1
MRS. OGDEN wrote yet again: "I brought your father home yesterday; the
doctor thought he would be better in his own house. God knows if the
cure has helped him at all, I do not think so; but, Joan, my dearest,
come back to me at once, for I am so longing to see you."
Joan looked into the fire; she did not care whether her father was
better or worse, and now she did not care whether she cared or not. From
Seabourne to Blumfield, from Blumfield to Seabourne! And that was just
life; not a tragedy at all, only life, a simple and monotonous business.
As their train drew in to the familiar station the tall figure of
Elizabeth was waiting on the platform. She was standing very still, like
a statue of Fate; a porter, pushing a truck of luggage towards her,
called out: "By your leave, miss!" and seemed to expect her to move; but
the tall, impassive figure appeared not to notice him and he pulled up
abruptly, skirting it as best he could.
Milly said: "Hallo, Elizabeth!" and then: "What a beastly station this
is. I hate the bare flower-beds and the cockle-shells!"
They collected the luggage, Elizabeth unusually silent. It was not until
they drove off in the fly that she began to talk.
"Joan, your father is very ill; Mrs. Ogden told me to meet you, she
couldn't leave him to-day. He's no better for the cure--they say he's
worse; but you'll judge for yourself when you see him."
They bumped down the High Street and on to the esplanade. A weak, watery
sunshine played over the sea and the asphalt. Walking stiffly, with his
hands behind his back, General Brooke was taking the air. A smell of
seaweed and dried fish came in through the open windows and mingled with
the pungent, musty smell of the fly. The cliffs that circled the bay
looked white and spectral, and far away they could just discern the
chimneys of Glory Point, sticking up in a fold of green. Joan roused
herself from a deadly lethargy that had been creeping over her.
"How is Mother?" she asked.
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. "Just the same," she said. "Very
worried about your father, of course, but just the same as usual." She
was staring at Joan with hard, anxious eyes, her lips a little
compressed. "I'm glad you've come back, Joan, because----" She did not
finish her sentence, and the cab drew up at Leaside.
They got out, tugging at their bags. Milly rang the bell impatiently.
Elizabeth pulled Joan back.
"Look here," she said in a low voice, "I'm not coming in, but,
Joan--remember your promise to me." And before Joan could answer she had
turned and walked quickly away.
2
Mrs. Ogden met them in the hall; her eyes were red. She flung her arms
around Joan's neck and began to cry again.
"Your poor father, he's very ill. Oh, Joan, it's been so terrible all
alone in London without a soul to speak to or to appeal to! You don't
know what I've been through; don't leave me again, I couldn't bear it!"
Joan pushed her gently into the dining-room; it was all in confusion,
with the remnants of luncheon still on the table. "Don't cry, dear," she
said. "Try to tell me what has happened."
Mrs. Ogden dried her eyes, clinging to Joan's hand the while. Her soft
greyish hair was untidy, escaping from the net. "The cure was too severe
for him; he ought never to have gone to London; he didn't want to go and
they forced him, the brutes! He got worse and they sent him home two
days ago; they said he was quite fit to travel and had better get home,
but he wasn't fit to travel--that's the way they get rid of their
responsibilities. And the nurses at that home were inhuman devils. I
told them so; he hated them all. He seemed better yesterday, but this
morning he fainted, and when the doctor came he put him to bed. He's
there now, and oh, Joan, he's groaning! They say he's not in pain, but
of course he must be, and sometimes he knows me, and sometimes he's
delirious and thinks he's back in India."
"Come upstairs," said Joan drearily. "I want to see him."
The familiar bedroom was not familiar any longer; it looked strange and
austere as Joan entered. The blinds were down, flapping in the draught
from the windows. A large fire blazing in the grate added to the sense
of something important and portentous that hung about the place. On the
bed lay a strange figure; someone whom Joan felt she had never seen
before. Its face was unnaturally pale and shrunken and so were the
wandering hands extended on the coverlet. This stranger moaned
incessantly, and turned his head from side to side; his eyes were open
and blank.
Joan took one of the wandering hands in hers: "Father!" she said softly.
He looked through her and beyond, breathing with an effort.
A quiet tap came on the door and the nurse, hastily summoned from the
Cottage Hospital, came in. She was a pink-faced, competent-looking girl,
and wore her cloak and bonnet. She took in the situation at a glance.
"I'll just take off my things," she said, "and be back in a minute."
Presently the doctor came again. He said very little, and pressing Mrs.
Ogden's limp hand, departed. The nurse, now in charge, had rendered the
bedroom still more unfamiliar, with her temperature chart, and a table
covered with a clean white towel, upon which she had set out strange
little appliances that they did not know the use of. When she spoke she
did so in a loud whisper, glancing ever and anon towards the figure on
the bed. Her cuffs creaked and so did her shoes. A smell of disinfectant
was everywhere; they wondered what it was, it was unfriendly, but no one
dared to question this empress ruling over the kingdom of Death.
The colonel belonged to her now; they all felt it, and submitted without
a protest. He was hers to do as she pleased with, to turn in the bed or
to leave in discomfort, to raise up or lay down. She it was who
moistened his lips with cotton wool, soaked in a solution of her own
making. Sometimes she opened his mouth and moistened his tongue as well.
He lay there utterly helpless and unable to protest, while she subjected
him to countless necessary indignities. Her trained hands, hard and
deft, permitted of no resistance, doing their work quietly and without
emotion. It seemed horrible to Joan to see him brought so low, but she,
like the rest of the household, stood back respectfully, bowing to the
realization that only three beings had any control over her father now:
the doctor, the nurse--and Death.
Just before he died, on the afternoon of the fifth day, he knew his wife
and called her: "Mary!" His voice was unexpectedly loud.
She went and put her arms round him.
"Mary!"
"Yes, James?"
"I'm going to die--it's funny my going to die--wish I knew more about
it."
"Hush, dearest, don't talk."
"Mary."
"Yes, James?"
"Sorry--if I've been hard on you--but you see----"
"Hush, my dear, you mustn't try to talk."
But the colonel had ceased to try to do anything any more in this world.