1
THE transition from Seabourne to London had been accomplished so quietly
and easily that the first morning Joan woke up on the divan in the
sitting-room of Elizabeth's flat she could hardly believe that she was
there. She thumped the mattress to reassure herself, and then looked
round the study which, by its very strangeness, testified to the
glorious truth.
The idea had originated with Elizabeth. "Let's run up to London for a
fortnight," she had said, and Joan had acquiesced as though such a thing
were an everyday occurrence. And, strangest of all, Mrs. Ogden had taken
it resignedly. Perhaps there had been a certain new quality in Joan's
voice when she had announced her intention. Perhaps somewhere at the
back of her mind Mrs. Ogden was beginning to realize that her daughter
was now of an age when maternal commands could be disregarded. Be that
as it may, she consented to Joan's cashing a tiny cheque, and beyond
engineering a severe migraine on the morning of their departure, offered
no greater obstacle to the jaunt than an injured expression and a rather
faint voice.
Elizabeth had arranged it all. She had persuaded her tenant to take them
in as "paying guests," and had overcome Joan's pride with regard to
finances. "You can pay me back in time," she had remarked, and Joan had
given in.
The little flat was all that Elizabeth had said, and more. Miss Lesway
had put in a small quantity of furniture to tide her over; she was only
there until March, when she would move into a flat of her own. But the
things that she had brought with her were good, quiet and unobtrusive
relics of a bygone country house; they suggested a grandfather, even a
great-grandfather for that matter. From the windows of the flat you saw
the romantic chimney-pots and roofs that Elizabeth loved, and to your
right the topmost branches of the larger trees of the Bloomsbury square.
Yes, it was all there and adorable. Miss Lesway had welcomed them as old
friends. Tea had been ready on their arrival and flowers on Elizabeth's
dressing-table.
2
Beatrice Lesway was a Cambridge woman. She was a pleasant, somewhat
squat, practical creature; contented enough, it seemed, with her lot,
which was that of a teacher in a High School. Her father had been a
hunting Devonshire squire, a rough-and-tumble sort of man having more in
common with his beasts than with his family. A kindly man but a mighty
spendthrift, a paralysing kind of spendthrift; one who, having no vices
on which you could lay your hand, was well-nigh impossible to check. But
that was a long time ago, and beyond the dignified Sheraton bookcase and
a few similar reminders of the past, Miss Lesway allowed her origin to
go unnoticed. Her eyes were so observant and her sense of humour so
keen, that she managed to extract a good deal of fun from her drab
existence. The pupils interested her; their foibles, their follies,
their rather splendid qualities and their less admirable meannesses. She
attributed these latter to their up-bringing, blaming home environment
for most of the more serious faults in her girls. She liked talking
about her work, and had an old-fashioned trick of dropping her "g's"
when speaking emphatically, especially when referring to sport. Possibly
Squire Lesway had said: "Huntin', racin', fishin', shootin';" in any
case his daughter did so very markedly on those rare occasions when she
gave rein to her inherited instincts.
"Some of the girls would be all the better for a good day's huntin' on
Exmoor, gettin' wet to the skin and havin' their arms tugged out by a
half-mouthed Devonshire cob; that's the stuff to make men of 'em, that's
the life that knocks the affectation and side out of young females."
Once she said quite seriously: "The trouble is I can't give that girl a
sound lickin'; I told her mother it was the only way to cure a liar; but
of course she's a liar herself, so she didn't agree with me."
She liked Elizabeth, hence her acceptance of this invasion, and she
liked Joan too, after she got used to her, though she looked askance at
her hair.
"No good dotting the 'i's,' my dear," had been her comment.
Miss Lesway herself wore Liberty serges of a most unpleasing green, and
a string of turgid beads which clinked unhappily on her flat bosom. Her
sandy hair was chronically untidy, and what holding together it
submitted to was done by celluloid pins that more or less matched her
dresses. Her hands and wrists were small and elegant, but although she
manicured her shapely nails with immense care, and would soak them in
the soap dish while she talked to friends in the evenings, she disdained
all stain or polish. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a
heavy signet ring that had once belonged to her father. Her feet matched
her hands in slimness and breeding, but these she ignored, dooming them
perpetually to woollen stockings and wide square-toed shoes, heelless at
that.
"Can't afford pneumonia," she had said once when remonstrated with.
The thick-soled, flat shoes permitted full play to the clumping stride
which was her natural walk. Her whole appearance left you bewildered; it
was a mixed metaphor, a contradiction in style, certainly a little
grotesque, and yet you did not laugh.
It was impossible to know what Beatrice Lesway thought of herself, much
less to discover what cravings, if any, tore her unfeminine bosom. She
managed to give the impression of great frankness, while rarely
betraying her private emotions. At times she spoke and acted very much
like a man, but at others became the quintessence of old maidishness. If
she did not long for the privileges denied to her sex she took them none
the less; you gathered that she thought these privileges should be hers
by right of some hidden virtue in her own make-up, but that her opinion
of women as a whole was low. The feminist movement was going through a
period of rest, having temporarily subsided since the days, not so very
long ago, when Lady Loo had donned her knickerbockers. But the lull was
only the forerunner of a storm which was to break with great violence
less than twenty years later. Even now there were debates, discussions,
threats, but at these Miss Lesway laughed rudely.
"Bless their little hearts," she chuckled, "they must learn to stop
squabbling about their frocks before they sit in Parliament."
"But surely," Elizabeth protested, putting down the evening paper, "a
woman's brain is as good as a man's? I cannot see why women should be
debarred from a degree, or why they should get lower salaries when they
work for the same hours, and I don't see why they should be expected to
do nothing more intellectual than darn socks and have babies."
Miss Lesway made a sound of impatience. "And who's to do it if they
don't, pray?"
Elizabeth was silent, and Joan, who had not joined in this discussion,
was suddenly impressed with what she felt might be the truth about Miss
Lesway. Miss Lesway had the brain of a masterful man and the soul of a
mother. Probably that untidy, art-serged body of hers was a perpetual
battle-ground; no wonder it looked so dishevelled, trampled under as it
must be by these two violent rival forces.
"Well, I shall never marry!" Joan announced suddenly.
Miss Lesway looked at her. Joan had expected an outburst, or at least a
severe reproof, but, instead, the eyes that met hers were tired,
compassionate and almost tender.