1
TWO weeks elapsed before Mrs. Ogden would consent to any further
examination of Milly's lungs. At first she refused on the ground that
Milly was only in need of rest, and when Joan persisted, made other
excuses, all equally futile. She seemed determined to prevent Doctor
Thomas's visit, and it struck Joan that her mother was secretly afraid.
Doctor Thomas was getting old. He had attended the Ogdens as long as
Joan could remember. He attended most of the residents of Seabourne,
though it was said that the summer visitors preferred a younger man, who
had recently made his appearance. Joan herself would have preferred the
younger man, but on this point Mrs. Ogden was obdurate; she would not
hear of a stranger being called in, protesting that Doctor Thomas would
be deeply hurt.
Doctor Thomas came, and rubbed his cold hands briskly together; he
smiled at the assembled family as he had smiled on all serious occasions
throughout his career. A wooden stethoscope protruded from his
tail-pocket; he took it out and balanced it playfully between finger and
thumb.
"Let _me_ explain," said Joan peremptorily, as Mrs. Ogden opened her
lips to speak.
She had to raise her voice somewhat, for the doctor was a little hard of
hearing.
"Eh, what? What was that?" he inquired from time to time.
Milly's lip curled. She shrugged her shoulders and complied with an ill
grace when told to remove her blouse.
"Take a deep breath."
Doctor Thomas pressed his stethoscope to her chest and back; he pressed
so hard with his large, purplish ear that the stethoscope dug into her
bones.
"Ow! That hurts," she protested peevishly.
"Say 'ninety-nine'!"
"Ninety-nine."
"Again, please."
"Ninety-nine."
"Again."
"Oh! Ninety-nine, ninety-nine, ninety-nine!"
For a young woman about to be twenty-one years old, Milly was behaving
in an extraordinarily childish manner. The doctor looked at her
reproachfully and began tapping on her back and chest with his notched
and bony fingers. Tap, tap, tap, tap: Milly glanced down at his hand
distastefully.
"And now say 'ninety-nine' again," he suggested.
Milly flushed with irritation and coughed. "Ninety-nine," she exclaimed
in an exasperated voice.
The old doctor straightened himself and looked round complacently. "Just
as I thought, there's nothing seriously wrong here."
"Then you don't think----?" began Joan, but her mother interrupted.
"That's just what I thought you'd say, Doctor Thomas; I felt sure there
could be nothing radically wrong with Milly's lungs. Thank God, she
comes from very healthy stock! I suppose a good long rest is all that
she needs?"
"Exactly, Mrs. Ogden. A good rest, good food, and plenty of air; and no
more practising for a bit, Miss Milly. You must keep your shoulders back
and your chest well out, and just take things easy."
"But for how long?" Milly asked, with a catch in her voice.
"How long? Oh, for a few months at least."
Milly looked despairingly at Joan, but, try as she would, Joan could not
answer that look with the reassuring smile that it was obviously asking
for. She turned away and began straightening some music on the piano.
"I must be off," said the doctor, shaking hands. "I shall come in from
time to time, just to see that Miss Milly is obeying orders; oh, and I
think cod liver oil would prove beneficial."
"No; that I will not!" said Milly firmly.
"Nonsense! You'll do as the doctor tells you," Mrs. Ogden retorted.
"I will _not_ take cod liver oil; it makes me sick!"
Joan left them arguing, and followed Doctor Thomas to the front door.
"Look here," she said in a low voice, "surely you'll examine for
tubercle?"
He looked at her whimsically through his spectacles. "My dear young
lady, you've been stuffing your head up with a lot of half-digested
medical knowledge," and he patted her shoulder as though to soften his
words. "Be assured," he told her, "that I shall do everything I think
necessary for your sister, and nothing that I think unnecessary."
2
Joan went back to the drawing-room. The argument about the cod liver oil
had ceased, and Milly was crying quietly, all by herself, in the window.
She looked up with tearful eyes as her sister took her hand and pressed
it.
"Cheer up, old girl!" Joan whispered, her own heart heavy with
forebodings.
Mrs. Ogden said nothing; her face seemed expressionless when Joan
glanced at her. Ethel's successor brought in the tea and Milly dried her
eyes. It was a silent meal; from time to time Milly's gaze dwelt
despairingly on her violin case where it lay on the sofa, and Joan knew
that she was grieving as a lover for a lost beloved.
"It's only for so short a time," she said, answering the unspoken
thought.
Milly shook her head and her eyes overflowed again, the tears dripped
into the tea-cup that she held tremulously to her lips.
Mrs. Ogden pretended not to notice. "More tea, Joan?" she inquired.
Joan looked at her and hated her; and before the hate had time to root,
began to love her again, for the weak thing that she was. There she sat,
quiet and soft and utterly incapable. She was not facing this situation,
not even trying to realize what it meant to her two daughters.
"But I could crush her to pulp!" Joan thought angrily. "I could make her
scream with pain if I chose, if I told her that I saw through her,
despised her, hated her; if I told her that I was going to leave her and
that she would never see me again. I could make her cry like Milly's
crying, only worse; oh, how I could make her cry!" But her own thought
hurt her somewhere very deep down, and at that moment Mrs. Ogden looked
up and their eyes met.
