1
IT had come. Joan lay awake and realized that this was her last night in
Seabourne. She got up and lit the gas. Her eyes roved round the familiar
bedroom; there was Milly's bed--they had not had it moved after her
death, and there was the old white wardrobe and the dressing-table, and
the crazy arm-chair off which she and Milly had torn the caster when
they were children. The caster had never been replaced. "How like
Seabourne," she thought, smiling ruefully. "Casters never get themselves
replaced here; nothing does."
She looked at her new trunk, already locked and strapped; it had been a
present from her mother, and her name, "Joan Ogden," was painted across
its top in white block letters. "I thought it safer to put the full
name," her mother had said.
The blind flapped and the gas flame blew sideways; it was windy, and the
thud of the sea on shingles came in and seemed to fill the room. "I am
happy!" she told herself; "I'm very happy."
How brave her mother had been that evening; she had smiled and talked
just as though nothing unusual were about to happen, but oh! how
miserably tired she had looked, and ill. Was she going to be ill? Joan's
heart seemed to stop beating; suppose her mother should get ill all
alone in the house! She had never thought of that before, but of course
she would be alone every night, now that she had sent away the servant.
What was to be done? It was dangerous, terribly dangerous for a woman of
that age to sleep alone in the house. She pulled herself up sharply; oh,
well, she would speak to her in the morning and tell her that she must
have a maid. Of course it was all nonsense; she must afford one. But
what about to-morrow night? She couldn't get a servant by that time.
Never mind; nothing was likely to happen in one or two nights. No, but
it might be weeks before she found a maid; what was to be done?
If her mother got ill, would she telegraph for her? Yes, of course; and
yet how could she if she were alone in the house? "Oh, stop, stop!"
cried Joan aloud to herself. "Stop all this, I tell you!" She had an
overwhelming desire to rush into her mother's room on the instant, and
wake her up, just to see that she was alive, but she controlled herself.
"Perhaps she's crying," she thought, and started towards the door. "No,"
she said resolutely, "I will not go in and see her!"
She began to think of Elizabeth too; of her face when they had said
good-bye that afternoon. "Don't be late in calling for me," she had
cautioned, and Elizabeth had answered: "I shan't be late, Joan." What
was it that she fancied she had seen in Elizabeth's eyes and heard in
her voice? Not anger, certainly, and not actually tears; but something
new, something rather dreadful, a sort of entreaty. She shuddered. Oh,
why could there never be any real happiness for Joan Ogden, never any
real fulfilment, never any joy that was quite without blemish? She felt
that her unlucky star shed its beams over everyone with whom she came in
contact, everyone she loved; those beams had touched Elizabeth and
scorched her. Yet how much she loved Elizabeth; she would have laid down
her life to save her pain. But she loved her mother too, not quite in
the same way, but deeply, very deeply. She knew this, now that she was
about to leave her; she had always known it, of course, but now that
their parting was near at hand the fact seemed to blaze forth with
renewed force. She began thinking about love in the abstract. Love was
jealous of being divided; it did not admit of your really loving more
than one creature at a time. She remembered vaguely having thought this
before, years ago. Yet in her case this could not be true, for she loved
them both, terribly, desperately, and yet could not serve them both. No,
she could not serve them both, but she had chosen.
She lay down on her bed again and buried her face in the pillow. "Oh,
Elizabeth," she whispered, "I will come, I will be faithful, I swear I
will."
2
They breakfasted at Leaside at eight o'clock, for Joan's train left at
ten-thirty. At ten o'clock Elizabeth would arrive with the fly. Joan
could not swallow.
"Eat something, my darling," said Mrs. Ogden tenderly. She looked as
though she had been crying all night, her eyes were red and swollen, but
she smiled bravely whenever she saw her daughter's glance turned in her
direction.
She refused to give in about not sleeping alone. "Nonsense," she said
brusquely, when Joan implored, "I shall be all right; don't be silly,
darling."
But she did not look as though she would be all right, and Joan searched
her brain desperately for some new scheme, but found none. What was she
to do? And in less than two hours now she would be gone. Throwing her
arms round her mother's neck she dropped her head on her shoulder.
"I can't leave you like this," she said desperately.
Mrs. Ogden's tears began to fall. "But you must leave me, Joan; I want
you to go."
They clung together, forlorn and miserable.
"You will write, Mother, very often?"
"Very often, my Joan, and you must too."
"Every day," Joan promised. "Every day."
She went up to her room and began to pack her bag, but, contrary to
custom, Mrs. Ogden did not follow her. At a quarter to ten she came
downstairs; her mother was nowhere to be seen.
"Mother!" she called anxiously, "where are you?"
"In my room, darling," came the answer from behind a closed door. "I'll
be down in a minute; you wait where you are."
Joan wandered about the drawing-room. It had changed very little in all
these years; the wallpaper was the same, though faded now, there were
the same pink curtains and chairs, all shabby and reflecting the fallen
family fortunes. The turquoise blue tiles in the grate alone remained
startlingly bright and aggressive. The engraving of Admiral Sir William
Routledge looked down on her as if with interest; she wondered if he
were pleased or angry at the step his descendant was about to take;
perhaps, as he had been a man of action, he was pleased. "'Nelson's
Darling' ought at least to admire my courage!" she thought ruefully, and
turned her back on him. She sat down in the Nelson arm-chair.
Nelson's chair, how her mother had treasured it, how she did still; her
poor little mother. Joan patted the extended arms with tender hands, and
rested her head wearily where Nelson's head was said to have rested.
"Good-bye," she murmured, with a lump in her throat.
3
She began to feel anxious about her mother. It was five minutes to ten;
what on earth was she doing? In another five minutes Elizabeth would
come with the fly. Her mother had told her to wait in the drawing-room,
but she could not wait much longer, she must go and find her. At that
moment the door opened quietly and Mrs. Ogden came in. She was all in
grey; a soft, pearly grey, the colour of doves' feathers. Her hair was
carefully piled, high on her head, and blended in softness and shine
with the grey of her dress; she must have bathed her eyes, for they
looked bright again and almost young. She came forward, stretching out
her arms.
Joan sprang up. "Mother! It's--why it's the old dress, the same dress
you wore years ago on our last Anniversary Day. Oh! I remember it so
well; that's the dress that made you look like a grey dove, I remember
thinking that." The outstretched arms folded round her. "What made you
put it on to-day?" she faltered, "it makes you look so pretty!"
Mrs. Ogden stroked her cheek. "I wanted you to remember me like this,"
she whispered. "And, Joan, this is Anniversary Day."