It seemed as though they had uttered a momentous statement, they quailed
at the solemnity of their own words. It was like that now; their
overstrained nerves tanged sharply to every commonplace.
"Next year," said Elizabeth thoughtfully.
"Next year," Joan repeated with a sinking heart.
"I'm growing old, Joan, but you'll make me young again."
And Joan's eyes filled with tears. "You're not old; don't say things
like that, Elizabeth!"
"Oh, yes, I shall be old quite soon, and so we mustn't wait too long.
Joan, I can't wait much longer."
She turned her tired eyes on Joan. "Good God!" she said passionately,
"I've waited long enough."
And Mrs. Ogden complained. She always complained now; about her health,
her house, the servant, her daughters. She was indefinitely ill, never
quite normal, yet the doctor came and pronounced her to be sound. She
complained of feeling lonely because Joan left her so much, pointing out
that even their evenings together were broken into by the prolonged
hours of study. She cried a good deal, and when she cried the evidences
of it remained with her for hours; her eyes were becoming permanently
red-rimmed. She said that she cried nearly every night in bed.
Elizabeth, far beyond being able to control her feelings, now expressed
open dislike of her. "A selfish, hysterical woman," she called her; Joan
winced, but remained silent, and alone with her mother was forced in
turn to listen to elaborate tirades against Elizabeth. That was the way
they spent their short evenings now, in bickering about Elizabeth. Mrs.
Ogden said that she was a thief, a thief who had stolen her child from
her, and occasionally Joan's self-control would go with alarming
suddenness and a scene would follow, deplorably undignified and all
quite futile. It would end by Mrs. Ogden going slowly upstairs, clinging
to the banister, probably to cry herself to sleep, while Joan, her head
buried in her hands, sat on far into the night.