1
JOAN sat alone in the dismantled drawing-room. All around her lay the
wreckage and driftwood of years. The drawers of her mother's bureau
stood open and in disorder; an incredible mass of discoloured letters,
old bills, clippings from bygone periodicals, and little hidden
treasures put away for safety and forgotten.
On the floor, with its face to the wall, stood the engraving of Admiral
Sir William Routledge, with the dust thick on its back.
"And we had a thorough spring clean last April," Joan thought
inconsequently.
The admiral's coat and other trophies lay in a neat heap on the Nelson
chair, ready for Aunt Ann to take away with her. The poor little
everyday tragedy of denuded walls enclosed Joan on all four sides; faded
paper, bent nails, dirty streaks where pictures had hung. Even the
curtains had gone, and no longer hid the chipped and yellowing paint of
the window-frames and skirting.
All over Leaside the same thing was happening. Upstairs in the bedrooms
stood half-packed trunks, the kitchen was blocked with wooden cases. The
suggestive smell of the Furniture Depository hung in the atmosphere,
pervading everything, creeping up from the packing-cases with their
dusty straw and the canvas covers that strewed the passages. Muddy boots
had left their marks on the linoleum in the hall, and the globe on the
gas-bracket by the front door had had a hole knocked in it by a
carelessly carried case.
Joan looked at the relics of Admiral Sir William and wondered how Aunt
Ann meant to pack them; would they all go in her trunk? The engraving
would certainly be too large; would she insist on taking it into the
railway carriage with her? She got up and touched the sleeve of the
discoloured old coat and found to her surprise that a tear had fallen on
her hand. What was she crying about? Surely not at parting with these
ridiculous things! Then what was she crying about? She did not know.
Perhaps the house was infecting her with its own sadness, even a Leaside
might be capable of sadness. This meagre little house had known them for
so long; known their quarrels, their reconciliations, their ambitions,
their failures. It had known her father, her mother, her sister and
herself, and once, long ago, it had known Elizabeth. And now Joan was
the only one left, and she was going, she had to go. Nearly everything
would shortly be taken to a sale-room; that was settled, Aunt Ann had
advised it.
"We must keep only those things that are of family interest," she had
said firmly, and Joan had agreed in view of the debts.
Perhaps the little house was mourning the changed order, mourning the
family that it had sheltered so long, the ugly furniture from which it
was parting. The chairs and tables, now all in disarray, seemed to be
looking at Joan with reproach. After all, these things had served
faithfully for many years; she was conscious of a sense of regret as she
looked at them. "I hope they'll find good homes and be kindly treated,"
she thought.
The Bishop of Blumfield and his wife had come to Seabourne for the
funeral, and had stayed on for nearly three weeks at the new hotel. The
bishop was incredibly old; his skin had taken on a yellowish polish like
an antique ivory netsuké. Aunt Ann had disapproved of his taking so
long a journey, but he had insisted on coming; he was often inclined to
be wilful these days. Aunt Ann herself bore her years aggressively. A
tall, majestic old lady, with fierce eyes, she faced the world, her
backbone very straight. Her sister's death, while it had come as a
shock, had done little to soften the attitude of disdain with which she
now regarded her fellow beings. Mary Ogden had always been rather
despicable in her eyes, and why think her less so merely because she was
dead? But a sense of duty had kept her at Seabourne for the past three
weeks. After all, Joan was a Routledge, or half of her was, and her
future must be provided for in some way.
Joan looked at her wrist watch, it was nearly half-past eight. Aunt Ann
had announced that she would dine at seven and come in afterwards for a
long talk. Joan guessed what this talk would be about; namely, her own
plans. What were her plans? She asked herself this for the hundredth
time since her mother's death. She must inevitably work for her living,
but what kind of work? That was the difficulty.
All this thinking was a terrible effort--if only she had had enough
money to keep Leaside, she felt that she would never have left it. She
would gladly have lived on there alone, just she and Bobbie; yes, she
was actually regretting Leaside. After all, Seabourne was comfortably
familiar, and in consequence easy. She shrank with nervous apprehension
from any change. New places, new people, a new manner of life, noise,
hurry, confusion; she pressed her hand to her head and took up the
_Morning Post_ as she had already done many times that day.
