whatever else it happened to be at the moment. -</p> -<p> -But the long nights were the worst of all. Side by side, in a small -double bed, lay the mother and daughter in dreadful proximity. Their -bodies, tired and nervous after the day, were yet unable to avoid each -other. Mrs. Ogden's circulation being very bad she could never sleep -with less than four blankets and two hot-water bottles. The hot, rubbery -smell of these bottles and the misery of the small double bed, became -for Joan a symbol of all that Leaside stood for. She took to lying on -the extreme edge of the bed, more out than in, in order to escape from -the touch of her mother's flannel nightgown. But this precaution did not -always save her, for Mrs. Ogden, who got a sense of comfort from another -body beside her at night, would creep up close to her daughter. -</p> -<p> -"Hold my hand, darling; it's so cold." And Joan would take the groping -hand and warm it between her own until her mother dropped asleep; but -even then she dared not leave go, lest Mrs. Ogden should wake and begin -to talk. -</p> -<p> -Lying there uncomfortably in the thick darkness, with her mother's hand -held limply in her own, she would stare out in front of her with aching -eyes and think. During those wakeful hours her brain worked furiously, -her vision became appallingly clear and all-embracing. She reviewed her -short past and her probably long future; she seemed to stand outside -herself, a sympathetic spectator of Joan Ogden. When she slept she did -so fitfully and the sleep was not refreshing. She must hire a camp bed -she told herself over and over again, but where to put it when it came? -There was not a foot of unused space in the bedroom. She thought -seriously of flinging herself on Milly's mercy, and begging to be taken -back into their old room, but a sense of self-preservation stopped her. -She was certain, whatever the doctor said, that Milly's lungs were -diseased, and she did not want to catch consumption and probably die of -it. Queer that, for there was not much to live for in all conscience, -and yet she was quite sure that she did not want to die. -</p> -<p> -With the morning would usually come a gleam of hope; perhaps on that day -she would see Elizabeth, perhaps they would be as they had been, the -dreadful barrier of coldness having somehow disappeared in the night. -Sometimes she did see Elizabeth, it is true, but the barrier was still -there, and these meetings were empty and unfruitful. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap37"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HAT August Joan's worst fears were -justified, for Milly began to spit blood. Trying to play her violin one -morning she was overtaken by a fit of coughing; she pressed her -handkerchief to her mouth. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! Look, look, Joan, what is it? Oh, I'm frightened!" -</p> -<p> -They sent for Doctor Thomas, who ordered Milly to bed and examined her. -His face was grey when he looked up at Joan, and they left the room -together and went downstairs to Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"It's terribly sudden and quite unexpected," Doctor Thomas said. -</p> -<p> -"But I simply can't believe it," wailed Mrs. Ogden. "She comes of such -healthy stock, I simply can't believe it!" -</p> -<p> -"I'm afraid there is very little doubt, Mrs. Ogden; I myself have no -doubt. Still, we had better have a consultation." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden protested: "But blood may come from all sorts of places; her -stomach, her throat. She may even have bitten her tongue, poor child, -when she was coughing." -</p> -<p> -The doctor shook his head. "No," he said; "I'm afraid not; but I should -like to have a consultation at once, if you don't mind." -</p> -<p> -"I will not have a specialist in my house again," Mrs. Ogden repeated -for about the fiftieth time in the last few months. "It was your -specialist who killed my poor James!" -</p> -<p> -The doctor looked helplessly at Joan, and she saw fear in his old eyes. -She felt certain that he was conscious of having made a terrible -mistake, and was asking her dumbly to forgive, and to help him. His -mouth worked a little as he took off his dimmed glasses to polish them. -</p> -<p> -"No one knows how this grieves me," he said unsteadily. "Why, I've known -her since she was a baby." -</p> -<p> -From the depth of her heart Joan pitied him. "The lungs may have gone -very suddenly," she said. -</p> -<p> -He looked at her gratefully. "And what about a consultation?" he asked -with more confidence. -</p> -<p> -Joan turned to her mother. "There must be one," she told her. -</p> -<p> -"But not a specialist. Oh, please, not a specialist," implored Mrs. -Ogden. "You don't know what a horror I have of them!" -</p> -<p> -"There's a colleague of mine down here, Doctor Jennings. I'd like to -call him in, Mrs. Ogden, if you won't get a London man; but I'm afraid -he can't say any more than I have." -</p> -<p> -"Is he a specialist?" inquired Mrs. Ogden suspiciously. -</p> -<p> -"No, oh no, just a general practitioner, but a very able young man." -</p> -<p> -Joan nodded. "Bring him this afternoon," she said. -</p> -<p> -The doctors arrived together about three o'clock. Joan, sitting in the -dining-room, heard their peremptory ring and ran to open the door. She -felt as though she were in a kind of dream; only half conscious of what -was going on around her. In the dream she found herself shaking hands -with Doctor Jennings, and then following him and Doctor Thomas upstairs. -Doctor Jennings was young and clean and smelt a little of some -disinfectant; it was not an unpleasant smell, rather the reverse, she -thought. Milly looked up with wide, frightened eyes, from her pillow as -they entered; Joan took her hand and kissed it. Doctor Jennings, who -seemed very kind, smiled reassuringly at the patient while making his -exhaustive examination, but once outside the bedroom his smile died -away. -</p> -<p> -"I should like a few minutes alone with Doctor Thomas," he said. -</p> -<p> -Joan took them into the dining-room and left them. She began pacing up -and down outside in the hall, listening vaguely to the murmur of their -lowered voices. Presently Doctor Thomas looked out. -</p> -<p> -"Will you and your mother please come in now." -</p> -<p> -She went slowly into the drawing-room and fetched her mother; Mrs. Ogden -looked up with a frightened face and clung to her arm. -</p> -<p> -"What do they say?" she demanded in a loud whisper. -</p> -<p> -The two doctors were standing by the window. "Please sit down, Mrs. -Ogden," said Doctor Jennings, pushing forward a chair. -</p> -<p> -It was all over very soon and the doctors had left. They were completely -agreed, it seemed; Milly's lungs were already far gone and there was -practically no hope. Doctor Jennings would have liked to send her to -Davos Platz, but she was not strong enough to take the journey, and in -any case he seemed doubtful as to whether it was not too late. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -So Milly was dying. Joan's eyes were dry while her mother sobbed quietly -in her chair. Milly was dying, going away, going away from Seabourne for -ever and ever. Milly was dying, Milly might very soon be dead. Her brain -cleared; she began to remember little incidents in their childhood, -little quarrels, little escapades. Milly had broken a breakfast-cup one -day and had not owned up; Milly had cried over her sums and had -sometimes been cheeky to Elizabeth. Milly was dying. Where <i>was</i> -Elizabeth, why wasn't she here? She must find her at once and tell her -that Milly was going to die, that Milly was as good as dead already. -Elizabeth would be sorry; she had never really liked Milly, still, she -would begin to like her now out of pity—people did that when someone -was dying. -</p> -<p> -She got up. "I'm going to the Rodneys'," she said. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! don't leave me, don't leave me now, Joan," wailed Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"I must for a little while; try to stop crying, dearest, and go up to -Milly. But bathe your eyes first, though; she oughtn't to see them -looking red." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden walked feebly to the door; she looked old and pinched, she -looked more than her age. -</p> -<p> -"Don't be long," she implored. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -In the street, Joan saw one or two people she knew, and crossed over, in -order to avoid them. It was hot and the sea glared fearfully; she could -feel the sun beating down on her head, and putting up her hand found -that she was hatless. She quickened her steps. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth was upstairs sorting clothes, they lay in little heaps on the -bed and chairs; she looked up as Joan came in. -</p> -<p> -"I'm thinking of having a jumble sale," she said, and then stopped. -</p> -<p> -Joan sat down on a pile of nightgowns. "It's Milly—they say she's -dying." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth caught her breath. "What <i>do</i> you mean, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -Joan told her all there was to tell, from the blood on the handkerchief -that morning to the consultation in the afternoon. Elizabeth listened in -shocked silence. -</p> -<p> -At last she said: "It's awful, simply awful—and you were right all -along." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I knew it; I don't know how." -</p> -<p> -"Joan, make your mother let me help to do the nursing; I'm not a bad -nurse, at least I don't think I am, and after all I'd be better than a -stranger, for the child knows me." -</p> -<p> -"They say she may live for some little time yet, but they can't be sure, -she may die very soon. Are you quite certain you want to help, -Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth stared at her. So it had come to this: Joan was not sure that -she would want to help in this extremity, was capable of supposing that -she could stand aside while Joan took the whole burden on her own -shoulders. Good God! how far apart they had drifted. -</p> -<p> -"I shall come to Leaside and begin to-morrow," was all she said. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -Seabourne was genuinely shocked at the news. Of course they had all been -saying for months past that Milly was consumptive, but somehow this was -different, entirely different. People vied with each other in kindness -to the Ogdens, touched by Milly's youth and Mrs. Ogden's new grief. -Friends, and even mere acquaintances, inquired daily, at first; their -perpetual bell-ringing jangled through the house, tearing at the nerves -of the overstrained inmates. Still, all these people meant so well, one -had to remember that. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop of Blumfield wrote a long letter of sympathy and -encouragement, and Aunt Ann sent three woolly bed jackets that she had -knitted herself. Richard wrote his usual brief epistle to Joan, but it -was very kind; and Lawrence came to Leaside once a week, loaded like a -pack mule with practical gifts from Mrs. Benson. -</p> -<p> -Milly, thin and flushed in her bed upstairs, was pleased at the -attention she was receiving. She knew now that she was very ill and at -times spoke about dying, but Joan doubted whether she ever realized how -near death she was, for on her good days she would begin making -elaborate plans for the future, and scheming to get back to the College -as soon as possible. -</p> -<p> -She died in November after a violent hæmorrhage that came on suddenly -in the middle of the night. Beyond the terror of that hæmorrhage there -was nothing fearful in Milly's passing; she slept herself into the next -world with her cheek against the pillow, and even after she was dead -they still thought that she was sleeping. -</p> -<p> -She was buried in the local cemetery, near her father. There were -countless wreaths and crosses and a big chrysanthemum cushion with "Rest -in Peace" straggling across it in violets, from the students of -Alexandra House. A good many people cried over Milly's death, -principally because she had been so pretty and had died so young. -Seabourne was shocked and depressed over it all; it seemed like a -reproach to the place, the going out of this bright young creature. They -remembered how talented she had been, how much they had admired her -playing, and began telling each other anecdotes that they had heard -about her childhood. But Joan could not cry; her heart was full of -bitterness and resentment. -</p> -<p> -"She broke away," she thought. "Milly broke away, but only for a time; -Seabourne got her in the end, as it gets us all!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap38"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">M</span>ILLY'S death had aged Mrs. Ogden; she did -not speak of it on every occasion as she had of her widowhood, but -seemed rather to shrink from any mention of the subject, even by Joan. -The sudden, awful climax of an illness which she had persisted in -regarding lightly; the emergence of the horrid family skeleton of -disease in one of her own children, the fact that Milly had died so -young and that she had never been able to love her as she loved Joan, -all combined to make an indelible impression which she bore plainly on -her face. People said with that uncompromising truthfulness which is apt -to accompany sympathy: "Poor thing, she does look old, and she used to -be such a pretty woman; she's got no trace of that now, poor soul." And -it was true; her soft hair had lost its gloss and begun to thin; her -eyes, once so charmingly brown and pathetic, were paler in colour and -smaller by reason of the puffiness beneath them. She stooped a little -and her figure was no longer so girlish; there was a vague spread about -it, although she was still thin. -</p> -<p> -Her religion gripped her more firmly than ever, and Father Cuthbert was -now a constant visitor at Leaside. He and his "daughter," as he called -Mrs. Ogden, were often closeted together for a long time, and perhaps he -was able to console her, for she seemed less unhappy after these visits. -Joan watched this religious fervour with even greater misgivings than -she had had before; the fasting and praying increased alarmingly, but -she could not now find it in her heart to interfere. She wished that her -mother would talk about Milly; about her illness and death, or even -bring herself to take an interest in the selection of the tombstone. She -felt that anything would be better than this stony silence. But the -selection of the tombstone was left to Joan, for Mrs. Ogden cried -bitterly when it was mentioned. -</p> -<p> -Joan could not pretend that Milly had formed an essential part of her -life; in their childhood there had been no love lost between them, and -although there had been a certain amount of affection later on, it had -never been very strong. Yet for all this, she mourned her sister; the -instinct of protection that had chained her to Milly in her last illness -was badly shocked and outraged. That Milly's poor little fight for -self-expression should have ended as it had done, in failure and death, -seemed to her both cruel and unjust. She could not shake off a sense of -indignation against the Power that so ruthlessly allowed these things to -happen; she felt as though something had given her a rude mental shove, -from which she found it difficult to regain her balance. -</p> -<p> -Prayer with Joan had always been extemporary, indulged in at irregular -intervals, as the spirit moved her. But in the past she had been capable -of praying fervently at times, with a childlike confidence that Someone -was listening; now she did not pray at all, because she had nothing to -say. -</p> -<p> -She missed Milly's presence about the house disproportionately, -considering how little that presence had meant when it was there. The -place felt empty when she remembered that her sister would never come -home again for holidays, would never again lie chattering far into the -night about the foolish trifles that had interested her. She had often -been frankly bored with Milly in the past, but now she wished with all -her heart that Milly were back again to bore her; back again to litter -up their room with the rubbish that always collected around her, and -above all back again to play so wonderfully on her inferior violin. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Their joint nursing of Milly in her last illness had gone far to draw -Joan and Elizabeth closer once more. Elizabeth had been splendidly -devoted, splendidly capable, as she always was; she seemed to have -softened. For three months after Milly's death they forbore to discuss -their plans, and when, in the end, Elizabeth broached the subject, she -was gentle and reasonable, and seemed anxious not to hurry Joan. -</p> -<p> -But Joan ached to get away; to leave the house and never set foot inside -it again, to leave Seabourne and try to forget that such a place -existed, to blot out the memory of Milly's tragedy, in action and hard -work. She began to read furiously for Cambridge. A terror possessed her -that she had let herself get too rusty, and she tormented Elizabeth with -nervous doubts and fears. She lost all self-confidence and worked badly -in consequence, but persisted with dogged determination. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth laughed at her. She knew that she was worrying herself -needlessly, and told her so; and as they gradually resumed their hours -of study Joan's panic subsided. -</p> -<p> -At the end of another three months Joan spoke to her mother. -</p> -<p> -"Dearest, I want to talk about the future." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked up as though she did not understand. "What future?" -she asked. -</p> -<p> -"My future, your future. I want you to let me find you a tiny flat in -London. I know we've discussed this before, but we never came to any -conclusion, and now I think we must." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "Oh! no," she said. "I shall never leave here -now." -</p> -<p> -"Why not? This house will be much too big for you when you're alone." -</p> -<p> -"Alone?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes; when I go to Cambridge, as I want to do in the autumn." -</p> -<p> -There was a long silence. Mrs. Ogden dropped her sewing and looked at -her daughter steadily; and then: -</p> -<p> -"You really mean this, about Cambridge, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -Joan hesitated uncomfortably; she wished her mother would not adopt this -quiet tone, which was belied by the expression in her eyes. -</p> -<p> -"Well, if I don't go now, I shall never go at all. I'm nearly -twenty-four already," she temporized. -</p> -<p> -"So you are, nearly twenty-four. How time flies, dear." -</p> -<p> -"We're hedging," thought Joan. "I must get to the point." -</p> -<p> -"Look here, Mother," she said firmly. "I want to talk this out with you -and tell you all my plans; you have a right to know, and, besides, I -shall need your help. I want to take a scholarship at Cambridge in the -autumn, if I can. I shall only have my twenty-five pounds a year, I -know, because Milly's share you'll need for yourself, but Elizabeth has -some money put by, and she's offered to let me borrow from her until I -can earn something. I'm hoping that if it's not too late, I might manage -to hang out for a medical degree, but even if that's impossible I ought -to find some sort of work if I do well at college. And then there's -another thing." She hesitated for a moment but plunged on. "If you had a -tiny place of your own it would cost much less, as I've always told you. -Say just two or three comfortable rooms, for, of course, there wouldn't -be money enough for you to keep up a flat for the two of us; but that -wouldn't matter, because Elizabeth's got a flat of her own in London, -and could always put me up when I was there. If you were in London I -should feel so much happier about it all; I could look after you better, -don't you see? We could see so much more of each other; and then if you -were ill, or anything—and another thing is that you'd have a little -more money to spend. You could go and stay with people; you might even -be able to go abroad in the winter sometimes. Dearest, you do -understand, don't you?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was silent. She had turned rather pale, but when she spoke -her voice was quite gentle. -</p> -<p> -"I'm trying to understand, my dear," she said. "Let's see if I've got it -right. You say you mean to take your own money and go up to Cambridge in -the autumn. I suppose you'll stay there the usual time, and then -continue your studies at a hospital or some place; that's what they do, -don't they? Some day you hope to become a doctor, or if that fails to -find some other paid work, in order to be free to live away from me. You -mean to break up our home, if you can, and to take me to London as a -peace offering to your conscience, and when I'm there you hope to have -the time to run in and see me occasionally. I'm right, aren't I; it -would be only occasionally? For between your work and Elizabeth your -time would be pretty well taken up." -</p> -<p> -Joan made a sound of protest. -</p> -<p> -"No, don't interrupt me," said her mother quietly; "I'm trying to show -you that I understand. Well, now, what does it all mean? It seems to me -that it means just this: I've lost your father, I've lost your sister, -and now I'm to lose you. Well, Joan, I'm not an old woman yet, so I -can't plead age as an excuse for my timidity, and what would be my awful -loneliness; but Milly's death has shaken me very much, and I'm afraid, -yes, afraid to live in a strange place by myself. You may think I'm a -coward; well, perhaps I am, but the fact remains that what friends I -have are in Seabourne, and I don't feel that I can begin all over again -now. Then there's the money; if you take your money out of the home, -little as it is, I shall find it difficult to make ends meet. I'm not a -good manager—I never have been—and without you"—her voice -trembled—"without you, my dear, I don't see how I should get on at -all. But what's the good of talking; your mind's made up. Joan," she said -with sudden violence, "do you know how much you are to me? What parting -from you will mean?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Joan desperately, "you won't be parting from me -really; you'd have to let me go if I were a son, or if I -married—well, that's all I'm asking, just to be treated like -that." -</p> -<p> -Mrs Ogden smiled. "Yes, but you're Joan and not a son, and you're not -married yet, you see, and that makes all the difference." -</p> -<p> -"Then you won't come to London?" -</p> -<p> -"No, Joan, I won't leave this house. I have very sacred memories here -and I won't leave them." