1
IN the following February Milly was sent home They wrote from Alexandra
House to say that for the present, at all events, she was too ill to
continue her studies. She had had a touch of pneumonia shortly after her
return, with the result that her lungs were weak. The matron wrote what
was meant to be a kind and tactful letter. It was full of veiled
sentences; the sort of letter that distracted Joan by reason of its
merciful vagueness. The letter said that Milly was not strong, that she
was losing weight and was apt to run a little temperature night and
morning; according to the doctor, her lungs required care and she must
be given time to recover, and plenty of open air.
Joan looked across at Mrs. Ogden as she finished reading.
"It's tubercle," she said briefly.
Her voice sounded calm and cold. "I might be saying 'It's Monday
to-day,'" she thought. She felt stupid with pity for Milly and for
herself.
Mrs. Ogden tightened her lips; she assumed her stubborn expression.
"What nonsense, Joan! We've never had such a thing in our family."
"But, good heavens, Mother!--your father and your brother died of
galloping consumption."
"Nothing of the kind. Henry died of bronchial pneumonia; you don't know
what you're talking about, my dear."
Joan thought. "She's going to refuse to face it, she's going to play
ostrich; what on earth am I to do!" Aloud she said: "Well, I'd better go
up and fetch her; we can't let her travel alone."
"Ah! there I agree with you; certainly go up and bring her home. But
whatever you do, don't frighten the life out of the poor child with any
ridiculous talk about consumption."
Joan left her gently embroidering a handkerchief. "I must see Elizabeth
at once," she told herself.
2
It was already half-past nine in the evening, but Joan rushed round to
the Rodneys' house, to find that Elizabeth had gone to bed with a
headache.
"I expect she's asleep," said Ralph doubtfully.
He was wearing an old Norfolk jacket and carpet slippers; his grey hair
was ruffled, and an end-of-the-day grey stubble clung like mould to his
chin. His eyes looked heavy and a little pink; he had probably been
asleep himself, or dozing in the arm-chair, under the picture of old
Uncle John. He was certainly too sleepy to be polite, and looked
reproachfully at Joan, as though she had done him some wrong.
Oh! the gloom of it all! Of this seaside house with its plush study, of
old Uncle John and his ageing descendant, of the lowered gas-jet in its
hideous globe, that was yet not dim enough to hide the shabby
stair-carpet and the bloodthirsty Landseer engraving on the landing.
It was misty outside, and some of the mist had followed Joan into the
house; it made a slight, melancholy blur over everything, including
herself and Ralph. She left him abruptly, climbing the stairs two at a
time.
She opened the bedroom door without knocking. The gas had been turned
down to the merest speck, but by its light Joan could see that Elizabeth
was asleep. She turned the gas up full, but still Elizabeth did not
stir. She was lying on her side with her cheek pressed hard into the
pillow; her hair was loosely plaited, thick, beautiful hair that shone
as the light fell across it. One of her scarred hands lay on the white
bedspread, pathetically unconscious of its blemish.
Joan stood and looked at her, looked at Elizabeth as she was now, off
her guard. What she saw made her look away and then back again, as if
drawn by some miserable attraction. Elizabeth's lips were closed, gently
enough, but from their drooping corners a few fine lines ran down into
the chin; and the closed eyelids were ever so slightly puckered. Joan
bent nearer. Yes, those were grey hairs close to the forehead; Elizabeth
had a good many grey hairs. Strange that she had never noticed them
before. She flushed with a kind of shame. She was discovering secret
things about Elizabeth; things that hid themselves by day to look up
grimacing out of the night-time and Elizabeth's sleep. Elizabeth would
hate it if she knew! And there lay her beautiful hand, all scarred and
spoilt; a brave hand, but spoilt none the less. Was it only the scars,
or had the texture of the skin changed a little too, grown a little less
firm and smooth? She stared at it hopelessly.
She found that she was whispering to herself: "Elizabeth's not so young
any more. Oh, God! Elizabeth is almost growing old."
She felt that her sorrow must choke her; pity, sorrow, and still more,
shame. Elizabeth's youth was slipping, slipping; it would soon have
slipped out of sight. Joan stooped on a sudden impulse and kissed the
scarred hand.
"Joan! Are you here? You woke me; you were kissing my hand!"
"Yes, I was kissing the scars."
Elizabeth twitched her hand away. "Don't be a fool!" she said roughly.
Joan looked at her, and something, perhaps the pity in her eyes made
Elizabeth recover herself.
"Tell me what's the matter," she asked quietly. "Has anything new
happened?"
Joan sat down beside her on the bed. "Come here," she said.
Elizabeth moved nearer, and Joan's arm went round her with a quiet,
strong movement. She kissed her on the forehead where the grey hairs
showed, and then on the eyelids, one after the other. Elizabeth lay very
still.
Joan said: "They're sending Milly home; I'm afraid she's in
consumption."