Title: The unlit lamp
Author: Hall, Radclyffe
Language: English
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                           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 this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The unlit lamp" ***


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