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, please try to see my side! I can't give up what's all the -world to me; I can't go on living in Seabourne and never doing anything -worth while all the rest of my life; you've no right to ask it of me!" -</p> -<p> -"I don't ask it of you; I've some pride. Take your money and go whenever -you like; go to Elizabeth. I shall stay on here alone." -</p> -<p> -"Mother, I can't go while you feel like this about it, and if I take my -money and I'm not here to manage you can't stay on in this house; it's -impossible, when every penny counts, as it does with us. Won't you think -it over, for my sake? Won't you promise to think it over for, say, three -months? I needn't go to London until some time in August. Mother, -<i>please</i>! Mother, you must know that I love you, that I've always -loved you dearly ever since I was a little girl, only now I want my own -life; I want work, I want——" -</p> -<p> -"You want Elizabeth," said Mrs. Ogden gently. "You want to live with -Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -Joan was silent. It was true, she did want to live with Elizabeth; she -wanted her companionship, her understanding, her help in work and play; -all that she stood for of freedom and endeavour. Only with Elizabeth -could she hope to make good, to break once and for all the chains that -bound her to the old life. If she lived with her mother she would never -get free; it was good-bye to a career, even a humble one. -</p> -<p> -She knew that in her vacations she would want leisure for reading, but -she could visualize what would happen when Mrs. Ogden had had time, -during her absence, to store up a million trifling duties against her -return. She could picture the hundred and one small impediments that -would be thrown, consciously or unconsciously, in her way, if she did -succeed in getting work. And above all she had a clear vision of the -everlasting silent protest that would be so much more unendurable than -words; the aggrieved atmosphere that would surround her. -</p> -<p> -"Mother," she said firmly, "it's true, I must live with Elizabeth if I'm -ever to make good. If you won't consent to coming to London I shall have -to go somehow, just the same, but I shan't go until about the middle of -August, and I want you to think it over in the meantime." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden got up. "I think we've talked long enough," she said. "In any -case, I have; I feel very tired." And going slowly to the door she left -the room. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Joan sat and stared at the floor. It had been quite fruitless, as it had -been in the past; she and her mother could never meet on the ground of -mutual understanding and tolerance. Then why did they love each other? -Why that added fetter? -</p> -<p> -The discussion that evening had held some new features. Her mother's -calmness, for one thing; she had been nonplussed by it, not expecting -it. Her mother had told her to take her money and go whenever she -pleased; yes, but go how? What her mother gave with one hand she took -away with the other. If she left her now it would be with the haunting -knowledge of having left a woman who either would not or could not adapt -herself to the changed circumstances; who would harbour a grievance to -the end of her days. Her mother's very devotion was a weapon turned -ruthlessly against her daughter, capable of robbing her of all peace of -mind. This would be a bad beginning for strenuous work; and yet her -mother had undoubtedly some right on her side. She had lost her husband, -and she had lost Milly, and even supposing that neither of them had -represented to her what Joan did, still death, when it came, was always -terrible. And the talk, the gossip there would be! Everyone in Seabourne -would pity her for having such an unnatural daughter; they would lift -their eyebrows and purse their lips. "Very strange, a most peculiar -young woman." Oh, yes, all Seabourne would be scandalized if she left -home, especially at such a time. She would be thought utterly callous -and odd; a kind of heartless freak. -</p> -<p> -Then there had been the subterfuge about her staying occasionally with -Elizabeth. She had said, in a voice that she had tried to make casual: -"Elizabeth has a flat of her own in London, and she could always put me -up when I was there." That had been a lie, pure and simple, because she -was a coward when it came to hurting people. She had tried to cloak her -real purpose, and her mother had seen through her with humiliating ease. -It was true enough that Mrs. Ogden would have to economize, and would -find herself in a better position to cope with the changed circumstances -if she took a flat just big enough for herself; but was that her only -motive for not wanting her mother to have a spare bedroom? She knew that -it was not. She despised herself for having descended to lies. Was she -becoming a liar? The answer was not far to seek; she had lied not only -to save her mother pain, but because she had not had the courage to say -straight out that she intended leaving her mother's home for that of -another woman. She had realized that in doing such a thing she was -embarking upon the unusual; this she had felt the moment she came to -putting her intention into words, and she had funked the confession. -</p> -<p> -She stopped to consider this aspect carefully. It was <i>unusual</i>, and -because it was unusual she had been embarrassed; a hitherto unsuspected -respect for convention had assailed her. She had never heard of any girl -of her acquaintance taking such a step, now that she came to think of -it. It was quite a common thing for men to share rooms with a friend, -and, of course, girls left home when they married. When they married. -Ah! that was the point, that was what made all the difference, as her -mother had pointed out. If she had been able to say: "I'm going to marry -Richard in August," even although the separation would still have been -there, she doubted whether, in the end, her mother would really have -offered any strenuous opposition. Pain she would have felt; she -remembered the scene with her mother that day long ago, when Richard had -proposed to her, but it would have been quite a different sort of pain; -there would have been less bitterness in the thought, because marriage -had the weight of centuries of custom behind it. -</p> -<p> -Centuries of custom, centuries of precedent! They pressed, they crushed, -they suffocated. If you gave in to them you might venture to hope to -live somehow, but if you opposed them you broke yourself to pieces -against their iron flanks. She saw it all; it was not her fault, it was -not her mother's fault. They were just two poor straws being asked to -swim against the current of that monster tyrant: "the usual thing!" -</p> -<p> -She got up and walked feverishly about the room. They <i>must</i> swim -against the current; it was ridiculous, preposterous that because she -did not marry she should be forced to live a crippled existence. What -real difference could it possibly make to her mother's loneliness if her -daughter shared a flat with Elizabeth instead of with a husband? No -difference at all, except in precedent. Then it was only by submitting -to precedent that you could be free? What she was proposing seemed cruel -now, even to herself; and why? Because it was not softened and toned -down by precedent, not wreathed in romance as the world understood -romance. "Good God!" she thought bitterly, "can there be no development -of individuality in this world without hurting oneself or someone else?" -She clenched her fists. "I don't care, I don't care! I've a right to my -life, and I shall go in August. I defy precedent. I'm Joan Ogden, a law -unto myself, and I mean to prove it." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap39"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">E</span>LIZABETH'S attitude towards the new -decision to leave Seabourne made Joan uneasy. Elizabeth said nothing at -all, merely nodding her head. Joan thought that she was worried and -unhappy about something, but tried in vain to find out the reason. -</p> -<p> -They worked on steadily together; but she began to miss the old -enthusiasm that had made of Elizabeth the perfect teacher. Now she was -dull and dispirited, even a little abstracted at times. It was clear -that her mind was not in their work. Was it because she doubted their -going to London in August? If Elizabeth began to weaken seriously, Joan -felt that all must indeed be lost. She needed support and encouragement, -as never before, now that she had taken the plunge and told her mother -definitely for the last time that she meant to break away. She felt that -with Elizabeth's whole-hearted support she could manage somehow to stand -out against the odds, but if she was not to be believed in, if Elizabeth -lost faith in her, then she doubted her own strength to carry things -through. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth," she said, with a note of fear in her voice, "you feel quite -certain that we shall go?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth looked up from the book she was reading. "I don't know, Joan." -</p> -<p> -"But I've told Mother definitely that I intend to go in August." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I know you have." -</p> -<p> -"But you're doubtful? You think I shall go back on you again?" -</p> -<p> -"You won't mean to do that, but so many things happen, don't they? I -think I'm getting superstitious." -</p> -<p> -"Nothing is going to happen this time," said Joan, in a voice which she -tried vainly to make firm. "I'm not the weak sort of thing that you seem -to think me, and in August I go to London!" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth took her hand and held it. "I could weep over you!" she said. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The days were slipping by. It was now June and Mrs. Ogden still -persisted in her refusal to leave Seabourne. On this point Joan found -herself up against an opposition stronger than any she had had to meet -before. Gently but firmly, her mother stuck to her decision. -</p> -<p> -"You go, my dear," she said constantly now. "You go, and God bless you -and take care of you, my Joan." She seemed to be all gentleness and -resignation. "After all, I'm not as young as I was, and I'm dull and -tiresome, I know." -</p> -<p> -She had grown thinner in the past few weeks, and her stoop was more -pronounced. Joan knew that she must be sleeping badly, for she could -hear her moving about her room well into the small hours. Her appetite, -always poor, appeared to fail completely. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! Mother, do try to eat something. Are you ill?" -</p> -<p> -"No, no, my dear, of course not, but I don't feel very hungry." -</p> -<p> -"Mother, I must know; is your head worrying you again?" -</p> -<p> -"I didn't say it was; what makes you ask?" -</p> -<p> -"Because you sit pressing it with your hand so often. Does it ache?" -</p> -<p> -"A little, but it's nothing at all; don't worry, darling; go on with -your studying." -</p> -<p> -Joan often discovered her now crying quietly by herself, but as she came -in her mother would make as though to whisk the tears away. -</p> -<p> -"Mother, you're crying!" -</p> -<p> -"No, I'm not, dearest; my eyes are a little weak, that's all." -</p> -<p> -Towards Elizabeth she appeared to have changed even more completely. Now -she was always urging her to come to meals. "You'll want to talk things -over with Joan," she would say. "Please stop to lunch to-day, Elizabeth; -you two must have a thousand plans to discuss." -</p> -<p> -She spoke quite openly to Elizabeth about Joan's chances of taking a -scholarship at Cambridge, and what their life together would be in -London. She sighed very often, it is true, and sometimes her eyes would -fill with tears, but when this happened she would smile bravely. "Don't -take any notice of me, Elizabeth; I'm just a foolish old woman." -</p> -<p> -Joan's heart ached with misery. This new, submissive, gentle mother was -like the pathetic figure of her childhood; a creature difficult to -resist, and still more difficult to coerce. Something so utterly -helpless that it called up all the chivalry and protectiveness of which -her nature was capable. -</p> -<p> -She found a little parcel on her dressing-table one evening containing -six knitted ties and a note, which said: "For my Joan to wear at -Cambridge. I knitted them when I couldn't sleep." Joan laid down her -head and cried bitterly. -</p> -<p> -In so many little ways her mother was showing thought for her. She found -her going through her clothes one day. "Mother, what on earth are you -doing?" -</p> -<p> -"Just looking over your things, dearest. I see you'll need new stockings -and a new hat or two. Oh! and, Joan, do you really think these vests are -warm enough? I believe Cambridge is very damp." -</p> -<p> -She began to seek out Elizabeth, and whereas, before, she had contented -herself more or less with generalities regarding Cambridge and Joan's -life with her friend, she now appeared to want a detailed description of -everything. -</p> -<p> -"Elizabeth," she said one day, "come and sit here by me. I want you to -tell me all about your flat. Describe it to me, tell me what it looks -like, and then I can picture you two to myself after Joan's gone. Is it -sunny? Where is the flat? Isn't it somewhere near the Edgware Road?" -</p> -<p> -"In Bloomsbury," said Elizabeth rather shortly; then she saw that Joan -was listening, and added hastily: "Let me see, is it sunny? Yes, I think -it is, rather; it's a very tiny affair, you know." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, but big enough for you two, I expect; I wonder if I shall ever see -it." -</p> -<p> -"Of course you will, Mother," said Joan eagerly. "Why we expect you to -come up and stay with us; don't we, Elizabeth?" -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth assented, but Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "No, not that, my -dear, you won't want to be bothered with me; but it's a darling thought -of yours all the same. And now, Elizabeth, tell me all about Cambridge. -When I'm alone here in the evenings I shall want to be able to make -pictures of the place where my Joan is working." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth felt uncomfortable and suspicious; was Mrs. Ogden making a -fool of her, of them both? She tried to describe the town and then the -colleges, with the Backs running down to the river, but even to herself -her voice sounded hard and unsympathetic. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, dear, I'm afraid I've bored you," said Mrs. Ogden apologetically. -</p> -<p> -And Elizabeth, looking across at Joan, saw an angry light in her eyes. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -Mrs. Ogden gave the maid-servant notice, without consulting her -daughter, who knew nothing about it until the girl came to her to -protest. "The mistress has given me a month's notice, and I'm sure I -do no what I've done. It's a hard place and she's awful to please, but -I've done my best. I have indeed!" -</p> -<p> -Joan went in search of her mother. "Why on earth have you given Ellen -notice?" she demanded. "She's the best girl we've ever had." -</p> -<p> -"I know she is," said Mrs. Ogden, who was studying her bank book. -</p> -<p> -"Then why——?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, you see, darling, I shan't be able to afford a servant when -you've gone, so I thought it better to give her notice at once. Of -course I couldn't very well tell her why I was sending her away, could -I?" -</p> -<p> -Joan collapsed into a chair. "But, good heavens, Mother! You can't do -the housework. Surely with a little management you might have kept her -on; she only gets nineteen pounds a year!" -</p> -<p> -"Ah! but there's her food and washing," said Mrs. Ogden patiently. -</p> -<p> -"But what do you propose to do? You can't sweep floors and that sort of -thing; this is awful!" -</p> -<p> -"Now don't begin to worry, Joan. I shall be perfectly all right; I can -have a charwoman twice a week." -</p> -<p> -"But what about the cooking, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, that will be easy, darling; you know how little I eat." -</p> -<p> -Joan began walking about the room, a trick she had acquired lately when -worried. "It's impossible!" she protested. "You'll end by making -yourself very ill." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden got up and kissed her. "Do you think," she said softly, "that -I can't make sacrifices for my girl, when she demands them of me?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, I do beg of you to come to London! I know I could make you -comfortable there." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden drew herself away. "No, I can't do that," she said. "I've -lived here since you and Milly were little children, my husband died -here and so did your sister; you mustn't ask me to leave my memories, -Joan." -</p> -<p> -In July the servant left. "No, darling, don't do the housework for me; I -must learn to do things for myself," said her mother, as Joan was going -into the kitchen as a matter of course. -</p> -<p> -A period of chaos ensued. Mrs. Ogden struggled with brooms and -slop-pails as a mosquito might struggle with Cleopatra's Needle. The -food she prepared came out of tins, for the most part, and what was -fresh was spoilt before it reached the table. Their meals were -tragedies, and when on one occasion Joan's endurance gave out over a -particularly nasty stew, Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! and I did try so hard!" she sobbed. -</p> -<p> -Joan put her arms round her. "You poor darling," she comforted, "don't -cry; it's not so bad, really; only I don't see how I'm ever to leave -you." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes. "But you must leave me," she said steadily. -"I want you to go, since you've set your heart on it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I do believe you'll starve!" said Joan, between laughter and -tears. -</p> -<p> -Every evening Mrs. Ogden was worn out. She could not read, she could not -sew; whenever she tried her eyelids drooped and she had to give it up. -In the end she was forced to sit quietly with closed eyes. Joan, -watching her apprehensively from the other side of the lamp, would feel -her heart tighten. -</p> -<p> -"Mother, go to bed; you're tired to death." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, darling, I'll sit up with you; I shall have plenty of evenings -to go to bed early when you've gone." -</p> -<p> -Not content, apparently, with moderate hours of work, Mrs. Ogden bought -an alarm clock. The first that Joan knew of this instrument of torture -was when it woke her with a fearful start at six-thirty one morning. She -could not exactly locate whence the sound came, but rushed instinctively -into her mother's room. -</p> -<p> -"What is it? Are you ill? What was that bell?" she panted. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden, already out of bed, pointed triumphantly to the alarm. "I -had to get it to wake me up," she explained. -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear mother, it's only half-past six; you can't get up at this -hour!" -</p> -<p> -"There's the kitchen fire to light, darling, and I want you to have a -really hot bath by half-past seven." -</p> -<p> -Joan groaned. "Go back to bed at once," she ordered, giving her a gentle -push. "I'll light the kitchen fire; this is ridiculous!" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -It was the middle of July; only a few weeks more and then freedom. -"Freedom, freedom, freedom!" repeated Joan to herself in a kind of -desperation. "I'm going to be free at last." But something in her shrank -and weakened. "No, no," she thought in terror. "I will leave her; I -<i>must</i>." -</p> -<p> -She sought Elizabeth out for comfort. "Only a few weeks now, Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, only a few weeks now," repeated Elizabeth flatly. They went on -with their plans with quiet stubbornness. They spent a day in London -buying their furniture on the hire system; the selection was not very -varied, but they could not afford to go elsewhere. They chose fumed oak -for the most part, and blue-grey curtains with art carpets to match -them. Their greatest extravagance was a large roomy bookcase. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "Think of it; this is for our books, yours and mine." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth smiled and pressed her hand. "Are you happy, my dear?" she -asked doubtfully. -</p> -<p> -Joan flared up. "What a ridiculous question to ask; but perhaps you're -not happy?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, don't!" said Elizabeth, turning away. -</p> -<p> -They had tea in the restaurant of the "Furniture Emporium," tepid Indian -tea and stale pound cake. -</p> -<p> -"Ugh!" said Joan disgustedly, as she tried to drink the mixture. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it's undrinkable," Elizabeth agreed. -</p> -<p> -They paid for the meal which they had left untouched, and catching a -bus, went to the station. -</p> -<p> -On their way home in the train they sat silent. They were very tired, -but it was not that which made speech difficult, but rather the sense of -deep disappointment oppressing them both. No, it had not been at all -like they had expected, this choosing of the furniture for their home -together; something intangible had spoilt it all. "It was my fault," -Joan thought miserably. "It was all my fault. I meant to be happy, I -wanted to be, but I wasn't a bit—and Elizabeth saw it." -</p> -<p> -When they said "Good night" at the Rodneys' house they clung to each -other for a moment in silence. -</p> -<p> -"Go. Oh, do go!" said Elizabeth brokenly, and Joan went with drooping -head. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap40"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">I</span>T had come. Joan lay awake and realized -that this was her last night in Seabourne. She got up and lit the gas. -Her eyes roved round the familiar bedroom; there was Milly's -bed—they had not had it moved after her death, and there was the -old white wardrobe and the dressing-table, and the crazy arm-chair off -which she and Milly had torn the caster when they were children. The -caster had never been replaced. "How like Seabourne," she thought, -smiling ruefully. "Casters never get themselves replaced here; nothing -does." -</p> -<p> -She looked at her new trunk, already locked and strapped; it had been a -present from her mother, and her name, "Joan Ogden," was painted across -its top in white block letters. "I thought it safer to put the full -name," her mother had said. -</p> -<p> -The blind flapped and the gas flame blew sideways; it was windy, and the -thud of the sea on shingles came in and seemed to fill the room. "I am -happy!" she told herself; "I'm very happy." -</p> -<p> -How brave her mother had been that evening; she had smiled and talked -just as though nothing unusual were about to happen, but oh! how -miserably tired she had looked, and ill. Was she going to be ill? Joan's -heart seemed to stop beating; suppose her mother should get ill all -alone in the house! She had never thought of that before, but of course -she would be alone every night, now that she had sent away the servant. -What was to be done? It was dangerous, terribly dangerous for a woman of -that age to sleep alone in the house. She pulled herself up sharply; oh, -well, she would speak to her in the morning and tell her that she must -have a maid. Of course it was all nonsense; she must afford one. But -what about to-morrow night? She couldn't get a servant by that time. -Never mind; nothing was likely to happen in one or two nights. No, but -it might be weeks before she found a maid; what was to be done? -</p> -<p> -If her mother got ill, would she telegraph for her? Yes, of course; and -yet how could she if she were alone in the house? "Oh, stop, stop!" -cried Joan aloud to herself. "Stop all this, I tell you!" She had an -overwhelming desire to rush into her mother's room on the instant, and -wake her up, just to see that she was alive, but she controlled herself. -"Perhaps she's crying," she thought, and started towards the door. "No," -she said resolutely, "I will not go in and see her!" -</p> -<p> -She began to think of Elizabeth too; of her face when they had said -good-bye that afternoon. "Don't be late in calling for me," she had -cautioned, and Elizabeth had answered: "I shan't be late, Joan." What -was it that she fancied she had seen in Elizabeth's eyes and heard in -her voice? Not anger, certainly, and not actually tears; but something -new, something rather dreadful, a sort of entreaty. She shuddered. Oh, -why could there never be any real happiness for Joan Ogden, never any -real fulfilment, never any joy that was quite without blemish? She felt -that her unlucky star shed its beams over everyone with whom she came in -contact, everyone she loved; those beams had touched Elizabeth and -scorched her. Yet how much she loved Elizabeth; she would have laid down -her life to save her pain. But she loved her mother too, not quite in -the same way, but deeply, very deeply. She knew this, now that she was -about to leave her; she had always known it, of course, but now that -their parting was near at hand the fact seemed to blaze forth with -renewed force. She began thinking about love in the abstract. Love was -jealous of being divided; it did not admit of your really loving more -than one creature at a time. She remembered vaguely having thought this -before, years ago. Yet in her case this could not be true, for she loved -them both, terribly, desperately, and yet could not serve them both. No, -she could not serve them both, but she had chosen. -</p> -<p> -She lay down on her bed again and buried her face in the pillow. "Oh, -Elizabeth," she whispered, "I will come, I will be faithful, I swear I -will." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -They breakfasted at Leaside at eight o'clock, for Joan's train left at -ten-thirty. At ten o'clock Elizabeth would arrive with the fly. Joan -could not swallow. -</p> -<p> -"Eat something, my darling," said Mrs. Ogden tenderly. She looked as -though she had been crying all night, her eyes were red and swollen, but -she smiled bravely whenever she saw her daughter's glance turned in her -direction. -</p> -<p> -She refused to give in about not sleeping alone. "Nonsense," she said -brusquely, when Joan implored, "I shall be all right; don't be silly, -darling." -</p> -<p> -But she did not look as though she would be all right, and Joan searched -her brain desperately for some new scheme, but found none. What was she -to do? And in less than two hours now she would be gone. Throwing her -arms round her mother's neck she dropped her head on her shoulder. -</p> -<p> -"I can't leave you like this," she said desperately. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden's tears began to fall. "But you must leave me, Joan; I want -you to go." -</p> -<p> -They clung together, forlorn and miserable. -</p> -<p> -"You will write, Mother, very often?" -</p> -<p> -"Very often, my Joan, and you must too." -</p> -<p> -"Every day," Joan promised. "Every day." -</p> -<p> -She went up to her room and began to pack her bag, but, contrary to -custom, Mrs. Ogden did not follow her. At a quarter to ten she came -downstairs; her mother was nowhere to be seen. -</p> -<p> -"Mother!" she called anxiously, "where are you?" -</p> -<p> -"In my room, darling," came the answer from behind a closed door. "I'll -be down in a minute; you wait where you are." -</p> -<p> -Joan wandered about the drawing-room. It had changed very little in all -these years; the wallpaper was the same, though faded now, there were -the same pink curtains and chairs, all shabby and reflecting the fallen -family fortunes. The turquoise blue tiles in the grate alone remained -startlingly bright and aggressive. The engraving of Admiral Sir William -Routledge looked down on her as if with interest; she wondered if he -were pleased or angry at the step his descendant was about to take; -perhaps, as he had been a man of action, he was pleased. "'Nelson's -Darling' ought at least to admire my courage!" she thought ruefully, and -turned her back on him. She sat down in the Nelson arm-chair. -</p> -<p> -Nelson's chair, how her mother had treasured it, how she did still; her -poor little mother. Joan patted the extended arms with tender hands, and -rested her head wearily where Nelson's head was said to have rested. -"Good-bye," she murmured, with a lump in her throat. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -She began to feel anxious about her mother. It was five minutes to ten; -what on earth was she doing? In another five minutes Elizabeth would -come with the fly. Her mother had told her to wait in the drawing-room, -but she could not wait much longer, she must go and find her. At that -moment the door opened quietly and Mrs. Ogden came in. She was all in -grey; a soft, pearly grey, the colour of doves' feathers. Her hair was -carefully piled, high on her head, and blended in softness and shine -with the grey of her dress; she must have bathed her eyes, for they -looked bright again and almost young. She came forward, stretching out -her arms. -</p> -<p> -Joan sprang up. "Mother! It's—why it's the old dress, the same dress -you wore years ago on our last Anniversary Day. Oh! I remember it so -well; that's the dress that made you look like a grey dove, I remember -thinking that." The outstretched arms folded round her. "What made you -put it on to-day?" she faltered, "it makes you look so pretty!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden stroked her cheek. "I wanted you to remember me like this," -she whispered. "And, Joan, this is Anniversary Day." -</p> -<p> -Joan started. "So it is," she stammered, "and I had forgotten." -</p> -<p> -The door-bell clanged loudly. "Let the charwoman answer it." said Mrs. -Ogden, "she's here this morning." -</p> -<p> -They heard the front door open and close. -</p> -<p> -"Joan!" came Elizabeth's voice from the hall. "Joan!" -</p> -<p> -No one answered, and in a moment or two Elizabeth had come into the -room. Joan and her mother were standing hand in hand, like two children. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth said sharply: "Joan, we shall miss the train, are you ready?" -</p> -<p> -Joan let go of Mrs. Ogden's hand and stepped forward; she was deadly -pale and her eyes shone feverishly. When she spoke her voice sounded -dry, like autumn leaves crushed under foot. -</p> -<p> -"I'm not coming, Elizabeth; I can't leave her." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth made a little inarticulate sound in her throat: "Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"I'm not coming, Elizabeth, I can't leave her." -</p> -<p> -"Joan, for the last time I ask you: Will you come with me?" -</p> -<p> -"No!" said Joan breathlessly. "No, I can't." -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth turned without another word and left the room and the house. -Joan heard the door clang dully after her, and the sound of wheels that -grew fainter and fainter as the fly lumbered away. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>4</h4> - -<p> -The queer days succeeded each other like phantoms. Looking back on the -week which elapsed between Elizabeth's going and her last letter, Joan -found that she could remember very little of that time, or of the days -that followed. She moved about, ate her food, got up and went to bed in -a kind of stupor, broken by moments of dreadful lucidity. -</p> -<p> -On the sixth day came the letter in the familiar handwriting. The paper -bore no address, only the date, "August, 1901;" a London postmark was on -the envelope. -</p> -<p> -Elizabeth wrote: -</p> -<blockquote><p> -JOAN, -</p> -<p> -I knew that you would never come to me, I think I have known it in my -heart for a long time. But I must have been a proud and stubborn woman, -for I would not admit my failure until the very last. I had a hundred -things to keep hope alive in me; your splendid brain, your longing to -free yourself from Seabourne and what it stands for, the strength of all -the youth in you, and then the love I thought you had for me. Yes, I -counted a great deal on that, perhaps because I judged it by my love for -you. I was wrong, you see, your love did not hold, it was not strong -enough to give you your liberty; or was it that you were too strong to -take it? I don't know. -</p> -<p> -Joan, I shall never come back, I cannot come back. I must go away from -you, tear you out of me, forget you. You have had too much of me -already. Oh! far too much! But now I have taken it back, all, all; for I -will not go into my new life incomplete. -</p> -<p> -I wonder if you have ever realized what my life at Seabourne has been? -So unendurable at times that but for you I think I should have ended it. -The long, long days with their dreadful monotony, three hundred and -sixty-five of them in every year; and then the long, long years! -</p> -<p> -I used to go home from Leaside in the evening, and sit in the study with -Ralph and Uncle John's portrait, and feel as if tight fingers were -squeezing my throat; as if I were being suffocated under the awful plush -folds of the curtains. I used to have the horrible idea that Seabourne -had somehow become a living, embodied entity, of which Ralph and Old -Uncle John and the plush curtains and the smell of mildew that always -hung about Ralph's books, all formed a terrifying part. Then I used to -look at myself in the glass when I got up every morning, and count the -lines on my face one by one, and realize that my youth was slipping past -me; with every one of those three hundred and sixty-five days a little -less of it remained, a little more went into the toothless jaws of -Seabourne. -</p> -<p> -Joan, I too have had my ambition, I too once meant to make good. When I -first came to take care of Ralph's house, I never intended to stay for -more than a year at most. I meant to go to London and be a journalist if -they'd have me; in any case I meant to work, out in the real world, the -world that has passed Seabourne by, long ago. -</p> -<p> -Then I saw you, an overgrown colt of a child, all legs and arms. I began -to teach you, and gradually, very gradually, you became Seabourne's -ally. You never knew it, but at moments I did; you were helping the -place to hold me. My interest in you, in your personality, your unusual -ability; the joy it was to teach you, and later the deep love I felt for -you, all chained me to Leaside. My very desire to uproot you and drag -you away was only another snare that held me to the life I detested. Do -you remember how I tried to break free, that time, and failed? It was -you who pulled me back, through my love for you. Yes, even my love for -you was used by Seabourne to secure its victim. -</p> -<p> -I grew older year by year, and saw my chances slipping from me; and I -often felt older than I was, life at Seabourne made me feel old. I -realized that I was only half a being, that there were experiences I had -never had, fulfilments I had never known, joys and sorrows which many a -poor devil of a charwoman could have taught me about. I felt stunted and -coerced, checked at the very roots of me, hungry for my birthright. -</p> -<p> -But as time went on I managed to dam up the torrent, till it flowed away -from its natural course; it flowed out to you, Joan. Then it was that my -desire to help forward a brilliant pupil, grew, little by little, into -an absorbing passion. I became a monoïdeist, with you as the idea. I -lived for you, for your work, your success; I lived in you, in your -present, in your future, which I told myself would be my future too. Oh! -my dear, how I built on you; and I thought I had dug the foundations so -deep that no waves or tempests could destroy them. -</p> -<p> -Then, five days ago, the house fell down; it crashed about my ears, it -stunned me. All I knew then was that I must escape from the ruin or let -myself be crushed to death; all I know now is that I must never see that -ruin again. -</p> -<p> -Joan, I will not even go near enough to our disaster to ask you what you -are going to do. Why should I ask? I already know the answer. You must -forget me, as I must forget you. I don't understand the way of things, -they seem to me to be cruelly badly managed at the source; but perhaps -Someone or Something is wise, after all, as they would have us believe. -No, I don't mean that, I can't feel like that—resigned; not yet. -</p> -<p> -By the time this letter reaches you I shall be married to Lawrence -Benson. Do I love him? No, not at all; I like him and I suppose I -respect him, but he is the last person on earth that I could love. I -have told him all this and he still wants to marry me. We shall leave -very soon for South Africa, where his bank is opening new branches. Oh! -Joan, and you will be in Seabourne; the injustice of it! You see I am -hovering still in the vicinity of my ruin, but I shall get clear, never -doubt it. -</p> -<p> -Do not try to see me before I go, I have purposely given no address, and -Ralph has been asked not to give it either 3 and do not write to me. I -want to forget. -</p> -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">ELIZABETH.</p></blockquote> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="BOOK_V"><i>BOOK V</i></a></h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap41"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-ONE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE new town band played every Thursday -afternoon in the new skating-rink in the High Street. The band was not -really new and neither was the skating-rink, both having come into -existence about twelve months after Milly Ogden's death, which made them -almost nineteen years old. But by those who remembered the days when -these and similar innovations had not existed, they were always spoken -of as "New." -</p> -<p> -The old residents of Seabourne, those that were left of them, mourned -openly the time when the town had been really select. They looked -askance at the dancing couples who gyrated round the rink with strange -clingings and undulatings. But in spite of being shocked, as they -genuinely were, they occasionally showed their disapproving faces at the -rink on Thursday afternoons; it was a warm place to sit in and have tea -during the winter and early spring months, and in addition to this they -derived a sense of superiority from criticizing the unseemly behaviour -of the new generation. -</p> -<p> -"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Ogden, as a couple more blatant than usual -performed a sort of Nautch dance under her nose, "all I can say is, I'm -glad I'm old!" -</p> -<p> -Joan smiled. "Yes, we're not so young as we were," she said. -</p> -<p> -Her mother protested irritably. "I do <i>wish</i> you would stop talking as -though you were a hundred, Joan, it's so ridiculous; I sometimes think -you do it to aggravate me, you don't look a day over thirty." -</p> -<p> -"Well, never mind, darling, look at that girl over there, she's dancing -rather prettily." -</p> -<p> -"I'm glad you think so; personally, I can't see anything pretty about -it. Of course, if you like to tell everyone your age I suppose you must; -only the other day I heard you expatiating on the subject to Major -Boyle. But, considering you know I particularly dislike it, I think you -might stop." -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed. "Here comes the tea, Mother." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I see it. Oh, don't put the milk in first, darling! Well, never -mind, as you've done it. Major Boyle doesn't go about telling His age, -vain old man, but he's sure not to miss an opportunity now of telling -everyone yours." -</p> -<p> -"Have you got your Saxin, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, here it is, in my bag; no, it's not. Oh dear, I do hope I haven't -lost my silver box, just see if you can find it." -</p> -<p> -Joan took the bag and thrust in her hand. "Here it is," she said. -</p> -<p> -"Good gracious!" sighed Mrs. Ogden, "I'm growing as blind as a bat; it's -an awful thing to lose your eyesight. No, but seriously, darling, do -stop telling people your age." -</p> -<p> -"I will if you mind so much, Mother. But everyone we know doesn't need -to be told, if they think it out, and the new people aren't interested -in us or our ages, so what can it matter?" -</p> -<p> -"It matters very much to me, as I've told you." -</p> -<p> -"All right, then, I'll try and remember. How old do you want me to be?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden took offence at the levity in her daughter's tone and the -rest of the meal passed in comparative silence. At last Joan paid for -the tea and they got up to go. She helped her mother with her wrap. -</p> -<p> -"My fur's gone under the table," said Mrs. Ogden, looking vague. -</p> -<p> -Joan dived and retrieved the worn mink collar. "Your gloves, Mother!" -she reminded. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden glanced first at the table and then at the chair, with a -worried eye. "What <i>have</i> I done with my gloves?" she said -unhappily, "I really believe there's a demon who hides my things." She -screwed up her eyes and peered about; her hand strayed casually into the -pocket of her wrap. "Ah! here they are!" she cried, "I knew I'd put them -somewhere." -</p> -<p> -Immediate problems being satisfactorily solved, Joan jerked herself into -her own coat; a green freize ulster with astrachan cloth at the neck and -sleeves. As she did so her soft felt hat tilted itself a little back on -her head. It was the sort of hat that continually begs forgiveness for -its wearer, by saying in so many words: "I'm not really odd or unusual, -observe my feminine touches!" If the hat had been crushed down in the -middle it might have looked more daring and been passably becoming, but -Joan lacked the courage for this, and wore the crown extended to its -full height. If it had been brown or black or grey it might have looked -like its male prototype, and been less at variance with its wearer's no -longer fresh complexion and angular face, but instead it was pastel -blue. Above all, if it had not had the absurd bunch of jaunty feathers, -shaped like an interrogation mark, thrust into its band, it might have -presented a less abject appearance, and been less of a shouted apology -for the short grey hair beneath it. -</p> -<p> -They were ready at last. Mrs. Ogden had her bag, her umbrella, her fur -and two parcels, all safely disposed about her person. She took her -daughter's arm for guidance as they threaded through the labyrinth of -tea-tables; if she would have put on her glasses this would not have -been necessary, but in one respect she refused to submit to the tyranny -of old age; she would never wear spectacles in public except for -reading. -</p> -<p> -A cold March wind swept round the corners of the High Street. "Put your -fur over your mouth, Mother, this wind is deadly," Joan cautioned. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden obeyed, and the homeward walk was continued in silence. Joan -opened the door with a latch-key and turned up the gas in the hall. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed anxiously, "who left that landing window -open?" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden disengaged her mouth. "Helen!" she called loudly, "Helen!" -She waited and then called again, this time at the kitchen door, but -there was no reply. "She's gone out without permission again, Joan; I -suppose it's that cinema!" -</p> -<p> -"Never mind, dearest, you go and sit down, I'll shut the window myself. -It seems to me that one's got to put up with all their ways since the -war; if you don't, they just walk out." -</p> -<p> -She shut the window, bolted it, and returning to the hall collected her -mother's coat and hat, then she went upstairs. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Her head ached badly, as it did pretty often these days. She put away -Mrs. Ogden's things and passed on to her own room. Taking off her heavy -coat, she hung it up neatly, being careful not to shut the door of the -cupboard until she was sure that the coat could not be crushed; then she -took off her hat, brushed it, and put it in a cardboard box under the -bed. -</p> -<p> -The room had changed very little since the time when she and Milly had -shared it. There was the same white furniture, only more chipped and -yellower, the same Brussels carpet, only more patternless and -threadbare. The walls had been repapered once and the paint touched up, -after Milly's death, but beyond this, all had remained as it was. Joan -went to the dressing-table and combed her thick grey hair; she had given -up parting it on one side now and wore it brushed straight back from her -face. -</p> -<p> -She looked at her reflection in the glass and laughed quietly. "Poor -Mother," she said under her breath. "Does she really think I don't look -my age?" -</p> -<p> -To the casual observer she looked about forty-eight, in reality she was -forty-three. Her grey eyes still seemed young at times, but their colour -had faded and so had their expression of intelligent curiosity. The eyes -that had once asked so many questions of life, now looked dull and -uninterested. Her cheeks had grown somewhat angular, and the clear -pallor of her skin had thickened a little; it no longer suggested good -health. In all her face only the mouth remained as a memory of what Joan -had been. Her mouth had neither hardened nor weakened, the lips still -retained their youthful texture and remained beautiful in their -modelling. And because this mouth was so startlingly young and fresh, -with its strong, white teeth, it served all the more to bring into -relief the deterioration of the rest of her face. Her figure was as slim -as it had been at twenty-four, but now she stooped a little at times, -because her back hurt her; she thought it must be rheumatism, and -worried about it disproportionately. -</p> -<p> -She had taken to thinking a great deal about her health lately, not -because she wanted to, but rather because she was constantly assailed by -small, annoying symptoms, all different and all equally unpleasant. Her -legs ached at night after she got to bed, and feeling them one evening -she discovered that the veins were swollen; at times they became acutely -painful. She seldom got up now refreshed by sound sleep, there was no -joy in waking in the mornings; on the contrary, she had grown to dread -the pulling up of the blind, because her eyes felt sensitive, especially -after the night. -</p> -<p> -Her mentality was gradually changing too, and her brain was littered -with little things. Trifles annoyed her, small cares preoccupied her, -the getting beyond them was too much of an effort. She could no longer -force her unwilling brain to action, any mental exertion tired her. She -had long since ceased to care for study in any form, even serious books -wearied her; if she read now it was novels of the lightest kind, and she -really preferred magazines. -</p> -<p> -Her mind, when not occupied with her own health or her mother's, was -beginning to find relaxation in things that she would have once utterly -despised; Seabourne gossip, not always kind; local excitements, such as -the opening of a new hotel or the coming of a London touring company to -the theatre. Her interests were narrowing down into a small circle, she -was beginning to find herself incapable of feeling much excitement over -anything that took place even as far away as the next town. At moments -she was startled when she remembered herself as she had once been, -startled and ashamed and horribly sad; but a headache or a threatened -cold, or the feeling of general unfitness that so often beset her, was -enough to turn her mind from introspection and send her flying to her -medicine cupboard. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was her principal preoccupation. They quarrelled often and -seldom thought alike; but the patience that had characterized Joan's -youth remained with her still; she was good to her mother in spite of -everything. For the first few years of their life alone together, Joan -had rebelled at times like a mad thing. Those had been terrible years -and she had set herself to forget them, with a fair amount of success. -Mrs. Ogden had become a habit now, and quite automatically Joan fetched -and carried, and rubbed her chest and gave her her medicine; it was all -in the day's work, one did it, like everything else in Seabourne, -because it seemed the right thing and there was nothing else to do. -</p> -<p> -If there had been people who could have formed a link with her youth, -she might more easily have retained a part of her old self; but there -was only her mother, who had always been the opposing force; nearly -everyone else who belonged to that by-gone period had either left -Seabourne or died. She seldom met a familiar face in the street, a face -wherewith to conjure up some vivid memory, or even regret. Admiral -Bourne had been dead for fifteen years, and Glory Point had fallen into -decay; it stood empty and neglected, a prey to the winds and waves that -it had once so gallantly defied. No one wanted the admiral's ship-house, -neither the distant cousin who had inherited it, nor the prospective -tenants who came down from London to view. It was too fanciful, too -queer, and proved on closer inspection to be very inconvenient, or so -people said. -</p> -<p> -General Brooke had gone to meet his old antagonist Colonel Ogden, and -Ralph Rodney had died of pleurisy, during the war. The Bensons had sold -Conway House to a profiteer grocer, and had moved to London. Richard, -who had written at intervals for one or two years after Elizabeth's -marriage, had long since ceased to write altogether. His last letter had -been unhappy and resentful, and now Joan did not know where he was. Sir -Robert and Lady Loo spent most of their time out of England, on account -of her health, and were seldom if ever, seen by the Ogdens. -</p> -<p> -Seabourne was changing; changing, yet always the same. The war had -touched it in passing, as the Memorial Cross in the market-place -testified; but in spite of world-wide convulsions, dreadful deeds in -Belgium and France, air raids in London and bombardments on the coast, -Seabourne had remained placid and had never lost its head. Immune from -bombs and shells by reason of its smug position, it had known little -more of the war than it gathered from its daily papers and the advent of -food tickets. Even the grip of the speculative post-war builder seemed -powerless to make it gasp. He came, he went, leaving in his wake a trail -of horrid toadstool growths which were known as the new suburb of -"Shingle Park." But few strangers came to live in these blatant little -houses; they were bought up at once by the local tradespeople, who moved -from inconvenient rooms over their shops to more inconvenient villas -outside the town. -</p> -<p> -Yes, any change that there was in Seabourne was more apparent than real; -and yet for Joan there remained very little to remind her of her youth, -beyond the same dull streets, the same dull shops and the same monotony, -which she now dreaded to break. In her bedroom was one drawer which she -always kept locked, it contained the books that she and Elizabeth had -pored over together. She had put them away eighteen years ago, and had -never had the courage to look at them since, but she wore the key of -that drawer on a chain round her neck; it was the only token of her past -that she permitted to intrude itself. -</p> -<p> -There was no one to be intimate with, for people like the Ogdens; Mrs. -Ogden refused to admit the upstarts to her friendship. Stiff-necked and -Routledge as ever, she repulsed their advances and Joan cared too little -to oppose her. Father Cuthbert and a few oldish women, members of the -congregation, were practically the only visitors at Leaside. Mrs. Ogden -liked to talk over parish affairs with them, the more so as she was -treated with deep respect, almost amounting to reverence, by the -faithful Father Cuthbert, who never forgot that she had been one of his -first supporters. -</p> -<p> -With time, Joan, his old antagonist, had begun to weaken, and now she -too took a hand in the church work. She consented to join the Altar -Society, and developed quite a talent for arranging the flowers in their -stiff brass vases. The flowers in themselves gave her pleasure, -appealing to what was left of her sense of the beautiful. Someone had to -take Mrs. Ogden to church, she was too feeble to go alone; so the task -fell to Joan, as a matter of course. She would push her mother in a -light wicker bath chair which they had bought secondhand, or on very -special occasions drive with her in a fly. Also as a matter of course -she now took part in the services, neither impressed nor the reverse, -but remaining purely neutral. She followed the easiest path these days, -and did most things rather than make the necessary effort to resist. -After all, what did it matter, one church was as good as another, she -supposed. She was not quite dishonest in her attitude towards Ritualism, -neither was she strictly honest; it was only that the combative -instincts of youth had battered themselves to death in her; now she felt -no very strong emotions, and did not want to. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap42"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-TWO -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE poor of Seabourne were really -non-existent; but since certain types of religiously-minded people are -not happy unless they find some class beneath them on whom to lavish -unwelcome care, the churches of each denomination, and of these there -were at least four, invented deserving poor for themselves and visited -them strenuously. Of all the pastors in the little town, Father Cuthbert -was the most energetic. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden was particularly interested in this branch of church work. -District visiting had come to her as second nature; she had found -immense satisfaction and a salve to her pride in patronizing people who -could not retaliate. But lately her failing health made the long walks -impossible, so that she was reduced to sitting at home and thinking out -schemes whereby the humbler members of the congregation might be coerced -into doing something that they did not want to. -</p> -<p> -She looked up from her paper one morning with triumph in her eye. "I -knew it would come!" she remarked complacently. -</p> -<p> -"What would come?" Joan inquired. -</p> -<p> -She did not feel that she cared very much just then if the Day of -Judgment itself were at hand; but long experience had taught her that -silence was apt to make her mother more loquacious than an assumption of -interest. -</p> -<p> -"The influenza; I knew it would come! There are three cases in -Seabourne." -</p> -<p> -"Well, what of it?" said Joan, yawning. "The world's very much -over-populated; I'm sure Seabourne is." -</p> -<p> -"My dear, don't be callous, and it's the pneumonic kind; I believe those -Germans are still spreading microbes." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, nonsense!" said Joan irritably. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden went over to her bureau and began rummaging in a drawer; at -last she found what she was looking for. "These worsted vests must go to -the Robinsons to-day," she declared. "That eldest girl of theirs must -put one on at once; with her tendency to bronchitis, she's an absolute -candidate for influenza." -</p> -<p> -Joan made a sound of impatience. "But, Mother, you know the girl hates -having wool next her skin; she says it makes her itch; she'll never wear -them." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, but she <i>must</i>; you'll have to see her mother and tell her I sent -you; it's nonsense about wool making the skin irritate." -</p> -<p> -"I don't agree with you; lots of people can't wear it. I can't myself, -and, besides, the Robinsons don't want our charity." -</p> -<p> -"The poor always need charity, my dear." -</p> -<p> -"But they're not poor; they're probably better off than we are, or they -ought to be, considering what that family earned during the war." -</p> -<p> -"I can't help what they earned in war-time, Joan; they're poor enough -now; everyone is, with all the unemployment." -</p> -<p> -"I daresay, only they don't happen to be unemployed." -</p> -<p> -"I expect they will be soon," said Mrs. Ogden with ghoulish optimism. -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed; this task of thrusting herself on people who did not want -her was one of the trials of life. For many years she had refused to be -a district visitor, but lately this too had been one of the duties that -her mother's increasing age imposed upon her. Mrs. Ogden worried herself -ill if she thought that her share in this all-important work was being -neglected, so Joan had given in. -</p> -<p> -She stretched out her hand for the vests. "How they must hate us," she -said thoughtfully. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden took off her spectacles. "They? Who?" -</p> -<p> -"Only the poor Poor." -</p> -<p> -"You are a strange girl, Joan. I don't understand half the time what -you're talking about, and I don't think you do yourself." -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps not!" Joan's voice was rather sharp; she wished her mother -would not speak of her as a "girl," it was ridiculous and embarrassing. -At times this and equally trifling irritations made her feel as though -she could scream. "Give me the idiotic things!" she said angrily, -snatching up the vests; "I'll take them, if you make me, but they'll -only throw them away." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden appeared not to hear her; she had become slightly deaf in one -ear lately, a fact which she had quickly discovered could be used to her -own advantage. -</p> -<p> -"Bring in some muffins for tea, darling," she called after Joan's -retreating figure. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Joan strode along the esplanade on her way to the Robinsons' cottage. -Anger lent vigour to her every movement; she felt almost young again -under its stimulus. This useless errand on which she had been sent! Just -as though the Robinsons didn't know how to dress themselves. The eldest -girl, about whom her mother was so anxious, wore far smarter clothes at -church than Joan could afford, and, in any case, why should the poor -thing be doomed to a perpetual rash because Mrs. Ogden wanted a peg on -which to hang her charity? -</p> -<p> -She walked with head bent to the wind; it looked like rain and she had -forgotten her umbrella. Suppose that storm-cloud over there should -break, she'd be drenched to the skin, and that would be bad for her -rheumatism. At the thought of her rheumatism her back began to ache a -little. All this trouble and risk of getting wet through was being taken -for people who would probably laugh at her the moment she was safely out -of their house. Of course the knitted vests would either be given to the -dustman or thrown away immediately. Now the gale began to absorb all her -attention; it was increasing every minute. She had some ado to hold her -hat on. Her anger gave place to feelings of misery and discomfort, -physical discomfort which filled her whole horizon. She forgot for the -moment the irritation she had felt with her mother; almost forgot the -errand on which she was bent, and was conscious only that the wind was -bitter and that she felt terribly tired. -</p> -<p> -She came at last to the ugly little street where the Robinson family -lived. She always dreaded this street; it was so full of children. Their -impudent eyes followed her as she walked, and they tittered audibly. She -rang the bell. She had not meant to pull it so hard, and was appalled at -the clanging that followed. After a pause she could hear steps coming -down the passage. -</p> -<p> -"No need to pull the 'ouse down when you ring, I should 'ope," said a -loud voice. -</p> -<p> -The door was flung open. "Now then——" Mrs. Robinson was -beginning truculently, when she saw who it was and stopped. -</p> -<p> -Joan felt that she could not face it. Mrs. Robinson was composing her -countenance into the sly Sunday expression. -</p> -<p> -"Some vests; they're from my mother!" she said hurriedly, and thrusting -the parcel into the woman's hands, she fled down the steps. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -There was no rain after all, and that was a great relief. Going home -with the wind behind her she had time to remember again that she was -angry. She would tell Father Cuthbert once and for all that he must find -another district visitor. She was not going to trudge about all over -Seabourne, ministering to people who disliked her, helping Father -Cuthbert to make them more hypocritical than they were already. -</p> -<p> -By the time she arrived at Leaside, however, apathy was uppermost again; -what was the good of having a row? What did it matter after all? What -really mattered most at the moment was that she wanted a cup of strong -tea and a fire to get warm by. She would have to invent a suitable -interview with Mrs. Robinson; anything for peace! -</p> -<p> -"Did you get the muffins, darling?" came Mrs. Ogden's voice from the -dining-room. -</p> -<p> -Joan stood still in the hall and pressed her hand to her head with a -gesture almost tragic. She had forgotten the muffins! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap43"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-THREE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Ogdens took their annual holiday in -May, in order to avoid the high prices of the summer season. For a full -month prior to their departure, a feeling of unrest always possessed -them. The numbers of things, real and imaginary, that had to be settled -before they could leave for Lynton, in North Devon, augmented year by -year, until they had arrived at dimensions that only a prolonged visit -to Kamchatka or Zanzibar could possibly excuse. Joan found that as the -years went on she was beginning to subscribe more and more to her -mother's fussiness; even beginning to acquire certain fussinesses of her -own. Sometimes the realization of this made her pause. "I never used to -care so much about trifles," she would think. But she found it almost -impossible to stop caring. She would lie awake at night going over in -her mind the obstacles to be overcome before they could leave Seabourne, -and would go to sleep finally with a weight on her brain. In the morning -she would wake wondering what unpleasant thing it was that hung over the -household. -</p> -<p> -This brief visit to Lynton generally caused much worry regarding -clothes. Everything seemed to be worn out at once, and the necessity for -replenishing scanty wardrobes was added to the financial strain of the -holiday. Mrs. Ogden had decided that rooms were both objectionable and -expensive, and that unless she could go to an hotel she would rather -stay at home. In some respects Joan was thankful for this decision; -constant quarrels with outspoken landladies had made her dread anything -in the nature of apartments. But the expense was considerable, for the -Bristol Hotel was not cheap, even though they took the smallest bedrooms -available, or, worse still, shared a tiny double room at the back of the -house. They pinched and screwed for this longed-for holiday during all -the rest of the year, and at times Joan wondered whether the respite of -three weeks at an hotel away from Seabourne was worth the anxiety that -it entailed; whether, when she was finally there, she was not too tired -to enjoy it. -</p> -<p> -As the month of departure drew near Mrs. Ogden was wont to develop an -abnormal activity of mind. All the things that might so easily have been -spread out over the preceding months seemed only to be remembered a few -weeks prior to going away, and what did not exist to be remembered she -invented. It would also have been more natural and orderly had wreaths -been taken to the cemetery on the anniversaries of her husband's and -Milly's deaths, but this was never done, and their graves were always -visited shortly before leaving for Lynton. -</p> -<p> -"I can't go away without seeing for myself that those cemetery people -are looking after things properly," was the explanation she gave. -</p> -<p> -A purely hypothetical army of moths was another cause of anxiety. Mrs. -Ogden never visualized anything less than a Biblical scourge of these -pests. "We shall have the carpets and blankets eaten to shreds if we're -not careful," she would prophesy. Bitter apple, naphthaline, even -pepper, was showered all over the house, and every article that could by -the wildest stretch of the imagination be supposed to tempt a moth's -appetite was wrapped in newspaper and put away weeks before the house -was left. It was not unusual for some muffler or golf-coat that might be -required at Lynton to go the way of all the rest, and when this happened -an irritating search would have to be made. -</p> -<p> -About this time a species of spring cleaning always took place. "You -can't put the china and glass away without washing it, Joan; unless the -place is left clean we shall be overrun with mice and black-beetles. I -will have things done properly!" Every picture was draped in newspaper, -every chair in dust sheets; curtains were taken down, rugs rolled up, -photographs and knick-knacks were put away in boxes. During this process -the servant occasionally gave notice at a date which would make her -departure fall due shortly after the Ogdens had left for their holiday. -When this happened the confusion was augmented by the necessity of -finding a caretaker, or at least someone who would see that the house -had been properly locked up. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -It was towards the end of April that Mrs. Ogden chose to visit her dead. -The day was kept as a kind of doleful festival, full of gloomy -excitement. Joan would unearth decent black for herself, and repair her -mother's widow's weeds, which were always resumed for the pilgrimage. -Little food would be eaten; there was scant time for meals, and, -besides, Mrs. Ogden had ordained a self-imposed fast. Usually the -wreaths would not arrive to the minute, and would have to be fetched -from the florist's. The fly was invariably late, and the servant would -be sent to make inquiries at the livery stable. Perhaps it would rain, -in which case waterproofs, goloshes and umbrellas were an additional -burden. And to cap all this, it was obviously unseemly to display -impatience at such a time, so that immense self-control was added to the -strain of already taut nerves. -</p> -<p> -This April everything seemed to have gone wrong. The florist had -arbitrarily raised his prices, and the wreaths were to cost half as much -again as they had in previous years. Mrs. Ogden considered his excuses -positively impertinent; she had not noticed the late frosts, the -abnormally dry weather, or, indeed, any of the disasters to which he -attributed the high price of flowers. In the end she had been obliged to -give in, but the incident had very much upset her, and she blamed this -upset for the cold on her chest which now kept her in bed when she -should have visited the cemetery. With the infantile stubbornness of the -old she had refused to abandon the idea of going until the last moment; -and had even got half through her dressing before Joan could persuade -her to go back to bed. This wilfulness of her mother's had delayed -everything, and the meals were not ordered or the canary cleaned and fed -by the time the fly arrived. -</p> -<p> -There had been a sharp shower, and Joan found to her dismay that the -wreaths, all wet and dripping, had been stood against the wallpaper in -the front hall. A little stain of dampness was making its appearance on -the carpet as well. She went to fetch a cloth from the scullery. As -usual, the window had been left open and on the sill sat a neighbour's -cat. -</p> -<p> -She spoke irritably. "How many times have I told you to shut this -window, Rose? That cat comes here after the canary." -</p> -<p> -She shut the window herself with a bang, and going back to the hall -dabbed at the wallpaper, but it was all too evident that the wet marks -meant to leave a stain. Sighing, she picked up the wreaths. The damp -moss soaked through her gloves. "Oh, damn!" she muttered under her -breath, forgetting in her irritation the solemnity of the occasion. She -took off her gloves, thrust them into her pocket, and putting the -wreaths into the cab got in after them. -</p> -<p> -"Where to, miss?" inquired the unimaginative driver. -</p> -<p> -"Cemetery!" snapped Joan. -</p> -<p> -What a fool the man must be. Did he think she was going to the -skating-rink or the pier, with a large grave wreath over each arm? -</p> -<p> -The cemetery lay a little beyond Shingle Park, and as they bumped along -through old Seabourne and out on to the unfinished road Joan glanced -casually out of the window. Her head felt heavy and her eyes ached. -"Ugly, very ugly!" she murmured absent-mindedly. The rough-cast shanties -grinned back defiance. Their walls were so thin that people who had -watched their erection declared that daylight had showed through the -bricks before the rough cast was applied. Their foundations were -non-existent, the woodwork of their front doors shamelessly unseasoned -and warping already in the damp sea air. They stood for everything that -was dishonest and unsound, and yet not one of them was empty. -</p> -<p> -The purchasers had begun to develop their front gardens, and several of -these were already making quite a good show of spring flowers. On either -side of the gritty ash paths jonquils and wall-flowers were growing -courageously. A sense of the pathetic stirred Joan's heart; everyone was -trying so hard to be happy, to make a place of enjoyment for themselves. -People had taken their savings to buy these homes; in the evenings they -worked in their tiny gardens, and in the mornings they looked out of -their windows with pride on the fruits of their labours. And all the -while these mean little houses were grinning in impish derision. They -knew the secrets of their shoddy construction, of their faulty walls and -shallow foundations; presently their owners would know them too. But in -the meantime the houses grinned. -</p> -<p> -A sudden anger roused Joan from her lethargy and she shook her fist at -them as she passed. "You hideous, untruthful monstrosities," she said -aloud, "I hate you!" -</p> -<p> -The fly drew up at the cemetery and she got out, a wreath in either -hand. She made her way to her father's grave and on it laid the wreath -of palm leaves with its meagre spray of lilies. Colonel Ogden's -tombstone was quite impressive. His wife had chosen it before she -realized the state of her future finances; a broken column in fine -Scottish granite and a flower-bed with granite kerb. Joan peered down at -this flower-bed suspiciously. Yes, just as she had expected, there were -weeds among the forget-me-nots; she must speak to the gardener. One had -to be after everyone these days, they were all so slack and dishonest. -She made a mental note of her complaint and turned to her sister's -grave. -</p> -<p> -Milly's resting-place testified to the fact that by the time she died -the state of the family fortunes had been all too well understood; a -small white cross and a plain grass mound marked the place where Milly's -fight had ended. Joan propped the wreath of narcissi against the foot of -the cross, and stood staring at the inscription. -</p> -<p class="center"> -MILDRED MARY OGDEN.