Joan forced herself to smile. "I was thinking we'd be late for the
train."
"Oh, no, you weren't; but never mind. You amuse me, Joan. May I call you
Joan? Well, in any case, you amuse me. Oh! But you are too funny and
young and gauche, a regular boor, and your grey-green coloured eyes go
quite black when you're angry. I should never be able to resist making
you angry just for the pleasure of seeing your eyes change colour; do
you think you could manage to get really angry with me some day?"
Joan felt hot with embarrassment. What was the matter with this woman;
didn't she know that she was in the room with a perfectly awful tragedy,
didn't she realize that here was something that would probably ruin
three people's lives? She wondered if this was Harriet's way of keeping
the situation in hand, of trying to carry the thing off lightly.
Perhaps, after all, she was only making an effort to fall in with
Milly's mood; that must be it, of course.
Harriet's decided voice went on persistently. "Come up and see me
sometimes; don't stop away because Milly isn't here, though I expect
she'll be back soon. But in the meantime come up and see me; I shall
like to see you quite often, if you'll come."
"Thank you," said Joan, "but I'm never in London."
Harriet smiled complacently. "We'll see," she murmured.
Joan turned to Milly. "Come on, Milly, we ought to go; it's getting
late."
4
In the train Milly talked incessantly; she was flushed now, and the hand
that she laid on Joan's from time to time felt unnaturally hot and dry.
She assured Joan eagerly that the doctor was a fool and an alarmist;
that he had sent a girl home only last year for what he called
"pernicious anæmia," whereas she had been back at College in less than
four months as well as ever. Milly said that if they supposed she was
going to waste much time, they were mistaken; a few weeks perhaps, just
to get over that infernal pneumonia, but no longer at Leaside--no, thank
you! If she stayed at Leaside she was sure she would die, but not of
consumption, of boredom! Her lungs were all right, she never spat blood,
and you always spat blood if your lungs were going. It was quite bad
enough as it was though; jolly hard lines having a set-back at this
critical time in her training. Never mind, she would have to work all
the harder later on to make up for it.
She talked and coughed and coughed and talked all the way from London to
Seabourne. She was like a thing wound up, a mechanical toy. Joan's heart
sank.
Elizabeth was at the station and so was Mrs. Ogden. They had come quite
independently of each other. As a rule Elizabeth kept away if she knew
that Mrs. Ogden was meeting one of the girls, anxious these days not to
feed the flame of the older woman's jealousy; but to-day her anxiety had
outweighed her discretion.
Mrs. Ogden kissed Milly affectionately. "Why, she looks splendid!" she
remarked to the world in general.
Elizabeth assumed an air of gaiety that she was very far from feeling.
It seemed to her that Milly looked like death, and her eyes sought
Joan's with a frightened, questioning glance. For answer, Joan shook her
head ever so slightly.
They all went home to Leaside together. Elizabeth had offered to help
with the unpacking. She was not going to torment herself with any
unnecessary suspense, and she cared less than nothing whether Mrs. Ogden
wanted her or not. She had got beyond that sort of nonsense now, she
told herself. She pressed Joan's hand quite openly in the fly. Why not?
Mrs. Ogden was jealous of any demonstrations of affection towards Joan
other than her own; Elizabeth knew this, but pressed the hand again.
She and Joan had no opportunity of being alone together that evening.
They longed to talk the situation over. They were taut with nervous
anxiety; even a quarrel would have been a relief. But Mrs. Ogden was in
a hovering mood, they could not get rid of her; even after Milly had
gone to bed she continued to haunt them. Frail, unobtrusive, but always
there. She seemed to be feeling affable, for she had pressed Elizabeth
to stop to supper and had even thanked her for helping with the
unpacking. It was remarkable; one would have expected tears or at least
depression or irritability over this fresh disaster, for disaster it
was, even though Mrs. Ogden chose to take a cheerful view of Milly's
condition. It was impossible that she should contemplate with equanimity
more doctor's bills, and the mounting tradesmen's accounts for luxuries.
Whatever the outcome, Milly would require milk, beef-tea and other
expensive things; and there was little or no money, as even Mrs. Ogden
must know. And yet she was cheerful; it made Elizabeth feel afraid.
She became a prey to a horrible idea that Mrs. Ogden was happy, yes,
positively happy over Milly's illness, because she saw in it a new
fetter wherewith to bind Joan. Perhaps she had suspected all along that
Joan had determined to break away soon. Perhaps she had begun to realize
that her influence over her daughter was waning. And now came Milly's
collapse, with all that it entailed of responsibility, of diminished
finances, of appeal to every generous and unselfish instinct. Elizabeth
shuddered. She did not accuse Mrs. Ogden of consciously visualizing the
cause of her satisfaction; but she knew that no greater self-deceiver
had ever lived, and that although she was probably telling herself that
she was being cheerful and brave in the face of sorrow, and acting with
unselfish courage, she was subconsciously rejoicing in the misfortune
that must bind Joan closer to her than ever.
They could hear Milly coughing fitfully upstairs; a melancholy sound,
for it was a young cough. Mrs. Ogden remarked that they must get some
syrup of camphor, which in her experience never failed to clear up a
chest cold. She told Joan to write to London for it next day.
Elizabeth got up; she felt that she must walk and walk, no matter where.
Her legs and feet seemed terribly alive, they tormented her with their
twitching.
"I must go," she said suddenly.
Joan followed her into the hall. Their eyes met for an instant in a look
of sympathy and dismay; but Mrs. Ogden was standing in the open doorway
of the drawing-room, watching them, and they parted with a brief good
night.