"Only the poor Poor."
"You are a strange girl, Joan. I don't understand half the time what
you're talking about, and I don't think you do yourself."
"Perhaps not!" Joan's voice was rather sharp; she wished her mother
would not speak of her as a "girl," it was ridiculous and embarrassing.
At times this and equally trifling irritations made her feel as though
she could scream. "Give me the idiotic things!" she said angrily,
snatching up the vests; "I'll take them, if you make me, but they'll
only throw them away."
Mrs. Ogden appeared not to hear her; she had become slightly deaf in one
ear lately, a fact which she had quickly discovered could be used to her
own advantage.
"Bring in some muffins for tea, darling," she called after Joan's
retreating figure.
2
Joan strode along the esplanade on her way to the Robinsons' cottage.
Anger lent vigour to her every movement; she felt almost young again
under its stimulus. This useless errand on which she had been sent! Just
as though the Robinsons didn't know how to dress themselves. The eldest
girl, about whom her mother was so anxious, wore far smarter clothes at
church than Joan could afford, and, in any case, why should the poor
thing be doomed to a perpetual rash because Mrs. Ogden wanted a peg on
which to hang her charity?
She walked with head bent to the wind; it looked like rain and she had
forgotten her umbrella. Suppose that storm-cloud over there should
break, she'd be drenched to the skin, and that would be bad for her
rheumatism. At the thought of her rheumatism her back began to ache a
little. All this trouble and risk of getting wet through was being taken
for people who would probably laugh at her the moment she was safely out
of their house. Of course the knitted vests would either be given to the
dustman or thrown away immediately. Now the gale began to absorb all her
attention; it was increasing every minute. She had some ado to hold her
hat on. Her anger gave place to feelings of misery and discomfort,
physical discomfort which filled her whole horizon. She forgot for the
moment the irritation she had felt with her mother; almost forgot the
errand on which she was bent, and was conscious only that the wind was
bitter and that she felt terribly tired.
She came at last to the ugly little street where the Robinson family
lived. She always dreaded this street; it was so full of children. Their
impudent eyes followed her as she walked, and they tittered audibly. She
rang the bell. She had not meant to pull it so hard, and was appalled at
the clanging that followed. After a pause she could hear steps coming
down the passage.
"No need to pull the 'ouse down when you ring, I should 'ope," said a
loud voice.
The door was flung open. "Now then----" Mrs. Robinson was beginning
truculently, when she saw who it was and stopped.
Joan felt that she could not face it. Mrs. Robinson was composing her
countenance into the sly Sunday expression.
"Some vests; they're from my mother!" she said hurriedly, and thrusting
the parcel into the woman's hands, she fled down the steps.
3
There was no rain after all, and that was a great relief. Going home
with the wind behind her she had time to remember again that she was
angry. She would tell Father Cuthbert once and for all that he must find
another district visitor. She was not going to trudge about all over
Seabourne, ministering to people who disliked her, helping Father
Cuthbert to make them more hypocritical than they were already.
By the time she arrived at Leaside, however, apathy was uppermost again;
what was the good of having a row? What did it matter after all? What
really mattered most at the moment was that she wanted a cup of strong
tea and a fire to get warm by. She would have to invent a suitable
interview with Mrs. Robinson; anything for peace!
"Did you get the muffins, darling?" came Mrs. Ogden's voice from the
dining-room.
Joan stood still in the hall and pressed her hand to her head with a
gesture almost tragic. She had forgotten the muffins!