<br /> -Died November 25th, 1900.<br /> -Aged 21 years.</p> - -<p> -How long ago it seemed; Milly had been dead for twenty years. If she -were alive now she would be forty-one. What would she be doing if she -were alive now? Assuredly not standing near her father's grave in -Seabourne; and yet, who could tell? Perhaps she, too, would have failed. -It was difficult to picture a Milly of forty-one. Would she have been -fat or thin? Would her hair have gone grey like her sister's? Joan -lingered over her imaginings, but failed to arrive at any satisfactory -conclusion. Perhaps Milly would have kept her looks better than she had; -a life such as her sister would have led might well have kept her young. -She tried to conjure up a clear vision of Milly as she had been. Brown -eyes, very soft golden hair that was inclined to curl naturally, rather -a sulky mouth at times and a short, straight nose—no, not quite -straight. Hadn't Milly's nose been a little tip-tilted? They had no -photograph of her when she was twenty-one; that was a pity. But what had -she looked like exactly? Joan went over her features one by one; it was -like sorting out bits of a jig-saw puzzle; when she began to put them -together there was always a slight misfit. Twenty years! it was a long -time. The memory of Milly had been gradually fading, and now she could -no longer be quite sure of her face, could no longer be perfectly -certain what her voice had sounded like. -</p> -<p> -She turned away from the grave with a sigh. Things might have been -different if her sister had lived: they might have helped each other; -but would they have done so? Perhaps, after all, Milly had chosen the -wiser part in dying young. Suppose she had failed to make a career? In -that case there might well have been three of them at Leaside instead of -two, and two people were enough to get on each other's nerves, surely. -She pulled herself up. "What's the good of going back?" she thought. -"If, if, if—it's all so futile! I'm not going to be morbid, in -addition to everything else." -</p> -<p> -She got into the cab. "Home!" she ordered peremptorily. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap44"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">J</span>OAN stared into her half-packed trunk with -a worried expression. If only she could know what the weather would be! -Should she take her flannel coat and skirt? Should she take any light -suits at all, or would it be enough if she only had warm things? -</p> -<p> -"Joan, I can't find my new bedroom slippers; I've looked everywhere. -Where have you put them?" came Mrs. Ogden's voice from across the -landing. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, do wait a minute, Mother! I'm trying to think out what to take; I -can't find your slippers for a minute or two." -</p> -<p> -There ensued an offended silence. Joan straightened her aching back and -sat down to consider. It might be hot at Lynton in May. It had been very -hot last year, but that was in the middle of a heat wave, whereas -now—still, on the whole, she had better take her grey flannel, it -wasn't a bulky thing to pack. She took a piece of paper from her pocket -and began to study a list. "Travel in brown tweed, <i>old coat and -skirt</i>, brown shoes and stockings and grey overcoat." What hat should -she leave out? Perhaps the old blue one; anything was good enough, it -was always a dirty journey. She referred to the list again. "Pack six -pairs stockings, three pairs gloves, four vests, three nightgowns, blue -serge suit, two pairs shoes, one pair slippers." She ticked the articles -off on her fingers one by one. Her mauve dinner dress was rather shabby, -she remembered, but that couldn't be helped; she must make out with a -black skirt and low-necked blouses, for a change. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, I can't lift my bag down from the top of the wardrobe; I do wish -you'd come here." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, all right," sighed Joan, getting up. -</p> -<p> -They had been packing for several days and yet nothing was finished; the -next morning they were to start at seven in order to catch the express -in London. -</p> -<p> -"Where's the medicine bag?" Joan asked anxiously. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I don't know; hasn't it been got out? I -suppose it's in the cupboard under the stairs." -</p> -<p> -They routed out the bag from its dusty lair and began to sort bottles. -"Joan, you must <i>not</i> go on taking that bromo-seltzer after what Major -Boyle told us." -</p> -<p> -"Of course I shall go on taking it; it's perfectly harmless." -</p> -<p> -"It's very far from harmless. Major Boyle says that he knows for a -fact——" -</p> -<p> -"I don't care a rap what Major Boyle thinks he knows," Joan interrupted -impatiently. "It's the only thing that does my head the least good, and -I'm going to take it." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I do wish you wouldn't; I'm sure it's very dangerous." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Mother, do leave me alone; I'm not a child, I can quite well look -after myself." -</p> -<p> -They squabbled for a little while over the bromo-seltzer, while the bag -grew gradually full to bursting. At last it was closed, but not without -an effort. -</p> -<p> -"Good gracious, here's the bird-seed left out!" Mrs. Ogden exclaimed, -producing a good-sized cocoa tin from the washstand cupboard. "And now -what's to be done?" -</p> -<p> -"It must go in a trunk," said Joan firmly. -</p> -<p> -"But suppose it upsets?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, it won't." -</p> -<p> -"Well, I don't know; it might." -</p> -<p> -"Then put it in the hold-all; it will be all right there." -</p> -<p> -"I can't understand why it can't go in the medicine bag; it always has -at other times," said Mrs. Ogden discontentedly. "And it's Bobbie's -special mixture; I can only get it at one place." -</p> -<p> -"Bobbie won't die, Mother, if he has to live for three weeks on Hyde's -or Spratt's or something; there's lots of seed at the grocers at Lynton, -I've often seen it." -</p> -<p> -But Mrs. Ogden persisted. "We must find room in the bag for it, my -dear." -</p> -<p> -"I will <i>not</i> unpack the whole of that bag for any bird," said Joan -untruthfully; if there had been the least necessity she would not only -have unpacked the bag but the entire luggage for Bobbie's sake. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -They got off at last, and were actually in the Barnstaple train; bags, -wraps, bird-cage and all. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden sighed contentedly. "The worst of the journey's over," she -declared. "It's that change in London I always dread." -</p> -<p> -Joan leant back in her corner and tried to sleep, but a flutter from the -cage at her side roused her. She bent down and half uncovered Bobbie, -who hopped to the bars and nibbled her finger. -</p> -<p> -"There, there, my pet," she murmured softly. -</p> -<p> -Bobbie burst into a loud song. "He likes the noise of the train," smiled -Mrs. Ogden, nodding her head. -</p> -<p> -They began to pet the bird. "Pretty Bob, pretty fellow!" -</p> -<p> -The canary loved them both, but Joan was his favourite; for her he would -do almost anything. He bathed while she held his bath in her hands, and -would dry himself on her short grey hair. At times Mrs. Ogden felt -jealous of these marks of esteem. "I'm a perfect slave to that bird," -she often complained, "and yet he won't come to me like that." -</p> -<p> -But her jealousy never got beyond an occasional grumble, the little -canary managed to avoid being a bone of contention; Bobbie was a mutual -tie, a veritable link of love between them. -</p> -<p> -At Barnstaple they changed again, and got into the small toy train that -wanders over the moors to Lynton. The sun was setting across the wide, -misty landscape, turning pools that the rain had left into molten gold, -sending streams of glory earthward from behind the banked-up -storm-clouds. Joan sat with Bobbie's cage on her knee; she might easily -have put it down beside her, there was room on the seat, but she liked -the nearness of the bird. She wished that he were big enough to take out -and hug. -</p> -<p> -A great peace possessed her, one of those mysterious waves of well-being -that came over her at times. "Feeling otherworldly," she described it to -herself. Mrs. Ogden was dozing, so there was no one to talk; the small -puffings and rumblings of the train alone broke the silence. She closed -her eyes in sensuous enjoyment. The little bird shook out his feathers -and cracked a seed, while the twilight deepened and the lamp flashed out -in the carriage. Joan sat on in a kind of blissful quiescence. "All is -as it should be," she thought dreamily, "and I know exactly why it is -so, only I can't quite find the words. Somewhere at the back of my mind -I know the why of everything." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -On the second afternoon after their arrival, Joan sat alone in the hall -of the hotel. Mrs. Ogden had gone to lie down; she had scarcely got over -the fatigue of the journey. Joan picked up a paper idly; she had no wish -to read the news, but since the paper was there she might as well glance -through it. Two young girls with bobbed hair and well-tailored clothes -had come on to the veranda from the garden. -</p> -<p> -One of them was in riding-breeches. They sat down with their backs to -the open window, through which their voices drifted. "Have you seen that -funny old thing with the short grey hair?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, you mean the one at lunch? Wasn't she killing? Why moire ribbon -instead of a proper necktie?" -</p> -<p> -"And why a pearl brooch across her stiff collar?" -</p> -<p> -"I believe she's what they used to call a 'New woman,'" said the girl in -breeches, with a low laugh. "Honey, she's a forerunner, that's what she -is, a kind of pioneer that's I got left behind. I believe she's the -beginning of things like me. Oh! hang it all, I've left my gloves in the -garden; come on, we must look for them." And they went down the steps -again. -</p> -<p> -Joan laid down the newspaper and stared after them. Of course they had -not known that she was there. "A forerunner, a kind of pioneer that's -got left behind." She shoved the hair back from her forehead. Yes, they -were right, that was what she had been, a kind of pioneer, and now she -had got left behind. She saw the truth of this all round her, in women -of the type that she had once been, that in a way she still was. Active, -aggressively intelligent women, not at all self-conscious in their -tailor-made clothes, not ashamed of their cropped hair; women who did -things well, important things; women who counted and who would go on -counting; smart, neatly put together women, looking like well-bred young -men. They might still be in the minority and yet they sprang up -everywhere; one saw them now even at Seabourne during the summer season. -They were particular about their clothes, in their own way; the boots -they wore were thick but well cut, their collars immaculate, their ties -carefully chosen. But she, Joan Ogden, was the forerunner who had -failed, the pioneer who had got left behind, the prophet who had feared -his own prophecies. These others had gone forward, some of them released -by the war, others who had always been free-lances, and if the world was -not quite ready for them yet, if they had to meet criticism and ridicule -and opposition, if they were not all as happy as they might be, still -they were at least brave, whereas she had been a coward, conquered by -circumstances. A funny old thing with grey hair, who wore moire ribbon -instead of a necktie and a brooch in the wrong place; yes, that was what -she had come to in twenty years. -</p> -<p> -She sprang up and hurried out of the hotel. On her way to the town she -unfastened the pearl brooch and hurled it into the bushes. It was twenty -minutes to six. She arrived at the shop she wanted just as they were -putting up the shutters. -</p> -<p> -"I'm not too late, am I?" she inquired breathlessly. -</p> -<p> -The clerk behind the counter reassured her. "You've just ten minutes, -madam." -</p> -<p> -"Then show me some stiff collars, the newest pattern." She chose half a -dozen hastily. "And now some neckties, please." -</p> -<p> -She made the best selection she could from the limited stock at her -disposal, and left the shop with her parcel under her arm. Half way up -the drive to the hotel, she stood still and stared incredulously at her -purchases; she had spent considerably over thirty shillings—she must -have gone mad! She walked on slowly with bent head. A pioneer that had -got left behind; what an impulsive fool she was! Pioneers that got left -behind didn't count; they were lost, utterly lost in the desert. How -could the young turn back for the old? In any case they didn't do it, -and one could not catch up with the young when one was forty-three. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap45"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">A</span>T the end of the pleasant hotel -dining-room sat a big, florid man, alone at a table. His reddish hair -was sprinkled with grey and so were the small side-whiskers he affected. -His large hands held a wine-card delicately, as though, used to some -work that necessitated extreme fineness of touch. His jaw was perhaps a -trifle too massive, his mouth a trifle too aggressive in expression, but -his eyes were eager and limpid, and his smile was frank and very kind. -</p> -<p> -He put down the wine-card and looked about him. His fellow guests -interested him, people always did. These people were like their -prototypes in every English hotel that he had ever been to; dull men -with duller wives, dreary examples of matrimonial stagnation. Dull sons -with dull fathers, dull daughters with dull mothers. The two girls with -bobbed hair sat together and chattered incessantly, but even they looked -commonplace in their evening dresses, which did not suit them or their -weather-stained necks and hands. -</p> -<p> -From his vantage-point, facing the swing doors, he could see the full -length of the room. Even the way people walked had a significance for -him; he was wont to say that you could read a person's whole life -history in the way they moved. As he looked towards the entrance, two -women came in; an old and very feeble lady wearing a white lace cap, and -a middle-aged woman with short, grey hair, who supported her companion -on her arm. In her disengaged hand she carried a white, fleecy shawl and -a bottle of medicine, while tucked away under her elbow was a box-shaped -thing that looked like a minute foot-warmer. The two women seated -themselves at a window table quite near the man. -</p> -<p> -"Open the window, dear," he heard the old lady say; "this room is -stuffy." -</p> -<p> -The younger woman did as she was asked, and he noticed that the window -seemed too heavy for her. They drank their soup in silence, but -presently the old lady shivered. "It's colder than I thought," she said -plaintively. "I think we'll have it shut, after all." -</p> -<p> -Her companion rose obediently and closed the window, then she put the -small box-shaped object under the other's feet. -</p> -<p> -"So it was a foot-warmer!" thought the man with some amusement. -</p> -<p> -He bent a little forward, the better to hear what they would say. "I'm -eavesdropping," he thought, "but they interest me." -</p> -<p> -"Won't you have your shawl on, Mother?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, perhaps I will. It's much colder here than it was last year." -</p> -<p> -The younger woman got up once more, this time to fold the shawl around -her mother's shoulders. -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Lord!" muttered the man impatiently, "will she never sit still?" -</p> -<p> -He looked attentively at the pair. "Gentle, tyrant mother," he told -himself, "and virgin daughter withering on her stem." But as he looked, -something in the short-haired woman's appearance arrested him. "It's a -fine face, even now," he thought, "and the mouth is positively -beautiful. I wonder why—I wonder how it happened. Who is it she -reminds me of?" -</p> -<p> -The woman turned her head and their eyes met; he thought she started and -looked more intently; at all events she turned to her mother and said -something in a low voice. In a second or two the old lady glanced at -him. -</p> -<p> -The man felt his heart tighten. Something in the face of this -short-haired woman and a certain gruff quality in her voice were -strangely familiar. Just then his attention was distracted, and when he -looked again the women's faces were turned away and they were speaking -in an undertone. The pair finished their dinner and left the room, while -he sat on stupidly, letting the years slip backwards. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -Presently he got up and walked to the door. He went out into the hall, -meaning to look at the hotel register. The hall was empty except for the -short-haired woman, who had apparently anticipated him, for she was -turning over the pages of the book. He came up quietly and looked over -her shoulder. Her finger was hovering near his own entry: "Sir Richard -Benson, Harley Street, London." -</p> -<p> -She saw him out of the corner of her eye. "I was looking you up," she -explained simply. -</p> -<p> -"So I see," he said and smiled. "May I look you up, too?" -</p> -<p> -She nodded and he turned back a page. "Mrs. and Miss Ogden, Seabourne," -he read aloud. -</p> -<p> -They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then: "Oh, Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"Richard!" -</p> -<p> -They clasped hands and laughed, then they clasped hands all over again -and laughed again too, but with tears in their eyes. -</p> -<p> -Presently he said: "After all these years, Joan, and to meet in a place -like this!" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, it's a long time, isn't it!" -</p> -<p> -"It's a lifetime," he replied gravely. -</p> -<p> -They went out on to the veranda. "Mother's going to bed," she told him. -"I can stay out here for twenty minutes." -</p> -<p> -"Why only twenty minutes, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Because I must go and read to her when she's undressed; she's still -rather sleepless after the journey." -</p> -<p> -He was silent. Then he said: "Well, tell me all about it, please; I want -to hear everything." -</p> -<p> -She smiled at the familiar words. "That won't take twenty minutes; I can -say it in less than two." -</p> -<p> -"Then say it," he commanded. -</p> -<p> -"I was bottled, after all," she told him with mock solemnity, but her -voice shook a little. -</p> -<p> -He took her hand and pressed it very gently. "I know that, my dear." -</p> -<p> -She said: "You stopped writing rather suddenly, I thought. Why was -that?" -</p> -<p> -He hesitated. "Well, you know, after Elizabeth's marriage and your -decision to throw up the sponge—you remember you wrote to me of -your decision, don't you?—— Well, after that I did write -occasionally, for a year or two, but then it all seemed so hopeless, and -I realized that you didn't mean to marry me, so I thought it best to let -you go. I had my work, Joan, and I tried to wipe you out; you were a -disturbing element." -</p> -<p> -She nodded. She could understand his not having wanted a distraction in -the days when he was making his career, she could even understand his -having dropped her; what interest could he have had in so disappointing -a life as hers? "And you, on the other hand, have made good?" she -queried, continuing her own train of thought. -</p> -<p> -He sighed. "Oh, yes, I suppose so; I'm considered a very successful man, -I believe." -</p> -<p> -It came to her as a shock that she ought to know something about this -very successful man, and that the mere fact that she knew nothing showed -how completely she had dropped away from all her old interests. -</p> -<p> -"Don't be angry, Richard," she said apologetically. "But please tell me -what you do. Did you specialize in nerves after all?" -</p> -<p> -He shook his head. "No, Joan, I specialized in brain; I'm a surgeon, my -dear." -</p> -<p> -"A great one, Richard?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't know; I'm fairly useful, I think." -</p> -<p> -His words roused a vague echo in her, something stirred feebly; the -ghost of by-gone enthusiasm, called from the grave by the mere proximity -of this man, so redolent of self-confidence and success. She moved -uneasily, conscious that her thoughts were straying backwards. -"Elizabeth——" she began, but checked herself, and at that -moment a porter came up. -</p> -<p> -"Please, miss, the lady in twenty-four says will you come up at once, -she's in bed." -</p> -<p> -"I must go; good-night, Richard." -</p> -<p> -"Wait a minute!" he said eagerly. "When shall I see you again?" -</p> -<p> -She hesitated. "I think I can get off for a walk at nine o'clock -to-morrow morning; Mother won't be getting up until about twelve." -</p> -<p> -"I shall be waiting here in the hall," he said. -</p> -<p> -When she was gone, he lit a cigar and went out into the night to think. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap46"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-SIX -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HE next morning Joan awoke with a feeling -of excitement; the moment she opened her eyes she knew that something -unusual had happened. She got up and dressed, more carefully than she -had done for many years past. She parted her hair on one side again. Why -not? It certainly looked neater parted. She was glad now that she had -bought those new collars and ties. She took an incredibly long time to -knot the tie satisfactorily and this dashed her a little. "My hand's -out," she thought, "and I used to tie a tie so well." She put on her -grey flannel suit, thinking as she did so that it was less frumpish in -cut than the others; then she crushed her soft felt hat into the shape -affected by the young women with bobbed hair, and was pleased with the -result. -</p> -<p> -Her mother was awake when she went into her room. -</p> -<p> -"My darling!" she exclaimed in a protesting voice, "what is the matter -with your hat! You've done something queer to the crown. And I don't -like that collar and tie, it's so mannish looking." -</p> -<p> -Joan ignored the criticism. "I'm going for a walk with Richard, Mother, -I'll be back in time to help you to dress at twelve o'clock." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked surprised. "Is he staying long?" she inquired. -</p> -<p> -"I don't know, I haven't asked him; but it'll be all right if I'm back -at twelve, won't it?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, yes, I suppose so. I was going to get up a little earlier this -morning, so as to get as much benefit from the air as possible; still, -never mind." -</p> -<p> -Joan hesitated; the long years of habit tugged at her, but suddenly her -mind was made up. -</p> -<p> -"I'll be back at twelve, darling, you'd better stay quiet until then." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -She hurried over her breakfast. Richard was waiting for her in the hall -and came forward as she left the dining-room. -</p> -<p> -"Ah! That's better," he said. -</p> -<p> -She looked at him questioningly. "What's better?" -</p> -<p> -"Why, you are. You look more like yourself this morning." -</p> -<p> -"Do I? It's only the clothes, I always look odd in the evening." -</p> -<p> -He looked amused. "Well, perhaps you do, a little," he admitted. -</p> -<p> -They strolled down the drive and through the gates into the little town. -The air was full of West Country softness, it smelt of brine and earth -and growing things. "If we keep straight on," she said, "we shall come -to the Valley of the Rocks." -</p> -<p> -"I don't care where we come to, my dear, as long as we get to a place -where we can talk in peace. I've a great deal to hear, you know." -</p> -<p> -She turned to study him. He was so familiar and yet such a complete -stranger. His voice was the same rather eager, imperative thing that she -remembered, and she thought that his eyes had not changed at all. But -for the rest he was bigger, astonishingly so; his shoulders, his face, -the whole of him, seemed overpoweringly large this morning. And he -looked old. In the bright light she could see that his face was deeply -lined, and that little pouches had formed under his eyes. But it struck -her that she had never seen a more utterly kind expression; it was a -charming age that had come upon Richard, an age full of sympathy and -tolerance. They passed the Convent of the Poor Clares with its white -walls inset with Della Robbia plaques of the Innocents in their -swaddling clothes. Richard glanced at them and smiled. -</p> -<p> -"I rather love them, don't you, Joan? They're a kind of symbol of the -childhood of the world." -</p> -<p> -She followed the direction of his eyes, but the plaques did not strike -her as being very interesting. Perhaps he missed some response in her, -for he fell silent. -</p> -<p> -When they reached the Valley of the Rocks he stood still and looked -about him. "I had no idea there was anything as beautiful as this in -England," he said. -</p> -<p> -She nodded. She too had always thought this valley very lovely, but -because of its loveliness it depressed her, filling her with strange -regrets. They sat down on a wide boulder. Somewhere to their right the -sea was talking to itself on the pebbles; on a high pinnacle of grey -rock some white goats leapt and gambolled. Joan looked at the deep blue -of the sky showing between the crags, and then at Richard. -</p> -<p> -His chin was resting on his hands, which were clasped over his stick, -and she noticed the hard, strong line of his jaw, and the roughened -texture of his neck. -</p> -<p> -Presently he turned to her. "Well, aren't you going to tell me?" he -asked. -</p> -<p> -"There's nothing to tell," she said uneasily. -</p> -<p> -He laughed. "What, in twenty years, has nothing happened?" -</p> -<p> -"Nothing at all, except what you see in me." -</p> -<p> -He said gravely: "I see Joan; older certainly, and grey-haired like -myself, but still Joan. What else could I see?" -</p> -<p> -She was silent, plucking at some moss with nervous fingers. It was kind -of Richard to pretend that the change in her had not shocked him, as, of -course, it must have done. She knew instinctively that he was kind, a -man one could trust, should the need arise. But she was not interested -in Richard or herself, she cared very little for the impression they -were making on each other. One question, and one only, burnt to get -asked, yet her diffidence was keeping her silent. At last she took -courage. -</p> -<p> -"How is Elizabeth? It's a long time since I last saw her." -</p> -<p> -He looked at her quickly. "Yes, it must be a long time, now I come to -think of it," he said, "I saw her last year, you know, when I was in -Cape Town." -</p> -<p> -She longed to shake the information out of him, his voice sounded so -dull and non-committal. "Is she happy?" she asked. -</p> -<p> -"Happy? Oh! that's a large order, Joan. Those goats over there are -probably happy, at least they have a good chance of being so; but when -you come to the higher animals like men and women, it's a very different -thing. We poor human beings with our divine heritage, we think too much; -we know too much and too little to be really happy, I fancy." -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I expect you're right," she agreed, but she did not want to hear -about the psychological problems of the race in general, according to -Richard; she wanted to hear about Elizabeth. -</p> -<p> -Possibly he divined her thoughts, for he went on quickly, "But you don't -care at this moment for the worries and troubles of mankind, do you? You -just want to know all about Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -She touched his sleeve almost timidly. "Will it bore you to tell me, -Richard?" -</p> -<p> -He smiled. "Good Lord, no, of course not; only she asked me not to." -</p> -<p> -"She asked you not to?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, she asked me not to talk about her, if I ever met you again." -</p> -<p> -"But why? I don't understand." -</p> -<p> -"No, neither do I. I told her it was rot and I refused to promise. You -want to know if Elizabeth's happy. Well, yes, I suppose that in her own -way she is. My brother's a most devoted husband and seems to be as much -in love with her as he ever was; he stands from under and fetches and -carries, and Elizabeth likes that sort of thing." -</p> -<p> -Joan frowned. "I see you're still unjust to her, Richard; you always -were a little bit, you know." -</p> -<p> -"My dear, I'm not unjust; you asked me to tell you about her, and I'm -telling you the impression I received when I stayed in her house last -year." -</p> -<p> -"Go on," said Joan. -</p> -<p> -"Well, then, she has a truly magnificent mansion in Cape Town. It's -white and square and rather hideous, that's the outside; inside it's -full of very expensive, supposedly antique furniture, all shipped out -from England. They entertain a great deal; my brother's managed to grow -indecently rich; helped by the war, I'm afraid. And he's generous, -positively lavish. Did you know that Lawrence got a baronetcy a little -while ago? Well, he did, so Elizabeth's now Lady Benson! Funny, ain't -it? I'm sorry there are no children; Lawrence would have loved to found -a family, poor old fellow. He deserved that baronetcy all right, though, -he was extremely useful to the Government during the war. Elizabeth was -pretty useful too in a humbler way. I believe she organized more -charities and hospital units and whatnots than any woman in South -Africa; they tell me her tact and energy were phenomenal, in fact she's -a kind of social leader in Cape Town. People go out with introductions -to her, and if she takes them up they're made for ever, and if she don't -they sink into oblivion; you know, that sort of thing." He paused. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "So that's Elizabeth." -</p> -<p> -He looked at her with sudden pity in his eyes. "She's changed since you -knew her, Joan." -</p> -<p> -"Never mind that," she interrupted. "Tell me what she looks like." -</p> -<p> -He considered. "Rather placid, I should say—yes, decidedly placid, -but you feel that's not quite a true impression when you look at her mouth; -her mouth is mystifying." -</p> -<p> -"How mystifying?" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, I don't know. Full of possibilities—it always was. She's rather -ample these days; not fat you know, but Junoesque, you can imagine that -she would be when she began to put on flesh. Oh! And her hair's quite -white, the nice silvery kind, and always wonderfully dressed. She's a -fine looking woman but she's cranky in some ways; for instance, she -won't come to England. She's never set foot on British soil since she -left for South Africa, except to skim across it <i>en route</i> for the -Continent. When she comes to Europe, she goes to Paris or Rome or some -other place abroad. She says that she hates England. As a matter of fact -I think she dislikes leaving South Africa at all, she says she's grown -roots in the bigness of things out there. Lawrence tells me that when -she feels bored with the gaieties of Cape Town, she goes right away to -the veld; he thinks it's original and fine of her to need so much space -to stretch in and so much oxygen to expand her lungs. Perhaps it is, I -don't know. In any case she was awfully kind to me when I stayed with -them; I was there for three months, you know, having a rest." -</p> -<p> -"Did she ever speak about me?" Joan asked, with an eagerness she could -not hide. -</p> -<p> -"Only once; let me think. It was one night after dinner. I remember we -were sitting alone on the terrace, and she asked me suddenly if I ever -heard from you. I told her that I hadn't done so for years, that it was -partly my fault, because I'd stopped writing. Then she said: 'I don't -really want to discuss Joan Ogden, she belongs to the past, and I belong -to all this, to my life here. I've given up being sentimental, and I -find nothing either interesting or pathetic in failures. And I want you -to promise me that if you should ever meet Joan, you won't talk about -me; don't discuss me with her, she has no right to know.'" He paused. "I -think those were her words, my dear, at all events they were very like -that." -</p> -<p> -His voice was calm and even, and he turned to look at the pale face -beside him. "I think she's succeeded in forgetting her disappointment -over you," he said. "And if she hasn't quite got over it, she's managed -to console herself pretty well. She's not the sort of woman to cry long -over spilt milk." -</p> -<p> -He knew that he was being brutal. "But it's necessary," he thought; -"it's vitally necessary. And if it rouses her even to a feeling of -regret, better that than this lethargy of body and mind." -</p> -<p> -Joan stared out in front of her. All the expression seemed to have been -wiped out of her face and eyes. "Shall we go?" she said presently. "I -think it's getting late." -</p> -<p> -He assented at once, and they turned towards Lynton; he watched her -covertly as she walked beside him. All his knowledge, all his -experience, were braced to their utmost to meet the necessity that he -felt was hers. But while his mind worked furiously, he talked of other -things. He told her about his work during the war; he had gone to France -to operate, and incidentally to study shell-shock, and the effects -produced thereon by hypnotic treatment. He saw that she was scarcely -listening, but he talked on just the same. -</p> -<p> -"That shell-shock work would have interested you, Joan, you'd have been -awfully useful out there; they wanted women of your type. The average -trained nurses sometimes hindered rather than helped, they didn't seem -to catch on to the new ideas." He stood still and faced her. "By the -way, what did you do during the war?" he asked suddenly. -</p> -<p> -She gave a hard little laugh. "What did I do? Well, you see, I couldn't -leave Mother. I wanted to go with a unit to Serbia, but she got ill just -then, I think the mere idea made her ill; so I made swabs at the Town -Hall at Seabourne; I must have made thousands I should think. I had a -Sister Dora arrangement on my head; we all had, it made us look -important. Some of the women wore aprons with large red crosses on their -bibs, it was very effective! And we gossiped, we did it persistently; -that Town Hall grew to be a veritable 'School for Scandal;' we took away -a character with every swab we made. We quarrelled too, I assure you it -was most exciting at times; why, life-long friendships went to pieces -over those swabs of ours. You see we were jealous of each other, we -couldn't bear to think that some of our friends were more expert than we -were, the competition was terrific! Oh, yes, and I was so good at my job -that they couldn't in decency avoid making me the head of our room for a -short time; I wore a wide blue sash over one shoulder. I shall never -forget the sense of power that I felt when I first put on that sash. I -became hectoring and dictatorial at once; it was a moment worth living -for, I can tell you!" -</p> -<p> -He was silent, the bitterness in her voice hurt him intensely. -</p> -<p> -"Good-bye," she said as they reached the hotel. "And thank you for -telling me about Elizabeth." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap47"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">R</span>ICHARD stayed on from day to day. He had come -to Lynton meaning to remain a week, but now almost a fortnight had passed, -and still he stayed. -</p> -<p> -He planned endless walks and motor drives, excursions to all parts of -the country. There were many of these in which Mrs. Ogden could not -join, and a situation arose not unlike that which had arisen years ago, -owing to Elizabeth. But now the antagonists fought in grim silence, -playing with carefully concealed cards, outwardly polite and affable. -</p> -<p> -While treating Mrs. Ogden quite respectfully, Richard never allowed Joan -to evade him, dragging her out by sheer force of will, and keeping her -out until such time as he thought she had had enough open air and -exercise. He managed with no little skill to combine the authority of -the doctor with the solicitude of an old friend, and Joan found herself -submitting in spite of her mother's aggrieved attitude. -</p> -<p> -She began to feel better in health but sick in mind; Richard awoke so -much in her that she had hoped was over and done with. He joked over the -old days at Seabourne, in the hopeful, exuberant manner of a man who -looks forward to the future. And all the while her heart ached -intolerably for those days, the days that had held Elizabeth and her own -youth. He seemed to be trying to make her talk too. "Do you remember all -the medical books I used to send you, Joan?" or, "That was when you and -Elizabeth were going to live together, wasn't it?" He discussed -Elizabeth as a matter of course, and because of this Joan found it -difficult to speak of her at all. She began to be obsessed with a -craving to see her again, to talk to her and hear her voice; the thought -of the miles that would always lie between them grew intolerable. This -woman who had known her since she was a little child, who had fashioned -her, loved her and then cast her out, lived again in her thoughts with -all the old vitality. "I shall die without seeing her," was a phrase -that ran constantly in her brain; "I shall die without ever seeing -Elizabeth again." -</p> -<p> -Richard observed the sunburn on her cheeks and felt happier. He believed -that his method was the right one, and dug assiduously among Joan's -memories. He was convinced that she had been very near a nervous -breakdown when he had found her, and congratulated himself on what he -thought was a change for the better. Her reticence when Elizabeth was -mentioned only served to make him speak of her the more. "No good -letting the thing remain submerged," he thought; "she must be made to -talk about it." -</p> -<p> -In spite of the mental unrest that possessed her, or perhaps because of -it, Joan looked forward to the long days spent on the moors, the long -drives in the car through the narrow, twisting lanes. Richard was an -excellent companion, always amusing and sympathetic, and there was a -painful fascination in talking over the old days. His eyes were kind -when he looked at her, and his hand felt strong and protective as he -helped her in and out of the car. She thought, as she had done a long -time ago, what an adorable brother he would have made. -</p> -<p> -Sometimes he would tell her about his work, going into technical details -as though she too were a doctor. When he spoke of a case which -particularly interested him, he gesticulated, like the Richard of twenty -years ago. -</p> -<p> -"How little you've changed," she said one day. -</p> -<p> -He replied: "We none of us really change, Joan, except on the surface." -</p> -<p> -"I've changed, Richard; the whole of me has." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, no, you haven't; you're all of you there, only you've pushed some -of it away out of sight." -</p> -<p> -She wondered if he were right. Was it possible that all that had once -made Joan Ogden, was lurking somewhere in her still? She shuddered. "I -don't want to go back!" she said fiercely. "Oh, Richard, I don't want -ever to go back!" -</p> -<p> -"Not back, but forward," he corrected. "Just go forward with your whole -self." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The time that Richard could afford to take from his work had come to an -end, it was his last day at Lynton. "Let's walk to Watersmeet this -afternoon, Joan," he suggested. "It's such a perfect day." -</p> -<p> -"I oughtn't to leave Mother," she said doubtfully. "She doesn't seem -very well." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, she's all right, my dear; I've been up to see her and she's only a -little over-tired. After all, at her age, she's bound to feel tired -sometimes." -</p> -<p> -Joan weakened. "Well, wait a minute, then, while I go and say good-bye." -</p> -<p> -They made their way down the steep hill and over the bridge to the far -side of the river. The water was rushing in a noisy torrent between the -rocks and boulders. -</p> -<p> -"Oh! How I love the noise of it," he exclaimed. "It's life, just life!" -</p> -<p> -She looked at his lined and ageing face and marvelled at his -enthusiasms. He was so full of them still and of a great self-courage -that nothing had ever had the power to break. They strolled along the -narrow path under the fresh spring green, keeping the river that Richard -loved beside them all the way. He took her hand and held it and she did -not resist; she was feeling very grateful towards this friend who had -come from the world and found her. Presently she grew tired, it was hot -down there by the river. -</p> -<p> -He noticed her lagging steps: "Rest, my dear, we've walked too far." -</p> -<p> -They sat down under the trees and for a long time neither spoke. He was -the first to break the silence: -</p> -<p> -"Joan, will you marry me?" he said abruptly. -</p> -<p> -It was the same old familiar phrase that she had heard so often before, -and she found it hard to believe that they were two middle-aged people -instead of the boy and girl of twenty years ago, but in another moment -she had flushed with annoyance. -</p> -<p> -"Is that joke in very good taste, Richard?" -</p> -<p> -He stared at her. "Joke? But I mean it!" he stammered. -</p> -<p> -She sprang up and he followed her. "Richard, have you gone quite mad?" -</p> -<p> -"I was never more sane in my life; I ask you: Will you marry me?" -</p> -<p> -She looked at him incredulously, but something in the expression of his -eyes told her that he did mean it. "Oh, Richard," she said with a catch -in her voice, "I can't! I never could, you know." -</p> -<p> -He said: "Joan, if I weren't so ridiculously middle-aged, I'd go down on -my knees, here in the grass, and beg you to take me. I want you more -than anything else in the world." -</p> -<p> -She said: "You've made some awful mistake. There's nothing of me to -want; I'm empty, just a husk." -</p> -<p> -"That's not true, Joan," he protested. "You're the only woman I've ever -cared for. I want you in my life, in my home; I want your companionship, -your help in my work." -</p> -<p> -"In your work?" she asked in genuine surprise. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, in my work, why not? Wouldn't it interest you to help me in the -laboratory, sometimes? I'm rather keen on certain experiments, you know, -Joan, and if you'll only come, we could work together. Oh, it would all -be so utterly splendid! Just what I planned for us years ago. Don't you -think you can marry me, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -She laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "Listen," she said gently, "while -I try to make you understand. The woman you're thinking of is not Joan -Ogden at all; she's a purely fictitious person, conceived in your own -brain. Joan Ogden is forty-three, and old for her age; she's old in -body, her skin is old, and she'll soon be white-haired. Her mind has -been shrivelling away for years; it's not able to grasp big things as it -was once; it's grown small and petty and easily tired. Give it a piece -of serious work and it flags immediately, there's no spring left in it. -</p> -<p> -"Her body's a mass of small ailments; real or imaginary, they count just -the same. She goes to bed feeling tired out and gets up feeling more -tired, so that every little futile thing is enough to make her -irritable. She exaggerates small worries and makes mountains out of -molehills. Her nerves are unreliable and she dwells too much on her -health. If she remembers what she used to be like, she tries to forget -it, because she's afraid; long ago she was a coward and she's remained -one to this day, only now she's a tamer coward and gives in without a -struggle. -</p> -<p> -"It's different with you, Richard, you've got a right to marry. You want -to marry, because you're successful and because at your age a man -settles down. But haven't you thought that you probably want children, a -son? Do you think the woman I've described would be a desirable mother, -even if she could have a child at all? Would you choose to make -posterity through an old, unhealthy body; to give children to the world -by a woman who is utterly unfit to bear them, who never has loved you -and never could?" -</p> -<p> -He covered his face with his hands. "Don't, I can't bear it, Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"But it's the truth and you know it," she went on quietly. "I'm past -your saving, Richard; there's nothing left to save." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, Joan!" he said desperately. "It can't be as bad as that! Give me a -chance; if anyone can save you, I can." -</p> -<p> -She turned her face away from him. "No!" she said. "Only one creature -could ever have saved me and I let her go while I was still young." -</p> -<p> -"Do you mean Elizabeth?" he asked sharply. -</p> -<p> -She nodded. "Yes, she could have saved me, but I let her go." -</p> -<p> -"God!" he exclaimed almost angrily. "I ought to be jealous of her; I am -jealous of her, I suppose! But why, oh, why, if you cared for her so -much, didn't you break away and go with her to London? Why did you let -even that go by you? I could bear anything better than to see you as you -are." -</p> -<p> -She was silent. Presently she said: "There was Mother, Richard. I loved -her too, and she needed me; she didn't seem able to do without me." -</p> -<p> -His face went white with passion; he shook his clenched fists in the -air. "How long is it to go on," he cried, "this preying of the weak on -the strong, the old on the young; this hideous, unnatural injustice that -one sees all around one, this incredibly wicked thing that tradition -sanctifies? You were so splendid. How fine you were! You had everything -in you that was needed to put life within your grasp, and you had a -right to life, to a life of your own; everyone has. You might have been -a brilliant woman, a woman that counted for a great deal, and yet what -are you now? I can't bear to think of it! -</p> -<p> -"If you <i>are</i> a mass of ills, as you say, if your splendid brain is -atrophied, and you feel empty and unfulfilled, whose fault is that? Not -yours, who had too much heart to save yourself. I tell you, Joan, the -sin of it lies at the door of that old woman up there in Lynton; that -mild, always ailing, cruelly gentle creature who's taken everything and -given nothing and battened on you year by year. She's like an octopus -who's drained you dry. You struggled to get free, you nearly succeeded, -but as quickly as you cut through one tentacle, another shot out and -fixed on to you. -</p> -<p> -"Good God! How clearly one sees it all! In your family it was your -father who began it, by preying first on her, and in a kind of horrid -retaliation she turned and preyed on you. Milly escaped, but only for a -time; she came home in the end; then she preyed in her turn. She gripped -you through her physical weakness, and then there were two of them! Two -of them? Why, the whole world's full of them! Not a Seabourne anywhere -but has its army of octopi; they thrive and grow fat in such places. -Look at Ralph Rodney: I believe he was brilliant at college, but Uncle -John devoured him, and you know what Ralph was when he died. Look at -Elizabeth: do you think she's really happy? Well, I'm going to tell you -now what I kept from you the other day. Elizabeth got free, but not -quite soon enough; she's never been able to make up for the blood she -lost in all those years at Seabourne. She's just had enough vitality -left to patch her life together somehow, and make my brother think that -all is very well with her. But she couldn't deceive me, and she knew it; -I saw the ache in her for the thing she might have been. Elizabeth's -grasped the spar; that's what she's done, and she's just, only just -managed to save herself from going under. She's rich and popular and -ageing with dignity, but she's not, and never can be now, the woman she -once dreamt of. She's killed her dream by being busy and hard and quite -unlike her real self, by taking an interest in all the things that the -soul of her laughs at. And that's what life with Ralph in Seabourne has -done for her. That, and you, Joan. I suppose I ought to hate Elizabeth, -but I can't help knowing that when she broke away there was one tentacle -more tenacious than all the rest; it clung to her until she cut it -through, and that <i>was</i> you, who were trying unconsciously to make -her a victim of your own circumstances. -</p> -<p> -"Joan, the thing is infectious, I tell you; it's a pestilence that -infects people one after another. Even you, who were the most generous -creature that I've ever known; the disease nearly got you unawares. If -Elizabeth hadn't gone away when she did, if she had stayed in Seabourne -for your sake, then you would have been one of them. Thank God she went! -It's horrible to know that they've victimized the thing I love, but I'd -rather you were the victim than that you should have grown to be like -the rest of them, a thing that preys on the finest instincts of others, -and sucks the very soul out of them." His voice broke suddenly, and he -let his arms drop to his sides. "And I know now that I've been loving -you for all these years," he said. "I've just been loving and loving -you." -</p> -<p> -She stood speechless before his anger and misery, unable to defend -herself or her mother, conscious that he had spoken the bitter and -brutal truth. -</p> -<p> -At last she said: "Don't be too hard on Mother, Richard; she's a very -old woman now." -</p> -<p> -"I know," he answered dully. "I know she's very old; perhaps I've been -too violent. If I have you must forgive me." -</p> -<p> -"No," she said, "you were right in everything, only one can't always -crush people because one has right on one's side." -</p> -<p> -He stroked her arm with his strong, hard fingers, "Can't you marry me?" -he reiterated stubbornly. -</p> -<p> -She said: "I shall never marry anyone. I'm not a woman who could ever -have married. I've never been what you'd call in love with a man in my -life; but I think if I'd been different, Richard, I should have wanted -to marry you." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -The next morning Richard Benson left Lynton, and in the course of a few -days the Ogdens returned to Leaside. -</p> -<p> -"I don't think we'll go to Lynton again," said Mrs. Ogden fretfully. -"It's not done me any good at all, this year." -</p> -<p> -Joan acquiesced; she felt that she never again wanted to see the place -in which so many unwelcome memories had been aroused. She sat staring -out of the window as the train neared Seabourne, and wished that Richard -had never crossed her path; all she wanted was to be left in peace. She -dreaded remembering and he had made her remember, she was afraid of -unhappiness and he had made her unhappy. -</p> -<p> -As the familiar landmarks sped past one by one, little forgotten -incidents of her youth surged through her mind in rhythm to the glide -and jolt of the train. She pictured the Seabourne station as it used to -be before they had enlarged it, and the flower-beds and cockle-shells -that Milly had once jeered at. On the short platform stood a little army -of ghosts: the red-haired porter who had limped, and had always called -her Miss Hogden. He had been gone these ten years past, where, she did -not know. Richard, freckled and gawky, reminding you somehow of a -pleasant puppy; rather uncouth he had been in those days. Milly, small -and fragile, her yellow curls always bobbing, and Elizabeth, slim as a -larch tree, very upright and neat and quiet, her intent eyes scanning -the incoming train for a sight of Joan's face at the window. And then -herself, Joan Ogden, black-haired, grey-eyed, young; with a body all -suppleness and vigour, and a mind that could grasp and hold. She would -be leaning far out of the carriage, waving an ungloved hand. "Here I -am!" And then the meeting; the firm clasp of friendship, respect and -love; the feel of Elizabeth's signet ring cold against your fingers, and -the goodly warmth of her palm as it met your own. Ghosts, all ghosts; -ghosts of the living and the dead. Her eyelids felt hot and tingling; -she brushed the tears away angrily. Ghosts, all ghosts, every one of -them dead, to her, at all events; and she, how utterly dead she was to -herself. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap48"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">T</span>HAT winter Mrs. Ogden's prophecy came -true, and influenza laid hold of Seabourne with unexpected virulence. -Mrs. Ogden was almost the first victim. She was very ill indeed. Joan -was bound to her hand and foot, for the doctor warned her that her -mother's condition was likely to be critical for some time. "It's her -heart I'm afraid of," he said. -</p> -<p> -Curiously enough the old lady fiercely resented her invalidism. She, who -for so many years had nursed her slightest symptom, now that at last she -was really ill, showed the rebellious spirit of a young athlete deprived -of his normal activities, and Joan's task in nursing her grew daily more -arduous. She flagged under the constant strain of trying to pacify her -turbulent patient, to whom any excitement might be dangerous. All -household worries must be kept from her mother; incredibly difficult -when a house was as badly constructed as Leaside. The front door could -not open without Mrs. Ogden hearing it and inquiring the cause, and very -little could go on in the kitchen that she was not somehow aware of. -</p> -<p> -At this most inappropriate moment Joan herself got influenza, but the -attack seemed so mild that she refused to go to bed. The consequences of -keeping about were disastrous, and she found herself weak to the verge -of tears. The veins in her legs began to trouble her seriously; she -could no longer go up and down stairs without pain. This terrified her, -and in a chastened mood she consulted the doctor. He examined the veins, -and with all the light-hearted inconsequence of his kind prescribed long -and constant periods of rest. Joan must lie down for two hours after -luncheon and again after dinner; must avoid stairs and, above all, must -never stand about. -</p> -<p> -One of the most pressing problems was Mrs. Ogden's digestion; always -erratic, it was now submerged in a variety of gastric disturbances -brought on by the influenza. There was so little that she could eat with -impunity that catering became increasingly difficult, the more so as for -the first time in her life she evinced a great interest in food. If the -servant made her Benger's she refused to drink it, complaining of its -consistency, which she described as "Billstickers' paste." In the end -Joan found herself preparing everything her mother ate. -</p> -<p> -She grew dully methodical, keeping little time-sheets: "Minced chicken 1 -P.M. Medicine 3 P.M. Hot milk and biscuits 5 P.M. Benger's 9 P.M." Her -days were divided into washing, dressing, feeding, undressing and -generally ministering to the patient. -</p> -<p> -About this time she read in the paper the announcement of Richard -Benson's engagement, and a few days later saw a picture of him in the -<i>Bystander</i>, together with his future bride. The girl Richard was to -marry was scarcely more than a child; a wide-eyed, pretty creature with -a mass of soft hair, and the meaningless smile which the young assume in -obedience to the fashionable photographer. Joan gazed at the picture in -astonishment, and then at her own reflection in the glass. Richard had -not waited long to find a mate, after his final proposal at Lynton. It -was so characteristic of him to have waited twenty years, and then to -have made up his mind in a few months. She felt no resentment, no tinge -of hurt vanity; she was glad he was going to marry, her sense of justice -told her that it was fitting and right. With this marriage of his the -last link with her own past life would be snapped, and she was content -to let it be so. -</p> -<p> -She wondered if she should write and congratulate him, but decided that -she had better not. Her intuition told her that he, too, might want to -wipe out the past, and that even her humble letter of friendship would -probably come as an unwelcome reminder. She thought of him a great deal, -analysing her own feelings, but although she recognized that her -thoughts were kindly, tender even, she could not trace in them the -slightest shadow of regret. Richard was a fine man, a successful man; he -had made good where others had failed; but to her he was just Richard, -as he had always been. -</p> -<p> -She was astonished at the scant show of interest which Mrs. Ogden -evinced in the event. She had expected that nothing else would be talked -about for at least a week, and had been prepared for a considerable -amount of sarcasm; but her mother scarcely spoke of the engagement -beyond remarking on the disparity of age between the bride and -bridegroom. Joan felt surprised, but failed to attach much importance to -the incident, until it was repeated with regard to other things. It -began to be borne in on her that a change was coming over her mother, -that she was growing less fussy, less exacting, less interested in what -went on around her, and as the weeks went by she was perplexed to find -that a household disturbance, which would formerly most certainly have -agitated Mrs. Ogden almost past endurance, now aroused no anxiety, not -even much curiosity. -</p> -<p> -She would sit idle for hours, with her hands in her lap; she seemed at -last to be growing resigned to her life of restricted activity. Joan -thought that this was nothing more than a natural consequence of old age -imposing itself on her mother's brain, as it had long been doing on her -body. In many ways she found this new phase a relief, lessening as it -did the strain that had gone near to breaking her. -</p> -<p> -The canary grew tamer with the old lady, perching on her shoulder and -taking food from her lips. These marks of Bobbie's esteem delighted Mrs. -Ogden; in fact he seemed to be the only creature now who could rouse her -to much show of interest; she played happily with him while Joan cleaned -his cage, and at night insisted on having it on a chair by her bed so -that she could be the one to uncover him in the morning. -</p> -<p> -The days grew very peaceful at Leaside. Joan seldom went beyond the -front door, except to buy food; walking made her legs ache, and in any -case she didn't care to leave her mother for long. Father Cuthbert came -and went as he had done for years past, but now Mrs. Ogden showed no -pleasure at his visits. While he was there she listened quietly to what -he said, or appeared to do so, but when he left she no longer expatiated -on his merits to Joan, but just sat on with folded hands and apparently -forgot him. -</p> -<p> -The doctor's bill came in; it was very high and likely to get higher. -Joan felt that some of it must be paid off at once, so she sold the -Indian silver. Major Boyle, who loved a depressing errand, volunteered -to take it to a firm in London, and was able to shake his head -mournfully over the small amount it realized. -</p> -<p> -"He's missed his vocation," thought Joan irritably, "he ought to have -been a mute at funerals." -</p> -<p> -She dreaded the moment when her mother would miss the silver from the -sideboard, and begin to ask questions; but three days elapsed before -Mrs. Ogden noticed the empty spaces. When she did so, and Joan told her -the truth, she only sighed, and nodded slowly. "Oh, well!" was all she -said. -</p> -<p> -The sale of the silver did not realize nearly enough to meet the bills -which had been accumulating. Everything cost so much these days, even -simple necessities, and when to these were added all the extras in food -and fires that her mother's health required, Joan awoke to the fact that -they were living beyond their meagre income. She considered the -advisability of dismissing the servant, as her mother had once done; but -at the thought of all that this would entail, her heart utterly failed -her. The girl's wages were at least double what they would have been -prior to the war, and she expected to eat meat three times a day; but -she was a pleasant, willing creature to have about the house, and Joan -decided that she must stay. -</p> -<p> -A kind of recklessness seized her; it seemed so useless to try and make -ends meet, with reduced dividends and abnormal taxes, and then she was -so terribly tired. Her tiredness had become like physical pain, it -enveloped her and prevented sleep. She did the simplest things with a -feeling of reluctance, dragging her body after her like a corpse to -which she was attached. If there was not enough money for immediate -necessities, why then they must sell out a little capital. She feared -opposition from her mother, but decided that the time had arrived when -desperate straits required desperate remedies, so broached the subject -without preliminaries. -</p> -<p> -"Mother, we're behindhand with the bills, and we can't very well -overdraw again at the bank." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden looked up with dim, brown eyes. "Are we, dear?" she said -indifferently. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, the doctor's bill cripples us most, and then there are others, but -his is the worst." -</p> -<p> -"It would be," sighed Mrs. Ogden. -</p> -<p> -"Listen, Mother, I'm afraid we must sell a little of Milly's and my -capital; not much, you know, but just enough to get us straight. Perhaps -when things get cheaper, later on, we may be able to put it back." -</p> -<p> -"My pension used to be enough, with the other money; why isn't it now, -do you think?" -</p> -<p> -Joan sighed impatiently. "Because it's worth about half what it was. -Have you forgotten the war?" -</p> -<p> -"No, that terrible war! Still, to sell capital—isn't that very wrong, -Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"It may be wrong, but we've got to do it; things may be easier next -year." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Ogden offered no further opposition and the stocks and shares were -sold. Like the Indian silver, they realized much less than Joan -expected. But poor as were the results of the sacrifice, when the -gilt-edged securities were translated into cash, Joan felt that the sum -she deposited at the bank gave a moment's respite to her tired brain. -She refused to consider the future. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -In June Mrs. Ogden died quietly in her sleep. Joan found her dead one -morning, when she went in to call her as usual. She stood and stared -incredulously at the pale, calm face on the pillow; a face that seemed -to belong to a much younger woman. She turned away and lowered the blind -gently, then went downstairs in search of the servant. A great hush -enveloped the house, and the queer sense of awe that accompanies death -had stolen in during the night and now lay over everything. Joan pushed -open the kitchen door; here, at all events, some of the old familiarity -remained. The sun was streaming in at the uncurtained window and the -sound of hissing came from the stove, where the maid was frying -sausages. -</p> -<p> -Joan said: "Go for the doctor at once, will you? My mother died in the -night." -</p> -<p> -The girl dropped her fork into the frying-pan and swung round with -frightened eyes. "Oh, Lor'!" she gasped, beginning to whimper. -</p> -<p> -But for the first time in her life, Joan had fainted. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap49"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FORTY-NINE -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">J</span>OAN sat alone in the dismantled -drawing-room. All around her lay the wreckage and driftwood of years. -The drawers of her mother's bureau stood open and in disorder; an -incredible mass of discoloured letters, old bills, clippings from bygone -periodicals, and little hidden treasures put away for safety and -forgotten. -</p> -<p> -On the floor, with its face to the wall, stood the engraving of Admiral -Sir William Routledge, with the dust thick on its back. -</p> -<p> -"And we had a thorough spring clean last April," Joan thought -inconsequently. -</p> -<p> -The admiral's coat and other trophies lay in a neat heap on the Nelson -chair, ready for Aunt Ann to take away with her. The poor little -everyday tragedy of denuded walls enclosed Joan on all four sides; faded -paper, bent nails, dirty streaks where pictures had hung. Even the -curtains had gone, and no longer hid the chipped and yellowing paint of -the window-frames and skirting. -</p> -<p> -All over Leaside the same thing was happening. Upstairs in the bedrooms -stood half-packed trunks, the kitchen was blocked with wooden cases. The -suggestive smell of the Furniture Depository hung in the atmosphere, -pervading everything, creeping up from the packing-cases with their -dusty straw and the canvas covers that strewed the passages. Muddy boots -had left their marks on the linoleum in the hall, and the globe on the -gas-bracket by the front door had had a hole knocked in it by a -carelessly carried case. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at the relics of Admiral Sir William and wondered how Aunt -Ann meant to pack them; would they all go in her trunk? The engraving -would certainly be too large; would she insist on taking it into the -railway carriage with her? She got up and touched the sleeve of the -discoloured old coat and found to her surprise that a tear had fallen on -her hand. What was she crying about? Surely not at parting with these -ridiculous things! Then what was she crying about? She did not know. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps the house was infecting her with its own sadness, even a Leaside -might be capable of sadness. This meagre little house had known them for -so long; known their quarrels, their reconciliations, their ambitions, -their failures. It had known her father, her mother, her sister and -herself, and once, long ago, it had known Elizabeth. And now Joan was -the only one left, and she was going, she had to go. Nearly everything -would shortly be taken to a sale-room; that was settled, Aunt Ann had -advised it. -</p> -<p> -"We must keep only those things that are of family interest," she had -said firmly, and Joan had agreed in view of the debts. -</p> -<p> -Perhaps the little house was mourning the changed order, mourning the -family that it had sheltered so long, the ugly furniture from which it -was parting. The chairs and tables, now all in disarray, seemed to be -looking at Joan with reproach. After all, these things had served -faithfully for many years; she was conscious of a sense of regret as she -looked at them. "I hope they'll find good homes and be kindly treated," -she thought. -</p> -<p> -The Bishop of Blumfield and his wife had come to Seabourne for the -funeral, and had stayed on for nearly three weeks at the new hotel. The -bishop was incredibly old; his skin had taken on a yellowish polish like -an antique ivory netsuké. Aunt Ann had disapproved of his taking so -long a journey, but he had insisted on coming; he was often inclined to -be wilful these days. Aunt Ann herself bore her years aggressively. A -tall, majestic old lady, with fierce eyes, she faced the world, her -backbone very straight. Her sister's death, while it had come as a -shock, had done little to soften the attitude of disdain with which she -now regarded her fellow beings. Mary Ogden had always been rather -despicable in her eyes, and why think her less so merely because she was -dead? But a sense of duty had kept her at Seabourne for the past three -weeks. After all, Joan was a Routledge, or half of her was, and her -future must be provided for in some way. -</p> -<p> -Joan looked at her wrist watch, it was nearly half-past eight. Aunt Ann -had announced that she would dine at seven and come in afterwards for a -long talk. Joan guessed what this talk would be about; namely, her own -plans. What were her plans? She asked herself this for the hundredth -time since her mother's death. She must inevitably work for her living, -but what kind of work? That was the difficulty. -</p> -<p> -All this thinking was a terrible effort—if only she had had enough -money to keep Leaside, she felt that she would never have left it. She -would gladly have lived on there alone, just she and Bobbie; yes, she -was actually regretting Leaside. After all, Seabourne was comfortably -familiar, and in consequence easy. She shrank with nervous apprehension -from any change. New places, new people, a new manner of life, noise, -hurry, confusion; she pressed her hand to her head and took up the -<i>Morning Post</i> as she had already done many times that day. -</p> -<p> -The situations vacant were few indeed, compared with those wanted. And -how much seemed to be expected of everyone nowadays! Governesses, for -instance, must have a degree, and nearly all must play the piano and -teach modern languages. Private secretaries, typists, book-keepers, -farmers, chauffeurs; their accomplishments seemed endless. -</p> -<p> -"Typist. Used to all the well-known makes of typewriter; good speed, -fair knowledge of foreign languages, shorthand." -</p> -<p> -"Book-keeper seeks situation in hotel or business house; long -experience." -</p> -<p> -"University woman, as secretary-companion; speaks French, German, -Italian, used to travelling, can drive car." -</p> -<p> -"Young woman requires situation in country. Experience with remounts -during war, assist small farm or dairy, entire charge of kennels, -sporting or other breeds, or work under stud groom in hunting stables." -</p> -<p> -"Lady chauffeur-mechanic, disengaged now, excellent personal references, -clean licence. Three years' war service driving motor ambulance France -and Belgium; undertake all running repairs, any make car." -</p> -<p> -Joan laid down the paper. No, she was utterly incapable of doing any of -these things; incapable, it seemed, of filling any position of trust. -She had been brilliant once, but it had led to nothing; people would not -be interested in what she might have become. She supposed she could go -into a shop, but what shop? They liked young, sprack women to stand -behind counters, not grey-haired novices of forty-five; and besides, -there were her varicose veins. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -The door-bell rang and Aunt Ann walked in. Behind her, leaning on an -ebony stick, came the little old Bishop of Blumfield. Aunt Ann sat down -with an air of determination and motioned the bishop to a chair. -</p> -<p> -"No, thank you; I prefer to stand up," he said stubbornly. His wife -shrugged her shoulders and turned to Joan. -</p> -<p> -"It's time we had a serious talk," she said. "The first thing, my dear, -is how much have you got to live on?" -</p> -<p> -"Rather less than fifty pounds a year. You see we had to sell out some -capital and mother's pension died with her." -</p> -<p> -Aunt Ann sniffed disapprovingly. "It's never wise to tamper with -capital, but I suppose it was inevitable; in any case what's done is -done. You can't live on fifty pounds a year, I hope you realize." -</p> -<p> -"No, of course not," Joan agreed. "I shall have to find work of some -kind, but there seem to be more applicants than posts, as far as I can -see; and then I'm not up to the modern standard, people want a lot for -their money these days." -</p> -<p> -"I cannot imagine," piped the bishop in his thin, old voice, "I cannot -imagine, Ann, why Joan should not live with us; she could make herself -useful to you about the house, and besides, I should like to have her." -</p> -<p> -His wife frowned at him. "Good gracious, Oswald, what an unpractical -suggestion! I'm sure Joan wouldn't like it at all; she'd feel that she -was living on charity. I should, in her place; the Routledges have -always been very independent, high-spirited people." -</p> -<p> -Joan flushed. "Thank you awfully, Uncle Oswald, for wanting me, but I -don't think it would do," she said hastily. -</p> -<p> -"Of course not," Aunt Ann agreed. "Now, the point is, Joan, have you got -anything in view?" -</p> -<p> -During the pause that ensued Joan racked her brain for some dignified -and convincing reply. It seemed incredible to her that she had not got -anything in view, that out of all the innumerable advertisements she had -been unable to find one that seemed really suitable. Her aunt's eyes -were scanning her face with curiosity. -</p> -<p> -"I thought you were always considered the clever one," she remarked. -</p> -<p> -Joan laughed rather bitterly. "That was centuries ago, Aunt Ann. The -world has progressed since then." -</p> -<p> -"Do you mean to say that you feel unfitted for any of the careers now -open to women?" inquired her aunt incredulously. -</p> -<p> -"That's precisely what I do feel. You see one needs experience or a -business education for most things, and if you're going to teach, of -course you must have a degree. I've neither the time nor the money to -begin all over again at forty-five." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Blane settled herself more comfortably in her chair. "This requires -thought," she murmured. -</p> -<p> -"There's just a faint chance that I might get taken on at a shop," Joan -told her. "But I'm rather old for that too, and there's the standing." -</p> -<p> -"A <i>shop</i>?" gasped her aunt, with real horror in her voice. "You think -of going into a <i>shop</i>, Joan?" -</p> -<p> -"Well, one must do something, Aunt Ann; beggars can't be choosers." -</p> -<p> -"But, my dear—a Routledge—a shop? Oh, no, it's impossible; -besides it's out of the question for us that you should do such a thing. -What would it look like, for a man in your uncle's position to have a -niece serving in a shop! What would people say? You must consider other -people's feelings a little, Joan." -</p> -<p> -But at this point Joan's temper deserted her. "I don't care a damn about -other people's feelings!" she said rudely. "It's my varicose veins I'm -thinking of." -</p> -<p> -The bishop gave a low, hoarse chuckle. "Bravo! she's quite right," he -said delightedly. "Her veins are much more important to her than we are; -and why shouldn't they be, I'd like to know! Even a Routledge is -occasionally heir to the common ills of mankind, my dear." -</p> -<p> -His eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement and malice. "In your place, -Joan, I'd do whatever I thought best for myself. Being a Routledge won't -put butter on your bread, whatever your aunt may say." -</p> -<p> -His wife waved him aside. "I've been thinking of something, Joan," she -said. "Your future has been very much on my mind lately, and in case you -had nothing in view, I took steps on your behalf the other day that I -think may prove to be useful. Did your mother ever mention our cousin -Rupert Routledge to you?" Joan nodded. "Well, then, you know, I suppose, -that he's an invalid. He's unmarried and quite well off, and what is -more to the point, his companion, that is, the lady who looked after -him, has just left to take care of her father, who's ill. Rupert's -doctor wrote to me to know if I could find someone to take her place, -and of course I thought of you at once, but I didn't mention this before -in case you had anything in your own mind. You're used to illness, and -the salary is really excellent; a hundred a year." -</p> -<p> -"He's not an invalid," piped the bishop eagerly. "He's as strong as a -horse and as mad as a hatter! Don't you go, Joan!" -</p> -<p> -"Oswald!" admonished Mrs. Blane. -</p> -<p> -But the bishop would not be silenced, "He's mad, you know he's mad; he's -sixty-five, and he thinks he's six. He showed me his toys the last time -I saw him, and cried because he wasn't allowed to float his boat in the -bath!" -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Blane flushed darkly. "There is not and never was any insanity in -our family, Oswald. Rupert's a little eccentric, perhaps, but good -gracious me, most people are nowadays!" -</p> -<p> -The bishop stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a very good imitation -of a schoolboy whistle. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Blane turned to Joan: "He was dropped on his head when he was a -baby, I believe, and undoubtedly that stopped his development, poor -fellow. But to say that he's mad is perfectly ridiculous; he's a little -childish, that's all. I can't myself see that he's very much odder than -many other people are since the war. In any case, my dear, it would be a -very comfortable home; you would have the entire management of -everything. There are excellent old servants and the house is large and -very convenient. If I remember rightly there's a charming garden. Not to -put too fine a point on it, Joan, it seems to me that you have no -alternative to accepting some post of this kind as you don't feel fitted -to undertake more skilled work. And of course I should feel much happier -about you if I knew that you were living with a member of the family." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked into the fire. "Where does he live?" she inquired. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Blane fished in her bag. "Ah, here it is. I've written the address -down for you, in case you should need it." -</p> -<p> -Joan took the slip of paper. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, -Sussex," she read. -</p> -<p> -"I've already written to Doctor Campbell about you," said Mrs. Blane, -with a slight note of nervousness in her voice. She paused, but as Joan -made no reply she went on hastily: "I got his answer only this morning, -and it was most satisfactory; he says he'll keep the post open for you -for a fortnight." -</p> -<p> -Joan looked up. "Yes, I see; thank you, Aunt Ann, it's very good of you. -I may think it over for a fortnight, you say?" -</p> -<p> -"Yes, Joan, but don't lose it. A hundred a year is not picked up under -gooseberry bushes, remember." -</p> -<p> -"He's mad, mad, mad!" murmured the bishop in a monotonous undertone, -"and occasionally he's very unmanageable." -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Blane raised her eyebrows and shook her head slightly at Joan. -"Don't pay any attention to your uncle," she whispered. "He's overtired -and he gets confused." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>3</h4> - -<p> -When they had gone Joan took the paper from her pocket and studied the -address again. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, Sussex." -Blintcombe! She felt that she already knew every street, and every house -in the place. There would certainly be "The Laurels," "The Nook" and -"Hiawatha" in addition to "The Pines." There would be "Marine Parade," -"Belview Terrace," and probably "Alexandra Road" in addition to "Seaview -Avenue." There would be a pier, a cinema, a skating-rink, a band and a -swimming-bath. There would be the usual seats surrounded by glass along -the esplanade, in which the usual invalids incubated their germs or -sunned themselves like sickly plants in greenhouses, and of course very -many bath chairs drawn by as many old men. In fact, it would be just -Seabourne under a new name, with Cousin Rupert to take care of instead -of her mother. -</p> -<p> -She sprang up. "I won't go!" she exclaimed aloud. "I won't, I -<i>won't</i>!" -</p> -<p> -But even as she said it she sighed, because her legs ached. She stood -still in the middle of the room, and stooping down, touched the swollen -veins gingerly. The feel of them alarmed her as it always did, and her -flare of resolution died out. -</p> -<p> -A great sense of self-pity came over her, bringing with it a crowd of -regrets. She looked about at all the familiar objects and began -remembering. How desolate the room was. It had not always been like -this. Her mind travelled back over the years to the last Anniversary Day -that Leaside had known. Candles and flowers had lent charm to the room, -yes, charm; she actually thought now that the drawing-room had looked -charming then by comparison. That was the occasion, she remembered, when -her mother had worn a dove-grey dress, and Elizabeth, all in green, had -reminded her of a larch tree. Elizabeth, all in green! She always -remembered her like that. Why always in that particular dress? Elizabeth -had looked so young and vital in that dress. Perhaps it had been -symbolical of growth, of fulfilment; but if so it had been a lying -symbol, for the fulfilment had not come. And yet Elizabeth had believed -in her up to the very last. It was a blessed thing to have someone to -believe in you; it helped you to believe in yourself. She knew that -now—but Elizabeth was married, she was leagues away in Cape Town; she -had forgotten Joan Ogden, who had failed her so utterly in the end. Oh, -well—— -</p> -<p> -She sat down at her mother's desk and began to write: -</p> -<blockquote><p> -"DEAR DOCTOR CAMPBELL, -</p> -<p style="margin-left: 15%;">"My aunt, Mrs. Blane, tells me——" -</p></blockquote> - -<p> -Then she tore up the letter. "I can't decide to-night," she thought. -"I'm too dead tired to think." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<p><a id="chap50"></a></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER FIFTY -<br /><br /> -1</h4> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="dropcap">J</span>OAN got out of the cab. In her hand she -gripped a birdcage, containing Bobbie, well muffled for the journey. -</p> -<p> -"That's the 'ouse, miss," said the driver, pointing with his whip. -</p> -<p> -A large gate painted and grained, with "The Pines" in bold black -lettering across it. She pushed it open and walked up the drive. -Speckled laurels and rhododendrons, now damp and dripping, flanked her -on either hand. The yellow gravel was soggy and ill-kept, with grass and -moss growing over it. At a bend in the drive the house came into view; a -large three-storied building of the Victorian era, with a wide lawn in -front, and a porch with Corinthian columns. The house had once had the -misfortune to be painted all over, and now presented the mournful -appearance of neglected and peeling paint. As Joan rang the bell she got -the impression of a great number of inadequate sash windows, curtained -in a dull shade of maroon. -</p> -<p> -A middle-aged maid-servant opened the door. "Miss Ogden?" she inquired, -before Joan had time to speak. -</p> -<p> -"Yes, I'm Miss Ogden. Do you think my luggage could be brought in, -please?" -</p> -<p> -"That cabby should have driven up to the door," grumbled the woman. "And -he knows it, too; they're that lazy!" -</p> -<p> -She left Joan standing in the hall while she lifted her skirts and -stepped gingerly down the drive. Joan looked about her, still clutching -the cage. The impression of maroon persisted here; it was everywhere: in -the carpet, the leather chairs, the wallpaper. Even the stained-glass -fanlight over the front door took up the prevailing tone. The house had -its characteristic smell, too; all houses had. Glory Point, she -remembered, had smelt of tar, fresh paint and brass polish; the Rodneys' -house had smelt of Ralph's musty law books. Leaside had smelt of -newspapers, cooking, and for many years of her father's pipes. But this -house, what was it it smelt of? She decided that it smelt of old people. -</p> -<p> -The servant came back, followed by a now surly cabby, carrying a trunk. -</p> -<p> -"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, miss," she said less austerely. -</p> -<p> -A door opened at the far end of the hall, and a pleasant-looking old -woman came forward. Her blue print dress and large apron were -reassuringly clean, and she smiled affably at Joan. She spoke in the -loud sing-song voice of the midlands. "I'm the cook-housekeeper; Keith's -my name," she drawled. "I don't know why you've been left standin' like -this, miss. I says to 'er, I says, 'Now you be sure an' ask her into the -drawing-room when 'er comes, and let me know at once!' But Mary, 'er be -that queer, some days." -</p> -<p> -"Oh, it's all right," said Joan, tactfully. "She had to go and see about -my luggage." -</p> -<p> -"Very impolite, I calls it; Mary should know better. Please to step this -way." -</p> -<p> -Joan followed her into a large, cold room, evidently seldom used, for -the blinds were down and the furniture in linen covers. -</p> -<p> -"And I says to 'er, 'Mind you 'ave the blinds up and all,' and now just -look at this!" grumbled Mrs. Keith, as she struggled with a cord at one -of the windows. "And now, miss," she continued, turning to Joan, "since -you're new to us and we're new to you, I'd better tell you about the -master. He's a little queer like, childish, as no doubt you've heard. -But he's very gentle and quiet some days, and if as how you find him -troublesome at first, please just come to I. He knows I and he be good -with I. And when you goes in to him first, mind to take notice of his -toys, if he asks you; he be just a great baby, although he's a -grey-haired man, and his toys is all the world to him. After you've been -introduced to him, you come downstairs and I'll explain about his diet -and all his little fancies. He's a poor, afflicted gentleman, but we're -all very fond on 'im. I've been here for thirty-five years, and I hope -you'll stay as long, miss, if I may say so. And now I'll show you your -room." -</p> -<p> -They mounted the sombre staircase to a fair-sized bedroom on the first -floor. -</p> -<p> -"I'll be waiting for you on the landing, to take you to Master Rupert -when you're ready," said Mrs. Keith as she closed the door. -</p> -<p> -Joan put Bobbie's cage down on the chest of drawers and took off his -cover. "My dear little yellow bird," she murmured caressingly, "we must -keep you out of the draught!" -</p> -<p> -She took off her hat and washed her hands. Going to her bag she found a -comb and hastily tidied her hair. -</p> -<p> -"I'm quite ready, Mrs. Keith," she said, rejoining the housekeeper. -</p> -<p> -The old woman opened a door a little way down the passage. "This be his -nursery," she whispered. -</p> -<p> -The room was long and unexpectedly light, having three large windows; -but it struck Joan with a little shock of pity that they were barred -along the lower half, just as the window had been in the old bedroom at -Leaside when she and Milly were venturesome little children. In front of -the fire stood a tall nursery guard. -</p> -<p> -"Here's the kind lady, Master Rupert; 'er what I told you about." -</p> -<p> -A large, shabby man, with a full grey beard and a mane of hair, was -kneeling in front of an open cupboard. As Joan came forward he looked -round piteously. -</p> -<p> -"I've lost my dolly, my best dolly," he whimpered. "You haven't hidden -my dolly, have you?" -</p> -<p> -"Now, now, Master Rupert!" said Mrs. Keith sharply. "This is Miss Ogden, -what's come here to look after you; come and say 'How do you do' to her, -at once." -</p> -<p> -The big, untidy man stood up. He eyed Joan with suspicion, fingering his -beard. "I don't like <i>you</i>," he said thoughtfully, "I don't like you -at all. Go away, please; I believe you've hidden my dolly." -</p> -<p> -"Can't I help you to look for her?" Joan suggested. "What's this one; is -this the dolly?" she added, retrieving a dilapidated wax doll from under -a chair. -</p> -<p> -"<i>That's</i> my dolly!" cried the man in a tone of rapture. "That's my -dear, darling dolly! Isn't she beautiful?" And he hugged the doll to his -bosom. -</p> -<p> -"Say 'Thank you,' Master Rupert," admonished Mrs. Keith. -</p> -<p> -But the man looked sulky. "I shan't thank her; she hid my dolly. I know -she did!" -</p> -<p> -"Oh, you must thank her, Master Rupert. It was her who <i>found</i> your -dolly for you. Come now, be good!" -</p> -<p> -But the patient stamped his foot. "Take her away!" he ordered -peremptorily. "I don't like her hair." -</p> -<p> -"Come downstairs," murmured Mrs. Keith, pushing Joan gently out of the -room. "He'll be all right next time he sees you; you be strange to him -just at first, but presently he'll love you dearly, I expects." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>2</h4> - -<p> -In the housekeeper's room the old woman became expansive. Obviously -nervous lest the patient had made a bad impression, she tried clumsily -to correct it by entertaining Joan with details about her predecessors, -of whom Mrs. Keith had apparently known four. Seated in the worn -arm-chair by the fire, Joan listened silently to this depressing -recital. -</p> -<p> -At last Mrs. Keith came to Joan's immediate predecessor, Miss King, who -had stayed for twenty years. She had been such a pretty lady when she -first arrived, yellow-haired and all smiles. She had only taken the post -to help her family of little brothers and sisters. But when they were -all grown up and no longer in such pressing need of help, Miss King had -still stayed on, because, as she said, she had grown used to it, -somehow, and didn't feel that she could make a change after all those -years. Master Rupert had loved her dearly, for she had understood all -his little ways and had played with him for hours. She used to read -aloud to him too. He liked fairy stories best, after "Robinson Crusoe"; -Miss Ogden would find that he was never tired of "Robinson Crusoe," it -would be a good book for her to start reading to him. -</p> -<p> -Master Rupert used to beg to have his little bed put in Miss King's -room, he was so afraid of the dark. But of course she couldn't consent -to this, for he was a full grown man, after all, though he didn't know -it, "Poor afflicted gentleman, being all innocent like." When Miss King -had had to go in the end, she had been very unhappy at leaving. But her -old father had become bedridden by that time, so her family had sent for -her to look after him. -</p> -<p> -"Hard, I calls it," said Mrs. Keith, "for her to have to go home for -that, after all the years of toiling with Master Rupert; but then you -see, miss, her was a spinster like, and so the others thought as how her -was the one to do it." -</p> -<p> -From the discussion of Joan's predecessors, Mrs. Keith went on to speak -of Master Rupert himself. She explained that his mind had only grown up -to the age of six. "Retarded something or other," she said the doctor -called it. His parents had died when he was twelve, and his guardian, -not knowing what to do with him, had sent him to a home for deficient -children. But after a time he had grown too old to remain there, and so, -as he had been left quite well off, poor gentleman, his trustees had -bought "The Pines" for him to live in, and there he had lived ever -since. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Keith explained at some length the daily routine that Joan must -follow, and went into the minutest details regarding the patient's menu. -</p> -<p> -"He do be greedy, a bit," she remarked apologetically. "Them as is -mentally afflicted often is, the doctor says. The way he eats would -surprise you, considering how little exercise he takes! But his stomach -is that weak, and he's given to vomiting something awful if I'se not -careful what he gets; so the doctor, 'e says to me, 'e says, 'Better -give him light meals in between times,' 'e says, 'so as to fill him up, -like.' He's a poor afflicted gentleman," she repeated once more, with -real regret in her voice. "But he'll be all right with you, miss, never -fear; I knows 'im and he's that fond of I, it's touching. You see, miss, -I'se known 'im for thirty-five years." -</p> -<p> -"If I want advice I shall certainly come to you, Mrs. Keith," Joan told -her gratefully. "But I expect I'll get on all right, as you say." -</p> -<p> -She felt very tired after the journey and longed painfully to lie down -and rest. Her brain seemed muddled and she was so afraid she might -forget something. -</p> -<p> -"Was it Benger's at eleven and beef-tea at four, or the other way -round?" she asked anxiously. -</p> -<p> -"It were the other way round, miss; don't you think you'd better write -it down?" -</p> -<p> -"Perhaps I had," Joan agreed, fishing in her jacket pocket for her -little notebook. -</p> -<p> -"Now, then," she said, trying hard to speak brightly. "Now then, Mrs. -Keith, we'd better make a list. Hot milk coloured with coffee, that's -when he wakes up, I understand; then beef-tea at eleven o'clock, and his -cough mixture at twelve-thirty. He has Benger's at tea-time and again -before going to bed. Oh, I shall soon get into it all, I expect. I'm -used to invalids, you see." -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNLIT LAMP ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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