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.
She sprang up. "I won't go!" she exclaimed aloud. "I won't, I won't!"
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."