1
THEY buried him in the prim cemetery which had somehow taken upon itself
the likeness of Seabourne, holding as it did so many of the late
occupants of Seabourne's bath chairs and shelters. Everyone attended the
funeral. Admiral Bourne, General Brooke wearing a top hat, the despised
bank manager, Ralph Rodney, in fact all the members of the club, and
most of the local tradespeople. Sir Robert and Lady Loo sent a handsome
wreath, but Mr. and Mrs. Benson came in person.
Colonel Ogden had never been really liked in his lifetime; an ignorant
and over-bearing man at best. But now that he was a corpse he had for
the time being attained a new importance, almost a popularity, in the
eyes of Seabourne. His death had provided an excitement, something to
do, something to talk about. The four days of his final illness had been
more interesting than usual, in consequence of the possibility of
tragedy. People would not have admitted it even to themselves, but had
he recovered they would have felt flat; it would have been an
anti-climax.
It was not until the funeral had been over for a week that Mrs. Ogden
could be persuaded to think of ways and means. At first she had given
way to a grief so uncontrollable that no one had dared to mention the
family solicitor. But now there were bills to be paid and plans to be
made for the future, and at last Joan persuaded her mother to write to
the firm in London who had attended to Colonel Ogden's affairs.
When the quiet man in a frock coat came down to Leaside, Joan was
present at the interview, which was short and to the point. The point
being that there was very little left of the three hundred a year that
should have been hers and Milly's. The quiet man made a deprecating
gesture, explaining that, against his firm's advice, the colonel had
persisted in changing the trust investments. The firm had refused to act
for him in this, it seemed, whereupon he had flown into a rage and acted
without them. They had inquired at the bank, on Mrs. Ogden's authority,
and had discovered that the bulk of the trust moneys had been put into a
mine which was paying nothing at present and seemed unlikely ever to pay
again. But Mrs. Ogden must surely be aware of this, as she was the
co-trustee? Had she not had papers to sign for the sale of securities
and so on? Ah, yes, of course, she naturally did not like to question
her husband's judgment--just signed whatever he told her to; still--she
should have been more cautious, she should have insisted upon knowing
what was being done. But then ladies were proverbially ignorant of such
things. Well, well, it was very sad, very distressing; there would be
her pension, of course, and about fifty pounds a year left of the trust
moneys--No, not more, unfortunately, but that fifty pounds came from a
sound investment, thank goodness. The two young ladies would have
twenty-five pounds a year each; that was better than nothing, still----
They thanked him, and when he had gone sat looking at each other
helplessly.
Joan said: "This is the end for Milly and me, now we shall never get
away."
Her own words astonished her, they were so cruel; she had not meant to
think aloud. Mrs. Ogden burst into tears. "Oh, James, James!" she sobbed
hysterically; "listen to her, she wants to get away! Oh, what shall I
do, now that you've left me; what shall I do, what shall I do?"
"Stop crying, Mother, I'm sorry I said that, only you see--but don't
let's talk now, by this evening we shall both feel more able to decide
things."
She left the room, closing the door quietly, and snatching up a hat went
out of the house. A black anger was slowly surging up in her, anger and
a feeling of desperation. What had they done to her and her sister, the
overbearing, self-willed father and this weak, inadequate mother with
her exaggerated grief? For now that the colonel was dead Mrs. Ogden
elected to mourn him as though he had been the love of her life; she
gave herself up to an orgy of sorrow that permitted of no interruption.
It had puzzled Joan, remembering as she did the things her mother had
told her. Through it all her mother could not bear to have her out of
her sight for an instant, it was as though she craved her as an
audience. She thought of all this as she strode along, the fine drizzle
soaking her shoulders.
It was not so much for herself that she cared as for Milly, and above
all for Elizabeth; how could she ever tell Elizabeth the truth, that now
there would be no money for Cambridge or for their little flat in
London? But, yes, it was for herself that she cared too. Oh, horribly,
desperately she cared for herself. She clenched her hands in her
pockets, a pain almost physical possessed her; she could not give it up
like this, all in a moment. She realized as never before how much that
future with Elizabeth had meant to her, and now it had been snatched
away. What would she do, what could she do? Nothing, if her mother would
not help her to get free--and of course she would not; she could not
even if she would; she was poor, poor, poor, they all were, poorer than
they had ever been. What would Milly do now? What would Elizabeth do?
Milly would rage, she would metaphorically stamp on their father's
grave. And Elizabeth?
2
Elizabeth was alone in the schoolroom when Joan got back. As she came
in, pale and drenched with rain, Elizabeth held out her hand.
"I've been waiting for you; come here, Joan."
Joan took the proffered hand and pressed it.
"Joan, I know what it is you want to tell me, I've known for some time."
"You know--but how?"
"My dear, all Seabourne knows that your father had been speculating
before he died. Do you think there's ever anything that all Seabourne
doesn't know? I heard something about it from Ralph; he told me."
Joan snatched her hand away, she spoke bitterly: "All Seabourne knew and
you knew, it seems; I see--only Milly and I were kept in the dark!"
"Don't be angry. What was the good of making you unhappy before it was
absolutely necessary; surely you know soon enough as it is?"
"But I don't understand, Elizabeth; do you realize what this means to
you and me?"
"You mean that now you have no money you can't go to Cambridge?"
"Yes, Cambridge, but above all the flat. I was thinking of our plans for
our life together."
"Go up and change and then we'll talk," said Elizabeth quietly. "You're
wet through."
