1
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, most _men_
do." 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 of _my_ girls 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 so _passée_ either, 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.
2
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.
3
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?"