1
THE five months between March and August passed uneventfully, as they
always did at Seabourne. Joan was a little taller, Milly a little
fatter, Mrs. Ogden a little more nervous and Colonel Ogden a little more
breathless; nearly everything that happened at Leaside happened
"little," so Joan thought.
But on this particular August morning, the usual order was, or should
have been, reversed. One was expecting confusion, hurry and triumph, for
to-day was sacred to the memory of Admiral Sir William Routledge,
gallant officer and Nelson's darling. To-day was the day of days; it was
Mrs. Ogden's day; it was Joan's and Milly's day--a little of it might be
said to be Colonel Ogden's day, but very little. For upon this glorious
Anniversary Mrs. Ogden rose as a phoenix from its ashes. She rose, she
grew, she asserted herself, she dictated; she was Routledge. The colonel
might grunt, might sneer, might even swear; the over-worked servants
might give notice, Mrs. Ogden accepted it all with the calm indifference
befitting one whose ancestor had fought under Nelson. Oh, it was a
wonderful day!
But this year a cloud, at first no larger than a man's hand, had floated
towards Mrs. Ogden before she got up. She woke with the feeling of
elation that properly belonged to the occasion, yet the elation was not
quite perfect. What was it that oppressed her, that somehow took the
edge off the delight? She sat up in bed and thought. Ah! She had it!
Assuredly this was the longed-for Anniversary, but--it was also Book
Day, Wednesday and Book Day! Could anything be more unjust, more
unbearable? Here she had waited a whole year for this, her one moment of
triumph, and it had come on Book Day. Ruined--spoilt--utterly spoilt and
ruined--the thing she dreaded most was upon her; the household books
would be waiting on her desk to be tackled directly after breakfast, to
be gone over and added up, and then met somehow out of an almost
vanished allowance; it was scandalous! We Routledges! She leapt out of
bed.
"What the devil is it?" asked Colonel Ogden irritably.
Mrs. Ogden began to hurry. She pattered round the room like a terrier on
a scent; garments fell from her nerveless fingers, the hair-brush
clattered on to the floor. She eyed her husband in a scared way; her
conscience smote her, she had felt too tired to use proper economy last
week. The books, the books, the books, what would they come to? She
began cleaning her teeth. Colonel Ogden watched her languidly from the
bed. His red, puffy face looked ridiculous against the pillow; a little
smile lifted his moustache. She turned and saw him, and stopped with the
tooth-brush half way to her mouth. She felt suddenly disgusted and
outraged and shy. In a flash her mind took in the room. There on the
chair lay his loose, shabby garments, some of them natural coloured
Jaeger. And then his cholera belt! It hung limply suspended over the arm
of the chair, like the wraith of a concertina. On the table by his side
of the bed lay a half-smoked pipe. His bath sponge was elbowing her as
she washed; his masculine personality pervaded everything; the room
reeked of it.
She went on cleaning her teeth mechanically, taking great care to do as
her dentist bade her--up and down and then across and get the brush well
back in your mouth; that was the way to preserve your teeth. Up and down
and then across--disgusting! What she was doing was ugly and detestable.
Why should he lie in the bed and smile? Why should he be in the bed at
all--why should he be in the room at all? Why hadn't they taken a house
with an extra bedroom, or at least with a room large enough for two
beds? What was he doing there now? He ought not to be there _now_; that
sort of thing was all very well for the young--but for people of their
age! The repellent familiarities!
She gathered her dressing-gown more tightly around her; she felt like a
virgin whose privacy has suffered a rude intrusion. Turning, she made to
leave the room.
"Where are you going, Mary?" Colonel Ogden sat up.
"To have my bath."
"But I haven't shaved yet."
"You can wait until I have had _my_ bath."
She heard herself and marvelled. Would the heavens fall? Would the
ground open and swallow her up? She hurried away before her courage
failed.
In the bath-room she slipped the bolt and turned the key, and sighed a
sigh of relief. Alone--she was alone. She turned on the water. A
reckless daring seized her; let the hot water run, let it run until the
bath was full to the brim; for once she would have an injuriously hot
bath; she would wallow in it, stay in it, take her time. She never got
enough hot water; now she would take it _all_--let his bath be tepid for
once, let him wait on her convenience, let him come thumping at the
door, coarse, overbearing, foolish creature!
What a life--and this was marriage! She thought of Colonel Ogden, of his
stertorous breathing, his habits; he had a way of lunging over on to her
side of the bed in his sleep, and when he woke in the morning his face
was a mass of grey stubble. Why had she never thought of all these
things before? She _had_ thought of them, but somehow she had never let
the thoughts come out; now that she had ceased to sit on them they
sprang up like so many jacks-in-the-box.
And yet, after all, her James was no worse than other men; better, she
supposed, in many respects. She believed he had been faithful to her;
there was something in that. Certainly he had loved her once--if that
sort of thing was love--but that was a long time ago. As she lay
luxuriously in the brimming bath her thoughts went back. Things had been
different in India. Joan had been born in India. Joan was thirteen now;
she would soon be growing up--there were signs already. Joan so quiet,
so reserved--Joan married, a year, five years of happiness perhaps and
then this, or something very like it. Never! Joan should never marry.
Milly, yes, but she could not tolerate the thought of it for Joan. Joan
would just go on loving her; it would be the perfect relationship,
Mother and Child.
"Mary!"
"What is it?"
"Are you going to stay there all day?" The handle of the door was
rattled violently.
"Please don't do that, James; I'm still in my bath."
"The devil you are!" Colonel Ogden whistled softly. Then he remembered
the date and smiled. "Poor old Mary, such a damned snob, poor dear--oh
well! We Routledges!"
2
Breakfast was late. How could it be otherwise? Had not Mrs. Ogden sat in
the bath for at least half an hour? There had been no hot water when at
last Colonel Ogden got into the bath-room, and a kettle had had to be
boiled. All this had taken time. Milly and Joan watched their mother
apprehensively. Joan scented a breakdown in the near offing, for Mrs.
Ogden's hands were trembling.
"Your father's breakfast, Joan; for heaven's sake ring the bell!"