Joan stared at her coldly. "Milly is fretting," she said. Mrs. Ogden's
glance wavered. "She mustn't do that, after what the doctor has told us.
Milly, dearest, there's nothing to cry about."
Milly hid her face.
"It's all my life, Mother," she sobbed.
"What is, my dear?"
"My fiddle!"
"But, my dear child, you're not giving up your violin; he only wants you
to rest for a time."
Milly sobbed more loudly, she was growing hysterical. "I want to go back
to the College," she wailed. "I hate, hate, _hate_ being here! I hate
Seabourne and all the people in it, and I hate this house! It stifles
me, and I'm not ill and I shan't stop practising and I shan't take cod
liver oil!" She wrenched herself free from Joan's restraining arm. "Let
me go upstairs," she spluttered. "I want to go upstairs!"
Joan released her. Alone together, the mother and daughter looked at
each other defiantly.
"She ought to see a specialist," Joan said; "Doctor Thomas is an old
fool!"
Mrs. Ogden's soft eyes grew bright with rising temper. "Never!" she
exclaimed, raising her voice. "I hate the whole brood; it was a
specialist who killed your father. James would be alive now if it hadn't
been for a so-called specialist!"
Joan made a sound of impatience. "Don't be ridiculous, Mother; you don't
know what you're talking about. You're taking a terrible responsibility
in refusing to have a first-class opinion."
"I consider Doctor Thomas first-class."
"He is _not_; he's antediluvian and deaf into the bargain! I tell you,
Milly is very ill."
Mrs. Ogden's remaining calm deserted her. "You tell me, _you_ tell me!
And what do you know about it? It seems that you pretend to know more
than the doctor himself. You and your ridiculous medical books! You'll
be asking me to consult your fellow-student Elizabeth next."
"I wish to God you would!"
"Ah! I thought so; well then, send for your clever friend, your unsexed
blue-stocking, and put her opinion above that of your own mother. How
many children has she borne, I'd like to know? What knowledge can she
have that I as a mother haven't got by natural instinct, about my own
child? How dare you put Elizabeth Rodney above me!"
Joan lost her temper suddenly and violently. "Because she is above you,
because she's everything that you're not."
Mrs. Ogden gave a stifled cry and sank back in her chair.
"Oh! my head, it's swimming, I feel sinking, I feel as if I were dying.
Oh! oh! my head!"
"Sit up!" commanded Joan. "You're not dying, but I think Milly is."
Mrs. Ogden began to cry weakly as Joan turned away. "Cruel, cruel!" she
murmured.
Joan went up to her and shook her slightly. "Behave yourself, Mother;
I've no time for this sort of thing."
"To tell me that a child of mine is dying! You say that to frighten me;
I shall tell the doctor."
Joan shrugged her shoulders. "You may tell him what you please. I'm
going up to Milly, now."
3
Richard had been gone for some weeks and Mr. and Mrs. Benson had moved
back to London when Milly came home. Joan would have given much to have
had Richard to talk to just now, but she could only write and tell him
her fears, which his brief answers did little to dispel. He advised an
immediate consultation and mentioned a first-class specialist; at the
same time he managed to drop a word here and there anent Joan's own
prospects, which he pointed out were becoming more gloomy with every
month of delay. No, Richard was not in a consoling mood these days.
Lawrence, on the other had, was full of kindness. He had taken to coming
down to Conway House for the weekends, and he seldom came without a jar
of turtle soup or some other expensive luxury for the invalid. His
constant visits to Leaside might have suggested an interest in one of
its inmates; in fact Mrs. Ogden began to wonder whether Lawrence was
falling out of love with Elizabeth and into love with Milly. But Joan
was not deceived; she felt certain that he only came there in the hopes
of catching a glimpse of Elizabeth if, as sometimes happened, he found
her out when he called at her brother's house; she was amused and yet
vaguely annoyed.
"Your admirer's in the drawing-room, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth smiled. "Well, let him stay there with your mother; we'll
sneak out by the back door, for a walk."
But Lawrence invariably saw them escaping; it was uncanny how he always
seemed to be standing at the window on such occasions. On a blustery day
in March he hurried after them and caught them at the corner of the
street, as he had already done several times. He always said the same
thing:
"Ripping afternoon for a walk, you two; may I join you?" He threw out
his chest and took off his hat.
"Jolly good for the hair, Elizabeth!"
Elizabeth's own hat, blown slightly askew, was causing her agony by
reason of the straining hat-pins; and in any case she always suffered
from neuralgia when the wind was in the east. She managed to turn her
head slightly in his direction, but before she had time to snub him, a
gust removed her hat altogether and blew her hair down into her eyes.
The hat bowled happily along the esplanade, and after it went Joan, with
Lawrence at her heels. She could hear him pattering persistently behind
her. For some reason the sound of his awkward running infuriated her;
his steps were short for a man's, as though he were wearing tight boots.
