Something like a sigh of relief breathed through the room; the two
children eyed each other, and Milly, the younger, made a secret face.
She was a slim child with her mother's brown eyes. Her long yellow hair
hung in curls down her back; she looked fragile and elfish; some people
thought her pretty. Colonel Ogden did; she was her father's favourite.
There were two years between the sisters; Milly was ten, Joan twelve.
They were poles apart in disposition as in appearance. Everything that
Milly felt she voiced instantly; almost everything that Joan felt she
did not voice. She was a silent, patient child as a rule, but could,
under great provocation, display a stubborn will that could not be coped
with, a reasoning power that paralysed her mother and infuriated Colonel
Ogden. It was not temper exactly; Joan was never tearful, never violent,
only coldly logical and self-assured and firm. You might lock her in her
bedroom and tell her to ask God to make her a good child, but as likely
as not she would refuse to say she was sorry in the end. Once she had
remarked that her prayers had gone unanswered, and after this she was
never again exhorted to pray for grace.
It was what she considered injustice that roused the devil in Joan. When
the cat had been turned out to fend for itself during the summer
holidays, when a servant had been dismissed at a moment's notice for
some trifling misdemeanour, these and such-like incidents, which were
fortunately of rare occurrence, had been known to produce in Joan the
mood that her mother almost feared. Then it was that Joan had spoken her
mind, and had remained impenitent until finally accorded the forgiveness
she had not asked for.
Joan was large-boned and tall for her age, lanky as a boy, with a pale
face and short black hair. Her grey eyes were not large and not at all
appealing, but they were set well apart; they were intelligent and
frank. She escaped being plain by the skin of her teeth; she would have
been plain had her face not been redeemed by a short, straight nose and
a beautiful mouth. Somehow her mouth reassured you.
They had cut her thick hair during scarlet fever, and Joan refused to
allow it to grow again. She invariably found scissors and snipped and
snipped, and Mrs. Ogden's resistance broke down at the final act of
defiance, when she was discovered hacking at her hair with a pen-knife.
2
As the front door slammed behind Colonel Ogden the sisters smiled at
each other. Mrs. Ogden had gone to countermand the local bacon, and they
were alone.
"Rot!" said Joan firmly.
"What is?" asked Milly.
"The bacon row."
"Oh, how dare you!" cried Milly in a voice of rapture. "Supposing you
were heard!"
"There's no one to hear me--anyhow, it is rot!"
Milly danced. "You'll catch it if mother hears you!" Her fair curls
bobbed as she skipped round the room.
"Mind that cup," warned Joan.
But it was too late; the cup fell crashing to the floor. Just then Mrs.
Ogden came in.
"Who broke that cup?"
There was silence.
"Well?" she waited.
Milly caught Joan's eye. Joan saw the appeal in that look. "I--I----"
Milly began.
"It was my fault," said Joan calmly.
"Then you ought to be more careful, especially when you know how your
father values this breakfast set. Really it's too bad; what will he say?
What possessed you, Joan?"
Mrs. Ogden put her hand up to her head wearily, glancing at Joan as she
did so. Joan was so quick to respond to the appeal of illness. Mrs.
Ogden would not have admitted to herself how much she longed for this
quick response and sympathy. She, who for years had been the giver, she
who had ministered to a man with heart disease, she who had become a
veritable reservoir of soothing phrases, solicitous actions, tabloids,
hot stoups and general restoratives. There were times, growing more
frequent of late, when she longed, yes, longed to break down utterly, to
become bedridden, to be waited upon hand and foot, to have arresting
symptoms of her own, any number of them.
India, the great vampire, had not wrecked her, for she was wiry; her
little frame could withstand what her husband's bulk had failed to
endure. Mrs. Ogden was a strong woman. She did not look robust, however;
this she knew and appreciated. Her pathetic eyes were sunken and
somewhat dim, her nose, short and straight like Joan's, looked pinched,
and her drooping mouth was pale. All this Mrs. Ogden knew, and she used
it as her stock-in-trade with her elder daughter. There were days when
the desire to produce an effect upon someone became a positive craving.
She would listen for Joan's footsteps on the stairs, and then assume an
attitude, head back against the couch, hand pressed to eyes. Sometimes
there were silent tears hastily hidden after Joan had seen, or the
short, dry cough so like her brother Henry's. Henry had died of
consumption. Then, as Joan's eyes would grow troubled, and the quick:
"Oh, Mother darling, aren't you well?" would burst from her lips, Mrs.
Ogden's conscience would smite her. But in spite of herself she would
invariably answer: "It's nothing, dearest; only my cough," or "It's only
my head, Joan; it's been very painful lately."
Then Joan's strong, young arms would comfort and soothe, and her firm
lips grope until they found her mother's; and Mrs. Ogden would feel mean
and ashamed but guiltily happy, as if a lover held her.
And so, when in addition to the fuss about the bacon, a cup of the
valued breakfast set lay shattered on the floor, Mrs. Ogden felt, on
this summer morning, that life had become overpowering and that a
headache, real or assumed, would be the relief she so badly needed.
"It's very hard," she began tremulously. "I'm quite tired out; I don't
feel able to face things to-day. I do think, my dear, that you might
have been more careful!" Tears brimmed up in her soft brown eyes and she
went hastily to the window.
"Oh, darling, don't cry." Joan was beside her in an instant. "I am
sorry, darling, look at me; I will be careful. How much will it cost? A
new one, I mean. I've still got half of Aunt Ann's birthday money; I'll
get a cup to match, only please don't cry."
The slight gruffness that was characteristic of her voice grew more
pronounced in her emotion.
Mrs. Ogden drew her daughter to her; the gesture was full of soft,
compelling strength.
"It's a shame!"
"What is, dear?" said Mrs. Ogden, suddenly attentive.
"Father!" cried Joan defiantly.
"Hush, hush, darling."
"But it is; he bullies you."
"No, dear, don't say such things; your father has a weak heart."
"But you're ill, too, and Father's heart isn't always as bad as he makes
out. This morning----"
"Hush, Joan, you mustn't. I know I'm not strong, but we must never let
him know that I sometimes feel ill."
"He ought to know it!"
"But, Joan, you were so frightened when he had that attack last
Christmas."
"That was a real one," said Joan decidedly.
"Oh well, dearest--but never mind, I'm all right again now--run away, my
lamb. Miss Rodney must have come; it's past lesson time."
"Are you sure you're all right?" said Joan doubtfully.
Mrs. Ogden leant back in the chair and gazed pensively out of the
window. "My little Joan," she murmured.
Joan trembled, a great tenderness took hold of her. She stooped and
kissed her mother's hand lingeringly.
But as the sisters stood in the hall outside, Joan looked even paler
than usual, her face was a little pinched, and there was a curious
expression in her eyes.
"Oh, Joan, it was jolly of you," Milly began.