The situations vacant were few indeed, compared with those wanted. And
how much seemed to be expected of everyone nowadays! Governesses, for
instance, must have a degree, and nearly all must play the piano and
teach modern languages. Private secretaries, typists, book-keepers,
farmers, chauffeurs; their accomplishments seemed endless.
"Typist. Used to all the well-known makes of typewriter; good speed,
fair knowledge of foreign languages, shorthand."
"Book-keeper seeks situation in hotel or business house; long
experience."
"University woman, as secretary-companion; speaks French, German,
Italian, used to travelling, can drive car."
"Young woman requires situation in country. Experience with remounts
during war, assist small farm or dairy, entire charge of kennels,
sporting or other breeds, or work under stud groom in hunting stables."
"Lady chauffeur-mechanic, disengaged now, excellent personal references,
clean licence. Three years' war service driving motor ambulance France
and Belgium; undertake all running repairs, any make car."
Joan laid down the paper. No, she was utterly incapable of doing any of
these things; incapable, it seemed, of filling any position of trust.
She had been brilliant once, but it had led to nothing; people would not
be interested in what she might have become. She supposed she could go
into a shop, but what shop? They liked young, sprack women to stand
behind counters, not grey-haired novices of forty-five; and besides,
there were her varicose veins.
2
The door-bell rang and Aunt Ann walked in. Behind her, leaning on an
ebony stick, came the little old Bishop of Blumfield. Aunt Ann sat down
with an air of determination and motioned the bishop to a chair.
"No, thank you; I prefer to stand up," he said stubbornly. His wife
shrugged her shoulders and turned to Joan.
"It's time we had a serious talk," she said. "The first thing, my dear,
is how much have you got to live on?"
"Rather less than fifty pounds a year. You see we had to sell out some
capital and mother's pension died with her."
Aunt Ann sniffed disapprovingly. "It's never wise to tamper with
capital, but I suppose it was inevitable; in any case what's done is
done. You can't live on fifty pounds a year, I hope you realize."
"No, of course not," Joan agreed. "I shall have to find work of some
kind, but there seem to be more applicants than posts, as far as I can
see; and then I'm not up to the modern standard, people want a lot for
their money these days."
"I cannot imagine," piped the bishop in his thin, old voice, "I cannot
imagine, Ann, why Joan should not live with us; she could make herself
useful to you about the house, and besides, I should like to have her."
His wife frowned at him. "Good gracious, Oswald, what an unpractical
suggestion! I'm sure Joan wouldn't like it at all; she'd feel that she
was living on charity. I should, in her place; the Routledges have
always been very independent, high-spirited people."
Joan flushed. "Thank you awfully, Uncle Oswald, for wanting me, but I
don't think it would do," she said hastily.
"Of course not," Aunt Ann agreed. "Now, the point is, Joan, have you got
anything in view?"
During the pause that ensued Joan racked her brain for some dignified
and convincing reply. It seemed incredible to her that she had not got
anything in view, that out of all the innumerable advertisements she had
been unable to find one that seemed really suitable. Her aunt's eyes
were scanning her face with curiosity.
"I thought you were always considered the clever one," she remarked.
Joan laughed rather bitterly. "That was centuries ago, Aunt Ann. The
world has progressed since then."
"Do you mean to say that you feel unfitted for any of the careers now
open to women?" inquired her aunt incredulously.
"That's precisely what I do feel. You see one needs experience or a
business education for most things, and if you're going to teach, of
course you must have a degree. I've neither the time nor the money to
begin all over again at forty-five."
Mrs. Blane settled herself more comfortably in her chair. "This requires
thought," she murmured.
"There's just a faint chance that I might get taken on at a shop," Joan
told her. "But I'm rather old for that too, and there's the standing."
"A _shop_?" gasped her aunt, with real horror in her voice. "You think
of going into a _shop_, Joan?"
"Well, one must do something, Aunt Ann; beggars can't be choosers."
"But, my dear--a Routledge--a shop? Oh, no, it's impossible; besides
it's out of the question for us that you should do such a thing. What
would it look like, for a man in your uncle's position to have a niece
serving in a shop! What would people say? You must consider other
people's feelings a little, Joan."
But at this point Joan's temper deserted her. "I don't care a damn about
other people's feelings!" she said rudely. "It's my varicose veins I'm
thinking of."
