1
THAT winter Mrs. Ogden's prophecy came true, and influenza laid hold of
Seabourne with unexpected virulence. Mrs. Ogden was almost the first
victim. She was very ill indeed. Joan was bound to her hand and foot,
for the doctor warned her that her mother's condition was likely to be
critical for some time. "It's her heart I'm afraid of," he said.
Curiously enough the old lady fiercely resented her invalidism. She, who
for so many years had nursed her slightest symptom, now that at last she
was really ill, showed the rebellious spirit of a young athlete deprived
of his normal activities, and Joan's task in nursing her grew daily more
arduous. She flagged under the constant strain of trying to pacify her
turbulent patient, to whom any excitement might be dangerous. All
household worries must be kept from her mother; incredibly difficult
when a house was as badly constructed as Leaside. The front door could
not open without Mrs. Ogden hearing it and inquiring the cause, and very
little could go on in the kitchen that she was not somehow aware of.
At this most inappropriate moment Joan herself got influenza, but the
attack seemed so mild that she refused to go to bed. The consequences of
keeping about were disastrous, and she found herself weak to the verge
of tears. The veins in her legs began to trouble her seriously; she
could no longer go up and down stairs without pain. This terrified her,
and in a chastened mood she consulted the doctor. He examined the veins,
and with all the light-hearted inconsequence of his kind prescribed long
and constant periods of rest. Joan must lie down for two hours after
luncheon and again after dinner; must avoid stairs and, above all, must
never stand about.
One of the most pressing problems was Mrs. Ogden's digestion; always
erratic, it was now submerged in a variety of gastric disturbances
brought on by the influenza. There was so little that she could eat with
impunity that catering became increasingly difficult, the more so as for
the first time in her life she evinced a great interest in food. If the
servant made her Benger's she refused to drink it, complaining of its
consistency, which she described as "Billstickers' paste." In the end
Joan found herself preparing everything her mother ate.
She grew dully methodical, keeping little time-sheets: "Minced chicken 1
P.M. Medicine 3 P.M. Hot milk and biscuits 5 P.M. Benger's 9 P.M." Her
days were divided into washing, dressing, feeding, undressing and
generally ministering to the patient.
About this time she read in the paper the announcement of Richard
Benson's engagement, and a few days later saw a picture of him in the
_Bystander_, together with his future bride. The girl Richard was to
marry was scarcely more than a child; a wide-eyed, pretty creature with
a mass of soft hair, and the meaningless smile which the young assume in
obedience to the fashionable photographer. Joan gazed at the picture in
astonishment, and then at her own reflection in the glass. Richard had
not waited long to find a mate, after his final proposal at Lynton. It
was so characteristic of him to have waited twenty years, and then to
have made up his mind in a few months. She felt no resentment, no tinge
of hurt vanity; she was glad he was going to marry, her sense of justice
told her that it was fitting and right. With this marriage of his the
last link with her own past life would be snapped, and she was content
to let it be so.
She wondered if she should write and congratulate him, but decided that
she had better not. Her intuition told her that he, too, might want to
wipe out the past, and that even her humble letter of friendship would
probably come as an unwelcome reminder. She thought of him a great deal,
analysing her own feelings, but although she recognized that her
thoughts were kindly, tender even, she could not trace in them the
slightest shadow of regret. Richard was a fine man, a successful man; he
had made good where others had failed; but to her he was just Richard,
as he had always been.
She was astonished at the scant show of interest which Mrs. Ogden
evinced in the event. She had expected that nothing else would be talked
about for at least a week, and had been prepared for a considerable
amount of sarcasm; but her mother scarcely spoke of the engagement
beyond remarking on the disparity of age between the bride and
bridegroom. Joan felt surprised, but failed to attach much importance to
the incident, until it was repeated with regard to other things. It
began to be borne in on her that a change was coming over her mother,
that she was growing less fussy, less exacting, less interested in what
went on around her, and as the weeks went by she was perplexed to find
that a household disturbance, which would formerly most certainly have
agitated Mrs. Ogden almost past endurance, now aroused no anxiety, not
even much curiosity.
She would sit idle for hours, with her hands in her lap; she seemed at
last to be growing resigned to her life of restricted activity. Joan
thought that this was nothing more than a natural consequence of old age
imposing itself on her mother's brain, as it had long been doing on her
body. In many ways she found this new phase a relief, lessening as it
did the strain that had gone near to breaking her.
