The Return of Joanna

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　High and low, rich and poor, in Troy Town there are seventy-threemaiden ladies. Under this term, of course, I include only those whomay reasonably be supposed to have forsworn matrimony. And of theseventy-three, the two Misses Lefanu stand first, as well from theirage and extraction (their father was an Admiral of the Blue) asbecause of their house, which stands in Fore Street and is faced withpolished Luxulyan granite--the same that was used for the famous Dukeof Wellington's coffin in St. Paul's Cathedral.Miss Susan Lefanu is eighty-five; Miss Charlotte has just passedseventy-six. They are extremely small, and Miss Bunce looks afterthem. That is to say, she dresses them of a morning, arranges theirchestnut "fronts," sets their caps straight, and takes them down tobreakfast. After dinner (which happens in the middle of the day) shedresses them again and conducts them for a short walk along theRope-walk, which they call "the Esplanade." In the evening shebrings out the Bible and sets it the right way up for Miss Susan, whobegins to meditate on her decease; then sits down to a game of ecartewith Miss Charlotte, who as yet has not turned her thoughts uponmortality. At ten she puts them to bed. Afterwards, "the good Bunce"--who is fifty, looks like a grenadier, and wears a large mole onher chin--takes up a French novel, fastened by a piece of elasticbetween the covers of Baxter's "Saint's Rest," and reads for an hourbefore retiring. Her pay is fifty-two pounds a year, and herattachment to the Misses Lefanu a matter of inference rather thanperception.

　　* * * * * * *

　　One morning in last May, at nine o'clock, when Miss Bunce had justarranged the pair in front of their breakfast-plates, and was sittingdown to pour out the tea, two singers came down the street, and theirvoices--a man's and a woman's--though not young, accorded veryprettily:--

　　"Citizens, toss your pens away!For all the world is mad to-day--Cuckoo--cuckoo!The world is mad to-day."

　　"What unusual words for a pair of street singers!" Miss Buncemurmured, setting down the tea-pot. But as Miss Charlotte was busycracking an egg, and Miss Susan in a sort of coma, dwelling perhapson death and its terrors, the remark went unheeded.

　　"Citizens, doff your coats of black,And dress to suit the almanack--Cuckoo--"

　　The voices broke off, and a rat-tat sounded on the front door."Say that we never give to beggars, under any circumstances,"murmured Miss Susan, waking out of her lethargy.The servant entered with a scrap of crumpled paper in her hand."There was a woman at the door who wished to see Miss Lefanu.""Say that we never give--" Miss Susan began again, fumbling with thenote. "Bunce, I have on my gold-rimmed spectacles, and cannot readwith them, as you know. The black-rimmed pair must be up-stairs, onthe--""How d'ye do, my dears?" interrupted a brisk voice. In the doorwaystood a plump middle-aged woman, nodding her head rapidly. She worea faded alpaca gown, patched here and there, a shawl of shepherd'splaid stained with the weather, and a nondescript bonnet. Her facewas red and roughened, as if she lived much out of doors."How d'ye do?" she repeated "I'm Joanna."Miss Bunce rose, and going discreetly to the window, pretended togaze into the street. Joanna, as she knew, was the name of the oldladies' only step-sister, who had eloped from home twenty yearsbefore, and (it was whispered) had disgraced the family. As for theMisses Lefanu, being unused to rise without help, they spread outtheir hands as if stretching octaves on the edge of the table, andfeebly stared."Joanna," began the elder, tremulously, "if you have come to askcharity--""Bless your heart, no! What put that into your head?" She advancedand took the chair which Miss Bunce had left, and resting her elbowson the table, regarded her sisters steadily. "What a preposterousage you both must be, to be sure! My husband's waiting for meoutside.""Your husband?" Miss Charlotte quavered."Why, of course. Did you suppose, because I ran away to act, that Iwasn't an honest woman?" She stretched out her left hand; and therewas a thin gold ring on her third finger. "He isn't much of anactor, poor dear. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he hasbeen hissed off two-and-thirty stages in Great Britain alone.Indeed, he's the very worst actor I ever saw, although I don't tellhim. But as a husband he's sublime.""Are there--" Miss Charlotte began, and broke down. "Are there," shetried again, "are there--any--children?""Ah, my dear, if there were, I might be tempted to repent.""Don't you?" jerked out Miss Bunce, turning abruptly from the window.There was a certain sharp emotion in the question, but her face wasin the shadow. Joanna regarded her for a moment or two and brokeinto a laugh."My dears, I have been an actress and a mother. I retain the prideof both,--though my little one died at three months, and no managerwill engage me now, because I refuse to act unless my husband has apart. Theoretically, he is the first of artists; in practice--You were asking, however, if I repent. Well, having touched the twochief prizes within a woman's grasp, I hardly see how it is likely.I perceive that the object of my visit has been misinterpreted.To be frank, I came to gloat over you.""Your step-sisters are at least respectable," Miss Bunce answered."Let us grant that to be a merit," retorted Joanna: "Do I understandyou to claim the credit of it?""They are very clean, though," she went on, looking from one to theother, "and well preserved. Susan, I notice, shows signs of failing;she has dropped her spectacles into the teacup. But to what end,Miss--""Bunce.""To what end, Miss Bunce, are you preserving them?""Madam, when you entered the room I was of your way of thinking.Book after book that I read"--Miss Bunce blushed at this point--"has displayed before me the delights of that quick artistic lifethat you glory in following. I have eaten out my heart in longing.But now that I see how it coarsens a women--for it is coarse tosneer at age, in spite of all you may say about uselessness being nobetter for being protracted over much time--""You are partly right," Joanna interrupted, "although you mistake theaccident for the essence. I am only coarse when confronted byrespectability. Nevertheless, I am glad if I reconcile you to yourlot.""But the point is," insisted Miss Bunce, "that a lady never forgetsherself.""And you would argue that the being liable to forget myself is onlyanother development of that very character by virtue of which Ifollow Art. Ah, well"--she nodded towards her stepsisters--"Iask you why they and I should be daughters of one father?"She rose and stepped to the piano in the corner. It was a tallCollard, shaped, above the key-board, like a cupboard. Aftertouching the notes softly, to be sure they were in tune, shedrew over a chair, and fell to playing Schumann's "Warum?" verytenderly. It was a tinkling instrument, but perhaps her playinggained pathos thereby, before such an audience. At the end sheturned round: there were tears in her eyes."You used to play the 'Osborne Quadrilles' very nicely," observedMiss Susan, suddenly. "Your playing has become very--very--""Disreputable," suggested Joanna."Well, not exactly. I was going to say 'unintelligible.'""It's the same thing." She rose, kissed her step-sisters, and walkedout of the room without a look at Miss Bunce."Poor Joanna!" observed Miss Susan, after a minute's silence."She has aged very much. I really must begin to think of my end."Outside, in the street, Joanna's husband was waiting for her--a dark,ragged man, with a five-act expression of face."Don't talk to me for a while," she begged. "I have been amongghosts.""Ghosts?""They were much too dull to be real: and yet--Oh, Jack, I feel gladfor the first time that our child was taken! I might have left himthere.""What shall we sing?" asked the man, turning his face away."Something pious," Joanna answered with an ugly little laugh, "sincewe want our dinner. The public has still enough honesty left to pitypiety." She stepped out into the middle of the street, facing hersisters' windows, and began, the man's voice chiming in at the thirdbar--

　　"In the sweet by-and-bye

　　We shall meet on that be-yeautiful shore." . . .

　　THE END.