"Why?" demanded Joan.
"Because I like the shops."
"We don't," said Joan. Milly lagged more obviously.
"Come, Milly, walk properly, please," said Elizabeth.
They had passed the High Street by now and were trudging up the long
white road to Cone Head. Over the point the wind raged furiously, it
snatched at their skirts and undid Milly's curls.
"Oh! oh!" she gasped.
Elizabeth laughed, but her laughter was caught up and blown away before
it could reach the children; Joan only knew that she was laughing by her
open mouth.
"It's glorious!" shouted Joan. "I want to hit it back!"
Elizabeth battled her way towards an overhanging rock. "Sit here," she
motioned; the rock sheltered them, and now they could hear themselves
speak.
"This is hateful," said Milly. "When I'm famous I shall never do this
sort of thing."
"Oh, Miss Rodney," exclaimed Joan, "look at that sail!"
"I have been looking at it ever since we sat down--I think I should like
to be under it."
"Yes, going, going, going, you don't know and you don't care where--just
anywhere, so long as it isn't here."
"Already?" Elizabeth murmured.
"Already what?"
"Nothing. Did I say already?"
"Yes."
"Then I was thinking aloud."
She looked at the child curiously; she had taught the girls now for
about two years, yet she was not even beginning to understand Joan.
Milly was reading made easy. Delicate, spoilt by her father and entirely
self-centred; yet she was a good enough child as children go, easier far
to manage than the elder girl. Milly was not stupid either. She played
the violin astonishingly well for a girl of ten. Elizabeth knew that the
little man who taught her thought that she had genius. Milly was easy
enough, she knew exactly what she wanted, and Elizabeth suspected that
she'd always get it. Milly wanted music and more music. When she played
her face ceased to look fretful, it became attentive, animated, almost
beautiful. This then was Milly's problem, solved already; music,
applause, admiration, Elizabeth could see it all, but Joan?--Joan
intrigued her.
Joan was so quiet, so reserved, so strong. Strong, yes, that was the
right word, strong and protective. She loved stray cats and starving
dogs and fledgelings that had tumbled out of their nests, such things
made her cry; stray cats, starving dogs, fledgelings and Mrs. Ogden.
Elizabeth laughed inwardly. Mrs. Ogden was so exactly like a lost
fledgeling, with her hopeless look and her big eyes; she was also rather
like a starving dog. Elizabeth paused just here to consider. Starving,
what for? She shuddered. Had Mrs. Ogden always been so hungry? She was
positively ravenous, you could feel it about her, her hunger came at you
and made you feel embarrassed. Poor woman, poor woman, poor Joan--why
poor Joan? She was brilliant; Elizabeth sighed; she herself had never
been brilliant, only a very capable turner of sods. Joan was quietly,
persistently brilliant; no flash, no sparks, just a steady, glowing
light. Joan at twelve was a splendid pupil; she thought too. When you
could make her talk she said things that arrested. Joan would go--where
would she go? To Oxford or Cambridge probably; no matter where she went
she would made her mark--Elizabeth was proud of Joan. She glanced at her
pupil sideways and sighed again. Joan worried her, Mrs. Ogden worried
her, they worried her separately and collectively. They were so
different, so antagonistic, these two, and yet so curiously drawn
together.
Elizabeth roused Joan sharply: "Come on, it's late! It's nearly tea
time." They hurried down the hill.
"I must get that wool at Spink's," said Joan.
"What wool?"
"Mother's--for her knitting."
"Won't to-morrow do?"
"No."
"But it's at the other end of the town."
"Never mind, you and Milly go home. I'll just go on and fetch it."
They parted at the front door.
"Don't be long," Elizabeth called after her.
Joan waved her hand. Half an hour later she was back with the wool. In
the hall Mrs. Ogden met her.
"My darling!"
"Here it is, Mother."
"But, my darling, it's not the same thickness!"
"Not the same----" Joan was tired.
"It won't do at all, dearest, you must ask for double Berlin."
"But I did!"
"Then they must change it. Oh, dear; and I wanted to get that waistcoat
finished and put away to-night; it only requires such a little wee bit
of wool!" Mrs. Ogden sighed.
Her face became suddenly very sad. Joan did not think that it could be
the wool that had saddened her.
"What is it, Mother?"
"Nothing, Joan----"
"Oh, yes, you're unhappy, darling; I'll go and change the wool before
lessons to-morrow."
"It's not the wool, dear, it's---- Never mind, run and get your tea."
They kissed.
In the schoolroom Joan relapsed into silence; she looked almost morose.
Her short, thick hair fell angrily over her eyes--Elizabeth watched her
covertly.