1
A NEW 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.
2
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 to _fear_ Elizabeth.