The canary grew tamer with the old lady, perching on her shoulder and
taking food from her lips. These marks of Bobbie's esteem delighted Mrs.
Ogden; in fact he seemed to be the only creature now who could rouse her
to much show of interest; she played happily with him while Joan cleaned
his cage, and at night insisted on having it on a chair by her bed so
that she could be the one to uncover him in the morning.
The days grew very peaceful at Leaside. Joan seldom went beyond the
front door, except to buy food; walking made her legs ache, and in any
case she didn't care to leave her mother for long. Father Cuthbert came
and went as he had done for years past, but now Mrs. Ogden showed no
pleasure at his visits. While he was there she listened quietly to what
he said, or appeared to do so, but when he left she no longer expatiated
on his merits to Joan, but just sat on with folded hands and apparently
forgot him.
The doctor's bill came in; it was very high and likely to get higher.
Joan felt that some of it must be paid off at once, so she sold the
Indian silver. Major Boyle, who loved a depressing errand, volunteered
to take it to a firm in London, and was able to shake his head
mournfully over the small amount it realized.
"He's missed his vocation," thought Joan irritably, "he ought to have
been a mute at funerals."
She dreaded the moment when her mother would miss the silver from the
sideboard, and begin to ask questions; but three days elapsed before
Mrs. Ogden noticed the empty spaces. When she did so, and Joan told her
the truth, she only sighed, and nodded slowly. "Oh, well!" was all she
said.
The sale of the silver did not realize nearly enough to meet the bills
which had been accumulating. Everything cost so much these days, even
simple necessities, and when to these were added all the extras in food
and fires that her mother's health required, Joan awoke to the fact that
they were living beyond their meagre income. She considered the
advisability of dismissing the servant, as her mother had once done; but
at the thought of all that this would entail, her heart utterly failed
her. The girl's wages were at least double what they would have been
prior to the war, and she expected to eat meat three times a day; but
she was a pleasant, willing creature to have about the house, and Joan
decided that she must stay.
A kind of recklessness seized her; it seemed so useless to try and make
ends meet, with reduced dividends and abnormal taxes, and then she was
so terribly tired. Her tiredness had become like physical pain, it
enveloped her and prevented sleep. She did the simplest things with a
feeling of reluctance, dragging her body after her like a corpse to
which she was attached. If there was not enough money for immediate
necessities, why then they must sell out a little capital. She feared
opposition from her mother, but decided that the time had arrived when
desperate straits required desperate remedies, so broached the subject
without preliminaries.
"Mother, we're behindhand with the bills, and we can't very well
overdraw again at the bank."
Mrs. Ogden looked up with dim, brown eyes. "Are we, dear?" she said
indifferently.
"Yes, the doctor's bill cripples us most, and then there are others, but
his is the worst."
"It would be," sighed Mrs. Ogden.
"Listen, Mother, I'm afraid we must sell a little of Milly's and my
capital; not much, you know, but just enough to get us straight. Perhaps
when things get cheaper, later on, we may be able to put it back."
"My pension used to be enough, with the other money; why isn't it now,
do you think?"
Joan sighed impatiently. "Because it's worth about half what it was.
Have you forgotten the war?"
"No, that terrible war! Still, to sell capital--isn't that very wrong,
Joan?"
"It may be wrong, but we've got to do it; things may be easier next
year."
Mrs. Ogden offered no further opposition and the stocks and shares were
sold. Like the Indian silver, they realized much less than Joan
expected. But poor as were the results of the sacrifice, when the
gilt-edged securities were translated into cash, Joan felt that the sum
she deposited at the bank gave a moment's respite to her tired brain.
She refused to consider the future.
2
In June Mrs. Ogden died quietly in her sleep. Joan found her dead one
morning, when she went in to call her as usual. She stood and stared
incredulously at the pale, calm face on the pillow; a face that seemed
to belong to a much younger woman. She turned away and lowered the blind
gently, then went downstairs in search of the servant. A great hush
enveloped the house, and the queer sense of awe that accompanies death
had stolen in during the night and now lay over everything. Joan pushed
open the kitchen door; here, at all events, some of the old familiarity
remained. The sun was streaming in at the uncurtained window and the
sound of hissing came from the stove, where the maid was frying
sausages.
Joan said: "Go for the doctor at once, will you? My mother died in the
night."
The girl dropped her fork into the frying-pan and swung round with
frightened eyes. "Oh, Lor'!" she gasped, beginning to whimper.
But for the first time in her life, Joan had fainted.