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——"
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.
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!"
"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.
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.
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.
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.
"Mywhat?" 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.
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.
ANEW 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.
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 tofearElizabeth.
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, mostmendo." 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 ofmygirls 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 sopasséeeither, 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.
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.
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.
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: "HowcanI sit here grinding away while she does all the beastly things upstairs? But I can't go up and help her, I simplycan'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.
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 thefeelof 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.
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.
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.