She felt suddenly that she must reach the hat first or die; must be the
one to restore it to its owner. She strained her lanky legs to their
limit; her skirts flew, her breath came fast, she was flushed with
temper and endeavour. Now she had almost reached it. No, there it went
again, carried along by a fresh and more spiteful gust. Several people
stood still to laugh.
"Two to one on Miss Joan!" cried General Brooke, halting in his strut.
Ah! At last! Her hand flew out to capture the hat, which was poised,
rocking slightly for a moment, like a seagull on a wave. She stooped
forward, grabbed the air, tripped and fell flat. Lawrence, who was close
behind her, nearly fell over her, but saved himself just in time. He
pursued the hat a few steps farther, seized it and then returned to help
Joan up; but she had already sprung to her feet with an exclamation of
annoyance.
"I've won!" laughed Lawrence provokingly. "You're not hurt, are you?"
She was, having slightly twisted her ankle, but she lied sulkily.
"No, of course not."
It seemed to her that he was smiling all over, not only with his mouth,
but with his eyes and his glasses and the little brass buttons on his
knitted waistcoat. His very shoes twinkled with amusement all over their
highly polished toe-caps. Instinctively she stretched out her hand to
take the hat from him.
"Oh, no!" he taunted. "No, you don't; that's not fair!"
Elizabeth was standing still watching them, with her hands pressed
against her hair. "Thank you," she said, as Lawrence restored her hat to
her; but she looked at Joan and smiled.
Joan turned her face away to hide a sudden rush of tears. How ridiculous
and childish she was! Fancy a woman of twenty-three wanting to cry over
losing the game! They walked on in silence, Joan trying not to limp too
obviously, but Elizabeth was observant.
"You're hurt," she said, and stood still. Joan denied it.
"It's nothing at all; I just twisted my ankle a bit." And she limped on.
"Hadn't you better turn back?" suggested Lawrence a little too
hopefully. "Look here, Joan, I'll get you a fly."
"I don't want a fly, thank you; I'm all right."
"No, you're not; do let me call that cab for you; it's awfully unwise to
walk on a strained ankle."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," snapped Joan, "do let me know for myself
whether I'm hurt or not!"
She realized that she was behaving badly; she could hear the irritation
in her own voice. Moreover, she knew that she was spoiling the walk by
limping along and refusing to go home; but some spirit of perverseness
was dominating her. She felt that she disliked Lawrence quite
enormously, and at that moment she almost disliked Elizabeth. Why had
Elizabeth accepted her hat from Lawrence's hand? She should have said
something like this: "Give it to Joan, please; I would rather Joan gave
me my hat." Ridiculous! She laughed aloud.
"What are you laughing at?" inquired Lawrence.
"Oh, nothing, only my thoughts."
"Can't we share the joke?"
"No, it wouldn't amuse you."
"Oh, do go back, Joan," said Elizabeth irritably. "You're hardly able to
walk."
"Do you want me to go back, then?"
"Yes, of course I do; and put on a cold water bandage as soon as you get
home."
Joan looked at her with darkening eyes, and left them abruptly.
4
"What on earth's upset her?" asked Lawrence, genuinely concerned.
"Nothing--why? She's not upset."
"She seemed angry about something."
"Oh, I don't think so. Probably her ankle was hurting her rather badly,
only she didn't want to admit it."
"Well, I thought she was angry. But never mind, let's talk about you."
And he edged a little nearer.
Elizabeth evaded the hand that hovered in the vicinity of her arm. "I'm
so dull to talk about," she parried. "Let's talk about metaphysics!"
He gripped her arm now in a grasp that there was no evading. "Why _will_
you always make fun of me, Elizabeth?"
She was silent, her head drooped, and he, misunderstanding the movement,
tightened his fingers.
"I love you!" he said rather loudly in her ear, raising his voice to be
heard through the wind. "When will you marry me, dearest?"
"Oh, Lawrence, don't," she protested. "Some day, perhaps, or never. I
don't know!"
"But you _do_ love me a little, Elizabeth, don't you?"
"No, not a bit; I don't love you at all."
"But you would. I'd make you."
"How would you make me?"
He considered. "I don't know," he admitted lamely; "but I'd find a way,
try me and see; it's not possible that I shouldn't find a way."
He was very sincere, that was the worst of it. His eyes glowed fondly at
her behind his glasses.
"And, my dear, I could give you all you want," he added.
"All I want, Lawrence?"
"Yes, I mean we'd be rich."
She stopped to consider him thoughtfully. A good-looking man, too well
dressed; a dull man, too conscious of worldly success; a shy man, too
shy not to be over-bold at times. A youngish man still, too pompous to
be youthful.
"Would you like to marry a woman who doesn't love you?" she asked him
curiously.
"I'd like to marry you, Elizabeth."
"But why? I can't imagine why anyone should want to marry me."
"I want to marry you because you're everything I love. My dear
Elizabeth, if you were seventy I should still love you."
"You think so now, because I'm not seventy."
"Look here;" he said suddenly. "Is it still Joan that's stopping you?"