Joan obeyed.
3
"And now," Elizabeth began, when Joan, wrapped in a dressing-gown, had
sunk into a chair. "Let's thrash this thing out from clue to earring.
How much has he left you?"
"Twenty-five pounds a year each."
Elizabeth considered. "It might be done," she said. "With care and
scraping, I think it might be done, providing of course you take a
scholarship, which you can do. You remember I told you that I could get
a job in London? Well, I'm more sure of that now than I was when I
wrote, I'm practically certain it can be managed. Don't interrupt,
please. This is my plan: you will go to Cambridge when you're twenty-one
and I shall take the flat. If it's available sooner we'll let it. While
you're at Cambridge I shall find a P.G. That oughtn't to be difficult,
and the little money that I've saved will go to help with Cambridge. Oh,
don't argue, you can pay me back when you get into harness. And there's
another thing I never told you; I have a relation from whom I must
inherit something, a most disagreeable relation of my father's who can't
help leaving me his little all, because it's entailed. Well, I propose
to raise a loan on my expectations, 'borrowing on reversion' is what
they call it, I think, and with that loan we're going to make a doctor
of you, so you see it's all arranged."
Joan stared at her, bewildered. "But, Elizabeth, I could never pay you
back, perhaps."
"Oh, well," said Elizabeth laughing; "then you'll have to work for me,
you may even have to keep me in my old age."
Joan began to cry, with the suddenness of a child; she cried openly, not
troubling to hide her face.
"Oh, for God's sake, Joan, don't do that!"
"It's you," sobbed Joan, choking. "It's you--just _you_."
Elizabeth got up, she hesitated and then went to the door, she did not
look at Joan.
"Think it over," she said.
4
Mrs. Ogden's hands fluttered helplessly over the litter of papers that
lay among the plates on the half-cleared supper table; the eyes that she
raised to Joan were vague.
"Can you make all this out?" she said drearily. "I shall never be able
to understand legal terms."
Joan picked up a letter and read it through. "There's your small life
interest under grandpapa Ogden's will, and then there'll be your
pension, Mother, but it's very little, I'm afraid; we shall obviously
have to leave this house."
Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "I can't do that," she said, with an
unexpected note of firmness in her voice. "Where could I go and pay less
rent than I do here? Only thirty-five pounds a year."
"But you see, dear, there are other expenses, servants and light and
coal." Joan spoke patiently. "And then the rates and taxes; a tiny flat
in London would cost so much less to run."
"How can you suggest London to me now, after all I went through there
with my James's illness?" Her lips began to tremble. "I should never be
able to face the noise and the dirt and the fearful climate, with my
heart as it is. You're cruel, Joan."
"But, Mother, we have to face things as they are."
"I can't," said Mrs. Ogden faintly. "I'm too ill."
Joan sighed. "You must, darling; you can't stay here, you haven't got
the money, we none of us have now. It'll be all right, truly it will, if
you'll let me help to straighten things out."
A sly, stubborn expression came over Mrs. Ogden's face; she wiped the
tears from her eyes and tucked away her handkerchief. "Tell me exactly
what I have got," she asked quietly.
Joan told her.
"And then there's the fifty pounds a year, dearest, that your poor
father saved from the wreck; surely with that as well we can get on here
quite comfortably."
Joan dropped the letter, something seemed to turn very cold inside her.
Even that, then! She meant to take even that from them. "But, Mother,
there's Milly's future and--and mine," she finished lamely.
Mrs. Ogden flushed. "I don't understand you," she said.
"Oh, Mother, don't make it all so terribly difficult, you know what I
mean; you know quite well that Milly and I want to work for our living.
We shall need the little he's left us if we're ever to make good; it's
bad enough, God knows, but we might manage somehow. Oh, Mother, dear!
won't you be reasonable?"
Mrs. Ogden's mouth tightened. "I see," she said; "you and Milly wish to
leave home, to leave me now that I have no one else to care for me. You
want to hide me away in a tenement house, while you two lead the life
that seems amusing to you. This home is to be broken up and I am to go
to London--my health doesn't matter. Well, I suppose I'd be better dead
and then you'd be rid of the trouble of me. Your father must be turning
in his grave, I should think, feeling as he did about your ridiculous
notions. And what a father he was, devoted to you both; he killed
himself working and striving to make money for you, and this is the
gratitude he gets." She began to sob convulsively. "Oh, James!" she
wailed, "James, James, why did you ever leave me!"
Joan got up. "Stop it!" she said harshly. "Stop it at once, Mother. You
know you're unjust and that you're not telling the truth, and as for my
father, he had---- Oh, never mind, I won't say it, but stop crying and
listen to me. Milly and I are young, we've got all our lives before us
and we're unhappy here, don't you understand? We are not happy, we want
to go out into the world and do something; we must, I tell you, we can't
stay here and rot. It's our right to go and no one has any business to
stop us; you least of all, who brought us into the world. Did we ask to
be born? No, you and father had us for your own pleasure. Very well,
then, now you must let us go for ours; it's your duty to help us because
you are our mother and we need your help. If you won't help us we shall
go just the same, because we must, because this thing is stronger than
we are, but----"
Mrs. Ogden clutched at Joan's hand, she dragged her to her, kissing her
again and again. "You fool!" she said passionately. "Can't you
understand that it's not Milly I care about, or the money, but _you_;
will you never see that I love you more than anything else in the
world?"
_BOOK IV_