But even as she said it she sighed, because her legs ached. She stood
still in the middle of the room, and stooping down, touched the swollen
veins gingerly. The feel of them alarmed her as it always did, and her
flare of resolution died out.
A great sense of self-pity came over her, bringing with it a crowd of
regrets. She looked about at all the familiar objects and began
remembering. How desolate the room was. It had not always been like
this. Her mind travelled back over the years to the last Anniversary Day
that Leaside had known. Candles and flowers had lent charm to the room,
yes, charm; she actually thought now that the drawing-room had looked
charming then by comparison. That was the occasion, she remembered, when
her mother had worn a dove-grey dress, and Elizabeth, all in green, had
reminded her of a larch tree. Elizabeth, all in green! She always
remembered her like that. Why always in that particular dress? Elizabeth
had looked so young and vital in that dress. Perhaps it had been
symbolical of growth, of fulfilment; but if so it had been a lying
symbol, for the fulfilment had not come. And yet Elizabeth had believed
in her up to the very last. It was a blessed thing to have someone to
believe in you; it helped you to believe in yourself. She knew that
now--but Elizabeth was married, she was leagues away in Cape Town; she
had forgotten Joan Ogden, who had failed her so utterly in the end. Oh,
well----
She sat down at her mother's desk and began to write:
"DEAR DOCTOR CAMPBELL,
"My aunt, Mrs. Blane, tells me----"
Then she tore up the letter. "I can't decide to-night," she thought.
"I'm too dead tired to think."