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 theBystander, 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.
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.
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 theMorning Postas 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.
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."
"Ashop?" gasped her aunt, with real horror in her voice. "You think of going into ashop, 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."
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, Iwon'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——"
"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."
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 likeyou," 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'smy 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 whofoundyour 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."
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."