The bishop gave a low, hoarse chuckle. "Bravo! she's quite right," he
said delightedly. "Her veins are much more important to her than we are;
and why shouldn't they be, I'd like to know! Even a Routledge is
occasionally heir to the common ills of mankind, my dear."
His eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement and malice. "In your place,
Joan, I'd do whatever I thought best for myself. Being a Routledge won't
put butter on your bread, whatever your aunt may say."
His wife waved him aside. "I've been thinking of something, Joan," she
said. "Your future has been very much on my mind lately, and in case you
had nothing in view, I took steps on your behalf the other day that I
think may prove to be useful. Did your mother ever mention our cousin
Rupert Routledge to you?" Joan nodded. "Well, then, you know, I suppose,
that he's an invalid. He's unmarried and quite well off, and what is
more to the point, his companion, that is, the lady who looked after
him, has just left to take care of her father, who's ill. Rupert's
doctor wrote to me to know if I could find someone to take her place,
and of course I thought of you at once, but I didn't mention this before
in case you had anything in your own mind. You're used to illness, and
the salary is really excellent; a hundred a year."
"He's not an invalid," piped the bishop eagerly. "He's as strong as a
horse and as mad as a hatter! Don't you go, Joan!"
"Oswald!" admonished Mrs. Blane.
But the bishop would not be silenced, "He's mad, you know he's mad; he's
sixty-five, and he thinks he's six. He showed me his toys the last time
I saw him, and cried because he wasn't allowed to float his boat in the
bath!"
Mrs. Blane flushed darkly. "There is not and never was any insanity in
our family, Oswald. Rupert's a little eccentric, perhaps, but good
gracious me, most people are nowadays!"
The bishop stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a very good imitation
of a schoolboy whistle.
Mrs. Blane turned to Joan: "He was dropped on his head when he was a
baby, I believe, and undoubtedly that stopped his development, poor
fellow. But to say that he's mad is perfectly ridiculous; he's a little
childish, that's all. I can't myself see that he's very much odder than
many other people are since the war. In any case, my dear, it would be a
very comfortable home; you would have the entire management of
everything. There are excellent old servants and the house is large and
very convenient. If I remember rightly there's a charming garden. Not to
put too fine a point on it, Joan, it seems to me that you have no
alternative to accepting some post of this kind as you don't feel fitted
to undertake more skilled work. And of course I should feel much happier
about you if I knew that you were living with a member of the family."
Joan looked into the fire. "Where does he live?" she inquired.
Mrs. Blane fished in her bag. "Ah, here it is. I've written the address
down for you, in case you should need it."
Joan took the slip of paper. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe,
Sussex," she read.
"I've already written to Doctor Campbell about you," said Mrs. Blane,
with a slight note of nervousness in her voice. She paused, but as Joan
made no reply she went on hastily: "I got his answer only this morning,
and it was most satisfactory; he says he'll keep the post open for you
for a fortnight."
Joan looked up. "Yes, I see; thank you, Aunt Ann, it's very good of you.
I may think it over for a fortnight, you say?"
"Yes, Joan, but don't lose it. A hundred a year is not picked up under
gooseberry bushes, remember."
"He's mad, mad, mad!" murmured the bishop in a monotonous undertone,
"and occasionally he's very unmanageable."
Mrs. Blane raised her eyebrows and shook her head slightly at Joan.
"Don't pay any attention to your uncle," she whispered. "He's overtired
and he gets confused."
3
When they had gone Joan took the paper from her pocket and studied the
address again. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, Sussex."
Blintcombe! She felt that she already knew every street, and every house
in the place. There would certainly be "The Laurels," "The Nook" and
"Hiawatha" in addition to "The Pines." There would be "Marine Parade,"
"Belview Terrace," and probably "Alexandra Road" in addition to "Seaview
Avenue." There would be a pier, a cinema, a skating-rink, a band and a
swimming-bath. There would be the usual seats surrounded by glass along
the esplanade, in which the usual invalids incubated their germs or
sunned themselves like sickly plants in greenhouses, and of course very
many bath chairs drawn by as many old men. In fact, it would be just
Seabourne under a new name, with Cousin Rupert to take care of instead
of her mother.